The wool was thin. Margaret could feel the needle’s eye through the fabric. It was a grey scarf. It had been white once. Now it was the color of old ash. She sat in the corner of the chapel. The stone was cold. The candle flickered.

"Is it done?"

Thomas stood behind her. His shadow fell across the work. He was tall. He was always tall. In this small room, he felt like a pillar.

"Almost," she said. She did not look up. Her hands moved. Stitch by stitch.

"You are tired, Margaret."

"I am fine."

"You are not fine. You have not eaten."

"I am not hungry."

Thomas sighed. He sat on the bench opposite her. The wood creaked. It was a heavy sound. In the silence, it sounded like a bone breaking.

"Tell me again," he said. "The rules."

Margaret stopped. Her needle hovered. The thread trembled.

"Which ones?"

"All of them. For the binding."

She looked at him. His eyes were dark. They were not the eyes of a man. They were the eyes of a void.

"You know the rules, Thomas."

"I want to hear them from you."

Her voice was small. It did not fill the stone box.

"One, no blood may be spilled within the circle. Two, no name may be spoken that is not our own. Three, the light must never be fully extinguished."

"And four?"

"And four. You must remain. You must not leave the circle until I am free."

Thomas smiled. It was a thin smile. It did not reach his eyes.

"I am here," he said. "I am not leaving."

He reached into his coat. He pulled out a small mirror. It was cracked. The glass was dark. He held it up to the candlelight.

"Look," he said.

Margaret leaned forward. She looked into the glass. She saw her own face. It was pale. Her cheeks were hollow. She saw the scar on her chin. She saw the worry lines around her mouth. She saw fear.

"I look old," she said.

"You look honest," Thomas said.

He set the mirror down. He placed it on the floor between them.

"Ready?"

Margaret nodded. She picked up the scarf. She wrapped it around her neck. The wool was scratchy. It itched. She pulled it tight. It was a barrier. It was a shield.

Thomas drew the circle. He used chalk. The white line cut across the dark stone. It was a perfect line. It was cold.

"Step in," he said.

Margaret stepped over the chalk. Her shoe squeaked. The sound was sharp.

"Now. Speak the words."

Margaret opened her mouth. But no sound came out. Her throat was tight. She swallowed. She tried again.

"I bind you," she whispered.

Thomas laughed. It was a dry sound. Like leaves scraping on gravel.

"That is not it, Margaret."

"I am afraid," she said.

"Good. Fear is fuel. Speak it."

She closed her eyes. She thought of the house. The empty rooms. The dust motes dancing in the sunbeams. She thought of the years. The long, quiet years. She thought of the way he used to hold her hand. It was different now. It was heavy.

"I bind you," she said again. Louder.

Thomas raised his hand. He pointed at the candle. The flame dipped. The light wavered. The shadows in the corners of the room grew longer. They stretched toward the circle.

"Stay," he said. His voice was low. It was not angry. It was sad. "Do not let the light go out."

The wind howled outside. It was a low moan. It sounded like a child crying. Margaret held the candle. Her hand shook. The wax dripped on her fingers. It was hot. She did not pull away.

"Thomas," she said. "Let me go."

"I cannot."

"Then I will."

She began to chant. The words were old. They were hard to say. They tasted like iron. She spoke of chains. She spoke of rust. She spoke of the earth swallowing the stone.

The air in the room grew thick. It was hard to breathe. The stone seemed to breathe with her. It expanded. It contracted.

Thomas watched her. He did not move. He did not fight. He just watched.

"Stop," he said.

"No."

"Margaret."

"No."

The candle sputtered. The flame turned blue. The blue was cold. It was the color of ice.

Thomas stepped forward. He stepped over the chalk.

"Margaret, stop. You are hurting yourself."

She looked at him. He was inside the circle now. The light was weak. It barely touched him.

"I am doing my duty," she said.

"It is not a duty. It is a mistake."

He reached for her hand. She pulled back.

"Stay away."

"Let me hold you."

"No."

He stopped. He stood there. He looked so small. He looked so lost.

"I loved you," he said.

"I know," she said. "But it is over."

