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Not at will. And not often.

“Have you been moving around while I’ve been asleep?”

No.

“Are you sure?”

April.

“What?”

If I were capable of wandering freely through the house, do you honestly believe I would choose to spend my evenings perched on a balcony being lectured about plumbing?

She considers this. “Fair point.”

Then her expression changes. “Wait. You’ve been conscious this whole time?”

More or less.

“What does that mean?”

There are periods when I sleep. Or something resembling sleep. Sometimes days pass. Sometimes months.

“And the rest of the time?”

I watch. I listen. I wait.

She doesn’t say anything. For once. Her gaze moves over my face. Then my horns, my wings, and finally down at my claws gripping the stone railing.

“That sounds awful,” she says quietly.

I don’t know what to do with that.

People have called me many things over the years. Monster. Beast. Abomination. Before the curse, they called me ruthless and heartless. A bastard.

All of which were accurate, to varying degrees.

But no one has ever looked at me like April is looking at me now.

As if she feels pity for me.

I find it deeply unsettling.

I’ve grown accustomed to it.

She shakes her head.

“That doesn’t make it less awful.”

No. I suppose it doesn’t.

But I have no intention of discussing the finer points of my eternal punishment with a woman who has consumed three glasses of wine and believes gargoyles are closely related to genies.

“How did it happen?” she asks.

I hesitate.

There’s a great deal I could tell her. About the man I was. All the people I hurt. The choices I made.