Chapter Text
May 1781, Klegan
The school day dragged. Beatrix tried not to slouch as she stared out of the window, pencil flip-flopping wildly in her right hand. As far as she was concerned, every school day dragged, but the first few truly beautiful weeks of spring were by far the worst. The sky was cloudless, the grass newly rejuvenated and green, and, she imagined, if one stayed out of the shade, it was warm in the sunlight.
She crossed her ankles and curled her toes in her shoes to keep herself from swinging her legs. The last thing she needed to do was draw the attention of Mr. Belmont. He did so hate what he imagined was defiance of his rules; she knew by now that she’d feel his accursed yardstick’s impact against her knuckles for at least three days, and that wouldn’t do, not today. She needed her hands for other, more important things.
The pianoforte, for instance. She resisted the urge to glance behind her at her sister and instead looked down at her desk. The other students were reading, and she ought to have been reading, too—except she’d done the reading weeks ago in a different fit of boredom. She wished Mr. Belmont had given the homework assignment early; she’d probably be done with it already if he had.
She sighed, chewing absently on her lower lip as she waited, imagining how the evening would go after dinner was over and the family retired to the parlor. Her sister would be asked to play first, of course, but later, if Mother and Father retired early, Bea have her turn. She’d been waiting nigh upon three weeks for that very opportunity; tonight would certainly be it.
And she knew just what she would play to entertain her audience of one. Livie wouldn’t even see it coming; she would blush to hear it, and thus the entertainer would become the entertained. Clever, really. But then, Beatrix had time to think of such things when she was so very bored during the week.
The end of the school year couldn’t possibly come fast enough—not for her taste, and not with the allure of a busy and active summer at her fingertips.
Movement at the front of the classroom made her raise her head.
“Yes?” Mr. Belmont asked.
“May I be excused to the privy, sir?” It was Livie’s voice. Beatrix turned when the schoolmaster dipped his own head in a nod, and watched her sister leave the room.
Ernie giggled. Garin, who sat directly behind him, kicked him square in the behind through the back of his chair.
Beatrix pretended not to see any of it and instead turned her attention back to the window, certain the next two hours would feel like two days.
After a rather long absence, Livie returned and reclaimed her seat, appearing to anyone else to be as well-mannered and gentle as ever, but there was something odd about her posture. And her face, Beatrix thought. Her sister didn’t normally have lines in her forehead, let alone a little crease right between her eyebrows. She usually smiled, too, even when she was thinking of nothing at all.
They had always been opposites in that way; Father and Mother both praised what they called Olivia’s sweet nature, and scolded Beatrix for her own poor countenance. She didn’t really understand that; she would smile when there was something to smile about—and all the rest of the time…well, how was she supposed to think about what her face was doing?
But Livie wasn’t smiling anymore. Something was troubling her.
Mr. Belmont coughed and Beatrix turned in her seat and tried to look apologetic, lifting a hand to her mouth to chew absently on the edge of an already-shredded nail.
Did it have something to do with the privy? Surely she hadn’t made a mess—at least nothing she hadn’t been able to fix on her own.
Reading ended and Mr. Belmont gave out assignments for the three tiers of students: an easy task for the youngest few, something a bit more moderate for everyone in the middle, and the most difficult work for the older children. To everyone’s surprise, he even gave them time to work on it in class rather than move onto history. Well, there were only a couple more weeks left in the school year, anyway…and it was a Friday, besides. Maybe he was busy coming up with their final exams and wanted the silence.
Beatrix hurried to write her thoughts down in the ambitious (but still very realistic) hope that she might finish it before the allotted time gave way to dismissal; while some of the other children stared off into space or even passed folded notes between them, she bent over her desk and thought only of the assignment.
Free of the burden of having to finish it, she would actually be able to enjoy her evening. The thought was motivation enough, even if she wasn’t just grateful to have something to do with her hands and her mind.
Tap, tap, tap.
Beatrix ignored the sound in favor of writing just a little more, lower lip caught between her teeth, brows furrowed in concentration. She could almost taste the end of her essay, and that brought with it the usual feelings: elation, primarily, and pride—not to mention an elevated heartrate, always present when victory of some kind was all but assured.
The tapping came again, louder this time, and then traveled up to her arm. She shook it off, frowning, and kept writing.
A face fell into view, peeking just over the edge of her desk. “Bea, please.”
She paused for a moment, but only because she was afraid she might write her own spoken words down by mistake. “Almost done,” she managed, and went back to it. Two more sentences and she was finished. She looked up and grinned, scrambling out of her chair and lifting her bag from the back of it.
“You could just finish it at home, you know,” Livie said, almost smiling again.
“I’d rather get it over with.” She hurried to the front of the classroom (at a walk, not run!) to set her essay on Mr. Belmont’s desk, and then cleaned up her own desk…by shoving everything inside her bag.
“Beatrix,” came Mr. Belmont’s voice, “you forgot your name.”
She froze, felt a blush touch her cheeks and the tips of her ears, and fished out her pencil.
“Again,” whispered Livie as Bea moved around her to fix the mistake.
“I do wonder at the quality of your work,” Mr. Belmont said as she wrote her name at the top of the paper. “Slow and steady wins the race, as they say.”
“A good offense is the best defense,” she hurled back, unthinking. “I read the assignment weeks ago, sir,” she added. Twice over, even; she’d had more than enough time to think about the story they’d read. “The quality of my work hasn’t changed.”
“Are you bored, Miss Astor?”
Yes, she thought desperately. She was very bored. School was slow-paced and left her far too much time to think. While the others were busy playing with their friends at lunch, she preferred to use the time to finish her arithmetic assignment.
Perhaps she ought to have used that time to make nice with the other students, but she had never been much good at making friends.
“No,” she said at last, a half-lie. “Just efficient.”
“I see. Well then, next year we’ll move you up an extra grade or two to accommodate your…efficiency. And then we’ll see how bored you are. Now run along home before your parents wonder what’s keeping you.”
He shooed them out of the otherwise empty classroom and Beatrix frowned as she made her way down the front steps.
“How did he know?” she asked, resisting the urge to kick at the dirt.
“It was written all over your face,” Livie said, “as always. You’ll have to learn to hide those things.”
“Are you hiding them?” she asked.
Livie gave a graceful shrug of her shoulders and then wrapped her arms around her middle. “I don’t find school boring,” she said. “But then, I only work on school things when I have to.”
“So do I,” Beatrix tried to insist. At her sister’s stern look, she frowned harder and chewed on her lip again. “Except at lunch,” she conceded. “But it’s not my fault everyone else skips around in the yard instead of finishing their arithmetic.”
“And why do you do yours?” Livie asked. “You don’t even like math, Bea.”
“It’s boring,” she agreed, “but it must be done…so I like to get it over with.”
“You just want to spend more time practicing with your sword,” Livie teased. “Anyone who ignores their friends to get more practice time in must be destined for the queensguard.”
“I don’t ignore friends.”
“Because you haven’t got any except me,” said Livie, “and that’s because you don’t try!”
It was Bea’s turn to shrug. It wasn’t that she wouldn’t like to have a friend who wasn’t her sister, but nobody else who attended the South Klegan schoolhouse cared a whit for swords or the military—not even the history of it. None of them had or knew how to play the pianoforte, either. And she had very little else to talk about. She was boring; she knew that already, had been told a dozen times.
“I don’t need anyone else,” she said after a moment, wriggling her hand under her sister’s arm to link them together. “What happened at the privy earlier?”
“What, um…makes you think something happened?”
Beatrix blinked at her sister—who was still acting awfully suspicious as far as she was concerned. Her posture was too stiff, and she still had that crease between her eyebrows. “I know you,” she said, frowning, and squeezed her arm. “Ernie didn’t leave another stupid note out there, did he?”
Livie shook her head. “No.”
“You’re not lying, are you? I’ll make him pay for it again if he did.”
“It wasn’t anything Ernie did.”
“All right.” Beatrix let it slide—for the moment. She focused on the path ahead and the sun that was warm on her hair. They rounded the bend to see Garin and Ernie leaning against a tree; the latter grinned at their approach and elbowed Garin.
Garin’s gaze went to Livie and stayed there.
Beatrix let go of her sister’s arm and went to stand in front of Ernie while the other two stepped away to talk quietly together. She glared at the boy—a full two years her senior—and he shuffled away a step, grin fading.
Last year he’d left a note in the privy that said Livie and Garin loved each other, and she’d punched him for the injustice (for that was exactly what it had been). A caning had been her punishment from the schoolmaster and after she brought the note of her misconduct to Mother, she’d been shown no mercy in a sparring match, leaving her to attend school with a bruised arm. Both apt punishments, she supposed, but if the goal had been to convince her to regret her actions, it hadn’t worked. She wouldn’t hesitate to punch the brat a second time if he dared to humiliate her sister again: the only person allowed to tease Livie was her.
