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The stone crenellations on the balcony dug into her palms. She could feel the grit as the edges of the blocks jabbed into the cuts on her hands. She had been running away from someone. Standing on the edge, she turned to look in horror at the man who had been chasing her. Dark robes swirled around him. Only his silhouette was visible, cut out against the firelight of the torches behind him.

He reached for her.

She let herself fall backward into the darkness.

Indigo wool fabric whipped in the wind as the world rushed past her. Someone screamed her name, but it was too late. Hewn stone walls of the castle exterior turned to rough, jagged cliffs.

Then…all movement stopped.

“Stop!”

That was when she should have hit the bottom of the cliffs, her body shattering on the rocks. It was the first time she died, but it wasn’t the last.

But Marguerite was done with it. She was sick of having her memories forced over her in her dreams or in the waking world without any say in the matter.

I’m sick of being at the mercy of my past. I’m sick of being at the mercy of others.

The dream froze. Locked solid. She forced it away. In a way that made sense only in dreams, she found herself no longer frozen in space as she plummeted to her death, but standing in a room. It was dark, lit only by candlelight. The furniture was both elaborate and crude. Looking down at herself, she saw she was wearing a high-waisted nightdress, the cotton fabric draping loosely over her frame.

It must have been her home. Her real home. A vanity stood by one wall, and she found herself curious about what kind of things she must have owned when she was alive. Before…before she became whatever she was now.

Picking up an ornate bracelet, she smiled faintly. She could almost remember the day it had been given to her by her father. Wincing at the memory of what she had done to him, she sat on the small, upholstered bench and looked at herself in the mirror.

Her dark hair was long and undone. She must have been getting ready for bed, whenever this memory existed. She didn’t look any different, but she still honestly felt as though the reflection in the glass was a younger version of herself.

Maybe all the years left a mark that ran far deeper than her skin. Gideon certainly had that air about him. The reflection that greeted her seemed untouched by all the suffering she had endured over the years.

“I’m sick of being the victim.”

She didn’t know why she was talking to herself. It felt like one of those awful affirmations that self-help books and blogs always told you to do. I’m pretty, I’m valuable, I’m worthwhile, and gosh darn it, people like me. That kind of nonsense.

“Then what’re you going to do about it?”

She jolted in surprise as her reflection…answered. The face that looked identical to hers without the weight of the years upon it smiled.

Okay. Sure. Talking to herself in her dreams.

Sure.

Roll with it or get off the bus. Taking a deep breath, she let it out. “What can I do? I’m powerless.”

Her reflection snorted. “You set free an ancient vampire who was ready to eat out of your palm if you’d let him. Sure. Totally powerless.”

She’d lecture the mirror for its bad manners and lousy attitude, but she would only be lecturing herself. She frowned. Did she always sound that bitchy?

“Yeah. Mostly.”

Maggie rolled her eyes as the mirror answered her silent thoughts. “Okay. Then what do I do?”

“You have to answer a question first. What do you want? What do you really want?”

“I want to remember my past.”

“No, you don’t.”

Now she was glaring at herself in the mirror. “Excuse me?”