Chapter 8 — Margins and Consequences
The forest was quiet, almost disrespectfully so, as if it had noticed Marrow's disappearance and didn't want to upset the moment further. Puck paced a tight circle around the fire's embers, tail flicking sharply, every now and then glancing at me like I'd just declared I planned to hug the Curator. Valerius sat on a flat rock nearby, rapier sheathed but still radiating that quiet, lethal tension that could kill a bear with a raised eyebrow. I sat cross-legged on the ground, staring at the bookmark in my hands like it might explode if I looked at it wrong.
It was just paper. Plain, handwritten, warm under my fingers, but somehow heavier than anything I'd held in a while. Like it carried gravity beyond its size.
I turned it over, scanning the words again. Not many. Marrow's neat script suggested simplicity, but simplicity was always a trick. "When the Curator defines you, he will choose a single version of you to preserve. I can teach you how to leave margins."
Margins. That word kept rolling in my mind. Margins weren't just spaces on paper. They were choices, pauses, loopholes. A way to slip between what was required and what was possible. But using them… well, if Marrow's smile was anything to go by, margins were dangerous. Deliciously dangerous.
"Margins," Puck muttered, tail swishing. "Margins my foot. I hate him. Everything about him is wrong."
I didn't respond. Not yet. I had a feeling he was right. Marrow's idea of guidance was probably the literary equivalent of juggling knives while blindfolded. Still… I couldn't stop thinking about it.
Valerius's wings twitched. "You're thinking," she said flatly. "Don't. He left a trap, and you're staring at it like a child at a candy store."
"Maybe," I admitted. "But he didn't leave a trap. Not really. He left a bookmark."
"Bookmarks don't disappear people," she said sharply. "But that's what he does. And you know it."
I chewed my lip, staring down at the small slip of paper. "Maybe that's the point. Maybe the trap isn't physical. Maybe it's… choice."
Puck barked a laugh. "Oh, good. Now we're all going to be scared of stationery."
I ignored him. "Think about it. The Curator erases people. Flattened versions. Perfect copies. Marrow says he wants to teach me… margins. Spaces I can hide in. Little gaps the Curator can't notice. It's not just survival. It's… freedom."
Valerius's gaze softened slightly. "Freedom under his eye is an illusion. You learned that."
"Yes," I said, voice low. "But what if freedom isn't about escaping him entirely? What if it's about slipping between the lines?"
The words felt dangerous to say aloud. Even to me. But there it was: the seed Marrow had planted, small and insidious.
I tucked the bookmark into my coat, careful not to crease it. Puck sniffed at it like it was poison. "You're playing with fire," he muttered. "I can smell it from here."
"Maybe," I said. "But I've got to know."
Valerius shifted, wings stretching. "I don't like this. He's… unpredictable. You trust him too much already."
"Trust?" I laughed, a dry, humorless laugh. "I don't trust him at all. Not a bit. That's the point. I don't have to. I just have to understand what he's offering."
Puck's ears flattened. "Understanding isn't surviving. Remember that."
The forest seemed to hold its breath. Somewhere, a bird chirped, and it sounded like an insult. I didn't care. I focused on the warmth of the paper against my chest. It was tempting, the idea that someone—anyone—was offering me guidance in this nightmare. That maybe I could carve a space for myself without the Curator's hand pressing down.
I stood abruptly. "We're moving."
Valerius's brow shot up. "Excuse me?"
I held the bookmark between us like a talisman. "He left this for a reason. A clue, a hint. If he wanted me dead, it would be gone. He wants something. We follow it."
Puck hissed. "Are you insane? That's exactly the kind of trap he would leave!"
"Yes," I admitted. "Exactly. Which is why we can't ignore it."
Valerius exchanged a glance with me, eyes sharp. Then she sighed, running a hand over her face. "I don't like it, but you're… right. We'll check it out. Carefully. And Puck, stay on your toes."
"Oh, I will," he said. "I'll stay so on my toes I'll kick someone into another dimension by accident."
We set off, the forest thickening around us. Shadows clung to the trees like gossip. I could feel the Shard reacting, faint pulses echoing in my chest. Not warning. Not fear. Awareness. Recognition. Like it was alive and curious too. The idea of "margins" seemed to resonate with it, the concept of bending reality, hiding in gaps the Curator couldn't control.
I remembered Marrow's words: "I can teach you how to leave margins."
And I wondered—if the Shard could feel them too, was it guiding me toward him, or away from him?
We followed the faint indications on the bookmark—a series of symbols, almost like a map, leading us through the underbrush. Each symbol felt deliberate, elegant, simple. The kind of thing that was easy to ignore if you weren't paying attention, deadly if you were careless.
Hours passed. Puck complained. Valerius remained stoic, occasionally muttering under her breath about the "Curator's nonsense." I focused on the trail, the Shard humming softly with each step.
And then we came to a clearing.
It was smaller than the last one Marrow had appeared in. Trees arched high above, forming something like a cathedral. Sunlight filtered through leaves in shards, golden and white. In the center, a stone pedestal, ancient and worn, stood like a forgotten monument. And atop it… nothing.
I frowned. "Nothing?"
Valerius scanned the perimeter. "Nothing is usually a trap."
Puck snorted. "Oh, we've entered the Empty Room of Doom. Fantastic."
I stepped closer, bookmark in hand. The pedestal had shallow engravings—symbols, lines, and what looked like tiny footnotes written in a language I didn't recognize. My fingers brushed the stone, and a warmth ran through me, similar to the bookmark. Not threatening, not painful—just… present. Watching.
And then the world shifted.
Not violently, not like a tear. More like turning a page. The edges of the clearing blurred slightly, then snapped back into focus. My stomach dropped, and I stumbled back. Puck barked, growling at something invisible. Valerius steadied herself, rapier ready.
A voice, soft and precise, echoed around us. Not Marrow's, not anyone's we knew, but distinctly aware: "Margins are spaces you claim. Not given. Not taken. Claimed."
I swallowed. "Marrow?"
A shimmer appeared on the pedestal—a thin, wavy outline of a doorway, almost transparent. My hand twitched toward it. The Shard thrummed more insistently.
Valerius hissed. "Do not go near that. It's a lure. Always a lure."
I glanced at Puck. He bristled. "I feel like licking it and regretting it immediately."
I ignored the sarcasm. The doorway was faint, but tangible. Almost like it was waiting for me, and only me. I felt the weight of the Curator pressing somewhere far away. The Shard vibrated against my chest, impatient. The bookmark burned gently in my pocket, a reminder that Marrow had left this for a reason.
Choices. Every path felt like a gamble, every step like bending a knife. I realized, suddenly, that Marrow had been right. I represented an anomaly. And anomalies could't survive by hiding forever. They survived by bending.
I stepped forward. The Shard pulsed again, almost like it approved.
Valerius hissed. "Arthur, wait—"
But I didn't.
I reached out. Fingers brushed the edge of the shimmering doorway. Light bent around my skin, warm and electric. And then, without warning, the world tilted, like a page being turned.
I stumbled, caught myself, and looked up.
The clearing was gone. The forest, the pedestal, the sunlight—all gone. In its place, a room of white, infinite and quiet. And standing there, in the center, the same unremarkable man with the polite brown hair: Marrow.
He smiled. "Welcome to the margins."