Though she had learned one thing from the experience: next time, she’d be sure to do it after school and off school grounds.
She ignored Ernie and watched Garin and Livie exchange a few words. They really liked one another; that much was obvious. Garin would be sixteen before the end of the summer, and Livie was only a couple of weeks shy of fourteen herself. In a couple of years… Well, anything could happen.
Everyone talked about how pretty Livie was with her pleasing smile, beautiful long red-gold hair, and sparkling green eyes. Father was convinced she would grow into a true beauty (whatever that meant) and capture the heart of some esteemed nobleman—maybe even a count or duke. He very badly wanted her to marry up; she was his only real hope for it.
According to Mother, Beatrix was far from unpleasant to look at, but her countenance left much to be desired. She was far too wild, besides, hair always windblown, lip chewed up, eyes sparking with challenge instead of sparkling with whatever it was eyes were supposed to sparkle with.
If Livie had not already played her part so very well, Beatrix knew she’d have been stuffed into the box of it, herself—forced not just to learn needlepoint and the pianoforte, but to make such things her aim in life. She was grateful to Livie for bearing the brunt of that…but then, The Honorable Olivia Astor enjoyed such things immensely. Father said Livie was wonderfully accomplished for her age; soon she would be old enough to entertain suitors, and he expected a few to come all the way from Treno for the honor of her hand.
Bea wondered what he might say if he knew his oldest daughter had already captured one heart: that of Garin Harridan, the son of two textile mill workers. The mill would be his future, too; it was the future of most of the children in Klegan. If the South Mill didn’t suit, maybe the North Mill would; there weren’t many other options, but at least they were able to grow up first. She’d read that in Lindblum, children as young as six were sent to the factories and mills to earn money.
Livie liked Garin very much; she’d admitted it last year to Beatrix under the blankets in their shared room. Beatrix supposed that Garin had a certain charm about him. He was nice, at least, unlike his rotten younger brother—and he had a good smile with a little dimple in his cheek. Livie found him handsome, something she claimed was a prerequisite for liking someone like that; Bea wasn’t sure how that differed from finding someone pleasant to look at.
“You’ll understand when you’re older,” Livie had teased, rolling about in their bed with amusement. Bea remembered scowling at it; she hated to be told such things: she wanted to understand it now.
Garin smiled at her sister and beckoned for Ernie to join him; that meant their little conversation was over. She hurried to catch up with her sister and while they headed down the path toward their country estate, Ernie and Garin headed toward town.
“Do you still think he’s handsome?” Bea asked.
Livie blushed. “Ask me again later,” she said. That meant to ask her after they’d dressed and retired to bed.
Bea bit down on her lip to suppress a smile and nodded. “So, what happened in the privy?” she asked instead.
Livie froze for a moment, and then resumed her walk; her posture was stiff again. “You ask far too many questions.”
“How else will I get answers?” she asked. “You can tell me. I won’t tell anyone.” She didn’t really have anyone to tell secrets to anyway, unless one of the cats counted, but that was beside the point.
Livie considered it for a few steps, and then linked their arms. She bowed her head to bridge the distance between them and the sun caught behind her in a halo that turned the outline of her hair a fiery red. Beatrix blinked and tilted her head. For a moment, she wondered if she would always see her sister like this: taller and wiser, prettier—and completely deserving of her position in the family as the favorite child.
“All right,” Livie said at last, her voice barely above a whisper. A tremor existed there that hadn’t before. “I—I found…blood.”
“In the privy?” Bea asked incredulously.
Her sister nodded.
“Where?”
“You can’t tell anyone,” Livie reminded her.
“I won’t,” she said.
She pointed to the front of her skirt and whispered, “Between my legs.”
Beatrix’s mouth opened and then snapped closed again. “Is that bad?” she asked.
“I don’t know.” Livie hitched up her shoulders. “It wasn’t a lot of blood.”
But it was still blood, and Beatrix was sure she’d never noticed any blood down there. “Did you cut yourself?”
“I don’t think so.”
She chewed on her lip. “Are you going to ask Mother? Or Miss Dixon?”
“Do you think I should?” Livie looked embarrassed.
Beatrix nodded. “If it’s bad, they can call for a doctor or a healer,” she said, “but if they don’t know about it, they won’t know to call anyone…” Her stomach fluttered anxiously and she squeezed their linked arms. “And if it’s nothing, at least you’ll know…”
“You’re right. I’ll—I’ll ask Mother.”
Brave. Beatrix wasn’t sure she’d be able to do it, herself. “You’ll tell me what she says?” she asked. “Even if it’s bad?”
Livie nodded.
At home, Livie went to find Mother and Beatrix raced to their room to change out of her school dress and into breeches and boots. She then made her way out to the backyard with her practice sword in hand to try to focus on the exercises she’d been taught.
She went through the motions, but her mind drifted; good thing half the point of practice swings was memorization and repetition! According to Mother, such things were a great way to almost passively grow stronger. Half the battle of learning to wield a sword with skill came from simply learning how to hold and swing it properly. Too many new recruits ended up leaving due to injuries sustained from poor form.
Mother had been a colonel in Alexandria’s military, so Beatrix was inclined to believe her. She knew a lot about fighting and had survived two large-scale battles, one of which had taken place at Cresting Hill. Cassandra Astor’s entire brigade had suffered less than five casualties, there; a medal had been awarded for her accomplishment and it hung over the fireplace in the parlor.
Beatrix had different ambitions than that of rank; she wanted to serve in the queensguard. Any rank that would allow her the honor of serving the queen directly would be something to be proud of. She just had to practice hard enough to be knighted within the first year; Mother said that was most likely to get her noticed.
And while Beatrix felt fortunate to have the personal training of a former military officer, she worried she would forever lag behind the recruits who had private tutors for swordplay instead of the pianoforte. It was hard to imagine that anyone else who wanted to join the military spent as much time as she did learning needlepoint, either.
But Mother did have to please Father some of the time, and it was his wish that both of his daughters grow up as ladies—as much as could be afforded, at any rate, considering the state of things.
Beatrix had been told the story and subsequently sworn to silence. Father was from Treno, the only child of a viscount. He met Mother in the days before Alexandria stopped sending soldiers to protect Treno, and they had quickly fallen in love. Father said he was captivated by Mother’s beauty, and she fell in love with his charming mannerisms. Beatrix couldn’t imagine what beauty and charm had to do with love and marriage, but maybe it was true that she was too young to understand such things. Her parents wed in Treno, but Mother continued to serve in the military another five years afterward. That was the part Beatrix found interesting—but other than stories about the skirmishes and battles she’d seen, Mother never talked much about those years. By the time she resigned her commission, Father’s father had spent all the family’s money, and her parents decided to move to the small country estate where they still lived in Klegan.
Grandfather died a year or two after that, making Edric Astor a viscount—but the inheritance was almost nothing after his father’s gambling debts had been settled.
Father did the unthinkable for a nobleman and put most of his money into the South Mill; it earned him a modest sum every month—enough to pay for two servants: Miss Dixon, the housekeeper, and Mr. Weston, the groundskeeper. Most of the rest of the money, including everything Mother had saved up during her service to the crown, was invested. They lived off of the interest. The Astors lived very well compared to most in Klegan, but they were nobility just in name, now. That was why it was Father’s wish that Livie marry up; if she married someone wealthy, Father and Mother’s needs would be seen to for the rest of their days.
Until then, though, they had to live within their means…which wasn’t so bad as far as Beatrix was concerned.
Neither she nor Livie ever asked for anything, even when Father went to Treno to visit his old friends. They didn’t really have need of much, anyway. Livie had all the fabric and thread she could ever want in Klegan…and the library housed enough books that even in a rain-year Beatrix doubted she’d be able to read them all.
What would they even ask for?
The kitchen door slammed loudly behind her, and Beatrix whirled around to see Livie making her way over to her. She sheathed the practice sword and waited nervously, wiping her palms off on her breeches.
“What did she say?” she asked impatiently when Livie was close enough.
Livie shook her head and said, gently, “Let’s sit on the bench. I’m supposed to keep quiet and still.”
Bea felt her stomach twist anxiously, but took her sister’s arm and walked with her to the painted white bench in the shade of a large oak tree. “Are you sick?” she asked.
“I don’t think so,” she said as she took her seat, “though I will admit…my stomach feels a bit odd.”
