Chapter Text
1993 - Buckingham Palace
“I cannot tell you how good it is to hear from you, but you must know I am particularly busy at the moment.”
Bentina Beakley received the phone call on a day no different from the one preceding it. Her young charges performed their rigid routine as she instructed. Watching aside, she smiled approvingly as the younger red-haired boy disarmed his older brother. He twisted his brother’s arm and grinned as his elder squirmed pitifully under him.
The butler approached, eyeing the spectacle with a calm expression. “Ms. Hanbilly, you have a call.”
Slight interest flickered in her gaze. Sunday was their assigned phone call. Unless, Melodie was particularly adamant about talking to her. Odette would make a concession for that alone. Concern immediately knotted Mrs. Beakley’s intestines.
No imagination was too dull to create a scenario where her family was in danger. However, an emergency would not have reached her notice in this mild manner. Whatever was going on, Mrs. Beakley assured herself that it was no worse than the washer failing or Odette being arrested again. Fortunately, the butler and children were oblivious to her abrupt yet short turmoil. Appearances were deceiving, and she perfected her cool, aloof mask. Taking the phone, she nodded at the butler and instructed the boys to finish the match.
“William, we will discuss your lack of focus later. Strong guard, Harry.” She assessed, waving them off with a gentle smile. “Now…”
“How bad is it when your six year old stages a union busting?”
Mrs. Beakley paused, then audibly groaned. “How do you do, Scrooge?”
It wasn’t a rhetorical question. Scrooge McDuck was the sort of friend she didn’t need to talk to everyday, an impossible considering their schedules, and she knew what she read in the papers and watched on the news held a grain of salt. But the intimacy? His somewhat skewed and exhausting attitude towards life wasn’t enough to make their friendship passive.
Mrs. Beakley had to admit she missed the sound of his voice. “What have you done to that child?” She asked, taking a seat on the bench.
Scrooge grumbled on the line. “I did nothing. I merely helped my daughter understand the socio-economics she’s learning in school.”
“Scrooge, Opal is six.”
“And she attends St. Bolivar Charter School.”
“I am surprised you chose that school.”
“It’s one of the best schools in the state.”
“That doesn’t charge tuition.” Mrs. Beakley said snidely. She didn’t mention that the school was predictably heavily canine populated. Which it was. She was a little curious about how Opal had adjusted to the transition.
Scrooge didn’t like talking about it. Although he boasted a loud talk, when the time came for him to let his golden egg attend public school and not the long term homeschool plans he had in mind, he hadn’t taken it well. Or that was what Ludwig gossiped.
She couldn’t help smirking at the director's chatter. She was sure the missing director embellished some parts of the story, but Scrooge’s panic at having to share something that was his wasn't out of range for him. He’d have to expose his precious child to this world, this troublesome world. It amused her to imagine Scrooge succumbing to anxieties parents were known to carry.
“Charter schools are fine academic institutions, especially after the generous donation.”
“That your wife donated.”
“She isn’t —,” he stopped shortly. Then sighed. “Opal has had an issue with socializing.”
Mrs. Beakley’s brow furrowed. “Really? She’s always struck me as exceptionally social.” Or rather, far more than most children her age. “She positively exhausted Melodie at their last outing.”
“Melodie is a little older than her, Bentina.”
Her beak pursed, but she conceded his point. “What happened?”
“It started with a school project.”
“A school project?”
“Yes!” Scrooge said defensively. “Mrs. Borzoi wanted to teach the children about socio-economics.”
“Oh no.”
“It isn’t as bad as it sounds.” Scrooge said earnestly.
His recounting was surprisingly honest. While it wasn’t nearly as bad as she feared, Mrs. Beakley couldn’t determine whether the results painted him in a remarkable or despicable light. She didn’t interject once during his spiel, observing the inflection in his voice as he defended his case.
“It isn’t my fault that Opal understood the lesson too well.” He concluded his retelling. “I only taught her that money management is important, and sometimes, you must acquire additional properties to make money. Certainly profitable businesses.”
Mrs. Beakley supposed a kinder woman or person for that matter would have gently explained where he went astray. But she didn’t have the patience for Scrooge McDuck.
“You taught your six year old daughter how to monopolize the candy system,” she said tersely, tone so strict that any attempt to defend himself waned almost instantly. “And then,” she continued, pinching the bridge between her eyes, “she learned alone how to dismantle unions that arose in protest.”
Scrooge was quiet on the other line. Several seconds passed until he spoke. “Yes, that summarizes things.”
Frustration swept out of her nostrils. “Do you have any idea how insane that sounds?”
“Again, it isn’t my fault my good egg took to our meeting too well.”
“Or the fact you practically raised her in your boardroom?” She said smartly. “Honestly, what did you expect?”
