Chapter Text
Chapter 3
Pomegranates and Puppy Dogs
03 August 1823
Daily Diary of Elliot A. J. Price,
You would begin to think that after these many days I would have become accustomed to our nightly ritual. But there is something strange about nighttime when you share a secret. It may be the nature of the dark; it conceals what no one else knows – and what no one else will ever know. It makes you wonder if what you experience is real or merely a dream.
If the warmth of Beatrice’s body next to mine were suddenly absent, or if I had not come to know the feeling of her head pressed against my chest, I might believe it all to be untrue. While my sense of sight is hindered during these hours together, it only seems to heighten every other capacity of mine to feel. I cannot feign modesty anymore – I have come to know my sweet Beatrice in body and soul. And she knows I. In the night, we are free. Before daylight, I carefully leave her room and return to my quarters across the castle.
During the day, I do not speak of our nights together. Beatrice maintains a sheer veneer of reservation for the public eye, but I have my suspicions that she has a difficult time maintaining self-control. She will happily flash me a knowing and mischievous smile while we are around others. I feel a shock start at the top of my head and end at the bottom of my feet as if she had just run her fingers through my hair, despite her being across the room – what an arresting quality she has! I return her smile with my eyes, admiring her body from its bottom to top, ending at her face – which is already fixed upon mine. Each time I expect her to have not noticed me, that I may catch her while her guard is down, but I am found every time. It is a game I could play forever.
Initially, I was afraid that her affections were in response to the loss of her mother earlier this year – that she was lonely and sought me as some sort of substitute. As always, in the day she appears to have acclimated to the tragic life change well enough. Her preoccupation with searching through her father’s old journals, documents, and travel notes borders on obsessive, but Jasper says it is not worrisome, that Logan does the same when consumed in work and it is merely a shared sibling trait. And certainly, none of us would mention any concern – Beatrice would only say, “Oh, it makes me feel close to Papa again. You must understand there is no harm in a little reading.” And I cannot argue; both of my parents are alive. I do not know how that special sort of grief changes a person. Instead, I do my best to listen without judgment.
During our sleep, I must say that I am often stirred awake from her nightmares and will gladly hold her until she falls into a peaceful sleep again. I have never been much of a brawler and so it fills me with a virile joy to hear Beatrice say that she feels safe in my arms. She tells me that she is haunted – which I first thought to be hyperbolic, but I am starting to believe. I have nightmares perhaps every other year, but Beatrice experiences them every other evening.
Last night I purposefully stayed awake to watch one occur. I struck a match and lit a candle after she had fallen asleep. Fifteen minutes had passed when she began twitching her limbs. She mumbled something inaudible, so I leaned closer. “No, stop…no, what have I done?No… Death…no,” she repeated before beginning to toss. I can only imagine the depths of her plea – who is she referring to? Her parents? Logan? Sir Walter? Me? Herself?
At that point, I roused her as gently as I could. Frightened, she awoke with a start and I could feel her clamminess in the dark. I touched her face and it was evident she had been crying. She kept apologizing, telling me that she was, “very sorry, so incredibly sorry, I can’t take it back, please tell them I can’t take it back, I’m sorry, tell them I’m sorry.” I asked her who she was referring to, but by the time I calmed her down and regained her attention, she was unable to answer me.
This is the behavior that worries me, but Beatrice reassures me that this is nothing new. She claims that she has had the same nightmare since she was a child and she does not know what spurred it. She promises that the episodes are benign, but she did not hear the desperation in her voice when she begged for forgiveness. Whatever is inspiring this guilt, whether from her waking or sleeping self, is undeniably real.
I must leave you now, Diary. It is time for me to join my princess for the evening.
Until tomorrow,
Elliot
10 August 1823
Beatrice found herself walking aimlessly around the garden grounds. Sir Walter had originally planned to meet her hours earlier, but she had received word from the guard that his arrival had been delayed by days. Walter had sent his deepest apologies and a note with a single message: Happy fifteenth birthday, Beatrice.
The pattern of her steps was always the same; leaving through the doors of her room, passing stained glass depicting the royal crest, and down a dizzying number of steps. She started to the left, meandering around statues, fountains, a gazebo, the mausoleum that led to the catacombs, which led to her mother’s full grave and her father’s empty one. Each time she ended her walk in the far-right corner of the gardens where the view of Bowerstone was its best. It was the area that she had scattered bluebell seeds she collected while still in Brightwall with her mother.
Beatrice told others that she needed the corner to herself to check on those little shoots, but that wasn’t the case. She knew she was seeking something outside those castle walls, but she could not pull herself away from her father’s journals, maps, and artifacts that were housed inside the castle. So, she settled for the view as a reminder that the world extended far beyond the confines of leather-bound books and scrolls and that one day she would enter it.
As Beatrice wandered closer to her favorite spot, she felt Elliot waiting there for her. She hurried her pace and rounded the corner to see him sitting just in the way she had imagined him in her head. Placed in his lap was a black and white puppy not much larger than his cupped hands.
“You sensed I was here, didn’t you?” He asked her while petting the small dog.
“How could you tell?” Beatrice moved closer and sat next to him, reaching her hand out to pet the tiny creature. Playfully, she asked, “And are you going to tell me why you’re holding a dog?”
“You did not look surprised when you saw me – your face gives you away,” he looked at her and smiled. Holding the pup to his own nose for a quick nuzzle, Elliot handed the dog to Beatrice, “And this little thing is yours. Happy birthday!”
“Elliot! Thank you, thank you! Oh, this is perfect.” Beatrice held the puppy close and could feel its chest moving up and down. It rubbed its head on her and looked as if it was about to fall asleep. Looking around to make sure they were entirely alone, Beatrice placed her hand behind Elliot’s head and pulled him in for a kiss. She kissed him fully and passionately, in a way that he had become accustomed to only while they were alone.
“Beatrice,” he pulled his head back slightly from hers, “Can we find someplace more private? I am afraid I will be unable to hide my…,” Elliot cleared his throat in embarrassment and glanced at his lap, “…hide my excitement for you as we walk back to the castle.”
“But what if I want them to know?” Her eyes did not move from his as she asked her question. Even she knew it was an especially brazen suggestion, and she was surprised it came out of her mouth. Someplace deep within her did not care if anyone knew that she and Elliot were lovers. And even deeper than that: she wanted them to know. The thought was thrilling, but she could feel his discomfort like a wave washing over her. “You know what, my love? Let’s wait a bit, while sitting separately, until you are more suitable for walking the grounds and we will show everyone the wonderful present you gave me.”
“Thank you,” Elliot said hastily and kissed her on the cheek. They shared a few moments of silence. Beatrice was cradling the pup in her arms and had turned back to look at Bowerstone.
“It’s a girl,” she said, “And I’m calling her Juniper.” Beatrice ran her fingers over the newly named pup. “Her tufts of hair look like flowers on a juniper shrub, the way they lay and layer.”
“Juniper? I like it. Do you think Juniper likes it?” Elliot asked.
“I think she loves it. And I think I am already in love with her.” Beatrice hugged Juniper even closer turned to look at the city in the distance. She whispered to the pup, “I’m bringing you everywhere with me. Every adventure.”
