The mirror is cracked. A spiderweb of fractures radiates from the left eye. You do not look at it. You look at the water. The water is cold. You are Margaret. You are the hand. The hand is shaking. The palace is silent. The stones breathe. They are old. They are tired. They know what you did. They do not care.

You stand before the window. The glass is thick. Outside, the garden is dead. The leaves have fallen. The branches are black. They look like bones. The wind howls. It sounds like a voice. It sounds like your mother. No. It is just the wind. You turn away. You pick up the broom. The handle is rough. It bites into your palm. You begin to sweep. The dust moves. It rises in the light. It dances. It looks like ash. It looks like smoke. You sweep the ash. You sweep the smoke. You sweep the past.

The door opens. You do not turn. You know the steps. Heavy. Slow. Deliberate. It is King Aldous. He does not speak. He stands behind you. You can feel his heat. It is a heavy heat. Like a furnace. Like a guilt. You continue to sweep. The broom scratches the floor. Screech. Screech. Screech.

"Margaret."

Your name is a stone. It drops in the room. It sinks. You stop. The broom hangs in the air. The dust settles. You turn. He is tall. He wears black. His face is pale. His eyes are deep. They are pits. There is no light in them.

"Your Majesty."

Your voice is thin. It is a thread. It might snap. He looks at you. He looks through you. He sees the crack in the mirror. He sees the crack in you. He does not say it. He never says it. He walks to the table. He sits. The chair creaks. He places his hands on the table. The hands are still. The hands are cold.

"The council meets at noon," he says.

"Yes."

They will decide. They will decide your fate. They will decide if you are guilty. They will decide if you are a witch. They will decide if you are a woman. The words are heavy. They sit in the air. They press against your chest. You feel the weight. You breathe. It is hard. The air is thick.

"Why do you serve?" he asks.

The question is a knife. It is dull. It is blunt. It cuts slowly. You look at your hands. The hands are dirty. The dirt is under the nails. You scrubbed. You scrubbed until the skin bled. The blood dried. It turned black. It looked like dirt. You cannot clean it. You cannot clean yourself.

"Because I must," you say.

He nods. He does not understand. He does not want to understand. He is afraid. He is afraid of you. He is afraid of what you did. He is afraid of what you are. He built a wall. The wall is high. The wall is strong. You are on the other side. He is on this side. You cannot cross. You cannot reach him. You cannot save him. You cannot save yourself.

He stands up. He walks to the door. He stops. He does not turn around.

"Be ready," he says.

Then he is gone. The door closes. The lock clicks. The sound is final. It is a period at the end of a sentence. The sentence is long. It has gone on for years. It is time to end it.

You walk to the bed. The sheets are white. They are clean. They are soft. You touch them. They are cold. You lie down. You close your eyes. You see her. Your mother. She is in the field. The field is green. The sun is bright. She is singing. The song is old. The song is simple. It is a lullaby. It is a warning.

*Do not look back.*

You look back. You always look back. You see the fire. The fire is red. The fire is hot. It consumes. It eats. It does not stop. It eats the house. It eats the tree. It eats the sky. It eats the truth. You watch. You do not move. You do not scream. You are still. You are stone. You are part of the ground. You are part of the earth. You are part of the silence.

The fire was not an accident. You know this. You have always known this. The smoke was sweet. It smelled of honey. It smelled of death. You held the match. Your hand did not shake. Your heart did not race. You were calm. You were clear. You were sure. You wanted it to burn. You wanted it to end. You wanted to be free. But freedom is a cage. It is a golden cage. It is a beautiful cage. It is empty.

You wake up. The sun is high. The light is harsh. It blinds you. You sit up. Your body is stiff. Your muscles ache. You are tired. You are so tired. You get out of bed. Your feet touch the floor. The floor is cold. You walk to the basin. You wash your face. The water is clear. Your face is red. Your eyes are swollen. You look like a ghost. You look like a shadow. You are not real. You are a memory. You are a mistake.

You dress. The dress is gray. It is plain. It is heavy. It drags on the floor. You button it. The buttons are small. They are hard. You button it all the way to the neck. You hide your skin. You hide your neck. You hide your throat. You hide your life. You are ready. You are ready to die. You are ready to live. You do not know the difference. It does not matter.

You walk to the hall. The hall is long. The portraits hang on the walls. The faces stare. They judge. They whisper. They know. They always know. You walk past them. You do not stop. You do not look. You walk to the throne room. The doors are open. The light floods in. The light is gold. It is warm. It is false.