“Goldie did say I should have watched out for that.”
Mrs. Beakley’s disposition soured even further. “And where is her mother?” The way her question rolled off her tongue warned Scrooge she already knew the answer. It was only courtesy that compelled her to ask.
He drummed his fingers along the desk he was undoubtedly sitting behind. “Oh, you know Goldie.”
“Fortunately, I do not.” A lie but one she believed she was 100% entitled to say aloud. Mrs. Beakley knew Goldie O’Gilt well enough, no more than acquaintance or rather, no more than the file she’d read in SHUSH’s files before it mysteriously disappeared back in 1967.
“Anyway, I believe she’s in Dawson. She won’t tell me, you know. We talked about the conference I’ll attend with Opal’s teacher this week.”
“And?”
“I warned her that any more donations would make her and us look desperate.” He said sagely with a hint of irritation. “Opal is an intelligent child. The school administration doesn’t need to be bribed.”
“Certainly.”
“She said it was a thank you for…” Mrs. Beakley heard the scowl in his voice, the reluctance to speak more of the subject they were aware sat in between them. “For helping Opal’s progress.”
“It is a highly recommended school.”
Cold anger resonated in the silence, and Mrs. Beakley sighed. “Scrooge…” She said softly. “She’s perfectly normal, you know. Ludwig, before his disappearance, told me that she’s come a long way.”
He scoffed coldly. “Apraxia,” he said harshly. “She can speak just fine!”
“I’ll say the teacher’s phrasing could’ve been kinder, but you were able to get her help. That’s what matters.”
Another scoff, less cold and more amicable.
Mrs. Beakley smirked. “Helped her monopolize the candy system. Did she pass the project at least?”
“I said I taught her too well.” He griped. “It wasn’t nearly as bad as Donald’s science project.”
“Science project?” Mrs. Beakley asked with some worry. “Scrooge, you didn’t do anything to -,”
“He got into some of my old things. Might’ve turned a classmate into gold. Don’t worry, Hortense and Quackmore reversed it.”
Mrs. Beakley would’ve inhaled sharply in reproach if she hadn’t chuckled. “Oh, poor boy. He’s always stuck with all the bad luck.”
“Bah.” Scrooge scoffed. “He tried to cheat his way to an A. I’ll give it to him. The idea was clever, but if he only applied that shrewdness to studying. But then…well, I certainly didn’t have the time to worry about school.”
“And fortunately, we now have truancy laws.”
The bristling cold in his voice - the implication that his little girl was less - thawed over. It was easy, Beakley realized, to divert his attention when using his family. Mostly the children. He’d never admit it aloud, but his niece and nephew had done something to him, though Beakley couldn’t properly put it in words. A marvel on its own. Her vocabulary was comprehensive and extensive. The fact she couldn't describe it attested to Donald and Della's effect on him.
This thaw, or whatever it was, led to the unpredictable, surprising laying that resulted in the child that was just under discussion. She supposed it was best not to bring it up. Conversations as mild as this weren’t frequent for them, or really, any conversation at all. She was busy. He was busy. As time moved forward, aging them, their time apart grew wider. It made sense. It was a natural progression of life. Marriage. Children. Work.
But Bentina Beakley had to admit that despite the few people she called friends, and the number was embarrassingly low, she was pleased to have heard from this one. Disregarding his less than charitable attitude.
“And you?” His question crackled through the silence, and she raised her head as if he was standing right in front of her.
“Me?” It was embarrassing to admit the question disarmed her.
Scrooge sighed idly. “Yes, 22.” He said firmly, a quiet, gentle reprimand. “How are you? How’s Odette? Melodie?”
With a quick startle, she smirked. “I’m surprised you’d ask about Odette.”
“She’s a nuisance -,”
“Mr. McDuck.”
“No worse than Goldie.”
“Scrooge.”
Humor softened his tone. “Got you, but yes…how is…Melodie? Hm? I suppose Odette isn’t getting arrested again.”
“The officer was undercover.”
“As was the one Goldie assaulted,” he hummed proudly. “They had their reasons.”
“Honestly, -,”
“Honestly, what?”
Another unusual inquiry left Mrs. Beakley perturbed. She wasn’t used to this much interest in her life from her former partner. Scrooge was, after all, quite self-absorbed. Infamously so. But this was different. While still ridiculously self-absorbed, he was moderately interested in her family dynamic.
There was a reason.
A good reason, Beakley believed.
Yet, while he waited patiently, another unusual feature of this not new but not entirely identical Scrooge, Beakley realized she didn’t want to fully confide in him about her family. At least, not now. However, she knew there was a catch. Any curtailing would reveal far more than she’d like, and she couldn’t have that.
“Fine.” She sighed, setting her left knee atop her right. “Odette is quite displeased with me.”