Taking her eyes off the smokestacks and looking down at the sprouting bluebells, Beatrice was struck with a marvelous idea.
“Elliot! I have it!” She shouted, startling the sleepy Juniper.
“Have what?” Her exclamation had startled him from a daydream as well.
“I want to move everything to the Brightwall Library. All my father’s work and artifacts. Not just to archive, but to study and organize there,” she spoke at a rapid pace and was yet to slow down.
“I need to leave the castle, Elliot. And everyone would understand why I was leaving,” she turned and looked him in the eyes again, her face as solid as stone. “No one would question why I left, no one would be looming over my shoulder, no one counting the hours.”
Elliot felt immediately anxious. Beatrice looked bizarre, as if her eyes were turning to crystal. She continued staring into him and he suddenly felt relaxed, as if he were being lowered into warm water. His eyes felt heavy when he snapped back to it, “Beatrice! Are you reading me? What are you doing?”
She quickly looked down, “Yes. Yes, I’m sorry.”
“Why can’t you just ask me how I feel? Rather than…” Elliot searched for the words to describe her ability, “Rather than look in to me? Do you think I am going to be dishonest regarding how I feel?”
“Of course not. I am sorry. I wanted an answer quickly, and sometimes people do not know how they truly feel inside! Their emotions are clouded by their thoughts, by how they want to be seen by others or how they want to see themselves. I see it all the time, everyone does it.”
“And I do this?” He asked without expression.
“Yes, at times. But as do I, and my mother and Sir Walter, and Logan, and my father. It is human to conceal. But I am sorry, I should let you decide how you want to react.”
“Thank you and you should. None of the persons you just listed were ever comfortable with their emotions being…read like some book you pick up for enjoyment! And,” he continued, “you are always allowed to decide how you react since no one else is reading you back.”
“Elliot,” Beatrice said his name softly, “you are absolutely right. I’ve been working on training myself to stop.”
“I need you to show me that you trust me,” he said back, just as softly.
“I do, I really do. It’s just something that I’ve always done. It’s how I exist, but I’m working on it.” Beatrice looked up. Elliot’s expression was one that she had seen before many times. She already knew the question that was coming.
“And you swear you’re not reading my thoughts?” He asked, for the hundredth time.
Beatrice had sworn to him that she was unable to read thoughts the ninety-nine times he had asked before, but she told him again. What she read in others was entirely a feeling. It defied logic and was pure intuition. She tried to explain it to him through sensations; she said that anxiety was like swallowing lightning, anger was bubbling sewage under her skin, sadness was drowning in tar, loneliness was hearing the echo of a pin drop in a cavernous room.
She claimed people had specific images tied to their emotional selves; he was smooth and easy to digest, images of clouds and rolling hills. She admitted that her father was vast on the inside, a lush forest of experience and wilderness. Her mother? Water, sometimes a puddle and sometimes an ocean. Logan was a pestle grinding into an empty mortar. She even confessed she had read the inscrutable Reaver several times, and that his insides were defined by the feeling of just having pulled back the hammer of a gun, finger pressed on the trigger, and ready to fire. She described Reaver as the most liminal of internal spaces.
Elliot felt jealous – there was nothing masculine about a cloud. He wanted to be the sound made when a sword is being drawn from its sheath…
“Elliot?” Beatrice said his name sharply, bringing him back to the present moment. “Why does it worry you that I want to leave the castle at times? I need you to support me in this, Elliot. I must find my father and the answer lies hidden in those texts. I know it to be true.”
“How are you so sure?” He shot back, fear in his voice. He was concerned for her well-being. Images of her nightmares flooded his mind, of her pouring over King Sparrow’s personal journals until her eyes were red and inflamed, of right now, her lack of care for what those in the court thought of her.
“I was told by someone…someone who can see the future.” Beatrice felt a weight being lifted at sharing this secret again. The only other person who had known of Theresa’s visit was her mum.
“A fortune teller? As with cards?” He asked.
“It was more than that. It was the same seeress that guided my father in his war with Lucien. She told me that I needed to seek the answers in his books and from those Heroes of legend. I had dreams that helped me. And, Elliot, most of all,” Beatrice scooted even closer to him in her excitement, “it has been working! I mean, I do not know where my father is yet, but I have found those she had instructed me to find. I have reached out to them and they now know of me and my desire to find Papa. Garth had…you know, Garth, right?”
“Yes, I know who Garth is. I heard the same childhood stories you did,” Elliot stated plainly.
“Garth agreed that my father had not merely died either! Just like I had felt happened.” Beatrice moved back to where she was originally seated. “I am closer than I was before, and I am not giving up on this. There is work to be done and I feel trapped here, I can’t shake the feeling. It’s as if the castle walls watch me.”
“Who else and what else are you looking for – other than Garth?” he asked.
“I have already reached out to Hammer. She did not have much information to share, but I know she will keep me in her thoughts.” Beatrice unexpectedly felt a nervous ball in her throat as she continued, “And Reaver. I need to discuss these matters with Reaver. I have tried before, but I cannot seem to get what I need from him. He has a way of controlling the conversation.”
“That does not surprise me at all. But doesn’t he visit the castle ever so often?” Elliot asked, confused by her hesitation. He knew Reaver was a formidable figure, but matters like that never seemed to bother Beatrice. “And he now lives in Millfields, although I wouldn’t suggest making a home visit.”
“I’m honestly considering it, but I am waiting until it feels right.” Beatrice placed Juniper softly in her lap and grabbed Elliot’s hand with her own, “I will not do anything without telling you because I do not want you to worry. But, I need to know I have your support. It would mean the world to me if you were with me through this.”
Elliot drew in a sharp breath. He looked pained, not as if he did not believe her, but rather he was not ready to deal with the consequence of the truth. He regained his composure and placed a hand on her cheek, “You have my full backing, my princess.”
“Then I will consider it my second birthday gift!” Beatrice exclaimed, standing up swiftly. “Come with me! It is time to write Samuel at the library about this!”
Walking from their favorite part of the grounds, Elliot turned and looked back at Bowerstone in the distance. For the first time, he allowed himself to see the truth. He now knew that Beatrice did not arbitrarily pick an area for her bluebells – she had an intention, she always has an intention. If she desired a wall to block her view, she would have planted them by a wall. No, she wanted a world of possibilities to keep her company while she tended to her thoughts in this small corner of Albion.
20 September 1823
To the Honorable Princess Beatrice,
I am deeply grateful that you have asked to further your archive efforts by moving the castle collection of King Sparrow’s artifacts to Brightwall Library. We here at the library welcome you with open arms and I have begun the effort of creating a private space for your studies, as well as finding additional help to catalog and store your pieces of history. I assure you that your work will remain anonymous, as well as your identity. Even the hired help will not know the nature of your work, or what is stored in your boxes. Considering the value of these items, I find it of utmost importance to protect them until they are properly placed in safe keeping.
And, as always, I must extend my eternal gratitude to the royal family for their continued support of our magnificent library. It was a privilege to have worked closely with your mother as I did in ensuring her vision of the library continued far beyond our lifetimes. The beauty of her spirit lives on in the bright minds that find refuge within these walls and I think of her daily.
