Some days later we were in the tower again and Uriel was sketching me, as I sat on the bed. It was boring, and I was still thinking of ways to win over Yves and his rifle. Suddenly, when I looked up, Uriel had stood up and was slowly making his way to me. I sat up. What was he doing?

"Margery."

"Yes?"

He came and stopped once he was a little bit away from me. But he was still close enough I could smell the human, but there was something delicious about it.

"There's a butterfly."

I looked up, and sure enough, a bright red butterfly, nearly glowing, was on the stone wall next to our bed. So this was it. Of course. The dumb virgin wouldn't dare make a move. I climbed up on the bed, and then raised my arm.

"Margery!"

The moment he shouted my name, I had already brought down my hand and killed the butterfly. In its place were two crumpled wings, and a small squashed body with two long antennas, quivering like they were crying.

"It almost got away because you screamed." I looked at him. "What's wrong?"

He climbed onto the bed, and was grabbing on my wrist. Hard.

"It's hurts, Uriel."

"Why did you kill it?"

I scoffed. "Don't be fooled." I held out my hand to him, showing the red liquid that had started dripping out. "These red butterflies suck on your blood. They are nothing but mosquitos with beautiful wings."

"There are such butterflies?"

"Yes," I said, wiping my hands on a handkerchief on the nightstand. "After all, there are girls like that too, aren't there?"

"Don't speak about yourself like that," he whispered. I smirked.

"You're the one who said that. Or implied it, at least."

He looked sorry, head hanging. He took a handkerchief from the pocket of his trousers and began wiping my hands carefully.

"I'm sorry, Margery, I really am." His hands paused before the corpse of the butterfly. "I cannot critique you, you didn't choose to be born here, to live such a life."

"Of course not. I love my beauty, but it's not going to get me anywhere but in a dark tower and be a prostitute."

"You're not."

"Really?" I looked at his face, and a sardonic smile came over my face. "Do you know how many men I slept with?"

"It doesn't matter. It doesn't matter how much you've slept with or killed—well, maybe killed matters, but you didn't choose to. You want to end it. You're taking a step towards changing and being who you really want to be."

He scooped up the little butterfly's body in the fabric and wrapped it gingerly. 

I sat down on the bed.

"Thank you." Those words—I've never heard them from anyone. I never knew it would soothe me so. I tightened my jaw. "Want to hear a secret, Uriel?"

"What is it?"

"I am afraid of the dark. Laughable, isn't it?"

"It's not laughable. I, too, am afraid of the dark." I smiled a bit.

"I'm afraid of this tower, too. I'm afraid of being alone. I'm afraid of the Elders, and Agnes. I'm afraid, but this place and they are all that I ever know." He put his hand over mind and squeezed it. His touch was comforting. I closed my eyes.

"I love my mother, but I can't remember anything about her anymore. I can only avenge her in hopes of making her proud, but I've went to such lengths that I hurt both my friends and I. At this point, am I even doing it for myself?"

His hand was still on mine. I swallowed, and continued.

"I don't know if running away is what I really want anymore. I—I don't know what I want."

"Look at me, Margery."

I opened my eyes to look at Uriel, who tilted his head down to look at me. He smiled gently.

"I know what you want."

"What?"

"It's easy. How do you not know?" He turned to face the window. "You want to see the outside world. You want to be free. Your mother, too, wanted you to be free. She always wanted you to fly away, to the moon."

"The song."

"Yes. Sing it for me, will you?"

"I—I can't sing." I had never sang before. Not unless it was with my mother, and Sabine. As children, or maybe humming, when I was locked up alone, to ease my loneliness, in the tower and the dungeon.

"Try."

I usually didn't like being ordered what to do. I didn't like my voice, the Elder always said it was too high pitched and made me sound annoying. But I will sing. If my mother could, I must have the talent. Slowly, I opened my mouth and inhaled before singing.

"There once was a pretty girl,
In love with a pretty boy.
They grew up to be a pretty woman
And a pretty man.

They married in a pretty church,
And lived in a pretty cottage.
The woman gave birth on a winter day
To two pretty girls.

