The hall was warm. Too warm. The air smelled of roasted meat and old stone. Candlelight flickered on the vaulted ceiling. It was high. So high. The dust motes danced in the beams. They were golden. They were silent.

Margaret stood at the edge of the room. She held her cup. Her hands shook. A fine tremor. A constant thing. She was old. Her skin was thin. It stretched tight over the bones. The bones were fragile.

She looked at the King. He sat on the throne. The chair was carved oak. It was ancient. He was young. He looked tired. He looked like her father.

The feast was loud. Plates clattered. Voices rose. Laughter echoed off the walls. It was a celebration. A victory. The war was over. They had won.

Margaret did not want to celebrate. She wanted to leave. She wanted the cold. She wanted the snow.

A man approached her. He was tall. He wore dark wool. His face was sharp. He was a stranger.

"May I sit?" he asked.

His voice was low. It was rough. Like sand on stone.

Margaret looked at him. She did not know him.

"Yes," she said.

He sat. He poured wine. The wine was red. It swirled in the glass.

"You are from the North," he said. It was not a question.

Margaret nodded. She took a sip. The wine was sweet. It burned her throat.

"I am from the South," he said. He watched her. His eyes were dark. They were deep.

"Is that a problem?" she asked.

He shook his head. "No. It is a fact."

The room spun. The noise faded. It became a hum. A low drone. Margaret closed her eyes. She breathed. In. Out.

The man spoke again.

"I have heard your name. Margaret. The Walker. The One Who Returns."

She opened her eyes. Her heart hammered. It beat hard against her ribs.

"I have no name," she said.

"You do," he said. "Everyone does."

He leaned forward. The candlelight caught his face. There was a scar. It ran from his cheek to his jaw. It was old. It was white.

"Why are you here?" he asked.

"For the feast," she said.

"Liar," he said.

The word hung in the air. It was heavy. It was cold.

Margaret looked away. She looked at the floor. The tiles were black and white. A checkerboard.

"I am here because I was summoned," she said.

"Summoned by whom?"

"By the King."

The man smiled. It was not a kind smile. It was thin. It was sharp.

"Does the King know who you are?"

"No."

"Good."

He took a drink. He wiped his mouth. He looked at the King.

"He is lonely," the man said.

Margaret felt a chill. It started in her spine. It spread to her fingers.

"He is young," she said.

"Young men are lonely," the man said. "Older men are afraid. He is both."

Margaret looked at the King again. The King was speaking to a lady in green. She was laughing. Her hair was gold. It was bright.

The man in wool turned to her.

"What do you fear, Margaret?"

"Nothing," she said.

"You lie again."

She looked at him. She saw the truth in his eyes. It was ugly. It was real.

"I fear I am forgotten," she said.

The man nodded. He looked sad. He looked tired.

"You are not forgotten," he said. "You are remembered. That is worse."

The music started. A fiddle played. A drum beat. People stood. They danced. They moved in circles. They spun.

Margaret did not move. She stayed seated. The man stayed too.

"Stay," he said.

"I am tired," she said.

"You are never tired," he said. "You are always walking."

The song changed. It became slow. It became sad. The fiddle wept. The notes were long. They were high.

Margaret remembered the snow. She remembered the white fields. She remembered the silence. She remembered the cold. It was clean. It was pure.

She missed it.

"I want to go home," she said.

"There is no home," the man said.

"There is," she said. "There is always a home."

"Is there?"

He looked at her. He waited.

She looked at the King. The King was watching her. His eyes were fixed on her. He had been watching her the whole time.

The man saw it. He smiled.

"He knows," he said.

Margaret felt the floor drop. It fell away. She was floating. She was light.

"Who are you?" she whispered.

"I am the keeper of doors," he said.

The room faded. The walls dissolved. The candles went out. The darkness came. It was thick. It was warm.

Margaret was alone.

She was in a room. It was small. It was stone. There was no window. There was a door. It was wooden. It was old.

The man stood in the corner. He leaned against the wall. He looked at her.

"Open it," he said.

"I don't know how," she said.

"Push," he said.

She walked to the door. Her legs were heavy. They moved slowly. She reached out. Her hand touched the wood. It was cold. It was rough.

She pushed.

The door opened.

Light poured in. It was bright. It was white. It was blinding.

Margaret stepped forward. She stepped into the light.

She was outside.

It was night. The sky was full of stars. They were bright. They were sharp. The air was cold. It bit her face. It stung her nose.

She was in a field. The grass was dry. It was brown. It was brittle.

The man was there. He stood a few feet away. He did not follow her. He stayed in the shadows of the doorway.

"Where is this?" she asked.

"Nowhere," he said.

She looked around. There was no road. There was no town. There was no house. There was only the field. And the sky.

She looked at the man.

"Is this home?" she asked.

He shook his head.

"It is before home," he said.

She felt a weight in her chest. It was heavy. It was stone.

"What happens now?" she asked.

"Now you choose," he said.

She looked at the field. It stretched out. It was endless. It was dark.

She looked at the door. It was open. The light from inside was warm. It was yellow. It was safe.

She looked at the sky. The stars were cold. They were distant. They were silent.

She thought of her brother. He was young. He was dead. He had died in the snow. He had smiled. He had said goodbye.

She had not gone. She had stayed. She had come to the court. She had worn the mask. She had played the part.

She had lost him.

She looked at the man.

"If I go back," she said. "I will be safe. I will be warm. I will be forgotten."

"Yes," he said.

"If I go forward," she said. "I will be cold. I will be alone. I will be known."

"Yes," he said.

Margaret closed her eyes. She breathed. In. Out.

The cold was there. It was on her skin. It was in her lungs. It was in her blood.

She opened her eyes.

She looked at the door. The light was fading. It was dimming. The warmth was gone.

She looked at the field. The grass was swaying. A wind was blowing. It was gentle. It was soft.

She took a step.

The man watched her. His face was still. His eyes were dark.

She took another step.

The door behind her began to close. The wood groaned. It was slow. It was heavy.

She did not look back.

She walked. Her feet sank into the earth. The soil was cold. It was wet.

The stars above her were brighter. They were sharper. They were closer.

The wind picked up. It whipped her hair. It tugged at her clothes.

She walked faster. Her breath came in short bursts. It formed clouds in the air.

The door was gone. The light was gone.

She was alone.

The field stretched out. It was infinite. It was dark.

She was afraid. The fear was small. It was sharp. It sat in her stomach.

She pushed it down. She swallowed it.

She walked on.

The night was long. The stars did not move. They watched. They waited.

Margaret walked. Her legs ached. Her bones creaked. She was old. She was tired.

But she was moving.

She was not running. She was not fleeing.

She was walking.

The path was pale. It was faint. It was barely there. But it was there.

She followed it.

The cold was deep. It was absolute. It was real.

She smiled.

It was small. It was sad. It was true.

She walked into the dark. She walked into the night. She walked into the cold.

She was alone.

She was free.

The stars burned. They were bright. They were eternal.

She walked on.