Yours,
Samuel Williamson
Head Librarian of Brightwall Library
17 November 1823
“Will it not be strange staying here alone?” Elliot firmly sat on the dining room table in the large cottage home near Brightwall Library. Beatrice insisted on spending her days there, rather than at the local inn or in a rented home, and he had difficulty understanding her motivation. He did not know why she would want to return there after losing her mother in the very same space eight months before.
“No, in fact, it feels like home.” She paid him little attention when he acted this way. She was too busy stacking a final bundle of smaller journals to take to the library to concern herself with his worry. She had work to get to – and she had been trying to get to it since the moment Samuel agreed to let her come to Brightwall. It was nearing sunrise and she wanted to begin her short trek to the library.
“But you will be alone,” he said again.
“Elliot, when am I ever really alone?” She pointed toward the front door of the cottage, where they both knew two armed guards were standing. She pointed to the back window, where one could see two more armed guards in the area behind the house. One was pulling a pail of water from the well, another admiring the shrubbery that was surviving the winter.
“Those two don’t seem much on guard, but I suppose you’re right,” Elliot conceded.
“Thank you for acknowledging me. I understand your concern, but this place does not hurt me. It makes me happy, I have far more happy memories here than sad ones. And I think the time alone will be good for me.” Beatrice bound her stack of books together with a leather strap, pulling on it tightly before buckling it into place. “I am heading back to Bowerstone Castle in three days. It will give me some time to decompress and start the process of organizing the unbelievable number of documents we brought here.”
“I will leave you then, but know that I and Juniper will miss you,” Elliot said while standing from the table. He seemed taller in that moment, a bit older than before. Beatrice was afraid that his constant concern had taken permanent residence on his face.
“I will miss you too, but you cannot stay. Your parents are arriving this evening at the castle and someone must be there to greet them,” she replied, sitting her stack of books down and coming to him for a hug. He took her in and squeezed her tightly, burying his head her neck. Pulling back, Elliot kept her gaze with purpose before pushing her back on the dining table and kissing her roughly. She felt his hand slip underneath her chemise and slide up the length of her leg, grabbing her sharply. She took his hand in hers and slid it between her thighs. He pushed his body on hers, running the tip of his nose up her ear before whispering, “I should leave.”
“What?!” Beatrice broke out of her haze and straightened. Elliot was standing upright again with a large grin on his face. “Elliot Andrew Jameson Price, are you teasing me?”
“Perhaps? Perhaps I’ve been reading the copy of Fanny Hill you gave me?” He laughed again, “I certainly don’t agree with all of it, but I can’t say that I haven’t learned a few things.”
“Well, you don’t have to leave just yet,” Beatrice propped herself back on the kitchen table and leaned back on her elbows.
He looked her up and down with a sly grin. “I believe you have a time set to meet Samuel, and I do remember you asking me to leave around sunrise. It is that time already.” Elliot leaned in to kiss the confused Beatrice on the forehead. He was pleased with himself.
“I think I am going to die,” she whined.
“I am sure you will find a manner to relieve yourself,” he responded, flicking his index finger back and forth as he walked toward the coat rack. “And if you don’t, I will see to the matter myself when you return to the castle.”
Beatrice couldn’t help but smile at his playfulness, “I look forward to it.”
“But seriously, do be careful here. Don’t stay up all night with your research, and if you start to feel lonely, at least go into the village and have a conversation. I worry about you.” Elliot’s brow lowered, “You have a heavy mind.”
“I will be on my best behavior, sir.” She slid off the table and grabbed her stack of books again. She and Elliot helped each other put on their coats and he opened the door, following outside behind her. They walked together to the library in silence. She knew he would have stayed with her if she would have pressed – but she wanted the time alone. He kissed her on the forehead before leaving her on the steps of the library. Beatrice watched him as he walked back to the village, inevitably to leave by carriage to Bowerstone Castle. It was only a matter of minutes before he was a dark figure in the snowfall. She turned and entered the library when he was entirely out of view. She could barely contain her excitement – she was free to dive into her work, truly free for the first time.
“Ah! Princess Beatrice, right on time!” Samuel was waiting in the main foyer of the library, sitting by a series of candles and oil lamps he had lit for light. She knew it would be dark, but the reality surprised her.
“Hello, Samuel! Thank you again for letting me do this in your library. It is a welcome change from the confines of the castle.”
“Confines? One would think that castles are preferred places of living, but then again, you have always housed a significant amount of your mother’s spirit. She always did prefer the forest to anything else. I was surprised that she stayed in the royal cottage here and not a gypsy tent in the woods.” Samuel smiled jovially and motioned for Beatrice to follow him. “I moved a few things around and created a space for you in the back of the library. Now, we are open throughout the day, so you will not be entirely alone, but I will keep these doors shut for privacy.”
“You could keep them open if you prefer. I hate to cut off anyone from their favorite reading nook.” She followed behind Samuel as he opened the tall, oak doors that revealed where the crates and chests from the castle had been stored. They were meticulously stacked, with papers numbering each one of them.
“While that is a sentiment I greatly appreciate, Princess Beatrice, I do not think the public is quite ready to be exposed to what you have brought here or to be face-to-face with adult royalty. You are fifteen now, correct?” He asked, without pausing for her to answer. “While the citizens of Brightwall are quite accustomed to you from your year of living here with your mother, we have travelers from all over Albion and I would not want you to be disturbed to the point of being unable to work.”
Beatrice nodded in agreement. Samuel seemed to be as practical and structured as the bookshelves that lined the walls of his library. She admired him for it. Taking a seat at the large table he prepared for her, Samuel pulled a crate to her side.
“Best of luck, princess. And should you need anything, do not hesitate to ring the bell near the door. I will hear it, or one of my attendants will alert me, and I will come into the room to help you.” And with that, Samuel exited and left Beatrice to the task at hand.
Hours passed like minutes. Beatrice had barely made a dent in the first crate, but she found it difficult not to read every single word written by her father. He took meticulous notes during his years adventuring, while at war, while at peace, and while traveling in his bid to unite all of Albion. And then there were the personal journals, lined with marginalia of his life’s story. So many sketches of her mother’s face and even more of her and Logan.
At times she had to distance herself from it all; despite how obvious it should have been to her, she was continually surprised by how painful it was to search through his old things. Her father never experienced the dissolution of their family, considering it began with his disappearance. Everything he had written was filled with hope for the future, or with happy reflection into a past that seemed to create the beautiful life he had in the present. It was too much for her to bear at times – she knew that his happy-ever-after never came, but part of her still wanted to believe in his optimism.
Beatrice often stepped away from the desk and paced at the end of the room, staring out at the snowy landscape just beyond one of the stained-glass windows. She rang the bell for tea or a snack and, as he said, Samuel would quickly appear and help her while often asking what she had found.
Grabbing a particularly worn leather-bound journal, Beatrice felt a small jolt. She sat the book before her and placed both hands on it, concentrating on the feeling she just experienced. Immediately she saw an image of Theresa, followed by her father as a young man. He was running with a plaguing sense of urgency through a foggy marsh. She opened her eyes and smiled widely.
Beatrice untied the string around the book and several loose pieces of paper fell out, along with a gold-trimmed tarot card. She picked up the card and flipped it over; on the opposite side was the image a bloody hand mirror lying on a what seemed to be a wooden desk. Across the mirror was a single red rose.