They had big pretty eyes
And long pretty hair.
But on a winter day
The pretty children flew away.

They flew to the sky,
And they flew to the Moon,
And to this day,
No one knows why."

Then I remembered. There was a second part. My lips opened of their own record, and although I could not remember, the words streamed out naturally. It was identical to the first tune.

"I am a pretty girl,
Living in an ugly tower,
And therefore I dream
To see the pretty world.

I will cut off my pretty hair,
Take off my pretty dresses,
And I will run,
Run from the ugly tower.

Past the pretty flowers,
With the pretty wind,
In the pretty rain,
Under the pretty sky.

And I will live,
Pretty day after pretty day,
Waiting for someone
To live this pretty life with me."

How long I have I forgotten? How long had these lyrics, this message from mother, stayed buried in my unconsciousness, waiting to be revealed? How long had mother wished for my freedom, for me to escape this life, no, imprisonment, in this tower?

She had known about it, about my dreadful future, whether or not it was made by Agnes or had been decided from my birth, or Cecile's, and the whole time, she had been wanting me to leave.

She never wanted me to avenge her, to reclaim my rightful position, and to end Agnes.

Those nights, with Cecile, Sabine, and me on her lap, she would sing this song for me, no. For us.

"I had forgotten," I whispered. "What my mother truly wanted for me."

"But now you remember." I looked up at Uriel. "Now you remember her song, as well as what she meant." I shrugged, and then nodded.

"'Pretty day after pretty day, waiting for someone to live this pretty life with me.' It seemed as though she knew."

He bent down, lashes lowered expectantly. I didn't know what to do in the moment, but I felt vulnerable, after exposing so much. And singing. I've read romance books, and as much as I found them dull, I tilted my head up.

As if expecting it, he moved his face closed until our noses touched. Then he jumped back up.

I gawked at him as he rushed back to his seat and picked up his art book again. Did the man seriously just leave me like that? Reject my kiss?

He sat down and cleared his throat.

"I have to continue drawing."

The arsehole.

***

The next days when Uriel came to my room, he continued to draw me like nothing had happened, but somehow, I had began to enjoy it.

He had started to smile; although faintly at first, but now sometimes a large smile filled his face when I said something interesting. We spoke of many things. He told me about his travels, his life outside, and I listened.

"How old are you?" I asked one day.

"I'm twenty-seven. How about you?"

"I'm twenty-four," I said. "So I'm younger than you."

Uriel looked up from the sketchbook. "You'll look eternally young too, wouldn't you?"

"Yes." I looked down. Somehow, for the first time, the thought made me sad. "Eternal youth is a burden, too. I suppose because of it, I can never live in the outside world. People will become afraid of me. People will call me a monster."

"There's no need to worry about it." Uriel fell quiet, before speaking again. "I know I was terrible to you before, when I said you had no pride, and I'm very sorry. However, you cannot live always thinking of what others think of you. You cannot control your birth. All you can do is prove to them you're worthy of living, just like them."

"But am I?"

I thought of the butterfly.

"I've killed butterflies that drink blood, then why should I stop humans who kill me for drinking their blood?" I looked up at him. He couldn't speak. "See? It's true. I am a hypocrite."

"If a person makes a mistake, would you forgive them?"

I looked up. I didn't understand. "But I didn't just make one mistake. I've killed, of my own will, several times. I've ate these men. Killed them with my own hands. That's why they call me the Bloody Butterfly—I'm stained with blood."

"But do you want to change?"

I hesitated, because I thought of her. "Yes, I do."

"Then why do you insist on blaming yourself for your past?" Uriel frowned. "Freedom doesn't only mean being physically free. You need to let go of those chains you've casted on yourself."

The sun shone in.

With the light on his hair, almost like a halo, he looked more like an angel than ever. I stood up, and walked over to him. And, for the first time, he held my hand softly as though I were a porcelain doll.

I smiled at his innocence.

He will remove these chains for me as long as I kill one of my kin—he was more of a devil than he thought he was.