It is all over. Everything is finished, and Gemma knows it. She sits by the lake, trembling, her hands red and dripping. Her eyes are vacant, her mouth gaping.
The blond lady steps up behind her. She leaned her head down, the strands of hair falling into her face. You are finished, she whispers. Her breath is cold against the redhead's ear, icy and malicious, like a fierce winter wind.
The princess's hand slides into the blonde's. Finished, she whispers. We have the power.
Gemma covers her face. Go away, go away.
The beautiful young girl steps out of a nearby hedge and crouches beside Gemma with the other girls. We have the power now. You are nothing.
She feels something sharp in her back. She looks down, her eyes widening when she sees the tip of a golden dagger poking out of her dress. She swipes with her bloodied hand, but cannot get a grip on the handle.
Good-bye, Gemma, dear, they all whisper. Their voices are like crackling autumn leaves all together; brittle.
When she opens her eyes, she sits up and looks at the sleeping form of her friend. Her friend. Will she always be my friend?
She will only find out when it is time.