“A bit dramatic, eh?” Beatrice chuckled and said aloud to the empty room.
Looking closer at the card, in embossed letters framed by the gold trim, was the title, The Thief. She narrowed her eyes in interest. Shuffling through the papers that fell out along with the card, Beatrice found a sketch of the same mirror and rose, with notes written beside it. It was her father’s handwriting:
The Thief (Fate Card No. 3)
Per Theresa,
The Thief is the most mysterious and contradictory of figures. It is the synthesis of beauty and cruelty, vivacity, and decay, the ephemeral and the eternal. The mirror represents vanity; the rose, hedonism. And the blood is the violence that binds them together. The Thief is age, which robs us of our strength and looks. It is death, which robs us of our life. It is the worst in all of us. It is what we must all fear.
The Thief. This Hero harbors a soul without a glimmer of light. I see choked weeds and water. He lies just out of reach.
Underneath the description, where Sparrow had underlined “out of reach” was REAVER in large letters. Circled multiple times, with things like “Pirate King” and “Bloodstone” and “perfect shot from a mile,” and (perhaps most damning) “insufferable,” written around it. Beatrice flipped the page over, revealing one of her father’s most detailed sketches yet – the face of Reaver, just as she had seen him in her dream the year before. He was younger, lighter in features, with narrow eyes and a hungry look. She found it hard to keep eye contact with the page and turned it back over. For a moment, she was afraid he could somehow see her through the paper.
“A soul without a glimmer of light?” Beatrice asked over and over, feeling herself slip into a trance as she meditated on the phrase. She tucked The Thief card into the front of her corset. For the briefest moment, she let her mind travel back to the evening when she visited Reaver’s guest room at the castle as a child. She usually had difficulty remembering the details of that night, as if her mind would not allow her access.
But she could now recall walking into his room, the resolve she had felt when she entered, conjuring a flame for him – she knew she had wanted to impress him, she sought his approval. She distinctly remembered wanting to make him smile – a special smile meant only for her, not her parents or brother, the way he smiled at Thomas in the kitchen. She could feel her chemise dragging the floor again. She again felt that same intense urge to reach out and touch him – she needed to read him. He was a challenge. She wanted to know if he was filled with nothing – the nothing man, she had called him. She had never known anyone to seem so empty – so full of blackness. But she was wrong. Beatrice smiled a sick, wide smile; it was coming back to her. She had been terribly wrong. She had loved that she was wrong. Where she assumed his darkness to be empty, it was solid like obsidian. Mirrored and hidden. His insides pushed outward – how did he even exist? She could easily recall his visceral anger at her presence – she had been so unaccustomed to it, and being so young, she did not know she was in any real danger. But that was where the memory blurred into what felt like a dream – and then that same, thick darkness surrounded her.
It was when he had grabbed her arm! Yes, when she reacted to her touch. The room had been sucked out from under her tiny feet and she had no concept of endings or beginnings. All breath was forced out of her as if punched in the gut.
Beatrice closed her eyes and pressed her palms hard on her upper thighs, trying her best to concentrate and slip back into that evening those many years ago. She had been unable to recall this moment for so long.
“What happened that night?!” She screamed but was answered only with the echo of her question. Breathing heavily, she felt the familiar tingle of energy in her gut. Flipping her hands over in front of her she let the surge rise and watched the white-hot electricity jump around her fingertips.
Whispering to herself, she asked the empty room again, “What happened that night?”
She was losing the room around her and slipped back into the darkness of her memory. She felt his hand seizing her arm again, clutching it with inordinate pressure. It was a pressure that should have crushed her tiny, child bones, but her body had withstood the assault. Why did he clutch me so tightly?
Suddenly, the phrase entered her mind again, a soul without a glimmer of light. Light. Light.
Light.
Light.
No light.
Dark.
No dark.
Balling her hands into tight fists, the Will that had been dancing between her fingertips reentered her body and she fell completely back into the memory of what she saw in Reaver that night. It was as clear as the first time: there were dark figures, a blazing and bright conflagration, and she felt the unceasing pain of an eternal agony. Beatrice opened her mouth to scream in horror, but there was no sound.
Hot tears were running down her face. The sensation brought her back to the present. Her eyes shot open and Beatrice took in a sharp, painful breath. Was I even breathing?! Her mind was racing. She stared straight ahead in disbelief, her chest heaving up and down as if she had just run madly through endless fields. Running to escape something.
Taking her dip pen, she mindlessly scribbled underneath her father’s notes, there was not a glimmer of light, but a raging flame. – Beatrice, 1823, before her head dropped to the table and she blacked out.
What time is it? Beatrice lifted herself from the desk and began rubbing her face. Sitting before her was her lunch. Samuel must have delivered it and assumed she was napping. Touching the bread before her and feeling its lingering warmth, she knew it must have only been past high noon. She had been unconscious for over an hour.
Quickly eating some of her food and drinking all the water and tea, Beatrice resolved to walk around a bit. She needed fresh air and wanted to sit in the glass courtyard behind the library.
Quietly, she opened the large oak door and peeked out to see if Samuel was lingering about. She worried he would tell her to keep to herself – or worse, clear out the library just because she wanted to leave her designated study for a few minutes. She rounded the corner heading to the south wing toward the small, back courtyard. She made it to the hallway that led outdoors undetected, except for a young man that was sitting on the floor near the back doors, his nose buried in a book. She had almost walked past him entirely, but he looked up as she passed, and she felt a small shock – his eyes were a striking shade of blue. She slowed her pace for a moment and it was all the opening he needed.
“Hello, a fellow patron of this fine establishment. You smell like pomegranates. Pomegranates and puppy dogs,” the young man blurted out, grinning ear to ear, looking up at her from the ground.
“I had a pomegranate for breakfast,” she replied, taken aback.
“Aye, that must be it then,” he resolved, folding a corner of the page he was on and shutting his book.
“Have you always had such a refined sense of smell?” Beatrice shot back. She was genuinely curious. She also found herself curious as to why her heart was speeding up the way it was.
“Yes, actually. Consider it just another attribute on my list of impressive qualities,” he was now standing before her. He was slightly taller than her, gangly, and tan. Now that she could see his face clearly, she could make out a constellation of freckles under his eyes and across his nose.
She laughed at his declaration, “Filed right under being literate, fellow patron?”
“In this day and age, that might need to be at the top of my list. The ladies do love when you can actually read them poetry, rather than just guess what’s on the page.” He ran his hand through his blonde hair, moving it away from his eyes.
Beatrice could feel her heart speeding up again. Oh, gods, pull it together, she told herself.
“What are you reading?” She asked and pointed to the book in his hand.
“Oh, this old thing? It’s a book on pirate life. A funny story, it’s told by an old second-in-command to Captain Dread. He’s long dead now. It’s supposed to be nonfiction, but I have my suspicions on the matter,” he replied.
“And why is that?” Beatrice asked.
“Because it’s the story of how Captain Dread lost his title of Pirate King to another younger pirate called Reaver. Name ring any bells? I didn’t think it was the same one until Dread’s mate started describing him. He’s a tough bloke to confuse with anyone else.” He shrugged his shoulders, “Interesting story either way. Real or not.”
