VIOLET, VIOLET.” I hear them call my name. The scratch of wood against metal as oars click into the oarlocks, the frantic splashing of water as they attempt to turn the boat and follow me. “Violet, wait.” I ignore them and turn and wade toward the shore. The helicopters have nearly arrived, and I pick up my pace, pumping my arms like mad. The river glistens like a pool of tar—I can just make out the reflection of the stars, cragged and blurred by my motion. “Please, Violet, they’ll kill you.”

Large hoops of light appear around me. I raise my head to see shafts of white carving up the black. The helicopters. Until I saw them, I wasn’t entirely sure they’d arrive. Perhaps Alice disclosed this location, too, or perhaps it’s the canon again, haunting me, dragging me to the gallows.

I just need to get arrested, then hopefully the soldiers won’t bother with the little wooden boat floating in the background—it’s me they want, thanks to the fact Howard Stoneback’s dead. I take some comfort in that the hovercrafts haven’t yet arrived. I’ll never forget them in the film. Black, glossy disks hanging in the sky like stones, generating this low whirring noise that traveled through the sofa and into the backs of my legs. They snatched Rose and Willow from their little boat with long, metal tentacles—scared the life out of me. But I shove them from my mind and repeat the words again and again, hugging them to my body like a life vest: I won’t let them die, too. I won’t let them die, too. I won’t let them die, too.

I reach the shore. I think I’ve made it. But the joy of saving my friends is completely overshadowed by the fear of facing the Gem soldiers. I begin to run along the bank, waving my arms, trying to attract the Gems’ attention. “Don’t shoot,” I shout. “I surrender.” They want me alive, at least for now, but the sight of the guns still makes me want to puke.

I hear a shot. I don’t know who fired first; the Gem soldiers or my friends in the boat. It doesn’t matter. Once the bullets start flying, I lose control of the situation. I turn to see Matthew, caught by a bullet. He falls over the side like a bag of sand, tipping the boat. Every one of the passengers falls into the water, pulled beneath the surface. I forget about the soldiers—I only know I must reach Matthew. Shot and sinking. But then another thought finds me, even more terrifying, even more paralyzing. Imps can’t swim. Which means Ash is likely drowning at this very moment.

I run toward the upturned boat, flinging my body into the water. I take a large breath and squeeze my eyes closed, just before a thousand nails drive into my skull. The river may look like tar, but it is undeniably water—ice-cold, endless. I kick my legs and force my hips to twist, propelling me upward. The surface breaks over my head and I take one enormous gasp of air. For a moment, I feel disoriented. I can’t see anything—the stars, the flashlights, the soldiers. But I can hear. Muffled gunshots, the echo of my own breath, lapping water. My hands paddle and bash against something solid. I realize I’ve emerged beneath the upturned boat.

“Violet?” I hear Katie beside me, panting and treading water.

My eyes adjust, and I can just pick out Saskia, clinging to the upturned seat, holding the boat as though it’s a giant shield. Her head bobs under the water until Katie pulls her up again, looping an arm beneath her chin.

“Imps can’t swim.” I spray river from my mouth. “Stay with Saskia.”

I dive back into the cold and power through the black, not entirely sure which way is up or down, manically swimming in circles, my arms reaching for imaginary shapes. But there is no Ash. No Matthew. Only gray, watery phantoms. My lungs feel ready to burst, and I know I desperately need more air, but panic drives me on, reeling, spinning, groping through the dark.

An intense light pushes its way into every corner of the black, like angels have ripped a hole in the clouds, letting the heavens burst through. The underwater world can no longer hide. I see every piece of driftwood, every murky stone, every strip of seaweed carried in by the tide, my own hands, pale and hopeless before me.

My eyes find Matthew first. He lies motionless. His mahogany skin already part of the riverbed, his lifeless eyes like two freshwater pearls. A dark cloud billows from a hole in his chest. And although this is not what I wanted, the last thing I wanted, I feel thankful. Because I only have one pair of arms, and now I don’t have to choose who to save.

Next, I see Ash, suspended and flailing, wrestling an invisible sea beast. Bubbles spiral from his hands, and his black hair fans around his pale, bruised face. I’ve never seen him look so scared, and for a shard of a moment, I feel completely flooded with love. Within seconds, I reach him, slip my hands beneath his armpits, and drive us toward the surface.

We break into the heavenly light, coughing and spluttering. I flip him over so he looks skyward, hook my elbow under his chin, and begin to swim toward the boat. I hear a strange noise, a low, whirring hiss combined with Ash’s spluttering. As far as the eye can see, the surface of the river begins to wrinkle, the water almost vibrating, droplets sucked upward like it’s raining in reverse.

“Violet,” Ash manages to say.

I think he’s trying to warn me, because he’s already seen what I can’t.

The light doesn’t belong to angels.

It belongs to the four glossy stones hanging above us.

Next come the tentacles—scary when I read the book, even scarier on TV, horrifying in real life. A motorized arm snakes through the sky with strong, sinewy movements. There’s no point even trying to escape, it moves with such speed. A large metal cuff girdles Ash’s middle and rips him from the water, so quick and brutal I don’t get the chance to look into his face one last time. He floats high above me now—a tiny version of himself—and disappears into the belly of a hovercraft.

I bob for a moment, completely alone, just water and panic and brilliant lights. It comes from nowhere, the second arm, winding through the river like a metal sea serpent. A shot of adrenaline, a burst of horror. It clamps around me, forcing the air from my lungs, and yanks me upward with such speed my neck cracks. The wind rushes through my wet clothes, and I watch the boat below shrink to the size of a child’s toy. Saskia and Katie remain concealed from sight. At least they are safe for now.

The arm sucks me into the craft and dumps me on the floor. Before I can catch my breath, a team of soldiers descend, jerking my arms behind my back, cuffing my wrists and ankles. I don’t bother fighting. I just search frantically for Ash—my eyes find him; a mound leaking river across the floor.

This is just like the scene from canon, only it isn’t Rose and Willow coughing up silt onto the metal floor—it’s me and Ash. I hear the buzz of a walkie-talkie. “We got her, sir. Her and another gutter monkey to throw in the mix.”

I’ve done it. The canon is back on track. Tomorrow, I will hang. But I feel no relief, no sense of achievement. Because just before I feel the bite of a hypodermic needle sinking into my neck, just before I lose consciousness, I hear the walkie-talkie spew out its response. “Good work. A double act for the Gallows Dance.”

It won’t just be me dangling from a rope tomorrow.

Not Ash, I try to say. Not Ash. But my tongue just flops hopelessly around my mouth.