Marcus had yet to say a word. The intention to tell Abigail where they were going once they reached a reasonable distance from the Timekeeper had been there. However, after one block led to another, that led to three, that led to ten, Marcus let things fall as they may. Whether he told Abigail of their destination or not, she would find out.

When they reached the eleventh floor apartment with still a word unspoken, he embraced destiny. After all, was it not the very hand of Fate that ordered their steps there, leaving them before the metal door of his apartment with little option but to face the truth?

Marcus pushed the door open. There was darkness and quiet. The silence, however, could not have drifted farther from the serene nature expected from its name. Thunderous, it hummed around them, watching, wanting, and waiting. It lingered close with violent bolts of anticipation. Marcus's skin grew chilled under a cold sweat.

Abigail, too, was as uneasy as she was curious. Could she be blamed? Who wouldn't wonder where they were and why, after spending time in the privacy of their room above the repair shop, did Marcus now bring her here? Surely she must have wondered if this was another soul to collect. But Marcus could almost hear the silent question that followed her logic: Why, after a night of misting through countless doors, did he have the key to this dark apartment? He stepped aside to let her pass.

Abigail walked into the apartment. Her eyes scanned the darkness erratically as if wanting to take it all in at once and gather her answer with one look. Marcus smirked bitterly. If she only knew her answer would come soon.

Marcus turned to close the door. He froze. There was no one there. Yet, just as the lives of his charges misted before his eyes in those last moments of life, he watched the possibilities of a life not yet lived float past on the opposite side of that door. Foreign daydreams invaded his mind. Futile, senseless illusions anchored themselves to his thoughts and materialized into invisible wisps of smoky torture that teased his sanity.

First, in the most secret corners of his mind, were thoughts of waking beside Abigail, day after blessed day. The foggy figments bewitched him with images of Abigail accepting him once learning of his dark truth. Just as she had done hours before, she would choose to stay by his side after all was revealed. Those were the deliriums of Hope.

Desire then fogged in with wishful dreams of discovering the changes of the seasons on Abigail's bare skin, the coolness of her touch during the hot summer months, and its warmth during the blistering cold. Thoughts of endless nights under her spell and sleepy kisses ushering them both to sleep, swirled about. Marcus's body hardened. He could remember her kiss so clearly.

Last to arrive, swaying invisibly into his sight was the one responsible for the early morning congregation of secret callers. Marcus didn't know Her, but heavens did he know of Her. Surely it was the effects of Her spell alone that could have birthed such madness in his life. Was She not known as the fickle force behind the greatest of joys and the most painful of heartaches? Standing there, between Hope and Desire, was none other than Love.

With a smile of frozen stars, She caressed Marcus with thoughts of a future. Of things he'd never thought of yet found his heart yearning for, a home and, perhaps, even a family of his own. His throat swelled. Yes, with Love in his life he could have Abigail and, together, a family of their own.

In the brightly lit hall, these ghosts of promise raised their glasses. Hope, Desire, and Love waited for Marcus to join them, to drink from them, and take Abigail from that apartment. Their whispers revealed the key to everything they were offering him. To accept them, Marcus would have to reject Truth forever and lose himself to Secret who lingered close, hiding, waiting, and ready to take Truth to the darkest parts of Marcus's soul.

He looked back at Abigail. His heart tightened. It was too late. While the phantasms in the hall had sought to entice him, Truth had long staked its claim. Helpless, he watched Abigail slip his dripping coat from her shoulders and hook the black garment beside the red trench coat already there. Abigail stepped back, her eyes fixed on this mysterious coat.

He emptied his chest of all air. Hoping they would accept his sincerest apologies, Marcus turned back to the ghosts of everything that could have been and rejected their toast. They seemed to solidify for a moment, long enough for their image to burn itself onto his memory. They fragmented and piece by piece, crumbled, dissolving into ashes.

Marcus closed the door. He walked past Abigail and deposited his keys on the foyer table with little noise. Purposely, he walked away before she could ask who the red coat belonged to. She wouldn't have to. If there was any doubt in her mind as to what his relationship was to the owner of that crimson coat, all doubt would vanish once she looked down to where he placed his keys.

