You're a servant, not a sacrifice, the Dark One had once told Belle. Yet, that was exactly what she felt like as she prepared for her meeting with Gaston, like a maiden in an ancient tale being led up some dark path to be thrown into the endless void. . . .

The Dark One had brought her the dress he'd made out of nettles and gold, the one he said had power to protect her. He'd reminded her, too, of the protections he'd put on the house and grounds. His nervousness, she thought, was almost as bad as her own. But, she'd needed him not to be here today, not for this. She wanted the Dark One to lean on, but this was between her and Gaston. What needed to be done, what needed to be said, the Dark One had no part of it.

Perhaps she should have sent Bae to the castle with him. Except for those very rare times when Gaston decided to pretend to be fatherly and interrogate Bae about his studies, she'd always sent her son away when Gaston wanted her company. Jones, thank the gods, had always let her send Bae off with Smee when he ordered her to join him.

A mistress sent her child away when she met with her protector. A whore or—or whatever it was she'd been—sent him where he wouldn't have to see what was done to her.

Whatever she was, whatever Gaston thought she was, she did not need to send her son into hiding. Not this time.

Besides, Bae might not like Gaston but he wanted to see the horses (the Doves had already been warned to make sure he didn't get too close to Gaston's war stallion).

She turned her attention back to the dress. It was actually a skirt and matching vest of a robin's egg blue, though both turned had been turned to pitch at the Dark One's touch. He had looked at it wistfully—that was the only word for his expression, wistful—for a moment before changing it, running his fingers along the cloth. The skirt was meant to swirl easily a few inches above her ankles. An easy dress to work in, she'd thought, though it would have been too pretty to risk staining working in the garden or helping Rumplestiltskin make dyes back in her village days. An easy dress to dance in, though, if she had worn it to the fair in Longbourne to catch a certain, shy weaver's eye. . . .

Then the Dark One had added a ruffle to the hem, to give it length and dignity. Belle wore a somber, long-sleeved blouse of black silk beneath the vest. Belle didn't mind its modest cut, but she found herself wishing its collar would plunge more in back and show her scars. Gaston liked to pretend they weren't there. Belle wanted to force him to look at them, to ask him what he thought when he saw them, if he agreed with the Dark One about what kind of man Jones had been.

But, that would hardly be befitting a widow's dignity, and she meant to be dignified. Besides, she thought she already knew his answer.

Belle concentrated on fixing her hair, weaving a black ribbon through it. Act the great lady, she reminded herself, and people often found it hard to remember you weren't.

Except she was. She was chatelaine of this manor. Her mother and aunt were daughters of a great house, guardians of magics the Dark One himself had taken centuries to unravel; and she was their heir. The most powerful (in his own estimation) wizard in the world had offered to call her his liege (and, though she could imagine how long that would last, she was sure he would try). This place was hers, not Gaston's. He came as her petitioner.

She kept repeating it to herself, hoping she would start to believe it and not feel as if she were staring into that endless void.

Belle looked at her hair in satisfaction, all bound up on top of her head, not so much as a strand touching her neck. If any of her scars did peep above the collar, there would be nothing to hide them. She adjusted her locket and added two earrings of jet. Then, she went down to wait for her suitor.

This time, when Gaston rode up, he left his friends behind. Only LaFou accompanied him, driving a gig. When Gaston had dismounted and made a very proper bow to Belle, he signaled LaFou, who came running with a small stack of gifts. "A return for your generous hospitality," Gaston said.

Food and wine were traditional gifts after eating at another's table. Living in a small village, Belle would have found it hard to think of such gifts ever being ostentatious, but life in Maurice's court had taught her otherwise. By those lights, Belle had to admit Gaston had done well. Fresh fruits or vegetables from greenhouses were nearly always impressive in winter. But, Gaston was a long way from the Marchlands and Belle doubted the nearby village hid any greenhouses. Besides, Gaston had seen her gardens. A greenhouse would have trouble competing.

Still, he'd done a good job. Fresh fruit might have been hard to drag up the mountains, but Gaston had clearly come prepared for a second meeting. Or maybe he'd just planned for a celebratory feast after she threw herself into his arms and said yes. . . . Belle pushed back the bitter thought. It wouldn't help here.

There were dried oranges and lemons, truffles, and rare spices, like the bundle of cinnamon sticks she saw sticking out in the back. He'd also brought a selection of the Marchlands' fine cheeses and dried venison. What at first appeared to be a more common gift, a large ham, would be from a wild boar, if Belle knew Gaston. It was also encrusted with a fortune in pepper. These were kingly offerings.

