Rosemary had been small once, in a time before the great stone castle had even existed. Back then, there had been a round pool in a dense forest, perfectly reflecting the moon, and all around it had bloomed beautiful, grey flowers. 

Then a monastery had been built, to house nuns. And then a castle atop it, to house Rosemary. And she had not seen the forest since.

It was surreal, to venture within it.

Pine needles, fractal above her, shivering the the breeze. A clear night sky, dappled with stars. The moon, singing. Wind that howled, birds that flitted across branches, their feathers struck with silver light. How far did the forest go? 

How far would Agnes let her go, before they turned around?

In one thousand years, Rosemary had never once desired freedom. Now its taste was on her tongue, as rich as as gold, and she did not know what to do.

“Did you go into the woods often, before you came here?” Rosemary asked.

Beside her, Agnes was a quiet, watchful presence. “Occasionally. When I was still learning to control my transformations, I would hide and hunt there as a wolf.”

In the moonlight, a glint of Agnes’ silver bands on her dark wrist. 

“Oh,” Rosemary said, “is that what your bracelets are for?”

Agnes nodded. “I received them to suppress my transformations. In Cordis, it would be dangerous for me to lose control.”

Rosemary drew near. Agnes’ silver eyes were downcast, appearing a dull grey. “Of course it would. What if a hunter had found you?”
“It would be a mercy,” Agnes said. “What if I hurt someone?”

“You didn’t.”

“I’ve never been a wolf around people before,” Agnes spat. “These bracelets are a reminder of what’s at stake.”
Around the bracelets, Rosemary could plainly make out burn scars. “You could, if you wanted, around me.”

“Absolutely not.”

Rosemary could feel the frown growing on her face. She strode a little faster, into Agnes’ path. Above them, the trees rustled in the wind. “Why not? You won’t be a danger to me.”
“I won’t? A delicate thing like you?” Agnes’ gaze was strange as it dragged up and down Rosemary’s body. She shivered. “I could eat you in one bite.”
“Do it then,” Rosemary urged, feeling hungry. “I would like to see you try.”

Agnes scowled. Her white fangs glinted in the moonlight beneath her dark lips. It made that odd warmth spark in Rosemary. “I won’t. I have a job to do, and I will not jeopardize it.”

“You’ve given me so much freedom,” Rosemary said. “Can’t I give you some in return?”

This made Agnes’ hackles rise. Her fingers twitched, then curled into fists. The ears on her head, always so fluffy, perked forward. 

Rosemary had not paid them any attention before, but they suddenly had grown infinitely fascinating. Were they soft, she wondered?

“There is no freedom for me,” Agnes finally spat, “so long as I live.”

With that, she stalked into the woods. Rosemary watched her go, feeling strange. She pressed her hand to her gut, where tension was cannibalizing itself, and wondered.

Moonlight, spilling like water, brushed itself over Agnes’ figure with the grace of a painter. Her stride was strong, her dark hair falling from its cap into threads of ink, her skirt billowing in the wind. A few pine needles fell about her.

Rosemary was filled with the urge to follow. 

It was as though she was human once more, and Agnes the moon.

A strange, unknowable being, beautiful in its infinity. One that Rosemary would never reach, unless the higher being deigned to reach out.

As Agnes grew further and further away, a strange weakness came upon Rosemary. Her legs trembled, and she clutched her heart.

Why her heart? Her heart was a useless organ. The moon had struck it dead long ago, back when the strangest creatures of all to Rosemary had been other people.

“Might I understand humans?” Rosemary had asked the moon, back then. “Please, make me understand others, make me close to them.”

The moon, who usually only listened, and answered Rosemary in its howling song, like the knells of a ringing churchbell, beckoned her closer. Rosemary had looked up and seen her then in her entirety.

She had been silver.

There had been a great, white light.

In the present, Rosemary fell to the earth. Where was Agnes? She was supposed to be with Agnes! Instead she was alone, because she had failed to understand her. She had pushed too hard for a closeness that she didn’t deserve, and Agnes had stormed away in a rage.

Perhaps she deserved this.

Perhaps when the moon had looked down, her thousand eyes dripping with tears, she had seen that Rosemary did not deserve the life she was given, and tried to smite her. And because the moon was a creature of shadow, she had failed, and trapped Rosemary as... as a monster.

Rosemary pressed her hands to her face. She had not thought of herself in this way as a long time. 

She had encased her oldest memories in ice, but now Agnes’ warmth was melting them. And Rosemary remembered them all, suddenly. 

Nyx, that night that Rosemary had turned her. A young woman, whose black garments had been stained with blood. When the moon had claimed her, when Rosemary had cried over her, she had looked up at Rosemary with a truly haunted expression. 

Aster had been younger. Aster had hidden himself in the closet of their little house. But Rosemary had caught the shine of his eye through the keyhole. What had he felt, then? Before his own turning? 

What had the village felt, when Rosemary had changed? What had become of her parents? Her friends? She couldn’t remember, she couldn’t remember at all, but the ice was melting, and her face was growing wet.

She was not welcome here. She was not welcome in this world that she had cursed.

“Rosemary!”

Rosemary blinked. In place of memory was reality; Agnes, bathed in moonlight. Her dark brows were furrowed, and her silver eyes were intense. She had grasped one of Rosemary’s wrists; on her claws was blood.

“Agnes?”

“I... am sorry, Rosemary,” Agnes said, ears flat against her head. “I lost control of myself. I should not have left you, with Nyx’s command still so strong.”

“I’m sorry,” Rosemary said. “I simply... I wish... I want...”

Agnes’ lips looked so soft. 

“What do you want?” Agnes said. One of her hands reached to Rosemary’s face and brushed a tear free. 

“I wish to be closer to you,” Rosemary finally said. “I wish to know you. You have come all this way for me. I want you to be a friend, not just a maid.”

Agnes blinked at her. There was something odd in her eyes, a faraway expression. She was truly distant.

Then she came close, so their noses were brushing against each other. “I... am not used to such things. But I will try.”

Rosemary willed herself to reach out, to touch Agnes, but her hands were still covered in blood.

“Thank you,” she settled on. 

“For now,” Agnes continued, “let’s get you home. You should recover.”

“Okay,” Rosemary said.