From across their breakfast table—his scrambled eggs, Belle's fruit cup, her alphabet cereal (because in some ways, she likes to cling to the things of childhood)—she looks at him oddly, leaning on an elbow, gathering her thick long hair, so like her mother's, in a fist to draw it away from her face.
"Dad?" Not "Daddy," which she uses when she feels small or manipulative; not "Daaaad," which is for embarrassment (only he can still make her turn red as an apple , not that he tries; just that he sometimes forgets she's not his little cuddle-buddy any more). "Dad?" which means I'm reaching into new territory; help me find my way.
"Yes, darling?" Not "baby," because she isn't any more; not "sweetie," because he wants her to know he'll take her question seriously.
"Dad, what's 'the Dark One'?"
Well, they knew, from the moment they chose to bring a child into this world and their lives (his especially), this day would come.
Belle gathers up the dishes and stands. She kisses the top of his head to wish him good luck.
"Let's go into the garden," he suggests, which means this will take a while.
Good thing it's Sunday.