The end of the last period had come and gone, and tears still shone on Carrie's cheeks like diamonds in the afternoon sunlight as she walked home. Michael had not been waiting under his tree to walk her home that afternoon, and Carrie couldn't decide if that was a blessing or a curse. She had wanted his company, his warmth, but at the same time, she didn't want to delve into the conversation that was weighing upon them like rain clouds about the murder of Winn Nelson.

Carrie had yet to come to a conclusion on how she felt about Michael burning a teenage boy alive with the blink of his eyes, the flash of his fingers or the power of his mind. In wasn't her place to judge him or condemn him—that alone belonged to the Lord Almighty—but Michael's sin had become her own through knowledge and association. Carrie had even found herself wondering if she could have stopped the murder, seeing as she did know of Michael's powers. Her guilt was ravenous and so were her tears that dampened her flushed skin the colour of the blood smeared across her locker door.

Humiliation still scarred her skin and she couldn't escape the redness that threatened her vision. Ava Gold had shielded her friend as best she could and attempted to console Carrie, but it did no good. Not even chatter about Ava's current obsession with pirate history and lore could make the embarrassment vanish from Carrie Moore today.

She knew she should be stronger by now. She should have thicker and tougher skin from suffering through years of harassment and mortification by the likes of Deliah Snell and Christabelle Slater. She knew she should be steel by now, but she wasn't. No, Carrie Moore was still porcelain, fragile and so close to shattering. But Carrie wasn't going to shatter, no, she was going to explode.

Her heart was heavy and tainted when she crossed the threshold of her house. Classical music swelled around the lounge room, a record spinning around and around. Apple pie was baking in the oven, the crust turning golden, and the wonderful scent wafted through the warm air of the Moore house. Carrie knew Margaret wasn't baking a pie for the two of them but the church. Regardless, the house seemed welcoming and it soothed Carrie's throbbing heart.

"Mama?" Carrie padded through to the kitchen, her shoulders slumped. "I had a terrible day." Her emotions wanted to spill out, to seep from her pores and depart her. And above all, Carrie wanted to be comforted by her mother, reassured that she wasn't Crazy Carrie with a thing for blood.

"I know. The school called me," Margaret announced, her voice flat, nonchalant. She didn't turn away from her task at hand, just kept slicing crisp green apples. "Those girls should have done worse."

Carrie halted, her backpack sliding off her back. "They laughed at me. Painted my locker with blood!" she exclaimed, her skin heating all over again—this time not from humiliation but disdain for her mother.

"It was the Lord's punishment, his wrath in human form." Margaret finally ceased slicing, turning from the counter to face her only daughter.

"Punishment? For what?" Tears stung at her eyes, wanting to break the damn and flood down her cheeks. Carrie hated how much she cried, but the anger over that only made her cry harder.

Margaret pointed the knife she was holding at Carrie, jabbing it forward with each word for emphasis. "Eve was weak. Eve was the first sinner and her sins befall every woman. Her sins are your sins and God sees those sins and your wickedness."

"I'm not Eve, Mama. And what those girls did to me was cruel, don't you see that? That's not God's love or goodness." Thick, jagged cracks were breaking the dam as Carrie's eyes pooled with hot, glossy tears.

"O, Lord above, I pray for my child. Help her with your light. Help chase the darkness inside of her away," Margaret started, her chin angled to the ceiling, to the heavens.

"Mama, I don't need the Lord's help," she sobbed out, trying to get her mother's attention, but the woman continued to pray, her voice shadowing Carrie's.

"Cleanse me with hyssop, and I will be clean: wash me, and I will be whiter than snow!"

"I need you. Can't you just be my mother? Hug me and tell me everything will be okay?" Tears smashed through the dam, racing down the softness of Carrie's cheeks, tracing a wet path over her trembling lips and dripping off her chin like raindrops. And rage boiled her blood, making it bubble underneath her flesh.

"Do not cast me from your presence or take your Holy Spirit from me. Have mercy on me, O God, and my sinful daughter!" Margaret's eyes were closed now, focused in worship, but the knife in her hand was sharp and the woman brushed her index finger along the edge, breaking the skin to conjure carmine rubies.

