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“But probably teras,” Bellamy mutters. “So let’s not be daft.”

Tree shaped cast iron columns run to the ceiling. The plants here are tropical.

To our left is a table practically devoid of weapons. We are only the second group to move through, but it seems the first lot took liberty to strip us of anything useful. There is a tiny percussion handgun—ridiculous in size, as if for a child—but it is old. It takes powder and it will be no use in a fight against teras. I review what’s left, and I’m surprised that most of the long-range weapons remain. A flintlock, like the one I used to use on hunts, is sitting there. That one I do take, just for the comfort of another weapon. But when I check its barrel, it only has one shot.

“They took all the close-range weapons,” I say. “We need to look out for some.”

“Not sure it did them much good,” Silas mutters.

We turn to him. He stands over a patch of blood; a great deal of it, near the end of the room. This pavilion is separate; there’s a door at the end of the room. After a minute of tense canvassing, we relax. No teras in this room—as far as we can see. Whatever made that bloody mess is long gone. There’s no human body, either, which is a relief.

But who knows how long that luxury will last.

“I’ll open the door,” I say. Most of us are weapon-less, and besides, this humidity is making me sweat. I ready the flintlock gun and put my hand on the knob.

Do it. Do it.

I have to trick myself into opening it, wrenching it back at the same time I shove the flintlock through, half my body shielded by the door. Nothing rips the gun out of my hand. Nothing attacks me. I strain to hear; ever so faintly, in the distance, I hear a wheezing. My body reacts; gooseflesh ripples up on my skin. I carefully open the door all the way and it betrays me by whining loudly. I pause. The wheezing keen doesn’t stop.

Psalm 22 is in my head, echoing in the voice of my father, who used to genuflect to the cross we had in the hovel. Everyday would be the same utterance, perhaps one taken too literally.

He would say:

Deliver my life from the sword, my precious life from the power of the dogs.

Rescue me from the mouth of the lions; save me from the horns of the wild oxen.

I will declare your name to my brothers; in the congregation I will praise you.

And I think my father believed, in some regard, that the Lord would step in personally. That an angel might come to rid this forsaken land of the devil’s work. But as I step into this greenhouse, and the psalm spills into my head, I think Dean Drearton is another lion to watch out for.

“Alright, Mr Shaw?” Leo whispers. It’s a kindness, to get me to move before the others realise how distracted I am.

“Of course, Mr Jones,” I whisper back.

One by one, we filter in, until all of us are lined up along the wall. This room is cooler. Gone is the uncomfortable, overbearing warmth. We stay fixed to the wall, freshly tense. There’s chatter somewhere—I crane my head for birds, and see none—and then a metallic scraping makes me jump. I turn in time to see Bellamy dragging a metal pipe from the ground. More blood is splattered over it.

We wait in silence, gathering courage. At this point, I have to wonder if this trial is about nerves. I am still sweating, despite the change in temperature. Beside me, Victoria has grown ever paler. She clutches to Bellamy with a fierceness that turns her knuckles white.

“Cassius,” Leo whispers. I jump at the sound. He nods down the hall. I follow his eyes, scanning for whatever he’s seen, flintlock gun raised.

“No.” He comes around me, one hand on my waist, right arm pressing gently against my face as he points.

Tiny white flowers, fern-like leaves. I exhale and say aloud, “Hemlock.”

Fred nods. “I’ll get it.”

Silas moves half a step forward with his sister but gives up as she creeps forward along the path, body pressed low and shielded by a line of conifers, geraniums, ferns—a beautiful backdrop for violence. She shudders to a stop, on her knees, hand on her mouth. Fred scrambles backwards and spins to us, eyes wide.

Leo and I give each other a look, but we move forward nonetheless. The lot of us, an impotent army, edge forward and help Fred up from the ground.

“Teras?” Silas asks.

Fred shakes her head and points. The path splits left and right around another set of trees, and a small patch where the hemlock sits. To the right lies a bloody mess. Two people are gathered there.

A girl I don’t recognise has her hands covered in blood. It goes nearly up to her elbow, the white shirt completely drenched with it, as if she’s stuck her hand in someone’s body. I scan, looking for the wound, and can’t find one.

“Help,” she murmurs, not looking at us. Her eyes stay on the boy beneath her. He isn’t moving, but I don’t see why until I edge around the girl sobbing over him. Several deep gouges have opened up his stomach. Skin split open, flesh pulled apart in red strings. His stomach is exposed. He is holding his organs. Intestines spill out of his arms onto the dirty floor. I am hit with a freezing shock—Thaddeus, Thaddeus, my brother, my brother holding his guts, an armful of his organs, God, he’s dead—and I turn away violently. I will myself not to throw up. Pray. Pray again.