“Do you mind if I read it?” She quickly responded.
“Then what will I read?” He retorted, even quicker.
“Well, what do you like to read? What is your favorite subject?” She looked him up and down. There was something about him that she couldn’t put her finger on. Something different.
“Heroes. I want to know everything about Heroes,” he said with absolute seriousness.
“Which is your favorite Hero? I’m sure I can help you with that,” Beatrice smiled.
“The late King Sparrow, is…well, was my favorite,” he responded. “He was the most adventurous of all Heroes, y’know? And probably the last one. Started as a gypsy with nothing and became ruler of Albion. United all the different areas. He saw everything, did everything.” The young man’s eyes lit up and Beatrice could feel the excitement pouring out of him. Despite it being in the middle of an icy November, she felt the comforting heat of the sun on her skin, all radiating from this person in front of her. It took almost all she had not to reach out and run her hand across his chest, just to get closer to this phantom warmth.
“You should come to Bowerstone Castle sometime, you could see the items he collected during his travels firsthand,” she blurted out.
“Oh, that would be great. And then right after that, I’ll head to Millfields and demand a mansion – in fact, I’ll take that ancient bloke Reaver’s place. And when I’m tired of that, I’ll borrow a ship from the Bowerstone port and sail around the world,” he started laughing at himself, “What a life I’ll have! It’ll be great!”
“I mean it! If you come to Bowerstone Castle, I’ll show you around myself. I have complete access to my father’s weapons collection – it’s all underground, but well managed. He had a fabulous array of…” Before Beatrice could finish speaking, the young man held up his hand and stopped her.
“You’re so pretty that I’ll role-play this little fantasy with you as long as you’d like, but don’t start making promises you can’t keep. You’re getting my hopes up.”
“I’m not joking. Sparrow is my father,” she stopped for a moment and then uttered, “Thank you for calling me pretty.”
“You’re telling me you’re Princess Beatrice? You’re too old,” he responded while cocking a single eyebrow.
“I look old?” Beatrice gave the young man a confused look.
“Heavens to Avo, that’s not what I meant. You don’t look old, you just look,” he surveyed her from top to bottom and she felt her face warm, “like a woman. Princess Beatrice should only be fifteen. Barely fifteen.”
“You’re not from Brightwall, are you?” She responded, already knowing the answer to her question.
“No, I’m from a small hamlet to the east of Brightwood. I just got into town a week ago for…” Suddenly, a look of realization spread across his face. Beatrice couldn’t help but smile again; maybe if he’d believe her, he really would come to the castle. How would I explain him to Elliot? she wondered, Stop that. He encouraged you to not be a loner.
“Bollocks,” he said, nearly to himself. “You are Princess Beatrice, aren’t you? I’ve just never seen you before, not even a portrait.”
“Most people haven’t,” she replied, “My father kept my brother and myself out of public view. Although, Logan no longer has that privilege…” Beatrice trailed off, feeling a raw sting of longing for her brother. She hadn’t spoken his name in how long, she couldn’t remember. “But you’re right, I’m not recognized easily. Unless you’ve lived in Brightwall your entire life or knew my mum.”
Still bewildered, the young man ran his hand through his hair, “I suppose I should have believed you when I saw you had all your teeth.” Beatrice laughed aloud at his comment, but he shook his head at her, “I’m not kidding.” She stopped laughing and touched her hand to her mouth.
The young man lowered his voice a bit, “Since you mention it, I’m awfully sorry about your mum, I think everyone was really upset when they heard. She was well-loved, all over. Losing people,” he paused, “it’s hard.”
“You know, typically when someone tells me that, they do it to acknowledge my sadness. Like a social nicety or gate pass to talking to me about anything else but the sad part. But with you, I believe you mean it.” Beatrice furrowed her brow, “There’s something different about you.”
“Is that right?” he answered in a soft tone. The two stared at each other in silence. Being so immersed in their interaction, both failed to hear Samuel’s approaching footsteps, nor when he rounded the corner to the hallway where they stood.
“Benjamin!” Samuel cried out, a distinct tone of annoyance in his voice.
“Benjamin?” Beatrice asked, smiling again. “Benjamin is your name?”
“I’ve got to go!” He placed his hand on her upper arm, giving it a friendly squeeze and handing her the book before running to meet Samuel at the end of the hall.
“I promise I’ll make good on our trade, Benjamin!” she called out as he ran to meet Samuel at the end of the long hallway. She had an overwhelming desire to find him one of her father’s better journals, perhaps something during one of his more dangerous travels…
Lingering by the door to the enclosed courtyard, but out of sight, Beatrice could hear Samuel heavily chastising the young man. She had thought he was a patron, but from their conversation, it was exceedingly apparent that he was part of the hired help for her archive project – maybe that’s how he realized she wasn’t lying about her identity? She had a distinct feeling that despite Samuel’s strict adherence to anonymity, Benjamin had peeked inside of the books he had been hired to stow away. Beatrice slipped out through the back door and into the courtyard with her newly acquired book before Samuel found her next.
“Ben-ja-min,” she said to herself, slowly, “Ben-ja-min. Hmm, I have never met a Benjamin before.” She rubbed where he had touched her arm – it was hot as if she had been sitting in direct sunlight on a warm, summer day. She was near the point of breaking a sweat. How peculiar, she thought.
Finding a private nook in the courtyard, Beatrice sat with her new book. The entire room was made of glass and iron – she had hoped the cold would keep others away. She had always been somewhat impervious to extreme temperatures, a trait she no doubt inherited from her father. The snowfall had lessened because the sun was out, but nothing could deter the growing inches of white on the ground. She ran her hands over the book – it was just as old as Benjamin had made it out to be. She could feel its age. She opened the book to a handwritten title page that read, in handwriting that seemed as if someone was trying very hard to make it legible, The Pirate King, a tale as told by the grateful Smiling Jake, the only crewman left alive by the most formidable and cunning Reaver. Beatrice let out a snort.
Nearly halfway through the book, she was convinced she was reading about the industrialist. She was shocked that this book existed at all and wondered where Benjamin had found it. This explains why Reaver hates libraries so much, she thought, the written word is hard to control. You can’t intimidate an idea. Rapidly soaking in the pages, she found herself lost to the world. She knew that Reaver was old, much older than he looked. She always sensed that his contrived youth was by unnatural means – but she had never considered his actual age. She had assumed he was the same as her father, mostly due to a lack of imagination.
Turning to the next page, her heart felt as if it stopped.
The messenger glanced right and left, seemingly concerned that he was being observed by the terrifying individual of whom he was speaking. “Well... word is …” He hesitated once more to gather his nerve and push on,” … word is that he started as just another cheap thief, trying to build a reputation. But then he crossed a line.”
“ What sort of line?” Dread did not seem to be following.
His voice dropped further, so low that Dread had to strain to hear. “They say he cut a deal with…with dark forces…that made him immortal. And every year, he then makes fearsome sacrifices to those same dark forces in order to– “
“Wait, wait. Immortal? Are you saying he can’t be killed?”
“Oh, he can be killed… I suppose… if someone gets near enough. But it’s not as easy as all that.”
