"You knew my father."
Margot leans back in her seat, smoke curling in the air about her. "I did. For a handful of years." The black in her irises expands and for the first time, the smile that spreads across her lips isn't laced with venom or hate. It is soft. "He kept me hidden in his decrepit hut. Saved my life when they left me to burn."
I clench my jaw. "You must be mistaken. My father was no wood maker. He wasn't even alive two hundred years ago. He was sixty-five when he passed on."
My voice cracks on the last sentence, but Margot merely peers outside, a long look on her face. "How did he die?"
I look down at my book. "He was ill for a long time. It ravaged him quickly."
"I see."