Hearing her take one step, he braced himself. She took another and stopped. Sensing her delay behind him, he felt the air change, charging instantly with quiet realization. He looked over his shoulder. Abigail stared down at the foyer table, at the one undeniable shred of proof. Displayed singularly on the crescent table was the only photograph Marcus ever allowed to be taken of himself.

It had been years since the picture was taken, and looking at the somber shadow in the black sunglasses, Marcus could hardly recognize the man in the picture. A smiling Margaret leaned against him, her arms wrapped lovingly around his neck. He just sat there. No smile. No affection.

Abigail looked down at the picture for a long time. Her green eyes focused keenly on the woman staring back at her with the smile of an angel. She reached down and trailed her fingers lightly along the golden frame that had the words "Forever" scripted continuously. Tracing the word, she retracted her hand slowly, speculation erased.

She bit her lip, self-reproach coloring her face. It was a quiet scold of wishing she would have asked the right questions at the right time. Lifting her eyes, she met Marcus's gaze.

It all hit him then. Whether he took Abigail that night or not, once Margaret learned of her, it would all be over. Nothing ever mattered. The Timekeeper had it all wrong. There was no need for Black Death to come, when Fate would do his bidding and balance the scales all on her own.

Abigail opened her mouth to speak, but Marcus cut her off by turning away and walking to the kitchen. The hushed tap of her steps staggered behind. He stopped at the breakfast table beside the arched window. Staring down at his untouched cup of tea and Margaret's empty companion, he chuckled. No longer blind, he could see Fate at work all around him.

He picked up the saucers, and turned toward the sink. Abigail's eyes locked onto the teacups in his hands, and she leaned sideways onto the doorframe. There was no longer any doubt in her mind. On her face, Marcus could tell the space between them both no longer seemed far enough for her.

"So, you live here or something?" she asked, slow and careful. Surely the lipstick on the empty cup answered her question.

Aware that her question needed-demanded-an answer, Marcus took a moment. He poured the tainted water into the sink, and watched the tea swirl down the drain like poison.

He set the cup in the sink and replied, "Or something." Abigail scoffed, but Marcus only smirked, seeing the end getting closer. "It's complicated."

"Complicated?" she echoed flatly. "It's complicated? I'm not sure if you've noticed, but I've stood beside you in the rain all night. I shared things, private things with you that I have never shared with anyone else. Not with Nancy, when she was still someone I cared about. Not even with Mr. Owens. But I did with you. Granted, I was stupid and an idiot for letting myself get so involved so soon without asking questions, or demanding anything of you, but I trusted you. You told me that I could and I believed you. You came back for me, you followed me, saved me from Randy, slept beside me, kissed me, and now suddenly it's complicated. I think you can spare a bit more detail, considering..." She trailed off, her fingers meeting her mouth in humiliation.

Releasing a defeated sigh, she shrugged. "I said I wouldn't ask any questions, but you obviously don't live here alone and I think we're beyond it being complicated. I deserve more than complicated."

Though unruffled in demeanor, Marcus's blood hammered in his veins. "And what exactly would you like to know, Miss Archer?"

A sad smile touched her lips. "Miss Archer again, huh?" She shook her head. "I'd like the truth."

"The truth?" he mused. The left of his mouth arched to a grin that then exploded into laughter. His hackles were dark, lowering to the same depths of pessimism and self-loathing of his youth. "The truth you want? Very well, then that is what I shall give you. You were bound to leave me sooner or later, right? Now whether it was because your time had come or because you utterly despised me, I hadn't yet sorted that out." His black tone sent a chill down his spine. Seeing Abigail tense, he could tell she was frightened of what was to come. But she wanted the truth.

He didn't want to be cross with her, but leaning back against the sink, he stared at the floor, watching his words light a trail of fire leading to everything they'd formed that night.