"Why not?”
“Because,” said the messenger with increasing fear in his tone, “it’s said Reaver is the most formidable marksman in the whole of Albion. Can shoot a flea off a dog’s head without leaving so much as a scratch on the pooch, is what they say.”
“Is that what they say?”
“Yes. And he also wields a weapon. A pistol called the Dragonstomper .48. Only five others like it in the world. Nothing can stand up against it. Plus, he even had it enchanted so that it never needs to be reloaded. Leastways that’s what I heard.”
Dark forces. Sacrifice. A soul without a glimmer of light. That night in Reaver’s room. Her nightmares. Years and years and years of nightmares. Her eyes began to well with tears.
Beatrice pulled The Thief card from the front of her dress. She had stowed it there for this exact reason: it was the perfect bookmark. She pressed the card between two pages, shut the book, and headed back to her private portion of the library. She felt as if she had just entered a labyrinth and she could not have been more determined to explore its depths, regardless of what lied ahead.
18 November 1823
Ben spent all morning finding excuses to walk down the same back hallway of the library. If Samuel needed someone to take something to the South wing, he volunteered. If one of the “not to be disturbed” crates needed dropping off to the private room, he ran for it. If another hired hand looked as if they might break a sweat, he happily offered to take over if it meant passing by the room where Beatrice was working.
“Pssst! Look over here!” came a voice from behind an oak door.
As soon as he heard the whisper behind him, Ben whipped his head around and met eyes with the princess. She waved her hand at him, beckoning him to come in and leaving the door slightly ajar.
“Shut the door behind you,” he heard her say as she hunched over the table and rifled through stacks of paper, books, and scrolls.
“Didn’t get much sleep last night, eh?” He asked while looking around the room. Most of the contents of the crates had been emptied out, meticulously stacked, and marked with pieces of paper denoting years and locations – she was making a timeline. And it all looked more put together than Beatrice herself. Her hair had been quickly braided as if to keep it from falling in her face, but it wasn’t doing much good. Strays were poking out and, despite the cold, she had obviously been sweating. Much to Ben’s surprise, she was wearing a men’s horseback riding outfit, complete with a floral cravat and breeches.
She’s sort of odd, isn’t she? he thought to himself, I’m impressed.
“Almost no sleep at all – it takes too much time!” She exclaimed, head still down and searching, “And thank you, I appreciate it! I had this outfit made specifically for me.”
“What? I didn’t say anything about your outfit,” he was confused.
“Oh, I guess I thought you said it aloud.” For the first time, Beatrice looked directly at him and he was taken aback by the intensity of her gaze. He immediately felt comfortable, as if he were lying on a bed of pillows, despite the fact he knew very well that he was standing on the hard marble of Brightwall Library.
“Benjamin?” she asked.
“You can call me Ben, it’s what my friends call me.”
“I have your book, Ben.” Beatrice picked up the leather-bound journal from the pile she had been searching through. “I told you I would make good on our trade. This is from my father’s time in The Spire. A reflection of events, of course, since he would not have been able to journal while there. And there is mention of the other Heroes!” She walked from around the table and handed him the book.
“Thank you, princess.” He was still thrown off by the force of her stare. It seemed as if her pupils were getting larger by the second.
“Beatrice. Please call me Beatrice.”
“Is that what your friends call you?” Ben wanted to call her by her first name, but few manners his mother had instilled in him made it feel wrong. She was, after all, royalty.
She snorted kindly, “What friends?”
Without hesitation, he responded, “What about the fellow who walked you to the library the first day? Is he not your friend?”
Beatrice paused. She had been reading Ben since he entered the room, and while she had been experiencing that same strange heat coming from him as she did yesterday, there was a sudden surge in his question.
“That is Elliot. He is a friend. A close, family friend.” How had he even seen us? It was snowing so incredibly hard that morning. “You must have impeccable eyesight, Ben, to have seen him drop me off.”
“That’s why I’m the best shot in all of Albion,” his chest puffed up a bit.
“Is that so? I don’t quite know if I believe you,” she teased.
“Oh, I am, and you should hope you never have to find out,” he played back.
“Even better than, what did you call him? That ancient bloke, Reaver?” Her eyes widened again. “Which reminds me, I do believe Smiling Jake’s tale of Reaver becoming the Pirate King is true.” Beatrice turned and motioned for Ben to follow her to the table. “I’ve been finding so many things all night about him, stories from my father’s time battling Lord Lucien that only back it up.”
“What about the sacrifices? And all that mess about being possessed and selling his soul?” Ben asked. As Beatrice sat in her chair, he pulled himself up to sit on the table.
“There was nothing about possession or selling his soul – only that he made a deal with dark forces and it requires some sort of sacrifice to continue.”
Ben laughed sarcastically, “I highly doubt they met in your regular ol’ court with some ol’ supernatural barristers and signed your regular ol’ contact. I mean, maybe the story didn’t come out and directly state it, but when a person makes those types of unnatural dealings they don’t walk away without losing some part of themselves. It’s kind of common sense,” he shrugged his shoulders, “if making shady deals with dark beings is your… common… experience...” Ben trailed off after noticing the blank look on Beatrice’s face. She had grabbed paper and a dip pen while he spoke and began furiously sketching a scene. He couldn’t quite make it out, because of the angle he was sitting, but he could see five different figures, three large one medium, and one small.
He quickly backtracked, afraid he had offended royalty in the way his mum said he would if he ever met any of them, “I mean, you’re probably right though, it probably was just a one-and-done - here’s the sacrifice you wanted from me, Dark Forces - ok, great, thanks Reaver, just what we asked for, here’s your immortality - sort of deal.”
“No, I think you’re right,” she replied coolly, her face still expressionless. “I’m just taking all of this in. I think you’re very much on to something.” She looked directly at him again, “Please know that I’m not easily offended. I want to know your ideas.”
“Why do you say that? I didn’t say anything about it,” he thought for a moment and cautiously asked, “did I?”
“No, you didn’t. Let’s just say I could feel it coming from you,” she smirked.
Ben did very little to conceal his emotions. He didn’t have the same filters that others around her did. That did not mean he lacked complexity or depth, but it was if he were transparent enough for her to glimpse at his interwoven web of emotion, thought, and experience. Beatrice wanted to dive completely in but held herself back. She didn’t want to frighten him and, as she recalled Elliot’s conversation with her, she knew it would deny him the choice of presenting who he wanted to be to her. But Avo willing, it was difficult. She wanted to sunbathe inside him; he held an eternal summer.
After a few moments of silence, he pushed himself off the table, grabbed the book, and let out a sigh, “Well, I suppose I should get back to it then.”
“Wait!” The urgency in her voice surprised even herself. “Would you prefer to stay? I would like the help, as well as the company.”
“Well, yes, but what about Samuel?”
“I know you’re working for him, but it is for my archive efforts. I will let him know that I need your assistance in other ways. I mean,” she tittered, “you do know how to read. And that is definitely helpful.” She stood from her desk and hurried to the door, “I’ll be right back!” and with that, she had left the room.