“Why?” For some unfathomable reason, her chest ached at the understanding in his voice. “Don’t tell me…”
“I accepted the director position.”
“Oh.”
“Yes.”
“Congratulations?”
“Thank you.”
“I’m not entirely sure what to say in such situations.” He had the audacity to sound exasperated. As exasperated as a parent. Mrs. Beakley could feel the crinkles in her wrinkles suddenly and abruptly iron out. “Isn’t this what you’ve wanted?”
“What I want?” She asked dubiously, almost too stunned to connect that he, of all people, had asked such things.
Of course, she wanted to say yes. A definite, confident, possibly arrogant yes. One didn’t become a spy without some form of ambition. Some agents wanted to be the best agent they could be. Others wanted to rise above the rest in skill and prowess, carving a name in history, no matter how unknown it was to the common populace. But she? No. Not Bentina Beakley. What she wanted, the moment one fateful and indiscreet encounter led her to Ludwig Von Drake’s office, was control.
And this was, in a way, the ultimate form of it. Naturally, Mrs. Beakley didn’t see it that way. She’d be able to administer assistance and protection from a more confined space, but being able to orchestrate the aid had a certain appeal to her. It was what needed to be done, and she’d do it gladly.
All of that was what she probably should have told her longtime friend. Despite his self-centeredness and fantastically swollen ego, he would have validated her feelings, her ambition. After all, someone like him, the richest duck in the world, had to respect someone whose ambition was similar to his.
Perhaps, that was the reason why she kept her tongue low and mouth shut. Having his validation, his approval, would have confirmed everything Odette had told her last Sunday. The disagreement, as Beakley found the phrase argument too unseemly. It was like coffee grinds tucked away at the bottom of the mug, murky, dank and all around spoilt on the tongue.
Clearing her throat, she elaborated on her question. “I want the world to be safe. For Melodie. You should want the same as well, Scrooge.”
“Safe?” He laughed hoarsely. “What fun is it to be safe? Besides, this world is full of trouble. I’d rather have my bonnie lass be able to get around it or out of it if she can.”
By the way he talked, she knew instinctively he spoke from experience, but this was the threshold of their friendship Mrs. Beakley had never crossed. And didn’t plan to. He was an old man, far older than she was, and it was only right for her to respect the chapters of his story he’d omitted from his multiple authorized biographies.
When he wanted, if he wanted to, she may be inclined to listen. And if, when that day ever arrived, she’d lament that for a man who seemed to have everything in the world - anything and everything money could buy - a solemn shroud draped his shoulders. Mrs. Beakley believed he’d deceived himself into believing he was invulnerable. Even now, Mrs. Beakley was certain her old friend knew better.
“I suppose you make a point,” she conceded with a laugh. “I do want Melodie to be strong enough to survive this vile world.”
“Opal will .” He said vehemently. The rattle of pens and the phone line jingled in her ear when his fist pounded the desk. “I just need to show the teachers at St. Bolivar that I’m raising a future business leader of the world. And once —,”
“Scrooge?“
A curt silence followed, then was immediately disrupted by a child’s giggle. “Papa! Papa! Auntie Aphroducky is here!”
“Aphroducky?”
Scrooge groaned. “Aphrodite,” he elaborated. “One of her blasted godmothers. Hestia and Io weren't enough, apparently.”
Mrs. Beakley smirked. She found his resistance to the concept amusing. Always had. “Having an actual goddess for a godmother has come in handy, hasn’t it?” She smirked.
“She’s a busy body and spoils Opal.” She could hear his eyeroll. “Who gifts a child with beauty as fair as the dove and swan?”
“Aphrodite, apparently?”
“I wouldn’t have minded Athena, but no…she was on vacation.”
“Scrooge.”
“Anyways, Opal’s now with her. She usually comes when she feels Opal needs some extra maternal care. It’s weird. Godlings usually reach adult maturity after seven days or so.”
She leaned back and sighed. “There Aphrodite was, standing fully grown after Ouranos lost his —,”
“Papa, may you play with me?”
The child’s sweet inquiry startled Mrs. Beakley. She sounded much older yet exactly how a six year old should sound. Mrs. Beakley assumed she never left the room by how Scrooge sighed, that exasperated yet delighted swoon all parents mastered at some point.
“Darling Opal, you see I am on the phone. You know what that means.”
The child sighed. “But it’s Mrs. Beakley, and she is not business people like Mr. Buzzard.”
Mrs. Beakley chuckled. “Sharp eared, little one.”
“Thank you! How do you do?”
“Very well.” Glancing at the clock overhead, she concluded their conversation. Opal sounded only a little disappointed, asking when she’d see Melodie again.