"Where do you suppose I start? There are about one hundred and twenty years of tales to tell, but allow me to spare you from boredom. The first twenty years are the most entertaining." He massaged the back of his neck. "Let's start at the beginning, shall we? I was born Marcus Weston Kent, son to Charles Weston Kent and Clara Elizabeth Kent. I was the sole heir to my father's shipping empire with a very handsome fortune to be settled on me. Never did a day go by without my father reminding me of that. He also had a nasty little habit of reminding me how much of a disgrace I was to the Kent name, physically pounding it into me. If I ever forgot, I always had the bruises and scars to remind me. Naturally, I hated him and well, add to that my hating being told what to do, and you can imagine. I did what I wanted regardless of who it hurt. As long as there was sufficient opium to blur reality, enough brandy to slur my words, and a willing whore in my bed, there was nothing more I wanted from life."

A short silence fell. Abigail stared on, eyes blanketed in disbelief. But Marcus did not stop. Instead, he shot her a scornful grin. "You look disappointed. Did I manage to mislead you? Fear not, Miss Archer, you're not the first to be fooled, however, I have the distinct feeling that my life story is not what you wanted to hear. Ah, no, of course not. How could I have been so stupid? You want the truth about other things. Things like the girl in the photograph. Her name is Margaret Devonshire, and we were once engaged to be married. And though not by my own hand, I am guilty. You see, Margaret died once-I killed her."

A tinkling crash permeated the stiff silence, devouring Abigail's sharp gasp. Jolted, she spun around and stepped back, pressing against the doorframe as if wanting to melt into the wooden encasement from having seen a ghost. While Marcus could not see his personal haunt out in the hall, he clearly saw his dreams burst into flames.He sighed. "Good morning, Margaret."

Margaret emerged from the hall, an angel of death in a floor-length white nightgown. Perfectly sculpted red curls rested atop her shoulders, a direct contrast to Abigail's damp strands. Widened green eyes focused solely on Marcus.

With a resigned shake of his head, he regarded the two women in his life. The one he never loved yet was forced to care for and the one he loved yet no longer knew whether she would remain by his side. "Abigail, this is Miss Margaret Devonshire. Margaret, this is Miss Abigail Archer."

Abigail looked to Margaret, and through her shock offered a salutary nod. Margaret's eyes remained fixed on Marcus, waiting.

Abigail peeled from the doorframe. "I should go-"

"No," Margaret snapped, her voice strained. She smiled at Abigail, though her eyes darkened with rage.

"Tell me, Miss Archer,' she said. "Have you ever felt as though you were falling? And after falling for a long time, you finally feel you have found solid ground, only it's all a lie. You realize that what you stood on were endless layers of thick white smoke and you never truly stopped falling?"

Abigail shook her head timidly. Her back was still flattened against the doorframe and her fingers dug into the wood behind her. Marcus felt as though he were that wooden slab and this disillusion Abigail felt were her nails, scarring his chest.

Margaret smiled and reached out her hand, stroking Abigail's cheek with a twisted fascination. She searched Abigail's face with her eyes and her smile widened.

"Poor thing," she said as if talking to a child. "You look as if you've just been told there is no tooth fairy, no wishing upon stars. You remind me of myself so long ago. You still think the smoke you stand on is solid ground, don't you?"

She let her fingers fall away from Abigail's cheek and motioned into the kitchen with an extended hand. "Then you must stay. Please, I insist. You are a guest, and I haven't had one in so long."

Turning back to Marcus, Margaret continued speaking to Abigail. "Besides, if not you to rob me of his affections Miss Archer, surely it would have been another. It was never going to be me, regardless of how many centuries I devoted to you, isn't that right, Marcus?" She leaned back against the opposite side of the threshold. "Which makes me wonder, how long have you two known each other? How long have you been wearing your shame on your sleeve, all to hide the fact you've been with her and not as ashamed as I thought? How long did it take you to destroy the last hundred years of my life?"

"Five days," Marcus said quietly after a moment.

Margaret's smile withered, and like her counterpart on the other side of the doorframe, dug her nails into the wood until her knuckles blanched. She then released the frame and cupped her mouth. But a frantic laugh escaped anyway. Her body hobbled with violent, flowery giggles that triggered tears in her eyes. She laughed alone.