As soon as Beatrice stepped out the comforting feeling that had been pressed against him was gone. He became acutely aware of the room again; it’s low light, the ornateness of each bookcase, the exhausting winter chill. He knew that the wealth in this room, in furniture alone, was probably worth more than all the property in his birthplace. It was hard to stomach at times. Those realizations suffocated him.
“Princess Beatrice,” he said aloud to himself, not entirely sure of why he felt the need to say her name at all. King Sparrow’s daughter. Growing up, he had found so much comfort in knowing someone like Sparrow existed at all – he saw himself in the late ruler. A poor kid with an adventurer’s soul. He knew he’d never meet the old king, and now especially that he was dead, but he never considered that he might be pouring over his idol’s most intimate thoughts. Especially not with his daughter – who looked exactly like her mother. It was uncanny.
Ben knew what Queen Iris looked like – he’d seen her official portraits a few times in announcements and in shops. He had even seen her in-person once. It was two years ago when he had first come to Bowerstone, months after the king had been buried. He went to the castle to see what all the fuss was about – because that’s just what people do when they visit – and she was leaving in a carriage. He was surprised that the curtains weren’t drawn, and he could see her as clearly as he saw everything else. They had met eyes and he could see the look he knew all too well: the look of loss. He smiled and waved – because again, that’s just what people do when they make eye contact – but all she could do was stare back, expressionless.
He didn’t fault her for it. His mum had told him before that Sparrow and Iris’s love story was one for the ages, that Iris had been “one of them,” and Sparrow fell in love with her while on one of his quests. Ben, of course, thought his mother was sensationalizing everything like she always did – every good day was the most good or every bad day was the most bad – but after seeing Queen Iris in that carriage, he believed his mom might have been telling the truth about that one.
“Great, it’s done! You’re mine now!” Beatrice bounded through the double doors with a renewed sense of purpose. She was dragging a rather large chair behind her. He was going to offer his help, but she had a graceful handle on the clunky piece of furniture. After swinging it next to her seat, Beatrice patted his chair and beckoned him to come over. The wrapped-up-in-a-warm-quilt feeling returned to Ben.
Time passed quickly. Beatrice would sometimes steal a glance at her new colleague – he sat strangely, roughly. His legs were spread far apart, and he seemed a bit too large for his clothes. His hair – that moppish, blonde hair – was constantly in his eyes and, whether he knew it or not, every thirty seconds he’d tuck it back behind his ear only to have to fall out again. A part of her wasn’t ready for their day to end. She knew they still had hours left in their workday, but it didn’t seem like enough. She wasn’t accustomed to being this acutely aware of time – or better yet, losing time. It was a strange feeling. Even stranger, she wanted to invite him to dinner, but could not muster the words to do so. She’d practiced it in her head, “Let’s have dinner, shall we? What about dinner at my cottage? The guards are quite nice. Everyone needs to eat, right? Let’s do it together. Pub food bad, home food good.” But each time the words formed in her throat, her mouth became dry and she struggled to get anything out – she wasn’t dense, she knew she liked him. It wasn’t the first time she felt attracted to someone else, but it was the first time that she felt affected by it in this way.
“I think you smell like pomegranates, in general,” Ben said, without warning.
All of Beatrice’s thoughts on dinner stopped, “What?”
“I don’t know that it’s just your breath. I think it’s your scent,” he put his book down but held a finger in place. “And if someone bit you, I bet you’d taste like ‘em too.”
Beatrice raised her wrist to her nose and smelled, but she didn’t notice anything.
“I wasn’t the only one who noticed,” Ben held up the book and showed Beatrice what he had been looking at – it was a sketch of her, no older than six, holding a pomegranate in her hand with a large image of the fruit’s flowers blooming in the background.
She smiled, “Found one of his book of sketches? They’re my favorite.”
“It’s hard not to look at them forever. There is so much detail in every piece. I mean, just look at this,” he held up the next page. It was of her mother, who had to have been in her mid-twenties. Instinctually, Beatrice attempted to feel for her mother’s presence in the world but, of course, there was nothing to be found. She didn’t know why she kept trying at all; she was there when all of it, all her mother’s life energy, exited her body. Beatrice could reason through the pain, but it didn’t lessen it.
“Can I see that?” She reached out to Ben and he handed her the book. Beatrice ran her fingers over the sketch, trying to remember what her mother smelled like – it was always a floral scent, soft like lavender.
“I lost my mum, too.” Ben said quietly, in a deeper voice than normal. “She passed away not soon after your father. When I said I was sorry about your mum earlier, and you said you knew that I meant it, I think that’s why. I know loss. We’re sort of old pals.”
“I’m sorry about your mum. And I mean it.” She sat the sketchbook down, “And the rest of your family? You said you know loss well.”
“Well, that’s just it. None of them are left. It started with my three brothers, then my mum, then my dad, and now I’m just, sort of, here. Y’know, existing.”
“I’m glad you exist,” she replied. When Beatrice lifted her eyes from the sketch to look at Ben, he was staring at her with the most peculiar look. The two sat in silence and Beatrice felt a prickle underneath her skin – she wasn’t reading him, these were her own emotions. She wanted to reach out and touch him, to let him feel what was going on inside of her. She didn’t even know if that was something she could do, she had never projected herself onto others before – not in a way that allowed them to gaze into her.
“That’s probably the nicest and strangest compliment I’ve ever received,” he replied.
Beatrice snapped back to the present. Her hand that had been slightly lifted, as if she were going to reach out and touch his face, returned to its place in her lap. Ask him about dinner, ask him about dinner, she told herself, but the words would not come out. Staying silent, an hour passed by before she had even noticed. Beatrice knew that dark would be approaching soon, and she would not have expected Ben to stay past his work hours.
During their search through her father’s journals, they found wild tales of fighting hordes of balverines and accessing those strange demon doors. The two would share these stories with each other, gasping and laughing at Sparrow’s adventures and follies. But, whenever he found something on Reaver, Ben would quietly add it to a pile of documents for Beatrice – she didn’t ask him to do this, but he had figured out a part of the puzzle on his own. Beatrice could sense Ben’s curiosity. She wanted to tell him what she was doing, but that scared her. Beatrice didn’t know how safe this information was to share or what would happen if it became public – people could think she was insane or that she was questioning her brother’s rightful place as ruler. But there was something about Ben that made her believe he would understand her motivation.
“Beatrice?” he asked, causing her to jump. “Oh, bollocks. Did I scare you?”
“I was just deep in thought,” she laughed lightly. “What is it?”
“I really enjoy being here and all,” he put his hand behind his head and mindlessly scratched his scalp, “but, thing is, it’s past my quitting time and I really haven’t ate. Don’t take it that I want to leave…”
“Oh, my gods! I’m sorry – yes, it’s okay. I don’t take offense. Please, please. You are free to go.”
Beatrice could feel her face turning red.
Ben closed the books in front of him, placing pieces of ribbon Beatrice had cut into the pages to save his spot. He was efficient, neat, orderly. She sat there dumbly and watched him – all she wanted to do was ask him to come over for dinner, but it would not come out of her mouth. What if he said no? she asked herself, I would be mortified. Just let him have his evening, he’s been stuck with you all day.
“Well, I guess this is goodnight, Princess Beatrice,” Ben stood from his chair and stretched his long body.
“Will I see you tomorrow?” Beatrice asked.
