Chapter 2a: The Morning After

Margot woke to the smell of smoke.

Not the clean, sharp smoke of a fresh fire—this was older, heavier, clinging to the stones like memory. She opened her eyes and remembered where she was. The tower. The beast. The night before.

She had fallen asleep on a worn chaise near the hearth, too exhausted to find a proper bed. Her gown was wrinkled, her hair a tangled mess, and there was ash on her fingers from lighting the fire.

But she was alive. That counted for something.

She sat up slowly, her body aching from the journey and the cold and the sheer weight of everything that had happened. The fire had burned low, embers glowing orange in the gray morning light. The great hall was empty.

The beast was gone.

She didn't know whether to be relieved or terrified. She pushed herself to her feet, wrapping her arms around herself against the chill. Her breath misted in the air.

"Hello?" she called.

Silence.

She walked toward the door that led deeper into the tower, her footsteps echoing in the vast, empty space. She passed through a narrow corridor and into a smaller chamber—a kitchen, she realized.

Ancient and dusty, with a massive stone hearth and iron pots hanging from hooks. A table sat in the center, scarred and worn, with two chairs that had seen better centuries.

On the table was a plate of bread and cheese.

She stared at it. She hadn't eaten in two days. She had been too afraid, too hollow, too focused on survival to think about food.

She picked up the bread. It was stale but edible. She tore off a piece and ate it slowly, savoring the texture, the warmth that spread through her empty stomach.

The cheese was sharp and hard. She ate that too.

When she was finished, she looked around the kitchen. It was surprisingly clean, considering it had been abandoned for centuries. The pots were polished.

The hearth was swept. Someone had been taking care of this place.

Someone who wasn't supposed to be here.

She found a pitcher of water and drank deeply. Then she walked back into the great hall, ready to face whatever came next.

The beast was there.

He was standing by the window, his massive back to her, staring out at the sea. The morning light caught the edges of his horns, the curve of his shoulders, the gray stone of his skin. He looked ancient. He looked broken.

He looked lonely.

She didn't know what to say. So she said the only thing that came to mind.

"Thank you for the bread."

He didn't turn around. "You needed to eat."

"I did. Thank you."

Silence.

She walked toward him, stopping a few feet away. Close enough to see the tension in his shoulders, the way his claws gripped the windowsill.

"Are you going to kill me?" she asked.

"Not today."

"Tomorrow, then?"

He turned to look at her. His golden eyes were tired. "I don't know. I haven't decided."

She nodded. That was fair. She hadn't decided whether she wanted to live, so they were even.

"Can I ask you something?" she said.

"You already have."

She almost smiled. Almost. "What's your name?"

His jaw tightened. The muscles in his neck corded. "I don't have a name."

"Everyone has a name."

"Not monsters."

She studied him. The way his claws curled inward. The way his shoulders hunched, as if he was trying to make himself smaller. The way his eyes flickered with something that looked almost like shame.

"Did you have a name once?" she pressed.

Silence stretched between them. Long and heavy, like a held breath.

"Alistair," he finally said. His voice was rough, raw, as if the word had been dragged out of him by force. "My name was Alistair."

She said nothing. She just stood there, letting the name settle between them.

"Alistair," she repeated. It felt strange on her tongue. Ancient and beautiful and sad. "I'm Margot."

"I know. You told me."

"I'm telling you again. In case you forget."

His eyes searched hers, looking for something. Mockery, perhaps. Or fear. Or cruelty. He found none.

"I won't forget," he said.

She nodded again. She was tired of nodding. But she didn't know what else to do.

"What happens now?" she asked.

He turned back to the window. "I don't know. What happens with you?"

"I don't know either. I've never been a peace offering before."

He made a sound that might have been a laugh. Or a choke. It was hard to tell.

"Neither have I," he said. "I've never had a peace offering before."

She thought about that. The absurdity of it. Two people, thrown together by fate and cruelty, neither of them knowing what to do with the other.

"You could try talking to me," she said.

"I don't talk."

"You just did."

He turned. His golden eyes were sharp, angry. "I meant before. I don't talk to people. I don't have conversations. I don't—" He stopped. His claws flexed. "I don't do this."

"Do what?"

"Exist with someone."

She thought about that. About what it meant to be alone for so long that you forgot how to share space with another person.

"I can leave," she said. "I can go to another room. I can stay out of your way."

"You can't leave the tower."

"I know. But I can make myself scarce."

He stared at her. His expression was unreadable.

"Why?" he asked. "Why would you do that?"

She shrugged. "Because you look like you need space. And I'm good at being invisible. I've had practice."

He was quiet for a long moment. Then he said, "I don't want you to be invisible."

The words hung in the air between them.

"Okay," she said. "Then I won't be."

She found the library that afternoon.