There was shouting again. It was night again. There were tears again. Yet Cornelia was coming to realize that tears were useless. The same rituals had occurred every night for the past three months, and her tears had not proved beneficial, except for her own relief. A way to release her tension. There she lies, in her enormous bed, a teenager sobbing like a child. She is not a child, she tells herself. But does she believe it? Hardly. But are her father’s words true? Is she a failure whose fate is a slow death, remembered by none? Hardly. Cornelia makes a choice, that night. “I'm going to kill him,” she tells herself. But do you have the drive to kill your father? “Yes. I will end him.” Then prove yourself. Cornelia adopts a face of resolution and rises from her bed. Without hesitation she grabs her revolver and throws open the door. She strides into the kitchen, where her parents look at each other from across the table, both with faces of anger and malice. “Father,” the red-haired Warlock calls. The man turns. A bullet flies into his face. Cornelia wakes up, sweating in her bed. She pants in confusion, eyes darting around the room. Her parents shout in the kitchen behind her door. You can kill in your dreams. Can you kill in reality? “Always.” Welcome, Cornelia, to your first day of training. Your first assignment: kill your father. Cornelia adopts a face of resolution and rises from her bed. Without hesitation Cornelia reaches for her revolver. End. Begin. All the same. No journey to madness.