"Five days?" she repeated, which only triggered more laughter and more tears. She turned back to Abigail and her laughter slowly faded, though it tinged each of her words.

"You've taken everything away from me, a century of my life in five days. Truly, Miss Archer, the least you can do is give me this: stay. Marcus has never told me the tale of how he ended my life, and I have a feeling you should hear it as well. Maybe it will clear some of the smoke for you. You should thank me really. I've saved you one hundred years of pointless falling. But save your gratitude. I don't want it. I want you to stay."

Abigail swallowed deeply and nodded. She walked into the kitchen, but did not sit at the table. Instead, she stood by the counter opposite Marcus and twined her fingers nervously on the white tile.

Margaret walked into the kitchen, her white robe billowing behind her in waves of silk. She sat at the table and smoothed down her nightgown. Her ceremony over, she looked at Marcus, her eyes alight with pain and anger. "You were saying, Mr. Kent?"

Her air then was one of revenge and it suffocated him. Surely whatever tale he had yet to tell would not cast him in a good light and he was certain she knew this. He saw it in how she absorbed the tension in the room. Her breaths slowed as she savored his and Abigail's premature demise. Her hawk-like hunger to destroy his life threatened to keep him from speaking the truth. How much more of his life would he be forced to give her? The desire to deny her the satisfaction swelled. He could simply make up a story to cover up what he had said and save what remained of him and Abigail. But then he looked at Abigail.

He would do it for her. She had asked him for the truth and the truth he would give her.

After a thoughtful moment, he looked back at Margaret's green eyes. "Finally and rightfully you will hate me. While I do not deny that I am guilty, I hope you understand that I never intended to hurt you, Margaret, not in the way I did, nor did I ever imagine that what I did would turn out as it did."

"That's just it, Marcus. You've never thought of anyone else but yourself. I've known it my entire life, but now Miss Archer will know you for who you really are, my wolf."

Unable to look at Abigail, for the shame was much too strong, he stared at her knotting fingers. "When I met Margaret, she was barely eighteen, and so innocent and young. In her, all I saw was another conquest. I courted her as I would any young lady I had intentions for, however dishonorable those intentions might have been. Unsurprisingly and foolishly, she believed in my empty promises of marriage, protection, and whatever other rehearsed nonsense I waved before her eyes. It wasn't long before I made her mine."

Abigail's fingers wound to a stop, the simple act clenching Marcus's chest. He continued. "Someone told her father of our indiscretion. It came as no surprise that he demanded for us to be married. How could he not? I may not have been titled, but no one would ever marry her. If they did and found her to be unchaste, she would be outcast. Lucky for Margaret, her father's influence was just the type my father worked endlessly to attain. Without consulting either of us, our wedding date was set, a mere business transaction."

His voice grew darker. "I hated my father. I hated him for everything he was and for the countless times he struck my mother and me. I hated him for the lovers he paraded before my mother with no regard for her feelings, taking them to their marriage bed while my mother tended to me with tears in her eyes, hoping I didn't realize what was happening. I hated him because as much as I promised myself that I would do things differently, I ended up being just like him, if not worse. I prayed countless nights for the day where I could take this name he loved so much and thrust it into the deepest parts of hell, where hearing it would be considered a sin. Because of Margaret, my prayer had been answered.

"The day of the wedding, I woke up and dressed, appearing to ready myself to take Margaret as my wife. Funny thing about appearances, they are never what they seem, are they?" He was quiet for a thoughtful minute. "Well, when the ceremony arrived and Margaret waited for me at the altar before God, opium burst through my veins as I took to the arms of another woman on what was to be our marriage bed."

Abigail sucked in a quiet breath while Margaret listened intently. She said nothing, just listened. Emotionless, she stared straight ahead as if matching his words to her memories.