Beatrix fell into the open spot on the other side of the bench and pulled one leg up beneath her—the only comfortable way to sit, in her opinion. “So if you’re not sick…then what is it?”
Livie turned to look at her, her usual gentle expression very serious. “You can’t tell anyone,” she said.
Beatrix matched it, anxiety eating her own stomach alive. “I won’t,” she agreed.
“I mean it, Bea. Mother will be cross if she finds out I’ve told you anything.”
“I swear I won’t tell a soul!” How terrible a thing was it that Mother wouldn’t even want her to know?!
“It—It’s… I’m growing up is all,” Livie said.
Beatrix felt her nose scrunch up in bewildered confusion. “You bleed when you grow up?” It didn’t make any sense.
“Maybe Mother was right and you’re too young to tell about such things…”
Beatrix frowned in annoyance. “I’m not!” she said. “I just—I’m listening. Tell me what it means.”
Livie shared what she knew with only minor interjections from a stunned Beatrix (“You bleed from what?”/“It goes where?”/“That’s how a baby is made?!”). By the end of it, Livie had her hands over her mouth, giggling, and Bea felt a little dizzy from the influx of new information. Fascinating information, mind; she doubted any of her classmates knew most of it, and there was a certain power to be found in knowledge, especially in being one of the first to have it.
“Mother didn’t want you to know about it because Father doesn’t even think I should know, yet.”
“And why not?” Beatrix asked. “It—if you’re old enough to get a baby then you should be old enough to know how it works! Right?”
Livie nodded. “I think so,” she said, “but in noble families they don’t talk about it at all—until there’s a wedding.”
“What does a wedding have to do with it?”
“Well,” Livie said, “on the first night a newly married couple, um…you know…”
Beatrix stared at her.
“They try for a baby!” she finished, blushing. “That’s supposed to be the first time it’s done. I guess if you don’t know what to do, you won’t do it? But then you’re supposed to know so that you can do it the night you get married.”
“I guess so,” Beatrix said. It made some sense. “But wouldn’t it be good to know just so you don’t accidentally do something you’re not supposed to?” It was difficult to imagine anyone could accidentally do that but she’d once caught two older kids with their mouths on each other behind the shed, so…maybe it was possible? “Who would make a baby on purpose before you’re supposed to?”
“Right?” Livie giggled. “Babies are cute but I don’t want one right now!”
Beatrix had held one last autumn at the town picnic event; she supposed that baby had been cute, with his round pink cheeks and chubby arms that he waved around. The most interesting thing about him had really been his hands—tiny fingers that latched onto her already unruly hair and yanked surprisingly hard for someone so small.
“But you’ll have some when you get married, won’t you?” Bea asked.
“Of course,” Livie said. “And so will you.”
Beatrix snorted. “I’m joining the military, you know.”
“Mother was in the military too, you know.”
She groaned. “Yes, but I’m going to stay there a lot longer than ten years.”
Livie smiled. “I see. Well, maybe you’ll meet someone while you’re serving, then.”
“That’s awfully sensible of you,” she said.
“It’s not as romantic as meeting a dashing man by saving him from ne’er-do-wells, but I think meeting a fellow soldier you like well enough could be romantic…” Livie’s smile grew. “What sort person might you prefer?”
Bea chewed on her lip again, thoughtful. “Well, they’d have to be strong,” she said.
“Of course,” Livie agreed. “Do they have to be stronger than you?”
She didn’t much like the thought of being weaker, so she shook her head. “No, but they have to be close at least.”
“Anything else? What kind of personality would they have? Hobbies?”
“Well, they’d have to like to talk about swords and military history,” Beatrix said after a moment. “I should like their hobbies and they mine, even if we don’t share them. They could like…books, I suppose. Or painting—something artistic. And…” She wasn’t sure about personality. “Nice but not too nice,” she said, shrugging. “I don’t think I’d like someone too quiet…because I’m not.”
Livie giggled and held her stomach, wincing at a little pain there; Mother had called them cramps, and said they were normal. Beatrix hated the idea of them already. “So this is your dream gentleman?” her sister asked around her amusement. “I mean—dream soldier?”
“Sure,” Beatrix said. “What’s wrong with him?”
Livie laughed harder. “Nothing!” she said. “It’s just—you know, he’s… He’s you, Bea. You just described yourself.”
Beatrix scowled. “I didn’t say he had to look like me.”
“What should he look like, then?”
She tried to conjure up an image, but her mind remained frustratingly blank. “I don’t know,” she said. “He should look interesting, though, so that I don’t get bored of looking at him.”
Livie practically shrieked with laughter, doubled over now, tears in her eyes.
Beatrix wondered if it was because she hadn’t said the man needed to be handsome; she couldn’t imagine how a good-looking face would factor in, anyway. She’d be pleased enough to at least like looking at him, even if he wasn’t particularly handsome.
“What about you, then?” she asked, poking at her sister’s side.
Livie wriggled away from her toward the very end of the bench, and pushed her insistent hand back. “My dream soldier?” she asked.
“Well, your equivalent of that,” Bea said. “Tell me.”
“Hmm…” Livie looked thoughtful for a long moment, and then smiled. “I think he would be just a little bit taller than I am, but not too tall, so I can lay my head on his shoulder sometimes.”
The silly confession had Beatrix clapping a hand over her own smile, but she didn’t interrupt.
“He should have a pleasant laugh and a pleasing disposition. I think someone quiet and soft-spoken would be nice; gentleness in men is underrated, even if you don’t care for it.”
Bea rolled her eyes; she hadn’t said anything about gentleness, but it would probably be difficult to find in the military. It had no place in training drills, let alone on the battlefield. “And how should he look?” she asked.
“Handsome, of course. A good nose is important. Oh! And a jaw.”
“I think most men have a jaw,” Beatrix said.
Livie shoved her playfully. “You know what I mean.”
“A strong jaw, then?” Beatrix asked, scrunching up her nose.
“Something like that,” Livie said. “So there, what do you think of him?”
Beatrix bit her lip to fight back a grin. “I think you just described Garin,” she said, and then nearly shrieked with laughter when Livie reached over to dig her fingers into her side.
Livie stayed on the bench when Beatrix returned to her practice. She would have preferred to spar against her sister rather than do swing repetitions alone; even more complex forms were rather dull compared to the allure of an active opponent. And while Livie did lack what Mother called a talent for swordsmanship, she was the most frustrating type of opponent of all: a defensive one.
Mother always went on the offense immediately; it was she who believed the best defense was a decisive and effective offense. That had won them the victory at Cresting Hill, after all, and she would never believe otherwise. Beatrix, on the other hand, refused to commit to either side: what actually mattered the most—at least in her own mind—was one’s ability to adapt to individual situations.
She liked to imagine that doing so was her particular specialty. She had to go on the offense against Livie or the match would drag out for ages, but against Mother, who was a much larger and stronger opponent, a defensive strategy was well and truly for the best; that way, every now and then, she could exploit an opening.
But when a young woman obtained their menstrual cycle (what Livie had called it, pronouncing the word slowly, since it was still new), they were not to partake in any strenuous activities. Beatrix hoped hers never came if that was the case. The idea of days and days of having to sit quiet and still—or worse, lay in bed—made her shudder.
How could she practice her swordplay like that? She’d perish from boredom before she even had the chance to pick up a sword again!
When the sun fell behind the groundskeeper’s cottage, Livie called an end to the practice and both girls went into the house to wash up for dinner. Beatrix changed back into her school dress and Livie helped her tie the sash into a tidy bow; she had never been much good at doing it herself, and Father abhorred untidiness.
Which also meant they had to brush and retie their hair. While her sister was busy fixing a ribbon into her own hair, Beatrix borrowed the brush…until Livie took it away from her again.
“Stop yanking it through your hair like that,” she said. “You look like a wild animal.”
Bea crossed her arms over her chest and huffed while Livie took ten times too long to brush it from the ends up and then pulled it back and out of her eyes, braiding it. She fastened a yellow ribbon to the end of the plait to match the dress she wore, and then pronounced her done.
“See?” she asked. “That wasn’t so bad.”
It was a waste of time, Beatrix thought, but knew better than to say so aloud. Father could be cruel when things weren’t to his liking—and anything that reminded him he’d been stripped of his riches tended to do that, unruly daughters (and especially Beatrix) included. For the sake of a peaceful evening…she supposed it was tolerable, but only because she had not had to do it herself.
They slid into their chairs precisely on time. Miss Dixon was a wonderful cook—and the only reason Beatrix bothered to put her practice sword down to eat some nights. Dinner was almost always an entirely silent affair, but this night Father spoke right away.
“Livie, my dear,” he said, looking down the table at her, “you look well this evening.”
