Pitch raced up to her stepmother’s chamber, frantically wiping tears from her eyes.

“…I won’t cry until it’s over,” she thought to herself. “Until I know for certain…one way or the other…!”

She threw open the doors and stared down the clicking, whirring magic machine, desperately searching for signs of life…or lack thereof.

Her eyes eventually settled on a pair of round, dull-colored objects, spinning in tandem within the apparatus. And upon closer inspection, she realized that they were the shining gears from before, now stained beyond recognition with old blood.

She lunged forward and ripped one from its axle. It came off surprisingly easily, and it was also unexpectedly heavy— so much so that it immediately slipped from her grasp.

With a great splash, the gear fell into a pool of bloodied water just below it…and when it sank, Pitch realized the pool was much deeper than it appeared. She heard the gear clank softly against unseen objects as it went, descending beneath the stone floor.

Tentatively, she dipped her hand into the liquid: it did feel like water, but it stung her skin, and left a slippery residue on her fingers.

She decided that, whatever the substance was, it probably wasn’t safe for contact with the human body. And in the same moment, she decided to squeeze her eyes shut and dive in.

Pitch swam down through the water, squeezing past several solid, spinning objects, including one particularly sharp one that ripped through her nightgown and into her leg. She could tell the wound was only slight, but it burned like hellfire, and it took all her strength to ignore it and continue on.

At last, she reached the bottom of the sunken pool. She ran her hand along the floor in earnest, becoming increasingly aware of the urgent pressure building up in her lungs.

She felt thin pieces of bone…so many bones, some of which came apart in her hands. Azor didn’t have bones, so she didn’t concern herself with them— except, of course, for the frightening realization that even the hardest, most permanent remains of the dead were being dissolved all around her, and that at any moment, there might be nothing left for her to find.

After several agonizing seconds, she finally touched something soft; something that felt like a knotted bundle of smooth, spongy rope. Something far too delicate to have been down there for very long.

She tore off the ripped section of her dress and bundled it up, then sped towards the surface.

Pitch came out of the pool coughing and spluttering, trying her best to keep the acidic liquid from entering her mouth as she gasped for air. Tiny holes had been burnt into her clothing; a couple of braids fell from her head in a clump. All over, her skin was embroiled in blistering pain.

She pushed the bundle out first, then climbed out after it. Quietly, she sat on the floor and unwrapped it, fearing the worst.

At first she wasn’t sure what she was looking at: she saw only coiled flesh, red and inflamed, fibrous and fraying, cold yet bleeding.

Then she saw the tail-eye, with its clouded blue iris staring at nothing. The eyeball itself hung limply from its socket, and when she picked up the tail it detached, and rolled right into her other hand.

She held it there. Suddenly, her throat felt very tight.

“…I told you it was too late,” said a voice from the doorway.

The Queen entered the room, although Pitch did not look up at her. She simply remained motionless on the floor, staring silently into her hand.

“I know what you must be feeling,” the Queen continued, “But as I said before, everything has a cost. And I think this little unpleasantness is a fair price to pay for the rest of our lives…you already know what I’ve gained, but as for you: I think you will find that you are indeed still a princess, now that this Beast and all that he represents have been laid to rest.”

She extended her hands, one bruised and swollen and one smooth and manicured. “It’s time to let go,” she said. “Leave the past behind, once and for all. You’ve been waiting all your life for me to choose you, Margaret, and I’ve done it…now you must choose me.”

Pitch felt a strange chill overcome her heart. Slowly, she stood up and approached her stepmother.

Then, she reached past her, picking up an oil lamp from her vanity table. She turned on her heel and threw it at the machine as hard as she could.

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!” the Queen screeched, as the wood burst into flame.

But Pitch paid her no heed: instead, she picked up a brass candlestick and began striking the other side of the machine, breaking it apart.

Its wheels and arms cracked and splintered, bits and pieces were sent flying into the growing fire. Pitch hit it again and again, as hard as she possibly could, as if there were nothing else left for her in the world.

The Queen tried to stop her; she cried out desperately and clawed at Pitch’s arms, tearing her sleeves. But Pitch failed to notice even this…for one long, dark, despairing moment, she could think only of destroying that horrible, horrible magic machine.

Eventually, the contraption was reduced to a pile of kindling: half still burning in place, and the other half strewn all over the room. Gradually, Pitch returned to her senses. She realized the room was filled with smoke, and her stepmother had disappeared.

She looked down at her forearms, examining the deep scratch wounds on her already blistered skin. Then she dropped the candlestick and fell to the floor, coughing.

After a while, the coughs gave way to deep, heartrending sobs.