However, it was the small bunch of fresh apples that made Belle feel more kindly towards him. True, apples kept well on long journeys and wouldn't have spoiled on the trip from a Marchlands' greenhouse—or even a late blooming tree, if the weather in the Marchlands was still mild—but they were also one of the few fresh fruits Gaston could have gotten ahold of that didn't grow in her garden (they were also one of Bae's favorites, though the Dark One said he distrusted them). It was . . . sweet of Gaston to have noticed that. If he'd noticed that.

The other basket had bottles of old wine and even older brandy. Belle recognized the work of some of the finest vineyards and distilleries in the south, some from lands that no longer existed since the war. She felt a small pang, calculating what Gaston must have spent on these gifts. Or were they from his own family's cellar? They were still too dear for him to be giving them to her.

"You're too kind, Gaston—" she began.

"Nonsense," he said, grinning. He signaled LaFou to take them inside. Belle caught a glimpse of Bae peeking out from the stables. She thought he looked disappointed to see the apples vanish into the house. "You're the most beautiful woman between the mountains and the Marchlands. Don't you deserve the best?"

She smiled, murmuring more thanks, knowing how impossible it was to argue with him when he was so pleased with himself. Belle went inside with Gaston. He managed a few comments on the tapestries and paintings. "But, why that strange fleece?" he asked, pointing to the orange-gold hide that hung near the wall. "It couldn't be a trophy from any great hunt, not unless you have more vicious sheep up here than we have down in the Marchlands."

Belle found the tranquil face she had always had to wear at court. "It's called the golden fleece. It was a prized possession of an ancient family," Belle said. "I'm told it has magic powers." She found she didn't care to explain to Gaston what those powers were or how she had learned of them.

Gaston snorted. "I think it's called the golden fleece because someone cheated you out of whatever you paid," he said, laughing at his own joke.

Habit made Belle force herself to smile, the way she always did at his attempts at humor. Besides, Gaston had a point. She had paid a high price to learn about the fleece. And yet. . . .

She thought about the Dark One, so carefully adjusting blankets and pillows around her as she recovered, always trying so hard to do it without touching her in any way that would make her afraid. She thought of Bae, running his hand through the thick wool as he told her how he had been the one to fetch the fleece that saved her. The pride in his voice hadn't hidden the fear lurking beneath as he told her how sick and pale she'd looked. Belle had praised him, calling him her little hero. But, really, she was trying to assure him that the world wasn't a terrifying place, that he could stop it from tearing away everything he loved in a heartbeat (it was a lie, but there were some lies children needed to hear).

"I may have paid more than I should have," Belle told him. "But, I don't think I was cheated."

And, again out of habit, she found herself smiling at Gaston, a flirtatious smile that suggested her words hid a secret she might share in time, not a barb because of what he would never understand.

No, she wasn't Gaston's mistress anymore. She didn't have to act that part and she wouldn't. But, she wouldn't be rude or undignified, either. "Lunch isn't ready, yet," she told him changing the subject. "Would you care to walk around the gardens? It will be pleasant after your trip through the snow."

"That would be good," Gaston said. He grinned. It was the smile of a man far too sure of himself. "And we can talk over what you . . . wanted to discuss."

Belle grit her teeth. Gaston had been spending too much time with Henri, making that sound like some kind of innuendo. What she wanted to discuss, as if she were propositioning him. As if he didn't even need to hear her answer. Because, Gaston was already certain he knew it.

Belle took a calming breath as they walked. Then another. She reminded herself what anger had cost her in the past. Voice icy calm, she asked him, "When the Dark One made his deal and came for my son, what did you think he was going to do with him?"

"Belle, that was a long time ago. The curse hadn't even been broken—"

"But, what did you think?"

"I . . ." Gaston looked slightly abashed, like a man caught in small, slightly awkward lapse. "I thought he would kill him. Is that what you want me to say? Maybe he wanted him as an ingredient in a potion. He's some kind of demon. Maybe he wanted to eat him. Or maybe he wanted a catamite. I don't know."

Belle closed her eyes. It's what she'd expected him to say, if he was honest. But, to hear him say it like that, as if it didn't even matter? "That's what you thought. And you did nothing to stop it?"

Gaston scowled. "I tried to save you from him, didn't I? If that's what he'd wanted Bae for, what good would it do for you to trot along to his execution? Did you think you could stop it?"

Belle's voice grew even colder. "I could have been there with him. I could have let him know he wasn't abandoned. If—if he died or—or if the Dark One had wanted—wanted a child to—to abuse, at least he wouldn't have had to face it alone."