She blinked—the only sign of her surprise; her lips curled in a serene smile. “Thank you, Father.”
Beatrix stabbed three butter-beans and shoved them into her mouth. Father turned his eyes to her without moving his head at all. She swallowed anxiously and put her fork down.
His gaze returned to her sister. “Your mother and I have decided that, starting on your birth-day, it would be appropriate for you to wear your hair up—if you’d like.”
Livie’s smile grew wider, eyes flickering to Bea’s for a moment before they flew back to his. “I would like that very much, Father.”
“Nothing too elaborate, now,” he said. “Young ladies these days try too hard to attract notice, but with your face and disposition, you’ve no reason to resort to such methods.”
“Yes, Father.”
“Beatrix.”
She barely found her voice in time: “Yes?”
His eye very nearly twitched; he was already annoyed. “You would do well to follow more closely in your sister’s footsteps,” he said sternly, “or no one will ever have you.”
“I don’t care,” she said without thinking, and regretted it immediately when Father’s face darkened. She bit down on her lip to try to keep her heart out of her throat.
“She doesn’t mean that,” Livie interjected, setting her own cutlery down with surprising gentleness. “She’s just nervous, aren’t you, Bea? Because Mr. Belmont said he intended to move her up two grades for next year’s classes.”
“Is that true, Beatrix?” Mother asked.
It was difficult to answer on account of feeling a little bit like she might be sick. She owed Livie her life—and then a shove for bringing up school; now she would be forced to advance whether she wanted to or not.
“Yes,” she said, her voice unsteady.
“It’s a big accomplishment,” Livie continued. “You know how strict Mr. Belmont is with all of his students.”
“What good is classroom advancement when she can’t even stop her nervous fidgeting!” Father said, his voice rising.
She practically had to unlock her jaw to stop chewing on her lip—and tasted the metallic tang of blood afterward. She couldn’t even turn her head to prevent him from seeing it; he always took her inability to look him in the eye to mean she was being deceitful about something.
“I apologize, Father,” she made herself say, and tried not to choke on the words.
It was to keep the peace, she reminded herself. Livie was a young woman now, and she had just been given permission to wear her hair up—something she’d been looking forward to for years; she didn’t need her foolish younger sister ruining the evening for her.
She added on a reluctant, “I—I’ll do better.”
Father put a hand to his head and turned away from her. “You always say that, Beatrix,” he said, “but you never do.”
The rest of the meal was silent and awkward.
He was right, of course. She had promised to do better before, but she had never managed to change anything about herself. She still fidgeted, sometimes without even knowing she was doing it, but most often, she did it because she felt as if she might do something far worse otherwise. Wasn’t it better for her to chew on her lip than to clap her hands over her ears when the overlapping sounds of her parents talking and Livie playing the pianoforte made her want to crawl out of her own skin? To bite her nails in class rather than draw on her slate? To swing her legs, or tap a pencil against her cheek, or tie and untie a ribbon on her dress rather than ignore the schoolmaster’s lecture?
She didn’t know. Maybe she just wasn’t trying hard enough. She lowered her eyes and tried to discreetly lick away the blood on her lip.
Despite her churning stomach, Beatrix made herself eat everything on her plate. She would feel dizzy later if she didn’t eat properly; it had happened enough that she knew better than to test her luck. But she hated every moment of it, and was too afraid to ask to be excused when her plate was cleared, and instead waited to be told.
Father claimed a headache with a pointed glance at Beatrix, and retired to bed. Mother shooed both girls to the parlor for the evening to do their homework and find their own entertainment: “But be quiet about it!” she said, and followed Father upstairs.
Beatrix’s stomach slowly unknotted itself on the walk, and by the time she sank onto the settee, she felt much more herself.
“I’m sorry,” she said to her sister—and meant it.
Livie sat down carefully beside her. “I accept your apology, Bea,” she said, “but you really must learn to do better.” Concern lined her brow. “And preferably before Father does something regrettable.”
“Like what?”
“Like strike you in the face,” Livie said so softly that Beatrix wondered if it was a bigger secret than what they’d discussed earlier.
“Is that worse than my hands?” she asked, tilting her head with the question. She’d had her hands struck many times, and she needed them to hold a sword; it was hard to imagine her face mattered more than that.
Livie folded her hands in her lap, but she let them sit quietly there instead of twisting them as Bea did.
“In a manner of speaking,” she began, hesitantly, “I think so. I know getting into the queensguard is your greatest hope, and Father striking your face will not affect it, but…if he strikes your face, it means he doesn’t care about your looks anymore.”
Bea blinked, turning sideways on the settee as she pulled a leg up under her; Father wasn’t there to see, so it didn’t matter, and what he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him—or her. “But wouldn’t that be good?” she asked.
It was Livie’s turn to look confused, and she let out a breath of a laugh. “What do you mean, good?”
“Well,” Beatrix reasoned, chewing on her lip again, “if he doesn’t care about my looks, then he won’t care if I chew on my nails or my lip, right?” It seemed to her to be a more than fair trade; he could strike her face and then she could be free of his expectations!
To her surprise, though, Livie’s expression fell. She reached out and Bea felt her sister tuck a bit of loose hair behind her ear. “I wish I could see things as you do,” she said as she patted the top of her head. “Perhaps it would be as you say, but I worry that the moment he stops caring about your looks, he will not stop at striking you once thus. Do you understand?”
He might hit her every time he found fault in her—which would be every day—and wherever he liked, because he had no reason not to if he didn’t care anymore. Her sister’s concern suddenly made a lot of sense; it wasn’t such a good trade after all. “I think you’re right,” Bea said, her voice small. “So what should I do?”
Livie covered Bea’s twisting hands with her own, stilling them. “One step at a time,” she said. “I think you should pick just one thing and work on it. I would suggest starting with thinking before you open your mouth, though; it gets you into trouble the most often.”
Beatrix stared down at their hands and considered her sister’s words. Her mouth had gotten her in trouble at dinner, too; Father hadn’t liked her ‘nervous fidgeting’ but he might not have snapped at her if she’d given a humble, ‘Yes, Father,’ in response.
“All right,” she said. “I’ll…try to think before I speak.”
“I’ll help,” Livie said. “Just remember that the first thought to cross your mind isn’t always the best one to speak aloud.”
“I always have a lot of thoughts,” she said. “About everything.”
“That makes it worse,” Livie chided, squeezing her hand. “If you have several thoughts to choose from, you should sift through them first, to decide what the best choice is. Then you speak only that one out loud.”
Several thoughts? Sometimes it felt like there were hundreds of them crammed into her mind. But she could probably try harder to look at a few of them before she spoke.
“Okay,” she agreed, brightening—and eager to change the subject away from Father and trying to please him. She had never once been successful at it, and probably would not be now…but she would make the effort. To keep the peace. “Now, since you’ve been ordered to sit quietly…shall I play the pianoforte for your entertainment?”
Livie’s eyes narrowed instantly in suspicion.
Beatrix would have smiled innocently if she were capable of such a thing, but instead she knew the grin she tossed her sister was, at best, mischievous.
“You never volunteer to play first,” Livie said. “What are you scheming?”
“I’ve practiced a new piece,” Bea tried, fingers gripping her skirt hard to try to keep herself from looking even more suspicious than she already was.
“Shouldn’t you wait to play it for Father and Mother then?” Livie asked.
Beatrix shook her head. “I don’t think they’d like it much,” she said. “Besides, I learned it for you. You might think of it as…an investment.” She could tell Livie didn’t trust her, but when her sister didn’t stop her from scampering over to the pianoforte, she considered it a win. A minor victory. Perhaps even a major one.
She bit her lip again as she took her seat and then lifted the fallboard and gently slid it back. She left the music rack empty; it had taken her months to memorize the piece in whatever snatches of time she could when Livie stayed after school to clap erasers and her parents were engaged elsewhere.
She settled her hands over the keys, heart jumping in her chest with anticipation of her sister’s reaction, and began to play a wedding march.
Not even ten measures into the song, she heard her sister hiss her name, but ignored it in favor of continuing to play. She didn’t make it very far before Livie was behind her, fingers digging into her sides. She fought the attack bravely for a time, but couldn’t keep her hands steady and had to let go to try to catch her sister’s hands, giggling.
“Bea, you little imp!” Livie said. “You chose that piece on purpose!”
“Why?” she asked, wriggling away on the piano bench and trying to peel her sister’s fingers off of her side. “Does it remind you of someone? Someone handsome?”
Livie’s face was a rosy pink as she gave up her assault to pinch Bea’s cheeks—likely to make them as bright as her own!
The motion just made Beatrix giggle again. “Am I right?” she asked. “Are you thinking of—”
“Don’t say it!” Livie said. “Don’t you dare say it!”