"Is it?"

She looked at the mirror on the floor. The reflection was clear. She saw Thomas. She saw herself. But there was someone else. A third figure. It was standing behind Thomas. It was tall. It was black. It had no face.

Margaret felt a chill. It went down her spine.

"Who is that?" she asked.

Thomas did not turn around.

"No one," he said. "It is just the dark."

"It is looking at me."

"It is you, Margaret. It is the part of you that is afraid."

She looked at the scarf. The wool was turning black. It was spreading from her neck down to her chest. It was like ink in water.

"I need to get out," she said.

"You cannot," Thomas said. "The circle is closed."

She scrambled to her feet. Her knees buckled. She caught herself on the bench. The wood was slick with sweat.

"Open it, Thomas."

"I cannot."

"Why?"

"Because I am not the one who drew it."

Margaret froze. She looked at the chalk line. It was glowing. It was a bright, white light. It was not chalk. It was bone.

She looked at Thomas. He was smiling again. But this time, it was a cruel smile.

"You are the one who drew it," he said. "Years ago. When you were young. When you were angry."

Margaret’s mind reeled. She remembered. A night. A storm. A house. A man who hurt her. She remembered the chalk. She remembered the circle. She remembered the words.

"I did not mean it," she whispered.

"You did," Thomas said. "You wanted him to stay. You wanted him to suffer. You wanted him to be bound forever."

"No," she said. "I wanted him gone."

"You wanted him here. Trapped. Like you are now."

Margaret looked at the black figure behind Thomas. It was closer now. It was touching Thomas’s shoulder.

"Let me go," she said. Her voice was broken.

"I cannot," Thomas said. "You made the vow. You gave your life for his. That was the price."

Margaret felt the scarf tighten. It was around her neck. It was around her throat. It was squeezing.

"Thomas," she said. "Please."

He looked at her. His eyes were soft. They were sad.

"I am sorry," he said. "I could not save you. I could not save him. I could only watch."

The black figure moved. It wrapped its arms around Thomas. It lifted him off the ground. Thomas did not struggle. He just looked at Margaret.

"Run," he said.

"I can't," she said.

"Break the circle."

"I don't know how."

"Use the mirror."

Margaret looked at the mirror. It was cracked. It was dark.

"Throw it," Thomas said. "Throw it at the light."

She picked up the mirror. It was heavy. It was cold. She raised it over her head.

"Thomas!" she screamed.

"Go," he said.

She threw it. The mirror flew through the air. It hit the candle. The glass shattered. The candle went out.

The darkness was total. It was absolute.

The black figure let go. Thomas fell to the floor. He lay still. He did not move.

Margaret stood in the dark. She could not see. She could not breathe. The scarf was still there. It was still tight.

But it was not squeezing her.

She felt a hand on her shoulder. It was warm. It was gentle.

"Margaret," a voice said. It was Thomas’s voice. But it was different. It was lighter. It was free.

"Thomas?" she asked.

"Yes."

"Where are you?"

"I am here. I am everywhere. I am in the light."

She felt the scarf loosen. It fell to the floor. It was white again. It was clean.

She felt the air fill her lungs. It was cold. It was fresh. It was the air of morning.

She opened her eyes.

The room was gone.

She was standing in a field. The grass was green. The sky was blue. The sun was rising. It was warm. It was bright.

Thomas was not there.

He was not there.

But she could feel him. He was in the light. He was in the wind. He was in the air.

She sat down in the grass. The blades were soft. They were real.

She cried. She cried for a long time. The tears fell on the grass. They were salt. They were life.

When she stopped, the sun was high. The world was turning. The birds were singing.

She stood up. She brushed the dirt from her dress. She walked.

She walked away from the field. She walked toward the road. She walked toward the town.

She walked alone.

But she was not empty.

She was full.

She was free.

The path ahead was long. It was pale. It was bright.

She took a step.

Then another.

She did not look back.

She did not need to.

The past was gone.

The present was here.

The future was waiting.

She walked.

The sun warmed her face.

The wind touched her hair.

The world was vast.

The world was kind.

She walked on.