The bells rang out as they had done for hundreds of years, their sombre music sweeping over London with grace and stillness, bright as the moon which was full and ripe in the sky. Despite the late hour, the city below was restless, tossing and turning in the darkness with lights and buses and cars and people – everywhere people – walking, rushing, working, drinking, dancing, sleeping; none taking any notice of the bells at all.

Within the tower, the sound was deafening. Yet the women did not flinch as they stepped closer, forming a circle, their feet bare on the cold stone floor and their hair loose against plain robes. They pulled back their hoods, feeling the vibrations of the bells in their bones; feeling the buzz and blur of the city below; feeling the silence of the moon through the windows; feeling the languages of their own magic rising. The last chime rang out with finality.

Midnight. It was time.

They raised their arms to the sky.

They did not scream when it happened – the Seven were not made for such expressions, but even so they did not have time to scream. They possessed infinite years at their fingertips but not a moment of warning when it came—

The glass of the windows shattered. The night bled in. Words were spoken: impermeable and unbreakable. The women were yanked backwards, bare feet dragged along the floor. They were raised into the air, robes flaring, limbs frozen in the moonlight. All they could feel now was futility – the deep knowing that there was nothing they could do as the ropes wound around their necks and they dropped into the empty night.

Only then, as their bodies ceased to belong to them, did they do what any bodies would do: squirm and jerk and gargle and choke – slowly die.

Below, London carried on as before but the bells of Big Ben had never been so silent.