“—a certain handsome boy?” Beatrix finished, grinning. Even she knew better than to say Garin’s name aloud in the house; Father would have a conniption fit if he knew there was any affection between his daughter and a boy whose future was in the textile mill.
Livie huffed and squished Bea’s face between her hands for a moment, but it only delighted Bea more, and she laughed.
“You’re a menace,” Livie said. “You know that, right?”
“Yes,” she said, the sound muffled through her smushed cheeks.
Livie let her go and sat down beside her.
Bea wriggled back toward the center of the piano bench. “May I finish playing, now?”
“You memorized it just to torment me,” Livie complained, still blushing.
“It took me months,” Beatrix told her. “Now you must listen to the rest and tell me what you think of it.”
Livie agreed, but only let her play again after the doors to the parlor had been pulled shut.
It wasn’t an easy piece to play, but Beatrix was almost as good at the pianoforte as her sister, and far better at memorization. She took some pride in her ability to memorize things, in fact, preferring the comfort of knowing the music thoroughly rather than having to rely solely on sight-reading it—especially with an audience. Still, it had taken a lot of work to learn.
As the last note rang in the air, Livie applauded politely.
“You played the whole thing!” she said, sounding surprised. “And very well, I might add.”
“I do nothing by half,” Beatrix said smugly. “Well,” she corrected herself, “nothing I enjoy.”
“And you enjoy tormenting me?”
“Only when it’s funny,” she said with a smile. And it had been funny; Livie had understood the joke immediately. The months of work had been well worth it to see her sister blush so. “When you get married, can I play it for you?”
Livie looked thoughtful for a moment. “Well, Bea, if anyone deserves the honor, I think it should be you.”
“I’ll keep practicing, then,” she said, pleased. “You’ll wait for me to have leave, won’t you, if I’m in Alexandria by then?” She didn’t like the idea of not being able to attend her sister’s wedding.
“That’s six whole years away!” Livie said. “I should like to think I’ll be married before I’m twenty! Perhaps the wedding will even take place here—in this very room. Then you could play it for me on our own instrument! In your best dress, of course, with your hair up. I’ll have to wait until you’re fourteen for that.”
Beatrix gasped. “Your hair!” she said, remembering her sister’s upcoming permission to wear it in a grown-up manner. “How will you style it? Do you know?”
“How can I pick?” Livie asked. “There are so many options!” She had multiple books on the subject, and often flipped through them by candlelight. “Why don’t you keep playing while I finish my homework,” she suggested after a moment, “and then we can go up to our room early and you can help me decide?”
Chapter Text
The other children from school had been surprised to learn that Beatrix and Olivia shared a room, but the country estate they lived in, while rather fine a structure, was nothing compared to the expansive Treno mansion the Astor family had once been expected to inhabit.
It was hard for Beatrix to imagine how things might be different if the money had never run out and her parents had never left Treno. She would have her own room, then, whether she wanted it or not. They’d have a formal and informal parlor with a pianoforte in both rooms and a massive dining room with a table far too big for only four; Father would have company over all the time to fill the space and Mother would spend her idle hours planning gatherings and dinner parties and dances. She wondered sometimes if Father would have been a more agreeable person under such circumstances, but she often came away from her thinking convinced that the security of his wealth and the regular presence of his fellow noblemen would have ensured even higher expectations from him.
Then again, if he was busy entertaining guests, he would not have as much time to find fault in his children—and especially not his youngest child, who would rarely be seen until she was out socially.
The country estate was far smaller than the Treno mansion she’d heard Father describe countless times, but it was more than large enough for the four of them—and for Mr. Weston and Miss Dixon. Miss Dixon had a set of rooms next to the kitchen all to herself, and Mr. Weston had the groundskeeper’s cottage. Father had a study he spent most of his time in, and Mother liked to read and sew in her informal sitting room. Beatrix and Livie had the parlor, of course, and their shared room—which was not wholly necessary, either, but neither of them minded sharing the space.
For the most part, they got on well. Their room was spacious enough to allow for a bed as large as Mother and Father’s between the tall windows, as well as two writing desks, a nice vanity, and a small sitting area. Their biggest and most continuous argument centered around Bea’s untidiness. Livie said she was scatter-brained and made a mess wherever she went, but Beatrix insisted that, despite the chaos, she knew where everything was. Last year, Livie had threatened to send Bea back to her old room—the one across the hall.
She didn’t much care for the idea of staying in that big room alone again even if she’d mostly overcome her fear of the dark—or perhaps more accurately, the shadows that flickered in the dark; her mind was perfectly capable of making sense of their warped shapes, but it rarely chose to offer her a comforting explanation.
She much preferred the company of her sister to being alone, anyway, especially over the winter when the large room felt cold even with the fireplace lit. Livie agreed with her on that, though she claimed she wasn’t certain it was worth the hassle because Beatrix was an unpredictable hazard as a bedmate, curling up in awkward shapes one night, clinging tightly to her the next, and then stealing all the blankets for herself after that.
As if Livie wasn’t prone to kicking in her sleep!
She made more of an effort to be tidy after her sister’s threat, though—sorting the mess of her desk into manageable stacks and remembering to drape her dress over the changing screen after school rather than leaving it on the floor. It wasn’t much, but it seemed to please her sister, so she did her best to stay on top of it.
“What do you think of this one?” Livie asked.
Beatrix blinked away her wandering thoughts and looked at the page of the book her sister held out to her. It was a very modest style—and looked to her like something an old woman might choose. She shook her head.
“Mm…you’re right,” Livie agreed, and put the book back on her lap, turning the page.
They were both dressed for bed in long nightgowns. Livie’s had lace at the collar and cuffs and hem, but Bea’s was much plainer—something that suited her just fine. Lace was itchy, anyway. They were curled up in the big chair; Livie sat on the seat while Bea perched on the arm, legs drawn up beneath her.
“What about that one?” Beatrix asked when her sister turned the page again. The girl in the picture’s hair was pinned up prettily under a large hat, and the view of the back of her hair showed that it was a soft-looking style.
“I don’t know,” Livie said. “It looks too…loose. Wouldn’t you be afraid it would fall down at any moment?”
“Only if I was wearing it.” She couldn’t imagine many pinned styles lasting for more than a handful of minutes on her own head, but Livie seemed to lack Bea’s uncanny ability to see even a tight plait unraveled by mid-morning. “But perhaps something pinned a little closer would suit better.”
They flipped through a few more pages before they found something Livie liked; Beatrix wondered if Father might find it too elaborate, but when she put the pieces of the style together in her head…it wasn’t as complex as it looked.
“This would look prettier on you than it does in the picture,” Beatrix said. The lady in the drawing had plain brown hair no different than Bea’s own. Livie’s red-gold hair would look stunning no matter how it was styled, but with most of it twisted and pinned and the rest left to fall in careful ringlets, Beatrix was certain it would be eye-catching. “It would show off your eyes, too,” she pointed out.
Livie’s pretty eyes were easy to envy; Beatrix didn’t care overmuch about her own appearance, but she had always been a little jealous of her sister in that regard.
“You don’t think the ringlets are too much?” Livie asked.
“Mrs. Milton wears them,” Beatrix pointed out; the mill owner’s wife was the most fashion-forward person in town by a mile, and if she had chosen to adopt the style, that meant it was at the height of popularity in Alexandria.
“All right,” Livie agreed. “I’ll try this one—though we’ll have to use our imaginations for the ringlets.”
They moved over to the vanity with the book. Livie sat down in the chair and Beatrix paced behind her, walking toe-to-heel in tight, impatient circles.
“You’re driving me mad, Bea,” Livie scolded after a minute.
“Sorry,” she said, and tried to stand still while her sister stared at the book and then into the mirror to try and replicate what she saw.
Livie was good at such things; she had an artistic mind, Father said. Her drawings and paintings were often wall-worthy. Beatrix’s own attempts at art were buried at the bottom of her wardrobe. Mother said they were fine and not as bad as she imagined them to be, but if they were not good enough to be displayed downstairs, Beatrix had decided, they were best hidden from sight.
She was better at needlework, anyway, as boring as she found it to be. She could replicate what she saw with some competence at least, but Livie could conjure up wonderful images and motifs in her head and then make something of them. Her sister’s embroidery was spectacular—but then, she spent most of her free time working on it, while Beatrix elected to swing a sword around, instead.
“I think I’ve got it,” Livie finally said. “Maybe? What do you think?”
Beatrix hopped closer and studied her sister’s pinned hair from one side and then the other before she looked at her reflection in the mirror. “You missed a bit,” she said, and twisted the missed lock of hair up into the style. “I think it looks nice.”