Gaston rolled his eyes. "You read too many romances, Belle. That's not real life. Real life is about hard choices, the kind you've never had to make. Lord Maurice—our liege lord, in case you forgot—decided it was better to sacrifice one child rather than the whole Marchlands. He didn't ask our opinion. He gave orders. And I obeyed him. As was my duty. You didn't."

"You're saying I was . . . mutinous." Belle's voice sounded strange in her own ears, distant and far away.

Gaston must have thought she sounded contrite. "You're a woman, Belle," he said kindly. "No one expects you to think of these things. But, you should have listened to me. And to Maurice. We know what's good for you."

"Maurice," Belle whispered. "Gaston, when did you—when did you know Maurice was my father? Not just suspect it but know?"

Gaston looked enlightened. "Is that why you think I'm asking you to marry me now, Belle? It's not. I've always known. When Maurice first asked me to take you as my companion, he explained everything to me. He wanted a child of his blood to follow after him, of course, but he wanted me to know my position was secure as far as he was concerned."

He'd known. He'd always known. And Maurice had trusted him with the knowledge when he wouldn't trust her. "I . . . don't understand. What do you mean, secure?"

"Well, he wasn't going to put you in my place, was he?" He gave her a patronizing smile. "It wasn't just sentimentality. Things weren't easy in the Marchlands after Maurice's sons died. The people had accepted me, and I'd tried to live up to my duty. We had a—a feeling of stability. Putting an unknown heir no one had heard of in my place, even if you hadn't been, well, you know, that could have upset everything."

Well, you know. Belle almost wished she was having this conversation with Henri. He might be crude and vulgar, but he'd have come up with something better to call her than "well, you know."

"Yes," she told him. "I know."

Gaston looked at her earnestly. "You understand he didn't dare acknowledge you before this, don't you? He couldn't give you a position that would make you a target for plots—or make your boy a target. There are plenty of people who would have used him as a puppet ruler, if they could.

"But, that doesn't matter now." He smiled at her. If she hadn't felt numb inside, she might have thought it was a dazzling smile. "You'll be lady of the Marchlands. We'll have sons of our own to rule after us. It will be for the best. You'll see."

"Gaston, I won't marry you."

He didn't look angry, only puzzled. "What do you mean? Of course, you will. Didn't you believe me about Maurice? I told you, he supports it. He'll acknowledge you, and—"

"Gaston, I don't care if Maurice acknowledges me or not." A lie. A huge lie. But, she wouldn't buy Maurice's acknowledgement at Gaston's price. "I'm happy. Or . . . I'm beginning to be. I don't want to be lady of the Marchlands. I want to—to live quietly. I—I want to spend my days walking in the sun and watching over Bae. I want to not have to worry about anything except whether he's well and whether my fruit trees are ready to harvest."

Gaston grimaced. "You're not a peasant any more, Belle. Stop thinking like one."

"You think noblewomen never want to live quietly and not be troubled?"

"Noblewomen—true noblewomen—know their duty. The Marchlands need you to marry me."

Then the Marchlands can ask me themselves. "The Marchlands need you to marry well. You could marry royalty, Gaston, a princess. Think of the alliance that would mean. And think about your heirs. They might even be kings, someday. The rulers in these lands all respect the Dark One. Once they know he's our ally—"

Gaston laughed. "You are so naïve, Belle. Do you think that demon would help me to a good marriage? Everything he's done, he's done for himself."

"What do you mean? He saved us, Gaston. He broke our curse. He's given us food and supplies. He's protected us from our enemies—"

"His enemies. Belle, are you really this stupid? Don't you see what he wants? What he's wanted from the start?"

Bae. He'd wanted Bae, the child he hoped could take his lost foster-daughter's place, not whatever demon-deal Gaston was imagining. "He wanted a child, a son."

But, Gaston nodded, as though she'd proved his point. "Exactly. He bargained for your son, Maurice's grandson, a child with the bloodlines to claim the Marchlands—or have his guardian claim them on his behalf."

"You think he wants the Marchlands?" Belle said incredulously. The Dark One could barely be bothered with the village down the road from his castle. He made sure anyone wanting to do business with him knew to not to make trouble there—some of them, he'd admitted, needed more convincing than others. But, besides that, he let them take care of themselves. "Gaston, the Dark One got tired of ordering one servant around. What would he do with an entire barony?"

"What will he do? He's already started, Belle. You've said yourself, he's tutoring the boy. He's teaching him swordfights and tactics. He's preparing him to rule."

Yes, the Dark One taught Bae swordfighting, if pretending to die dramatically when Bae won counted as a lesson. As for tactics . . . Belle tried to remember. Be fair, she told herself. And not just fair. She'd barely spoken to anyone besides the Dark One and Bae these past months. There were the Doves, of course, but they knew nothing about the south and its politics. And they were unshakably loyal to the Dark One.