As he bore his eyes into Abigail's hands, Marcus's vision blurred to a past that although long dead, presently lived in his mind. "I arrived home that night, expecting to revel in my parents' usual disappointment in me. Instead, I found my father calm as a Sunday morning. How could he not be when my nuptials had already been rescheduled? He made it quite clear that either I married or I would be disowned. I had no choice. I had to marry her. Selfish, I know, but with more addictions than I had years, I needed the money. Call it desperation or denial," he said, swirling his hand dismissively in the air, "but my father had never threatened to disown me before. There was no doubt in my mind that he was serious. Because of him, I hated Margaret all the more." He chuckled bitterly. "I took her maidenhead and had the nerve to hate her. Disgusting excuse for a man I was then, but I did hate her.

"I made sure to bring all my scandals to light thinking that a sane woman would rather embrace spinsterhood than marry the vile monster I was." He paused, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "Do you remember what you said to me that night at the Wimble's Ball, after finding me in the gardens with your sister?"

Margaret swallowed, visibly shaking. "I said I would marry you still because deep down you were a good man." Her voice broke. "And I still believe you are."

"A good man." He meditated on the words. "As you can see Miss Archer, nothing I did could have kept her from wanting to marry me. But in our time, after God came reputation. The only way I could be excused from marrying her would be if her name were tarnished beyond repair. And so, on the eve of our wedding, I sent Margaret a note asking her to meet me so that we could talk in private about this arrangement we were being thrust into. I stressed she was to tell no one. It was imperative that she come alone. I knew she wouldn't refuse."

His voice was strained. He knew that Margaret had never heard the coming part of the tale. "I never intended on going. I'd arranged for her to be captured-"

A hitched breath cut him off. He looked down at Margaret who held her chest as if her heart was shattering and she desperately sought to keep all of the pieces in place.

"She was to be taken to a location and kept there for a few days," he said. "Enough time for word to spread that the innocent Miss Devonshire had run away with a lover, or had been kidnapped and ravished, whichever of the two the gossip mills found more favorable and more destructive. I took to my act of the distraught, reformed fiancé and tailored it to perfection. Funny how the tides of society turned then. All of the sudden, I was the heartbroken, honorable man with a frivolous fiancée.

"The men I had hired were only supposed to keep her there for a week and then deposit her in the woods behind my estate to make it appear as if they had released her. But after a week passed, Margaret had yet to appear. I received a letter shortly after. They wanted more money. When I arrived to give them their payment, something didn't feel right, and so I asked to see Margaret. It was strange. Somehow, it all felt final."

A sob tore from Margaret. Shaking his head, Marcus ran a hand the length of his face. The last of his confession was so very close and with it, freedom. He noted Abigail pull away. He braced himself, imagining she meant to leave, but without once looking at Marcus, she knelt beside Margaret, took hold of her hands and squeezed. "Marcus, she's heard enough."

"No!" Margaret shook her head frantically. She cast a hateful glance at Abigail, but Marcus figured it was not meant for her. Chances were Margaret could not even see Abigail through the rage-filled tears clinging to her eyes.

"I need to hear the rest," she cried. "I need to hear him say it."

Glaring at Marcus while holding Margaret's hands steady, Abigail said nothing.

Numbed, he started again. "They had her locked in a room, bound and gagged. There was blood everywhere. Her dress was a tattered mess and her body..." He shivered. "When I went to her, her breaths were shallow. I realized then, before even having to turn around and face those men, it was all over. I had walked willingly into hell's mouth, a hell of my own making, and found my death. They had their payment, and I was the only one who knew of their identity and their whereabouts..."

Abigail's eyes snapped shut.

"I don't remember any pain, but I remember falling slowly right beside her. Somewhere, right before everything faded to black, where it seemed as if I was staring out at the world from behind a screened door, a man appeared right out of thin air. He walked through the wretched men that looted me of my possessions. But they couldn't see him. I wasn't sure if it was all a hallucination, but he came closer. He knelt down beside me without a word and placed a hand on my shoulder. What little and pathetic of an existence I had whisked by my eyes, and slowly it all went away, as if seeping through the stab wound at my back. Seeing it all there, my whole life, pass before me, I had never felt so empty, so dirty, so guilty, and so alone.