It would look better with ringlets to frame her face instead of waves, too.
“It does,” Livie said, sounding surprised as she carefully touched a hand to her hair. “Would it be too much to wear it like this for our party?”
The Astors hosted something every year to celebrate both girls’ birth-days at once. Beatrix had turned nine on the twenty-second of April, and Livie would turn fourteen on the twenty-ninth of May. This year, all of the children from school and many of their parents, as well as people of note from town and from Treno, had been invited to the estate for a garden party. There would be games and refreshments, music, and even dancing.
Beatrix normally dreaded her parents’ attempts at merrymaking, but there would be so many people present she imagined it would not be difficult to slip away unnoticed and unmissed.
After all, nobody would be in attendance for her sake.
“I think you should add a ribbon to the back,” she said. “And then it would be perfect.”
Livie smiled at her in the mirror. “An excellent idea. Now, shall I practice something on you?”
Beatrix frowned. “On me?”
“Yes, silly, you’ll be attending the party, too; wouldn’t it be nice if we could match?”
“I’m not old enough to wear my hair up,” Beatrix pointed out—and thank goodness for that. She could barely stand the extra time it took to brush her hair, let alone if she had to pin it every day!
“I was thinking more along the lines of a style with ringlets to match mine, but now I absolutely must pin your hair up so that we can see what it might look like! Switch with me, please.”
Frown deepening, Beatrix obeyed, taking her sister’s vacated seat. “It will look silly!” she warned.
And it did—in Beatrix’s opinion—but Livie was quite enamored with it.
“It doesn’t look silly at all!” she said. “You look very cute—adorable, even. I can’t wait for you to turn fourteen so that we can wear our hair the same way! Won’t that be fun?”
Beatrix didn’t think ‘fun’ was the right word for it, but she supposed it might be amusing to do something matching with her sister—even though they didn’t look very much alike. She nodded her head and studied her pinned hair. It was thicker than Livie’s and heavier, so it was pinned twice as much to keep it in place, but it did look remarkably tidy.
And maybe a little pretty…if she squinted.
“Now, for the party,” Livie continued. “I think if we pinned part of your hair up and did the rest of it in ringlets, it would match mine very well, especially with our dresses being made of the same fabric. I bet we can get ribbons made, too. We’ll get Mother’s permission first, of course, just to be safe,” and to avoid Father’s anger if their choice displeased him, “but I’m sure she’ll agree that we’ll both look very pretty.”
Bea hadn’t even seen the dress for the party yet felt itchy at the mere knowledge of its existence. “All right,” she agreed. “If you think it will look nice.”
“I don’t just think it will look nice,” Livie teased, pulling out the pins she’d only recently stuck in her hair, “I know.”
Saturday dawned brightly, and Beatrix untangled herself from her sleeping sister’s arm as quietly as she could to dress for the day. It was back to breeches and boots, this time with a clean shirt. The best time to practice was most consistently on the week-end. Father liked to lie in just as Livie did, and if Beatrix hurried, she could sometimes convince her mother to spar with her for a little while before breakfast.
Today was one such day.
Mother began their first match with an aggressive offense, which Beatrix had expected. She widened her stance to avoid being knocked clean off her feet by the strength of her mother’s strikes; even parried with their practice swords, she could feel the ring of metal-on-metal in her bones.
Sometimes she liked to imagine what her mother must have looked like on the battlefield with a real sword and real armor, but if their practice bouts were anything to go by, she bet her mother could end the match at any time—and simply chose not to, for Beatrix’s own benefit.
She did her best to block her opponent’s relentless attacks, but it wasn’t long before she felt herself slipping; blows she had easily blocked a minute ago she now struggled to parry effectively, her sword slipping at the motion rather than remaining steady. With each passing moment she fell further and further behind and knew she could not keep it up; she would lose—and feared the inevitable moment she lifted her sword too late.
It came swiftly, and the blow struck her side—the only mercy of it evident in the dulled edge of her mother’s blade and the triumphant smirk on her face when she drew back.
It would bruise. Beatrix tried not to rub at it.
“You can’t always defend yourself, Beatrix,” Mother said. “You need to strike at me with everything you have if you ever hope to win against me.”
A silly thing to say, Bea thought, because her mother had lost matches to her before—though only a few, over the years, and only when she left herself open long enough for Beatrix to exploit it.
“Yes ma’am,” she said instead. “I will try.”
“In a moment,” Mother said. “We mustn’t over-extend ourselves.”
Beatrix caught her breath and tried to consider the best way to attack Mother. She often had to do it to Livie, but Livie was not very quick with the sword, and so spent most of her time parrying and blocking, just as Beatrix had to do with Mother. It was difficult to imagine she could do the same to Mother and not end up on the defensive against her again…but it wouldn’t hurt to try an offensive technique just once.
After all, she needed to know how to handle opponents who were as quick and daring as Mother if she was to survive in the military and not die of humiliation during routine practice drills; she wanted Queen Brahne to notice her skill, not her ineptitude.
She fumbled the second match almost immediately, striking high to start with and leaving herself wide open on the same side that had already been bruised. To add insult to injury, her mother didn’t even use her sword to end the match: she used her fist.
She almost crumpled from the impact, but only stumbled backward instead. She kicked at the grass as soon as she found her balance again, angry with herself and embarrassed.
“Focus, Beatrix,” Mother said, her voice rising. “Indecisiveness is the enemy; you must commit to whatever stance you take in a battle or you will pay the price, someday. Do you think I wanted to fight like someone possessed at Cresting Hill? I did not; I never fought that way before. But I saw good men and women with twice my skill lose life and limb at Embervein, and I knew if I did not commit myself wholly to an offensive strike, I would die alongside my entire brigade. Come at me, now, and do not hold back!”
Something in her snapped to attention at the words—and her clouded frustration melted away into something laser-sharp. She flew at Mother and knew precisely what to do and in what order, as if she could read her opponent’s next move before they’d even completed the current one. She was the one fighting as if possessed, now, striking over and over as quickly as she could in an attempt to overwhelm Mother’s sensibilities—in the hope of seeing her slip, of seeing her struggle to raise her sword.
But Mother rose to the challenge and ceased parrying to lift her sword to a bone-chilling block before she struck back. Beatrix only barely managed to twist out of the way, but she knew if she gave more than an inch, she would be the one thrown onto the defensive again; she swept her sword low to force Mother back a step so that she could close the distance instead, taking control again.
She felt strangely alive as she went back on the offensive; it was almost as if time had deigned to slow for her. She saw a bead of sweat trickle down Mother’s face before it fell from her chin; she felt the cool morning air deep in her lungs as she breathed; she knew her opponent was beginning to slip—was blocking her strikes less effectively—and that meant that victory was well within her grasp!
All she had to do was—
She felt something stir in her veins. It made the hair on her arms rise, her breath catch, her vision sharpen. She allowed it to draw upon her strength, to take from it, and when she next lifted her sword, she felt its loss as it arced out from her and leapt down the length of her sword in a startling physical display.
Mother’s eyes widened and she brought her sword down to meet Beatrix’s upward swing. Both swords collided with a horrific shriek.
Mother ought to have been able to successfully push her back, but the magic prevented it—made Bea’s sword arm stronger—and she drove her sword, and the magic that sparked against it, up against Mother’s weapon until Mother stepped back to disengage.
Unacceptable! Beatrix struck again, forcing Mother to step forward again to parry lest she lose the advantage of her height and leverage, and the spell arcing down the blade of her weapon helped her drive her opponent back into a faltering defense.
It wasn’t long before one of Mother’s parries slipped, and though she moved to raise her sword again, it was too late: Beatrix struck lightning-fast, slamming her weapon into Mother’s side.
The force sent her to the ground, sword still in hand.
Beatrix’s fingers went numb. She hardly noticed her own sword fall out of her hand into the grass. “Mother?” she asked. Her lips felt numb, too.
Mother groaned in response and sat up gingerly. Beatrix knew she had hurt her. “That was much better,” Mother said, pressing a hand to her side where even the dull practice sword had somehow torn through her shirt. “Excellent, even.”
Beatrix couldn’t make herself speak; she didn’t know what to say.
Mother finally glanced up at her. “Oh, you needn’t worry,” she said. “I’ve skills you’ve never seen.” And she murmured something, fingers pressing into her side; when she pulled away, what had undoubtedly been some type of injury looked whole again.
She stared anew: Mother could use white magic?!
Mother stood and bent down to collect Beatrix’s sword, handing it to her. “Come,” she said. “You’re next, then.”
