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His voice is different. Deeper, and no stupid fancy radio accent. "I— I won't tell."
Your father cracks a smile. "You're a good girl. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise, alright? Now, what time is it? I probably ought to—"
"I need your help," you say, before you forget entirely. "With a— with a ritual."
"A ritual?" He furrows his brow. "Like in one of your books? You know your Aunt Ruby told you not to—"
"For the Wyrm."
He falters. "Shit."
"It's important," you press on. "Very, very important. So don't try and talk me out of it. I already know about all that kind of stuff, okay? I just need you to teach me."
"Charlie—" he says, and thinks better of it, and strides over and takes you by the shoulders. "<span class="mu-i">Charlotte Frances,</span> I- I don't know where you heard about any of this, but it's not <span class="mu-i">for</span> you. It's not good for you. There is nothing to gain and everything to lose. There is meaning in life to be found elsewhere. Do you understand? Who told you about this? Henry?"
"Uh," you say. "No. It's— it's not important."
"It's extremely important, Charlotte. I need to know so I can beat the tar out of them. It wasn't <span class="mu-i">me,</span> was it?" He sounds guilty. "Drunk?"
You don't know how to categorize it, actually. "Uh..."
"Oh, hell. Then Charlie— listen to me. Whatever I said, forget it. It's not a fun adventure. It's not like in your stories. There's a lot of suffering and a lot of bloodshed and there's no point in any of it. Please say you understand."
"I— no!" This isn't right at all. This is your <span class="mu-i">father.</span> Where are the arcane secrets? "No. No. I— I need to do this. I don't have a choice, alright? If I don't, someone will die. Richard will die." This is kind of true. A half-truth. "Please teach me. I don't want to be responsible for—"
You stare. Your father has doubled over. "Um, are you—?"
He's clutching his stomach. "Primrose, I'm dying."
"You—" Your throat seizes up. "You're what? No you're not."
"I am." He straightens and removes a hand: there is a stab wound in his stomach. The blood leaking from it is brazen. "See? But it's alright."
"No it's not?" you say.
"It is. It has to be this way. This is how things work out. This is the <span class="mu-i">story,</span> primrose." His eyes meet yours. "I'd like it if you helped me."
"Uh." He is pressing a knife into your hand. A knife with a tortoiseshell handle. "No, I can't— you don't want me to—"
"It's the ritual. Suffering and bloodshed, Charlie. Carving away. This is what you want." He gently folds your fingers around the knife's handle. "This is what you need to do. It's for the greater good."
"You want me to stab you," you say weakly.
(4/???)