“Not here,” he smiled. “Tomorrow is an off day. Samuel was very clear about us staying away from the library on our days off. He would not pay us for any extra work put in.”
“Oh!” her face turned a shade brighter. She could tell that Ben had noticed the change in hue. He smiled a little larger, a silly smile.
“I’m at the inn. We all are,” he said.
“Are the beds comfortable?” Beatrice asked. She winced internally at her own question, but her growing nervousness was taking over. She knew why she couldn’t ask him to dinner. Because it wasn’t just dinner. She didn’t want him to leave. She wanted to take him everywhere around the village with her. She wanted him to visit the castle – to stay there even! She knew exactly which guest room he could stay in. It wouldn’t be too far from her own room so that if he wanted to, he could visit her after everyone else had gone to bed. They could talk all night in her room. Play games. She would show him her telescope. She could even play him something on the lute or harpsichord – and maybe he knew a few songs, too? Her harpsichord was a gift from an ambassador friend of her father’s and it played itself. She would set it to play a waltz. They could dance by her fireplace. Maybe she would show him that she could summon fire in her hands. It would impress him, she knew it. He loved Heroes more than anything else. What if he knew she possessed Hero blood? Maybe if she impressed him just enough, while they were dancing by the glowing fireplace, he would feel an overwhelming desire to reach out to her, to…to…
“They’re soft, but they smell like shite,” Ben replied. Then quickly added, “Rubbish. I mean they smell like rubbish.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Beatrice felt her face and its radiating heat. “I hope you still can get a good night’s rest. Even with the distracting smell of past guests.”
“I’ll give it a shot,” he turned and began walking toward the door to leave the room. Before leaving, he turned, “Bea…er, Princess Beatrice? I truly have enjoyed myself these past two days. I almost forget I’ve been hanging out with royalty. You make it feel as if we aren’t so different, y’know?”
“It’s because we’re not.”
He laughed, despite her serious tone. “The day that I go home to sleep in a castle and not a stinking mattress at a dodgy inn, I’ll agree with you. Night!” He left the room and shut the door behind him. Beatrice stared for a moment at the door. She didn’t like his comment – it made her feel guilty. She wasn’t oblivious to their class difference, but she assumed that it wasn’t an issue because she didn’t care. She never had. And she had assumed he did not care either. She didn’t want to be wrong.
As she continued to work through her father’s artifacts, Beatrice could not get Ben’s comment out of her head. Her concentration would slip in and out of focus. Before she realized it, she was fantasizing about what she wished she would have said back to him, “You want a castle? You can have it. Do you feel different now?” or “You didn’t have to stay at that inn, Ben. There are rooms for rent elsewhere in town. Or a room for free at my cottage.”
She shook her head at the thought. Stop that, she told herself. She exhaled deeply. She wished, more than anything else, she would have told Ben, “I like you. Does that make us equal?” but she knew she could not say it. The thought made her feel a small wave of relief at admitting the truth, followed by a surge of guilt at the thought of Elliot finding out she let herself fancy someone else. But even worse, and she could not escape her self-knowledge, she wished she would have told Ben anyway. Even if Elliott found out. She didn’t want to hurt Elliott, but she didn’t want to deny herself either. She wanted to touch Ben, to feel his skin and run her fingers through his hair. She wanted to put her hand on his thigh while he sat next to her in the library. To lean in slowly, so he knew she was going to kiss him, and he could meet his lips to hers. But more than anything, she wanted to feel that heat coming from his body as closely as possible. Outside, and inside, of her.
Beatrice suddenly felt as if she were going to vomit from her turning stomach.
She laid her head down on the table in front of her and closed her eyes, trying to fight off the pain of her shame. She wished her father was there with her, but in a different way than usual – not just because she still thought he was alive and not just because she missed him. She needed his embrace. His reassurance that she wasn’t a bad person. She wanted to hear him say that he loved her, that she had a lifetime of boy troubles ahead of her, and to enjoy herself because she was young, she was learning, and this wasn’t the end of the world.
But that reassurance wasn’t coming. The end of her world had already occurred and the type of advice her father would have given while alive no longer applied to her life. After the death of both of her parents, she was emotionally navigating her own post-apocalyptic inner terrain alone. She accepted that in times like this when she really needed her father’s kind words or her mother’s sympathetic understanding, it would never come. Yet, that fact never made dealing with the pain any easier. If anything, it pushed the knife deeper into a numb place, a wound that she didn’t know how to tend to and wished would die and leave her, too.
“Ughhhhh,” Beatrice moaned into the table. She was met with silence. Pulling herself up, she stood from her chair and rubbed her face. She left her books as they laid; she didn’t want to clean up. All she wanted was to go home and sleep until she no longer felt this way.
She didn’t tell Samuel goodnight. She couldn’t find him. The hallways of the library were noiseless. It was as if no one else were in the building. When she left out into the cold, it was no longer snowing. Whatever flurries had occurred earlier left a blanket of white on the ground, nearly undisturbed, except a single set of footprints leaving the library and headed toward the town. She knew the owner. Surprised they were maintained in such a pristine manner, she couldn’t help but think they were fresh.
“Good evening, Princess Beatrice,” the guard swiftly stood straight to greet the young woman approaching from the direction of the library.
“Good evening, Second Lieutenant Baker. How are you enjoying this sleepy town compared to Bowerstone?” she responded.
“It rather suits me. I was raised in a place much like this. Sort of feels like home,” his posture remained entirely intact. Beatrice surveyed him up and down. She wondered if he felt the same disconnect from her that Ben did.
Wanting to try something, Beatrice reached out and placed her hand on his forearm. She gave it a soft squeeze and replied, “This feels like home for me, too.”
The second lieutenant tensed, and she could feel him pull away slightly. Despite this being an unhappy surprise, she didn’t let it show and smiled as she walked into the empty cottage. She looked around the living quarters and felt the staleness of the room settle into her. Her bags had long been unpacked and she had set out dried flower petals to give the musty air a nicer scent.
Upstairs, she cracked the window of her bedroom and stared at the setting sun. She felt overly cognizant of time – or rather that time was slipping away. Beatrice opened the window more, stuck her head out, and looked to see if she could still see the inn. Although no longer snowing, dark was setting in and the sleepy town did not light itself well at night. Her stomach growled and caught her attention. Everyone needs to eat, Beatrice thought absentmindedly.
Grabbing her burnouse, she headed downstairs and into the kitchen.
“Carrots, potatoes, leeks, onion, stock…” she listed out the ingredients to herself while grabbing them from around the kitchen and placing them on the table near her cloak. She knew the hired cook would arrive shortly and begin preparing dinner. On a piece of paper, Beatrice wrote the following instructions:
Madam Francine,
Good evening. I would like to request a stew for dinner – enough for six. I apologize if this disrupts your planned meal. Given the weather, a hearty stew seems fitting and delicious.
Yours respectfully,
Princess Beatrice of Albion
Beatrice placed an onion on top of her note, threw the burnouse over her shoulders, put the hood over her head and headed out of the cottage.
“Second Lieutenant Baker,” she announced, “I am attending to an errand and will return shortly. Please let Madame Francine know I have left a note for her in the kitchen. I plan to return with a guest.”