And she reached out again. Beatrix felt a twinge of uncomfortable pain in her side, but soon there was no pain at all. She prodded at what ought to have been a nasty bruise afterward…and felt nothing unusual.
“You can heal,” Beatrix said, still stunned.
“It’s a very minor skill,” Mother explained, steering her toward the same bench she had sat on with Livie the previous afternoon. “Not good for much but small scrapes and bruises. I daresay it was useless on the battlefield. But it’s nice for dealing with inconveniences.”
Still, Beatrix thought. She’d been capable of it the whole time and she’d never known it. She sat when she was told and stared at her stiff hands. Her side didn’t hurt anymore, but most of the rest of her did. Perhaps hurt wasn’t the right word; she ached.
“How long have you been studying magic, Beatrix?” Mother asked her.
She met her gaze and knew it was a serious question. “I haven’t studied it at all,” she said.
How could she? If there were books in the library on such subjects, she had never seen them; and it wasn’t as if studying magic would do her any good if she wasn’t strong enough to use it.
“Interesting,” Mother said, and fell silent.
Beatrix stared out at the yard and tried to remember the last time she’d felt so drained. She could probably sleep right where she was—as uncomfortable as she knew it would be.
“But I used it,” Beatrix said quietly, flexing her aching fingers. She looked over at Mother. “Didn’t I?”
“You did,” Mother agreed. “It’s very unusual, you know, to use any magic without studying it first. Are you sure you’ve never studied anything?”
She tried to think back to all the books she’d read. A few had talked a little bit about magic—surface level explanations, mostly—but she had never actively studied it. “Yes,” she said.
“Well, you will be,” Mother said, a ghost of a smile flickering over her face. “You’re very talented with the sword, Beatrix, when you’re not holding yourself back.”
Phrased like that, she wasn’t certain it was a compliment.
Both parents had plans to go out for the day into town and did not wish to delay their departure, but rather than rush through breakfast, Mother very deliberately started the meal out by recounting the interesting morning they’d shared. “I’ve always recognized Beatrix’s talent with the sword,” she said, sounding pleased, “but now I’m convinced she’s a prodigy. Magic—and without study, no less!”
Livie smiled at her, and Bea lowered her gaze to her plate, trying to find the strength to lift her fork to her mouth; she knew she had to eat—especially now.
“I’m relieved to hear she has one singular talent,” Father replied as if she were not even present. “But what in the world is wrong with her?”
Mother laughed. “Nothing at all, Edric. Using magic takes a lot of…energy, I guess you could say. She’s just tired. Aren’t you, Beatrix?”
She made herself nod to keep the peace; she didn’t think she could manage to actually speak.
Father made a thoughtful sound. “It seems to have cured her incessant fidgeting, too,” he said; she had never heard him sound so approving in her life. “I’m impressed. Perhaps that was the issue the whole time.”
“Latent magical talent?” Mother asked. “It’s a possibility.”
“See to it that she studies the subject thoroughly, then,” Father said. “She should be the best at it, if she’s to be anything at all.”
Beatrix wanted to frown at him, but it took all of her concentration just to get her food to her mouth.
“Now we’re both on orders to be quiet and still,” Beatrix grumbled later, flopping down beside Livie on the settee in the parlor.
She’d had no choice but to lie down for the rest of the morning to recoup a little strength, and she had been dismayed to find she’d missed lunch. Fortunately, Miss Dixon took pity on her and let her sit in the kitchen to eat what remained of the meal.
Livie looked up from her embroidery project. “Are you feeling any better?” she asked.
“Yes,” she said. “A little. What about you?”
“It’s not so bad,” Livie said, “at least not this time. Mother said it might get worse as I get older, but so far I don’t mind it so much. It’s just…uncomfortable.” She lowered her voice. “I can feel it.”
“How do you mean?” she asked, sitting up.
“The blood oozing out of me,” Livie explained, and shuddered. “I have to admit…it’s a little disgusting.”
“Is it worse than the stomach cramps?”
Her sister looked thoughtful. “I’m not sure,” she said. “I think the blood is more inconvenient, though.”
“I hope I never get mine,” Beatrix said, making a face. “What are you making?”
“Mm…it’s going to be a field of daisies. But it doesn’t look like much right now.” She lifted the hoop to show her.
A few lines of blue were embroidered at the top to mark the sky, but most of the design was drawn on in pencil and didn’t look even a little impressive. Beatrix knew her sister’s skill well enough, though, to know it would look incredible when it was done. “I like it,” she said. “But I thought roses were your favorite?”
“They are,” Livie said with a grin, “but I thought I’d try something different. A certain handsome man likes daisies, actually.”
Beatrix bit her lip, but it wasn’t enough to smother her smile entirely. “Interesting.”
“Isn’t it? They’re pretty, too, I think—just in a very different way.” She set her hoop back on her lap. “Why don’t you get your needlework too, Bea, and then we can stitch together?”
She hummed thoughtfully for a moment and then got to her feet, heading over to the cupboard in the far corner to retrieve her own basket. If she was to rest quietly for the day, at least she could do something with her hands. She sat back down again, this time more carefully, and pulled out her own hoop…which was blank.
“Ugh,” she complained. Now she had to come up with a design.
“Maybe you should try something with roses,” Livie suggested, eyes squinting in amusement. “You can draw them, can’t you?”
Beatrix thought about it. She could draw a rose, thanks to having seen her sister do it a million times. She double-checked her hoop to be sure it was tight and started drawing out her design—which wasn’t elaborate, really, just a circular crown of roses and leaves all intertwined. It took ages to finish; Livie was done with half of her sky by then.
“What do you think?” Beatrix asked, handing it to her sister.
Livie looked it over carefully. “Ambitious,” she said at last. “But I like it; it was very artistic of you to include the thorns.”
Bea grinned. “They’re the cool part.”
“Every piece does need a ‘cool’ factor,” Livie agreed. “Maybe roses should be your favorite flower since they’re prickly—just like you!” She wriggled her fingers as if considering digging them into Beatrix’s side.
Bea jumped away a bit, prompting Livie to laugh.
“See? Look at you, prickly at the idea of being touched!”
“I’m not avoiding being touched,” Beatrix defended herself. “I’m avoiding being attacked! Unprovoked, even!”
Livie giggled and reached over to tap the tip of Bea’s nose with a finger. “You’re a little thorny,” she said. “At least when you’re awake.”
That could only mean one thing. “You were awake this morning and you didn’t even say anything?”
“I was resting!” Livie said innocently. “And you were very cute, cuddled up like that. I think it’s sweet that nighttime Bea loses her thorns.”
It was time to redirect the conversation. “What color should I use first?”
“What color do you intend to use for the roses?”
Livie liked white roses, and they always did look pretty, but Beatrix thought it might be best not to tread too near her sister’s territory. “I was thinking red and white,” she said. “White for the ones that will be surrounded by other colors, and red for the rest.”
“You just don’t want to stitch the entire background,” Livie teased.
Beatrix shrugged; she was right. It was a terribly boring chore. If she had to do needlework, she’d rather make something recognizable, not fill in a large blank space.
“I’d start with your greens first,” Livie said. “Now remember to alternate long and short stitches—and start with the darker colors.”
“Show me again real quick,” Beatrix said, scooting closer.
Livie pointed around the ring she’d drawn of flowers, at the intertwined stems and thorns. She mimicked a source of light and explained where it would fall on each stem and rose, and where the darkest parts of the pattern ought to be.
Beatrix nodded along, paying close attention.
When Livie’s voice trailed off, however, she looked first to her sister, and then followed her eyes to the doorway. Mother was leaning against it, smiling.
“I hate to interrupt,” she said, “but please get washed up for dinner.”
She hadn’t even heard the carriage wheels in the drive.
After dinner, all four of them retired to the parlor.
This time, Mother played the pianoforte and Father listened with his eyes closed; a rare treat. She was not as good at it as either of her daughters, despite having started lessons at the same time, but Beatrix supposed there was something admirable about the fact that she tried, regardless.
And Beatrix supposed if Mother could play with no shame despite her poor skill, then there was no reason she couldn’t work on her embroidery—even if the thought of either of her parents seeing it made her feel self-conscious.
She reluctantly reached for her needlework, and when she settled back onto the settee with it, Livie greeted her with an encouraging smile.
They worked together, just the two of them, while Father rested his eyes and Mother stumbled through his favorite songs. It was the nicest evening Beatrix remembered in years…and she couldn’t help but wonder if maybe Father was right—and the magic was the issue.
She still chewed on her lip as she drew her green thread through the fabric and still had to fight herself not to pull a leg up underneath her, but it was an improvement over her usual behavior or he would have snapped at her by now.
