Content warning:

Postpartum depression.

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Anders seized the guard’s keys off the ground. “Don’t be afraid.”

“Your face,” Gwynnyth said. “Your hands.”

“It’s still me. I promise.” He unlocked her cell and started on her shackles.

“I did this to you,” she croaked. “I’m cursed...”

“No, no, no.” He left the key in one cuff and caressed her cheek. “My dearest, brilliant Gwynnyth. You’re blameless.” His voice cracked. “This is what I looked like when I first came to life. This is my true face.”

“I did this to our baby, too...”

“No, listen to me. This is my fault. I lied to you. Peder wasn’t my shadow; I was his. Are you listening? All these years, I pretended to be a real man. I was too scared to tell you...”

Gwynnyth struggled to make sense of his frantic rambling. She stared at the glow from his eyes, entranced as a moth. Trembling, she stroked the void’s cheek. 

Smooth, soft skin, no trace of stubble. That was her Andre.

He unlocked the last of her chains and caught her before she could lose her balance. She felt like a sack of cloth and bones. “I don’t deserve you, but I can get us out of here,” he said. “Come with me, before those dastards return. I’ve scouted out a boat we can take to England. We’ll start a new life in hiding. Quickly, let’s go.”

She spoke quietly. “No.”

He tugged her hands gently. “They intend to kill us. We must hurry.”

“Andre,” she said, “I’m tired. I want to see our son again.”

He stared at the open cell and squeezed her quivering hands. He couldn’t bear to look back on her sallow face. She swayed as if ready to pass out at any second. 

In his heart, he yearned to hoist her over his shoulder and run to safety. But when Gwynnyth lowered herself to the ground, he joined her.