The council is there. The men in robes. The women in veils. The judge. The priest. The king. They sit in a row. They are a wall. You stand before them. You are a speck. You are a dot. You are nothing.

"Margaret of Holloway," the judge says. His voice is dry. It is like sand. "You are accused of treason. Of arson. Of witchcraft. Do you plead guilty or not guilty?"

You open your mouth. You want to speak. You want to say the truth. You want to say I did it. I did it because I was lonely. I did it because I was angry. I did it because I was afraid. I did it because I loved him. But the words do not come. They are stuck. They are locked. They are buried.

"I am innocent," you say.

The lie is easy. It is smooth. It slides out of you. It does not taste like blood. It tastes like air. The judge frowns. He looks at the king. The king looks away. He does not look at you. He cannot look at you. If he looks, he will see the fire. If he looks, he will see the ash. If he looks, he will see the truth. And the truth is too heavy. He will break.

"The evidence is clear," the judge says. "The witnesses saw the smoke. The guards found the match. The motive is evident. You sought to destroy the king's lineage."

Your lineage. Your mother's lineage. The bloodline. It is strong. It is old. It is powerful. It is cursed. You are the end. You are the break. You are the crack.

"I have no lineage," you say.

The room goes silent. The silence is loud. It rings in your ears. The judge blinks. He is confused. He is angry. He does not understand. He thinks you are mocking him. He thinks you are mad. He is right. You are mad. You are free.

"Bring the mirror," he says.

The guard brings the mirror. The cracked mirror. He places it on the table. The light hits the glass. The light shatters. The light breaks. The image breaks. Your face breaks. The cracks spread. They spread to your skin. They spread to your soul. You see it. You see the truth.

The mirror is not broken. The glass is whole. The cracks are in the light. The cracks are in the eye. The cracks are in you. You are the flaw. You are the error. You are the stain.

"Look," the judge commands.

You look. You see your mother. She is in the glass. She is young. She is beautiful. She is smiling. She is holding a match. She is holding a fire. She is not sad. She is not afraid. She is happy. She is proud. She passed it to you. The curse. The gift. The fire.

You understand. You were not the monster. You were the vessel. You were the tool. You were the hand. The hand is not to blame. The hand is just the hand. The fire is the fire. The fire is the king. The fire is the court. The fire is the world.

You close your eyes. You do not see the mirror. You see the garden. The garden is green. The leaves are new. The wind is soft. It smells of rain. It smells of life. It smells of peace.

"I accept," you say.

The judge is stunned. He drops his pen. The ink spills. It flows like blood. It flows like tears. The king stands up. He looks at you. He sees something. He sees the release. He sees the end. He sees the truth.

He walks down from the throne. The steps are long. He walks slowly. He walks to you. He stops. He is close. He is very close. You can smell him. He smells of sweat. He smells of fear. He smells of regret.

"I knew," he whispers.

His voice is small. It is weak. It is a child's voice. He looks into your eyes. He sees the fire. He sees the ash. He sees the peace.

"Forgive me," he says.

You look at him. You do not forgive him. You do not hate him. You do not feel anything. You are empty. You are clear. You are the water. You are the air. You are the silence.

You turn away. You walk to the door. The door is open. The light is bright. You step out. The air hits your face. It is cold. It is fresh. It is real.

You walk into the garden. The garden is dead. The branches are black. The leaves are gone. But you do not care. You walk to the center. You stop. You close your eyes. You breathe. You breathe in. You breathe out. You are here. You are now. You are Margaret. You are the hand. You are the fire. You are the ash.

You open your eyes. The sky is gray. The clouds are low. It is going to rain. The rain will wash the ash away. The rain will wash the dirt away. The rain will wash you away.

You smile. It is a small smile. It is a real smile. It is the first smile. It is the last smile.

You stand in the rain. The water runs down your face. It runs down your neck. It runs down your dress. It runs into the earth. You are part of the earth. You are part of the rain. You are part of the silence.

You do not look back. You do not look up. You do not look around. You look inward. You look inside. You find nothing. You find everything. You find the peace.

You dissolve. You fade. You become the mist. You become the memory. You become the legend.

The legend is distant. The legend is far. The legend is quiet. The legend is gone.

The rain continues. The rain falls. The rain washes. The rain cleans. The rain ends.

The sun comes out. The sun is bright. The sun is warm. The sun is new.

The garden is still dead. The branches are still black. The leaves are still gone.

But the air is clean. The air is clear. The air is free.

You are free.