“I think he admired your smarts as well,” he says. “But I meant that we should’ve asked him for more money to borrow. Or hell, given up Belle as part of the deal.”

“Do you think she’s doing alright?”

“I hope she isn’t.” He coughs again. “I told an old friend that he could stop by and have whatever was in our house, Belle included, if I didn’t return in a week. Whatever he’s doing with her is no longer my concern, but I’m sure it’s Hell on earth. He’s beaten both of his former wives half to death.”

“What?” Izzie’s face pales, and I want to believe I misheard what he’s said about Belle.

“She’s ruined our lives one too many times, Izzie,” her father says. “Her selfishness has done nothing but cause me pain, and your mother only coddled her with that ‘Be your own person’ bullshit before she died. She deserves everything she’s about to get, and I hope she’s miserable for the rest of her undeserved life.”

“You don’t mean that, Father…”

“I do.” His voice is cold. “We’d been living in the guest quarters of a palace if it weren’t for her. “

Izzie is silent for several moments, but she keeps her hand locked in his. “I agree, Father. If only she’d learned to keep her mouth shut, we’d both be living much better lives.”

Okay, enough of this shit.

“Show me the roses.” I command the mirror, and Izzie and her father dissolve into the glass, trading places with a dimly lit room.

“No, no,” I say. “The roses in my basement. Not this.”

The scene doesn’t change, though. Instead, the mirror takes me deeper into the room, revealing the destruction I’ve avoided for decades.

Broken frames cling to the walls, their images tattered from someone clawing at them over the years. “Someone” who is just as pained and tormented as me.

In the far corner, next to the balcony’s entrance, a black and red rose sits trapped under a frozen glass jar. Its intertwining petals glow faintly in the darkness, and as much as I want to look away, I can’t help to count the ones that remain.

Whereas my roses grow with time, the one in this room approaches its death with each passing day. It’s also far more accurate and painful to accept.

One, two…Seven…Twelve…Thirteen.

Despair settles in my chest.

Over fifty others have fallen since I last checked years ago, and there’s no rhyme or reason at the rate they fall.

“Is there anything else you need to see?” The hag returns to face me, her expression slightly sympathetic. “Some of your best customers are anxiously anticipating your return to the village.”

I may never return… “I’m fine.”

“I think you’d like to see what they’re saying about you.”

“Then you’re sadly mistaken.” I prepare to put her away, cursing myself for ever giving in and using her.

“What about this, then?” She speaks before I can stuff her into the satchel. “Would you like to see this instead?”