"Once the flash ended, he walked toward Margaret. He meant to take her as well. From somewhere within, I reached out to keep him from touching her. I felt remorse, only a little too late. But my soul begged him to spare her. I said I would do anything-anything at all-if she were allowed to live. I knew where my soul was to go. I could hear the dark moans and the stench of despair and sulfur. Surely nothing could be worse than that. The collector told me he knew of something I could do that would spare her life, but I had to be certain I wanted to do it. I said I was and before a breath passed, I stood before a Timekeeper, trading my services for Margaret's life."

He stared down at the two women, laying his truth at their feet. "So to answer your question, Miss Archer, no, I do not live here alone. I live here with Margaret and I collect souls because I owe her. She deserved to live a full life and to experience things that my stupidity had robbed her of. By collecting these souls, I've at least given her that."

Painful, chained sobs tore through the spaces around them as Margaret cried into her and Abigail's joined hands. Then and there, all her dreams shattered. A jagged breath left Abigail and although Marcus looked at her, she no longer looked at him. Disgust and pity was smeared across her face, but in her eyes, Marcus realized this smoke Margaret spoke of had cleared. Abigail now saw him for who he was.

Margaret released Abigail's hands and rose. She made to take a step when her knees buckled. Marcus reached for her out of instinct, but she swatted his hands away with a long roar.

"Don't you dare touch me!" she seethed through clenched teeth. She gripped the table for support and shivered as if stranded in the frigid Arctic with nothing but her angelic silken nightgown. Marcus knew, however, that it was the weight of years of foolishness and secrets now hanging from her shoulders. She shut her eyes tightly as moaning sobs of regret tore from her. Swallowed by her piercing scream was the sound of shattered glass when she flipped the table in a blinding rage so unlike her. Emptying her lungs of the pain, she took another breath and screamed some more as if to rid her soul of all the lies.

Abigail stepped back, shaking her head slowly while tears streamed down her face. With each of Margaret's screams, she moved back more. And the farther she moved away, the closer Marcus moved to Margaret, accepting that this was their truth, and this was their consequence. There, moving closer to a torn woman while his only taste at love paced away, Marcus closed his eyes and held Margaret.

A cool sensation prickled within him, ebbing and flowing through his body. Well aware of how much had been lost, he could not keep his arms from tightening around Margaret, because what had been gained was so much more than the piles of ash all around them. While she cried and the truth of his words drove its stake deeper, he knew their mutual pain had granted them both unparalleled freedom.

Falling back down onto the chair, Margaret mourned. He knelt before her and draped his hands over hers.

"I don't deserve it," he confessed. "But I am begging for your forgiveness. I, too, lived hoping that in this purgatorial existence, I could find forgiveness-your forgiveness, Margaret. Forgive me for never telling you the truth. Forgive me for keeping you tied to this life in part for my own selfish reasons. Forgive me for never loving you the way you wanted me to."

Margaret hugged herself tighter and tighter, until her knuckles whitened to a nearly transparent state. She failed to meet Marcus's eyes, her breaths slow and tame. Marcus wished she would strike him. Wished she would punch him as Abigail had done under less severe circumstances.

Instead, Margaret whispered, "Forgive you? How could I possibly forgive you when my forgiveness will only free you to go to her? After all you've said, I still love you and yet you ask me to forgive you so that you can choose her? I've stayed beside you all these years, rejecting a truth I knew. Deep down I never had a doubt you were responsible for my death, but I stayed, and now you want my forgiveness?"

Chills rippled through Marcus and the floor beneath him swayed. It was beyond anything he could have ever expected.

"But I stayed," she confessed. "I set aside the truth because I couldn't imagine not loving you, Marcus. I lived an endless lifetime by your side, certain that one day you would realize that just as you collect souls for me, I live for you, for us."

Horrified, he stumbled back. Rage gripped him, refusing to let go.

Margaret simply shook her head. "But now you're asking me to forgive you. If forgiving you means losing you to her, then no, I will never give you my forgiveness. You are to live with your guilt if it means living by my side."