Carrie screamed out in fury and frustration. "I hate you! I hate you! I hate you!" She stormed out of the house, needing the distance from her mother.

She didn't turn back but when she clenched her fingers, the front door slammed shut with a thump that echoed out into the one-way street. Tears leaked down her face in rivers and her heart was bashing with anger and anguish. She wanted peace and quiet, solace even. Her feet were moving before she even landed on a destination. Her body knew where she wanted to be, where she needed to be.

—

The graveyard was, as the saying goes, as quiet as the grave that afternoon. No wind howled through the long, dead grass or milled under the Weeping Willows. No chipping baby birds, only the sound of a crying girl running into the arms of a boy with a broken golden halo.

It had been a surprise when Carrie had spotted Michael sitting against one of the stone angels, his knees pulled up to his chest. But it wasn't a surprise for Michael, for he was waiting for Carrie Moore. He knew she would show with tears shimmering on her cheeks and agony riddling her bones. He scrambled up onto his feet as Carrie hurried towards him.

"I said that I hated her," she breathed out, as she pressed her dewy face against Michael's warm, warm torso. While one wouldn't peg Michael a hugger, he actually was, it was just that he didn't have that many people to hug. Michael Langdon craved human touch more than most, but it was a need he couldn't fill. So, without even blinking, Michael had opened his arms for Carrie and enveloped the crying girl tightly. Carrie didn't even care about the death of Winn Nelson now, for she knew she needed Michael more than his sins, and if God could forgive Michael, so could she. With one hug, that half of her heart that didn't care that Michael had burned Winn Nelson finally alive won out.

"Did you mean it?" he asked, brushing his fingers through her unruly peach-blonde tangles. He was surrounded by her scent of honey and blood and it was euphoric.

Carrie nestled her face against his chest, soaking up Michael's astonishing body warmth. "No, of course not." Her skin was already flushed with heat, but she didn't mind the sweltering heat that radiated off Michael Langdon—it was a relief from the coldness of her mother.

"It's okay to hate your mother," Michael informed her, speaking from experience.

"But we have to honour our father and mother," she replied, reciting the Bible. Carrie Moore didn't hate her mother, but sometimes she wished she did. Hate was easier than love.

"Only if they honour you in return," Michael expressed, his voice cool and clipped. There were a few beats of silence between the pair, but it wasn't uncomfortable. On the contrary, it was so comfortable that it was almost eerie. Michael brushed his thumb over Carrie's damp cheek, attempting to dry the salty tears that stained her pale skin. "I don't like to see you cry, Carrietta. How about I tell you something beautiful?"

"Okay," she murmured into the soft material of his shirt, not untangling herself from him. She never wanted to leave his arms. She could feel and hear his heart beating—his heart was so strong and powerful.

"My Grandmother, Constance, liked the finer things in life and that included roses. She used to plant them in her backyard and she did this often and frequently," Michael started, and while his voice had a surreal quality to it, there was sadness lingering in the depths of his voice, hanging onto each word. He didn't like thinking of Constance Langdon, it was always too painful and it would always set his heart aching all over again. But Constance's roses had been beautiful and each budding bush stood in testament of Michael's kills so majestically. While Constance's abandonment wasn't a nice memory for Michael, he could make it nice for Carrie Moore, especially with the roses. "She kept planting them until there were rows upon rows of blooming roses the colour of blood. The petals were soft and fragile but the thorns were so sharp that they could cut through anything. The roses thrived against all odds and grew glorious and their scent was so rapturous that I could smell them from any room in the house next door." The nostalgia that washed over Michael was both sweet and sour. He hated that he missed her and that place—that house of murder.

"It sounds beautiful... I can barely imagine it." Carrie's heart was slowing down and her tears were dying. She tried to capture the picture painted by Michael's words, but she knew the image in her mind would never compare to the real thing. But her heart was full now with bliss and she knew that had everything to do with Michael's arms wrapped about her like castle walls.

"It is," Michael agreed. "I think you'd really like it."

"Maybe I can visit this Garden of Eden one day," Carrie whispered out in a honeyed voice. Michael wasn't so sure about that, but he would never stop Carrie from seeing things that were both equally dangerous and beautiful.