At eight-thirty, they were sent up to bed. Beatrix had to hold onto the banister to keep from tripping up the steps, and Livie kept turning around in front of her, worried.
“Are you sure you’re all right?” she asked when she helped her out of the dress she’d put on for dinner.
“Just tired,” Beatrix mumbled, reaching for her nightgown. “When will you be able to spar with me again? I gotta show you the magic…if I can…”
“A few days, maybe,” Livie said. “I hope you’ll sit with me tomorrow, too, though. It was nice.”
Beatrix managed a sleepy smile as she burrowed her way under the blankets and sighed with relief when Livie blew out the light. “It wasn’t bad,” she agreed, snuggling into her pillow. “Night, Livie.”
“Good night, Bea the Thornless,” she teased.
Beatrix tried to kick her under the blankets, but lost all momentum and only managed to press her foot to her sister’s shin before sleep promptly claimed her.
“Are you still bleeding?” Beatrix asked on Monday as they made their way home from school.
“Yes,” Livie said. “But please keep your voice down. That’s supposed to be private information.”
Bea sighed. She finally felt her usual self again, but couldn’t even claim Livie as her sparring partner to show her what she’d learned—which wasn’t much, admittedly. She tried to think positively about it: the delay gave her more time to study magic. Mother and Father had picked up several books in town for her to read—and one of them explained how to use various spells in great detail.
Half of her usual practice time was spent reading, now, but at least the material was interesting.
“Another needlework night, then,” Beatrix said after a little while, swinging her arm along with her bag as she walked.
“I’m surprised you haven’t grown bored of it yet,” Livie said with a smile.
“It is boring, but I guess boring isn’t all bad. I can think of other things while I do it.” Besides, her project still wasn’t finished yet. She was trying very hard to make it look nice.
“It’s a little like swordplay too, when you think about it,” Livie said.
Her attention was caught immediately. “What do you mean?”
“Well, a needle is kind of shaped like a tiny sword, isn’t it?”
Beatrix thought about it, and eventually nodded. They were kind of similarly shaped, even if the function and form were very different.
“And when you’re doing embroidery, you’re just stabbing something over and over again to create art.”
“A fair point,” Beatrix said, smiling. “And it’s satisfying, isn’t it?”
“To see the project come together or to stab something?” Livie teased.
“Both?”
She laughed. “You’ll join me this evening for some cloth-stabbing then, won’t you?”
“It would be my honor,” Beatrix said, and even stopped to offer her sister a mock curtsey before they both hurried home, giggling.
Over the next two days, Beatrix spent the first few hours after school practicing with her sword and reading about magic. And if she was correct, the ability she had somehow used by accident was none other than Shock.
It was hard to believe; she was only nine years old, after all, and Shock was an advanced ability—far beyond what she ought to have been capable of.
Mother disagreed, though. “It explains why you were so exhausted afterward, doesn’t it?” she’d asked. “An advanced ability was probably almost more than you could handle.”
Almost, Beatrix decided with a smirk—but not actually too much.
Still, she had decided to start with learning things that were smaller in scope—and therefore less risky. If she could build her tolerance up by getting used to lesser magics, then someday she could learn to use Shock without completely exhausting herself.
She’d decided to start with Cura. If Mother could use a little white magic, then there was no reason why Beatrix couldn’t do it, too. And perhaps it was silly to start with a moderately advanced spell when she couldn’t even cast Cure, but…well, her book didn’t have instructions for beginners! It probably wouldn’t hurt anything to skip a step, anyway, considering she’d accidentally used Shock on her mother in a sparring match—an ability that was recommended to much older—and much stronger—knights.
Holy knights, no less!
Which sparked her curiosity, of course. Was it possible, then, for her to learn Holy? She hoped so.
After several afternoons of studying Cura, she felt she had a basic enough grasp on how to use it—but she was lacking any real injuries to heal—the downside of having chosen a healing ability first. She would just have to wait, then.
And in the meantime, she practiced her sword, ate dinner quietly, and joined Livie in the parlor so that they could work on their embroidery together. Both of their current projects were nearly done, and it was with some satisfaction that they put their baskets away on Wednesday knowing that it wouldn’t take much longer to see both pieces finished.
Thursday afternoon, as they headed home from school, Beatrix broke the silence.
“Do you think we’ll have enough time tonight to finish stabbing?” she asked. They both called it that, now, at least in private.
“I want to finish mine before Mother puts us to work preparing for the party, too,” Livie said. The party was to be Saturday, but Friday they would probably have to help get things set up; Miss Dixon and Mr. Weston couldn’t do it all themselves. Besides, they had both been hard at work all week preparing for it.
“Should I skip practice this afternoon just to be sure?” she asked. She almost never offered to do it, but in this case, it made sense to.
Livie shook her head. “I have a better idea,” she said. “Why don’t I spar with you?”
Beatrix stopped, and Livie stumbled a bit, tugging on their linked arms. “You’re done?” she asked, not even bothering to hide her eagerness.
“Finally!” Livie said with a grin. “Rather than cancel your practice entirely, I think it might be fun to warm up together, and then spar a bit. We can stop early to work on stabbing, but this way we’ll have plenty of time to work on it—and I can finally lose to you again.”
“You never know,” Beatrix said mischievously. “You might win.”
And Livie did, but only because Bea couldn’t help but let her sister get in a clear strike against her bare arm—just to show off her ability to heal the bruise away again.
Unfortunately, it didn’t quite go as planned. Her sister didn’t smack her with the blade of the sword, but rather dragged the length of the blade down the inside of her right forearm in a strange sweeping strike. The friction burned and then tore through her skin.
They both stopped to stare at it.
“I guess it’s my turn to bleed,” Beatrix said, wincing as she tossed her practice sword aside and held her arm out away her to avoid anything getting on her clothes.
Livie’s face blanched white as blood dripped onto the grass. “Oh, no,” she said. “I—Should I get Mother? Some bandages?”
“No need,” Beatrix said. This hadn’t been part of her plan, but honestly, it was better—a more dramatic recovery. And thank goodness, too, because it hurt.
She took a deep breath and focused—reached deep inside herself. White magic was different than other types of magic. Shock felt as if it had sprung from her veins, hot and sparking, but Cura felt like a cool breeze when she reached for it. The injury hurt again as her skin knitted itself together—but she expected it, and held her concentration.
When she blinked her unfocused eyes again, some of the blood remained, but the skin had reformed. To her disappointment, though, the healed injury did not look as it did before. Frowning, she studied it closer: it had scarred.
Somehow.
Was Cura supposed to do that? She probably ought to have read further into the section on healing magic. Oops.
Livie was staring at her.
“What?” she asked.
“You let me land a hit on purpose,” she said.
“Well, yeah,” Beatrix said, flipping her hair over her shoulder. “I can heal now. I wanted to show you.”
“And now I’ve given you a scar!”
“It…” Beatrix looked at it again. “It’s not so bad,” she tried to say. It was, though. Most of the torn skin had healed just fine, but the friction burn had turned a brilliant, glassy white—and it went all the way from near the inside of her elbow and stopped just a couple of inches before her wrist. “I don’t mind.”
“Father will kill us both!”
“Then don’t tell him!” Beatrix hissed. She was a terrible liar and she knew it, but Father would never in a million years guess what had really happened. “I slipped climbing a tree and snagged my arm on a branch!”
Livie sighed, dropping her own practice sword. “I still wish you hadn’t done it, Bea. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“I know,” she said cheerfully. “It was my fault. I didn’t think anything would scar if it was healed fast enough.”
“Well, why don’t we just tell the truth then?” Livie asked. “Or closer to it, anyway. We could say that you told me you could use a healing spell, and that when I saw an opening I thought I’d strike at your sword arm to make you drop your weapon, because of course you could heal the bruise, but—”
“But,” continued Beatrix, “you didn’t strike as decisively as you meant to! And I was going easy on you, on account of how I almost hurt Mother last time. Father will forgive us if he thinks it was only a mistake.”
“On my part it was a mistake.”
Beatrix felt her ears burn a little. “I’m sorry,” she said. “It was my fault. Please don’t feel bad about it.”
Livie frowned. “But it’s permanent, Bea—you’ll have it forever.”
She tilted her head, confused. “I know how scars work.”
“I would hate to think I made anything in life more difficult for my own sister,” Livie admitted, quietly. “I hope your dream soldier has a few scars of his own so that he won’t mind you having one.”
Bea laughed and hitched her shoulders in a careless shrug. “It’s the military,” she said, and bent to pick up their practice swords from the ground. “We’ll all have scars.”
Notes:
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Baknami on Chapter 1 Wed 13 Nov 2024 08:12AM UTC
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