Marcus closed his eyes, the pain of her revelation hurting him more than his confession. He pressed balled fists to his temples, not knowing whether anger or pity was appropriate. After one hundred years, he knew without fail, he could never love her. Worse, it became clear that guilt had blinded him and he had played the fool all along.

She tilted her head to one side. "Why her, Marcus? Why did you feel the need to replace me when I was here all along? What more did you want that I could not give you? Was a lifetime not enough?"

"Want?" Marcus echoed. He was shaking now, unable to believe his ears. His voice wobbled with restrained emotion. "Margaret, I chose Abigail because she wasn't what I wanted. She was what I needed."

As the answer poured from his soul, he watched Abigail move back toward the darkness in the hall. "I chose her because she called me a hypocrite and a liar. After two years of waiting for me, she walked out on me, leaving me alone in a ghastly café feeling like the foulest of men. I had to ask for her trust and toss everything to hell to prove to her that she could trust me. I chose her because as you have stayed by my side for a hundred years, she hit me and begged to know how she could be free of me after only one day. Damn it, Margaret, I chose her because she chose me. Not because society demanded it of her, but because she wanted me.

"The reason I chose her, and will continue to collect souls if it means being by her side, is because as I know you will forgive me after everything I've confessed here today, Abigail won't. As I know you will give me another hundred years if I ask them of you, I know without a shred of doubt that at any moment she will walk from this apartment and leave me to rot in my much-deserved shame. She will leave and never once think about coming back."

With each of his words, Abigail paced back. After two more steps, she vanished into the black hallway, the sharp slamming of the front door a moment later a testament to his words. More painful to Marcus was the sudden silence coming from the woman in front of him.

Margaret stood and adjusted her curls, eerily composed. "I suppose we've both wasted our lives loving the wrong people. Maybe it's Fate telling you what I've known all along, that we belong together. You should have loved me, but it matters little now. I will go change and together we will go to the Timekeeper."

"Go? No, I need to find Abigail."

"The devil you will," Margaret retorted, finding her voice a little too late. "You promised once I was done with living, we would go to the Timekeeper, together. I am finished. If you think I will wait another minute in this damned life for you to give another woman a love that is mine, a love that I deserve, that I have waited for, then you are sadly mistaken. Damn the day you walked into my life, Marcus! Damn it all, you will not go after her. We're to go to the Timekeeper together. You owe me!"

"I've given you one hundred years. If in that time you did not live a full life, there is nothing more I can offer you. I can't give you today. And whether you forgive me or not, I can't give you what you want." He closed the space between them. Gently gripping her shoulders, he drew her close, pressed his lips softly against her damp cheek, and lingered there for a moment.

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

Margaret flinched and slapped him once. Marcus let her. Continuously she hit him, her green eyes swimming in tears. She raised her hand to slap him once more, but Marcus gripped her wrist.

"It's too late," he confessed quietly. Lowering her hand beside her, he turned and walked away.

He opened the door.

"I won't be here when you get back," she hissed from behind him. He turned back to her. A bleak, cold stare glossed over her eyes. Marcus had never seen this stare, but it was one that told him a number of things. Most important being that Margaret was done. And she knew, as did he, that once the Timekeeper shattered her clock, both of their lives were over. "Choose wisely," she warned. "We can try and make things work. There are no secrets between us anymore. Don't you see? We're free. I can be what you need."

Marcus stood still at the last fork in the road, one path leading back to Margaret and one to certain death. No longer blinded by guilt, he recognized Fate's tricky hand. In the end, both paths were one and the same. Being with Margaret was slow death, while choosing Abigail, instant death. Both led to the same demise, but he should have known all along, it was never about the destination. Making his choice, Marcus stepped outside.

"I hate you," Margaret said behind him.

Marcus did not look back at her for fear she would take back her words. He wanted to remember her hating him.

"Goodbye, Margaret," he said over his shoulder. "May you rest in peace."

Closing the door, he walked away from the muffled cries of a broken heart, embracing freedom and the promise of sweet death.

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Thank you for reading! Please vote and comment if you enjoyed it. Also, this is one of my all-time favorite songs (and favorite band) so I hope you enjoy it as well :)