She thought over what she'd seen. Teach Bae tactics? The Dark One had started to teach him chess, along with other games. She supposed that might be the beginning of tactics. And he read to him from history books, adding quite a few comments of his own—especially when he'd played a part in events. But, even then, the Dark One's interest was in why people—individuals—did what they did. He became bored discussing kingdoms and affairs of state.

And, she'd seen the way he did things with Bae, the way he played with him and carried him up to bed when he'd fallen asleep. "No, Gaston. I don't understand it, but he loves Bae. He's not trying to make a pawn out of him."

Gaston was losing patience with her. "If he wanted a child, he hardly had to make a deal with Maurice. There are hundreds of orphans in the Marchlands alone. Or he could have just found a woman who was willing to put up with claws and scales. Maybe a blind one." He gave her a nasty look. "Or you. Is that why you're arguing, Belle? Did he seduce you? Or is all this—" He waved a hand, taking in the gardens and house, "—just payment for services rendered? Is this your price for the Marchlands?"

Belle stiffened. "Gaston, I think you should leave now. And you can take your gifts with you." She turned and began walking back to the house.

Gaston came after her. "Belle. . . ." He tried to catch her hand.

Belle pulled it away. "No, Gaston. You are—were—a guest in my house. And I am no longer your companion. I won't be insulted by you here. And I won't listen to you insult my—Bae's—the man who has been a foster-father to my son."

"Belle—"

"He's been kind to me, Gaston," Belle said, wishing she could make him understand. "The way he's treated me, I don't believe he had other motives. But, even if he did, he's . . . been a friend." He never stood by and did nothing while a demon took away my son—nothing except to tell me not to make such a fuss over nothing. He's held me while I cried and told me—told me I'm better than I think I am. If he's done nothing but lie, then I still treasure the kindness of the lies he's told me.

And, if he did want the Marchlands, maybe he'd do better by them than you would.

Gaston gave her a pitying look. "Belle, being a ruler, a good one, means having to make sacrifices. Maurice sent all three of his sons into battle, and none of them came back. He didn't ask more of Bae than he asked of them."

"They were grown men, Gaston, not a child of six. And he didn't ask anything of Bae. He sent guards into a child's room to drag him out of bed and give him to a monster—what he thought was a monster. And you agreed." No, she was letting her anger get the better of her. In a calmer voice, Belle said, "Gaston, how could I rule alongside you?" She gave him a whimsical, sardonic smile, so he could see she was laughing at herself, not him. It was an expression she'd perfected in the Marchlands when she needed to discuss something difficult with him. "We'd fight every moment. You'd want to be a widower before the week was out."

"Lady Rosamonde and Lord Maurice didn't always see eye to eye, but he—"

"—He sacrificed her, Gaston," Belle said, cold anger bubbling up inside of her again. "I know. I saw it happened."

They were back at the house. Despite everything, Belle found herself not wanting to part on bad terms. She tried one last time. "Gaston, you protected my son and me when we desperately needed it. I owe you more than I can ever say. But, I can't marry you—and you don't really want me to." She gave him her whimsical smile again. "Even if you don't know it yet."

Gaston shifted uncomfortably, but old habits still made him play the gentleman. He didn't stand in her way as she went in. "Belle," he said. "Sacrifices are necessary. You—you need to understand that."

"We will have to agree to disagree, Gaston."

"Just know—I only did what I had to."

Belle felt a chill, though she didn't know why. "What you had to? What do you—?"

She stopped. She could see LaFou at the end of the hallway, was cowering against the wall, his eyes fixed on something lying on the floor of the front room. Belle had come closer to see what he was looking at.

A small figure lay on the polished wood. Lying near his hand, where it must have rolled away when he dropped it, was a large apple—the only fruit that didn't grow in her garden because the Dark One didn't trust them. . . .

Belle remembered being thrown into the dark hold of Jones' ship, not understanding what was going to happen to her, not understanding it even as it happened. She remembered the cold, empty feeling as Hordor read off the names of their village dead. She remembered the feeling of finally passing out from the pain and blood as the cat-o-nine-tails tore into her back.

Calmly, as if none of this was real (perhaps it wasn't, how could it be?), Belle knelt down beside her son. Her fingers brushed against his wrist, then his throat, trying to feel the beat of his heart. She looked at his small chest, but it was still. She couldn't see him breathing. When she put the back of her hand up against his mouth, then his nose, there was no feeling of warm air against her skin.

Gaston walked up behind her. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry, Belle," he said. It was the same, vaguely regretful tone he'd used when the Dark One had first come for her son, so long ago. "I just did what needed to be done."