Monday, and we move on down the road.

She has a room at the castle. She leaves the door open, but he never comes near. Never comes near to look in, or stand in the doorway and mock her, or smile at her, or even to look like he believes in her. She could believe that he doesn't; she has trouble believing in herself, some times.

Even more difficult is to believe in him. He looks like he knows things. He says things like he knows them, and he never lets his voice linger on her name; though she thinks he wants to. She believes that.

She's figuring out the lay of the land, though she still gets lost every now and then. He finds her wandering the halls once, and leads her silently back to her room, which she could almost believe he had forgotten the location of.

"You'll learn," he says, and it's a promise.

Tuesday, and we step around the holes.

She cleans the dungeons. She lets her apron get covered in dust and cobwebs, ashes as though there has been some great fire in the past, as though things have burnt down. She reaches for the high corners and chases spiders with her broom, and she doesn't look too long or too closely at the fading stains on the stone floors, which are now brown but must have once been red.

Then he's behind her, and when she spins around, a hand to her throat, he tilts his head to one side, a sly smile creeping forth.

"Oil stains, dearie," he says, and she swallows. He catches this, observes it, and from nowhere he's got fire in his hand. He throws it at the stains, which ignite and flare briefly, not long enough for warmth.

Things settle down to a good steady glow.

Wednesday, and we create magic where once was mania.

She's out of the castle, but she's not running away. She thought about it, how could she have avoided thinking about it, but running away is not the answer. Running away is never the answer.

Running toward something, maybe.

Sometimes, just running.

She sets him aside, and puts her broken heart in the basket, and puts her feet on the path.

Thursday, and the sun begins to shine.

She has a difficult time sleeping, here in the cell beneath the ground. Which is annoying, because that's really all there is to do, and if things were right, she would get the best sleep of her life here. Long drawn-out sleep sessions, quiet, nothing but echoes in her skull. At best, she fields the day in a waking dream. At worst, her eyes are wide open at what must be long past midnight, and fixed on nothing at high noon.

Her hair doesn't grow. She thinks about that a lot. Her hair does not grow, and where once she felt old, now she feels timeless. As old as time. And as young; who's going to put an age to time?

Timeless, and maybe deathless.

For this reason, she hates her prison; and for this reason, she doesn't mind.

Friday, open up your eyes.

The man in the hat holds her hand, and she thinks maybe he should be more familiar than she thinks he is. But she thinks she could be wrong about this, also, and maybe she shouldn't trust him like she does. Maybe it's just that he has her hand in his, fingers gripped strongly, and his mouth is set and grim, but once upon a time, she thinks, he must have smiled.

She wonders where they're going. They're on the stairs, and there's light, more light than she's seen in a very long time. It nearly burns her, it sits thick on her lungs and her lashes.

The man in the hat tenses, looks back at her, and his mouth relaxes a little.

"This way," he says, like maybe he doesn't know her name, but he knows her, and he knows where she belongs.

Saturday, let all your silence go.

She sees him and she doesn't see him: she sees visions in him, and loses his face and his features till there's nothing but memory speaking in a language that she loves but doesn't understand.

But he pulls her close, and she can feel him murmuring spell-like in her hair.

He knows her name.

Sunday has a door in it: reach and turn and turn.

"When did you know," she says quietly, "that you had made a mistake?"

He lets her eyes settle on his, though she looks away again almost immediately. Things leave scars; not everything heals.

"Born knowing," he says, shortly, and if this is sorry, it's not good enough. She needs more from him; she is owed more.

"Specifically," she says, and he breathes out her name like he can't help himself; like he is helpless.

"Belle," he says, and she wonders if it's selfish of her to believe that, no matter how much he hurts, they'll never be equal. Their pain is different: one guilty, one innocent. He's never going to understand what it's like to be punished for having done nothing wrong.

"I will spend my life making it up to you," he says, which is more of an admission than she expected, and she shifts her weight and her eyes slide shyly back to his.

"Why?" she asks.

"Because I turned you away, when I loved you. Because I've spent too long alone, and I'm a selfish old man. Because I've made so many mistakes, and because I will make more, and because I will never do enough to be what you deserve." His eyes drop down to the floor; she breathes in the silence.

"Apology accepted," she says. "The sentence seems reasonable. You may pay your fine at the desk."

He's still looking down when she reaches up to him, eyes closed; unseeing, he meets her half way.

Leap year, calendar month, thirty days between moons: start over.

"I made you a promise once," says the stranger from the other side of the glass. The door is closed between them, and she can't even begin to understand how she can hear him through it. But it's almost as though the words are echoing in her head; as though they're written in there, somewhere, and she's just now opening a letter to herself. Something sealed till now.

"I can't hold you to it," she says, wondering at her own voice. "I don't know who you are."

He breathes like a sob, this sharpness, the hospital air cutting his throat as it slides down.

"You didn't know who I was then, either," he says. "It didn't stop you."

Of course it didn't stop her; what's ever stopped her? She knows who she is: she is Belle, and she is unstoppable. She doesn't know who he is, she only knows that he's still standing there, watching her through the glass, his eyes unfathomable and disturbingly intense. He leaves while she's still thinking, and she watches him walk away, a steady gait in off-beat time. She wonders what has happened to him. She wonders who he thinks she is.

Though he's gone, and it's too late for him to hear, she says, "Maybe I'll learn."

Hours, days, and years appear:

let this time be heard

Love is when you breathe, my dear,

a week is just a word.