Chapter 1887

"I didn’t!"

The figure’s wooden face began to split.

A thin crack appeared down its centre.

Behind the wooden surface was another face.

Jude recognised it.

It was Scarlet’s face.

Not the first Scarlet.

Not the second.

A third Scarlet.

Her eyes were closed.

Her expression was peaceful.

And a silver symbol was carved into her forehead.

Jude stared.

The first Scarlet made a sound that was almost a sob.

"That’s the one."

"Which one?" Jude asked.

"The first."

The figure’s face opened wider.

The third Scarlet’s eyes opened.

She looked directly at Jude.

Then she smiled.

"Hello, Jude."

The second Scarlet stopped struggling.

The little boy lowered his hands.

And the first Scarlet whispered something that made Jude’s blood run cold.

"That’s the one who was born before us."

The third Scarlet’s face disappeared behind the wooden mask.

The figure pulled the thread.

The second Scarlet screamed.

The wooden bird slipped from her hands.

Jude caught it before it hit the ground.

The moment his fingers touched it, the entire village changed.

The darkness disappeared.

The firepit returned.

The doors of the cabins slammed shut.

The strange rooms vanished.

And the northern mountain became silent.

The figure was gone.

So was the second Scarlet.

Only the first Scarlet remained beside Jude.

She was staring at the wooden bird in his hands.

"Give it to me."

Jude looked at her.

"Why?"

"Because you shouldn’t be holding it."

"Who was that?"

"Give me the bird."

"Who was the third Scarlet?"

She reached towards it.

Jude stepped back.

"Answer me."

Her eyes filled with tears.

"I can’t."

"Why not?"

"Because I don’t know which answer is mine."

Jude looked down at the bird.

A tiny piece of silver paper had appeared beneath one of its wings.

He carefully unfolded it.

There were only four words.

THE FIRST ONE IS HUNGRY.

He looked up.

Scarlet was no longer beside him.

Instead, she was standing on the other side of the firepit.

Her face had changed.

The familiar expression was gone.

She looked younger.

Much younger.

And for the first time, Jude noticed a small scar beneath her left eye.

He had never seen that scar before.

"Scarlet?"

She stared at him.

"Don’t call me that."

Jude’s grip tightened around the bird.

"Then what should I call you?"

She looked towards the northern mountain.

For a long moment, she seemed to be listening to something.

Then she turned back.

"My name was never Scarlet."

Jude said nothing.

She took a step towards him.

"That was the name I chose when I came to the village."

"Why?"

"Because I wanted to be one of them."

"One of whom?"

She glanced towards the shared house.

Through its windows, Jude could see the others gathering together. Susan was holding Emma’s hand. Sophie stood near the entrance. Serena was looking towards the mountain.

And Layla...

Layla was standing in the doorway, staring at Jude.

Her expression was one of complete confusion.

Scarlet followed his gaze.

"Don’t let them count me."

"What?"

"Don’t let them count me again."

Before Jude could ask another question, a bell rang.

Not from the mountain.

Not from the first house.

It rang beneath the village.

Once.

The wooden bird in Jude’s hands opened its beak.

A tiny voice came from inside.

"One."

The bell rang again.

"Two."

The third time, every woman in the village turned towards Jude.

The bird whispered:

"Three."

Then all twelve women spoke together.

"Jude, there are thirteen of us."

He stared at them.

His wives.

Twelve.

Only twelve.

He counted again.

Then he noticed the woman standing behind Layla.

She wore the same clothes as the others.

She had the same face as Susan.

But her hair was completely white.

And she was holding a small wooden bird.

Jude looked towards the firepit.

The first Scarlet was gone.

The woman behind Layla raised her head.

Her eyes met his.

Then she spoke in a voice Jude had heard only once before.

In the room before the first house.

"Father."

The wooden key turned violently in his hand.

Far beneath the village, something knocked three times.

And from beneath the northern mountain, a voice answered:

"Welcome back, Mother."

The white-haired woman smiled.

"Now," she said, "we can finally begin counting the children."

Behind her, the shared house door slowly opened.

Inside stood five identical Sols.

And sitting at the head of the dining table was a sixth child.

He looked exactly like Jude.

But unlike the others, he was not smiling.

He was crying.

In front of him lay an old photograph.

The same photograph Jude had seen in the room with the man who claimed to be the original.

Only this time, the photograph had changed.

There were fourteen people in it.

Twelve women.

One man.

And a little boy standing between them.

On the back, written in silver ink, was a sentence Jude had never seen before.

THE FIRST MOTHER DID NOT GIVE BIRTH TO THE CHILDREN.

A second line appeared beneath it.

SHE GAVE BIRTH TO THE ONE WHO COUNTED THEM.

The child at the table slowly lifted his head.

His eyes were Jude’s eyes.

His face was Jude’s face.

And when he spoke, every clock in the village stopped.

"Father," he whispered, "you promised you would never count me again."

Jude couldn’t move.

The child sitting at the head of the dining table had his face.

Not a resemblance. Not the unsettling similarity of the other Judes he had encountered beneath the mountain or inside the first house.

It was his face.

The same eyes, the same shape of the mouth, the same small crease between the eyebrows that appeared whenever he was trying to understand something difficult.

But the child looked no older than ten.

He was wearing a simple white shirt, and his dark hair was neatly combed. His hands rested on either side of the old photograph. He looked exhausted.