Chapter 1b: The Forgotten Daughter

Her mother gasped. Her father sputtered.

But Margot was already turning away.

She walked to the door, her steps steady, her back straight. She would not give them the satisfaction of seeing her break.

She would not give them the pleasure of her tears.

She paused at the threshold.

"I'll go," she said quietly. "Not because you commanded me.

Not because it's my duty. I'll go because I'd rather die in that tower than spend one more day in this house, being invisible to people who claim to love me.

And she walked out.

The night was cold.

Margot sat in her room, staring at the single trunk she had packed. It was pitifully small—a few books, a worn journal, a small knife she had hidden for years, a change of clothes that were already faded and threadbare.

She had nothing else.

Nothing else to take. Nothing else to leave behind.

Her sisters had rooms full of gowns and jewelry, trinkets and treasures. Margot had a trunk. A trunk that was barely half-full.

She sat on her bed, her hands folded in her lap, and tried to feel something. Fear, perhaps. Or sadness. Or rage.

But all she felt was hollow.

She had always been the forgotten daughter. The third child. The one who wasn't quite pretty enough, wasn't quite talented enough, wasn't quite anything enough. She had learned to make herself small, to take up as little space as possible, to exist on the edges of her own life.

She had learned to be invisible.

But now, suddenly, she was visible. The kingdom saw her. The beast would see her. For the first time in her life, Margot Ashford mattered.

Only because she was being sent to die.

There was a knock at her door.

She didn't answer. She didn't move.

The door opened anyway. Isabella stepped inside, her face pale, her eyes red-rimmed. She was beautiful—everyone said so. Golden hair, porcelain skin, eyes like summer skies. She had never wanted for anything. She had never been overlooked.

She had never been forgotten.

"Margot," Isabella whispered. "I'm so sorry. I didn't know—Father didn't tell me—"

"Father never tells you anything." Margot's voice was flat. Empty. "He doesn't need to. You're the favorite. You get everything you want without asking."

Isabella flinched. "That's not true—"

"Isn't it?" Margot finally looked at her. "You have everything.

The gowns. The jewels. The suitors. The betrothal to Lord Ashworth. You have everything I've ever wanted. And you've never once lifted a finger to help me."

Isabella's eyes filled with tears. "I tried—"

"No, you didn't." Margot's voice cracked. "You never tried. You just watched. You watched them ignore me. You watched them forget me. And you never once said a word."

Isabella opened her mouth to argue. Then she closed it. Because she knew it was true.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm sorry I wasn't braver."

Margot shook her head. "It doesn't matter anymore. I'm leaving tomorrow. I'm going to the tower. And I'm never coming back.

Isabella sobbed. She crossed the room, threw her arms around Margot, held her tight. Margot didn't hug back. She just sat there, stiff and cold, waiting for it to be over.

"You don't have to go," Isabella said. "I'll talk to Father—"

"Don't." Margot pulled away. "Don't make this harder than it already is."

Isabella's face crumpled. "I love you," she said. "I know I didn't show it. But I love you. Please believe me."

Margot looked at her. This sister who had everything. This sister who had never needed her. This sister who was crying now, finally, when it was too late.

"I believe you," Margot said quietly. "But it doesn't matter. I'm still going. And I'm still never coming back."

She stood. She walked to the window and looked out at the moon.

"Please go," she said. "I need to be alone."

Isabella hesitated. Then she walked to the door. She paused at the threshold.

"I'll miss you," she said.

Margot didn't turn around. "Goodbye, Isabella."

The door closed.

And Margot was alone.

She didn't sleep that night.

She sat by the window, watching the moon cross the sky, thinking about everything and nothing. She thought about her childhood, her family, the years of invisibility. She thought about the beast in the tower, the monster she was being sent to appease. She thought about death, and whether it would hurt, and whether anyone would mourn her.

She thought about her father's cold eyes. Her mother's silence. Her sister's tears.

She thought about the knife in her trunk. The knife she had hidden for years, just in case. Just in case she ever needed to defend herself. Just in case she ever needed to dieShe didn't know which one she would use.

At dawn, the servants came.

They helped her dress in her finest gown—a faded gray thing that had once belonged to her mother. They pinned her hair up, dabbed powder on her cheeks, tried to make her look presentable.

She let them. She didn't fight. She didn't care.

Her father came to see her off. He stood in the courtyard, surrounded by soldiers, his face grim and determined.

"Make us proud," he said.

Margot looked at him. This man who had never loved her. This man who had never seen her. This man who was sending her to die.

"I'll try," she said.

She climbed into the carriage. The door closed behind her. The horses began to move.

She didn't look back.

The road to the tower was long and winding.

Margot sat in the carriage, staring out the window, watching the world go by.

The green fields of her homeland gave way to wild forests.

The forests gave way to rocky crags. The crags gave way to the sea—gray and churning, endless and cold.

She had never seen the sea before. It was terrifying and beautiful. It stretched out forever, merging with the sky, swallowing everything in its path.

Her death was at the edge of that sea. Waiting for her.

The priest traveled with her. Father Aldric, a thin, nervous man who smelled of incense and fear. He tried to comfort her with prayers. She ignored him.

"You must have faith," he said. "The Lord will protect you."

"I don't need the Lord," she said. "I need a weapon."