Scrooge complained lightly. “It is difficult being the baby in the family. Donald and Della are nearing their teens now. They don’t want a meddling bairn. Eider’s boys are kind enough when she visits though.”
"And Daphne's?" She asked diplomatically.
Scrooge snorted. "That layabout will not infect my girl."
Bentina chuckled. "Ah, yes, must be your unlucky day when all of the children visit."
Scrooge grunted, then sighed. "Occasionally, the lad has his uses."
“How charming. Well, I must admit it was pleasant hearing a familiar voice.”
“Aye,” Scrooge agreed. “Don’t be a stranger, Bentina.”
“Shouldn’t I be saying that to you?” She countered, knowing what he said was remarkably accurate. But she didn’t want to leave this conversation on a sour note.
“Now, go, Scrooge. Go fly a kite or some other childish thing with your daughter. They don’t stay young forever, you know.”
“Aye, I know.”
There it was. That sadness. It was more than mortality reminding him of what would be. There was loss, but she couldn’t define what the loss was.
“Take care, Mrs. Hanbilly.” Then the line went dead.
She liked to believe he did play with Opal later. Be it night or afternoon. Whatever hour it was in the States. Then, unable to untangle her nerves, she glanced down at the phone and sighed.
When Melodie asked why her mother called at such a ghastly hour, Mrs. Beakley laughed and said, “You won’t be young forever, dear, and Princess Diana says hello. I’ll be sending a gift of hers to you soon.”
Bribery was the lowest form of parenting, Beakley believed, but it did earn her some brownie points. It was Princess Diana, after all.
—
2017 - Dawson City
When Daisy told her family she was taking a small trip to Canada to meet with a friend, her sister warned her about the dangers of catfishing.
“I have watched enough ID Channel shows and listened to my fair share of True Crime podcasts to spot a potential victim. White, female, attractive, and some friend in Canada?” Dahlia listed each item off using her fingers. “You’re a dead white girl walking.”
Daisy spared her sister a dry glance as she packed her luggage. “Dahlia, you’ve met Dickie.”
“Doesn’t mean I know her or her family. For all we know, she’s been adopted by a family of cannibalistic bears!”
“So they eat other bears?” Daisy asked, unsure how she managed to hold in her impatience. “I’m not a bear, so I should be okay.”
“I don’t know!” She said before jabbing Daisy in the chest with her finger. “And neither do you.”
Her sister’s paranoia was slightly understandable. The stereotyping? Not so much. After all, she’d known Dickie only for a few months, but Dickie seemed like a normal, slightly frivolous twenty one year old. Compared to the other twenty-one year olds Daisy saw on campus, Dickie was positively mature.
That was where they met, you know. Campus. More specifically, an art class. A freshman level visual arts class. Daisy’s advisor warned that her journalistic exploits were clogging up her curriculum. To maintain a versatile resume, she needed something that stepped away from her mandated courses, so between ballroom dancing and visual arts, she chose visual arts.
And after arriving thirty seconds before class started, she climbed up the stairs to reach the last available seat. Right next to a one Dickie Duck.
“Everyone calls me Dickie” Dickie explained, after offering her a mechanical pencil. Daisy had forgotten her laptop, and her iPad’s 20% dramatically fell to 10%. “But for legal purposes, I’ll say my real name is Ricarda.” Then she grimaced, as if she bit into a too tart, too sour lemon pie. “So archaic.”
Daisy laughed, because Ricarda wasn’t a fairly old-timey name. “But it’s pretty.” Daisy insisted. “And besides, that’s the name you’ll use on any professional work you do.”
“Yeah, I guess.” She hummed. “I’m thinking of getting it legally changed, but my Gigi will never have it.”
What started with casual conversation and a pencil exchange developed into hanging out after classes at the local cafe. From there, phone numbers and Waddle handlers were exchanged, and now, what was a few months felt like at least five years of knowing each other. Dickie was kind. Not nice. A little too bubbly for Daisy’s taste but genuinely sweet and possibly totally loaded.
“Oh, my Gigi sends gifts.” She frowned at the purse she lifted out of the box. “But this one is new?”
Daisy gawked, nearly speechless. “That’s a Hermes Kelly Rose Gold purse,” she managed to push out. “H-how?”
Dickie blinked. “To be honest, she probably knows Hermes. I’ll ask her about it, but I really don’t need it.”
Which was how Daisy acquired a two million dollar purse with actual wings. Despite her protests, the purse continued to fly back to her, and eventually, Daisy learned returning a magical gift wasn’t as easy as returning it to the sender.
“So…” Daisy said, studying the purse’s explicitly defined wing design. “Your grandma travels a lot?”
“Sorta like that. She takes care of her hotels and all.”
For a girl who wasn’t exactly shy, Dickie’s discretion surrounding her family surprised Daisy. She almost appeared guilty when she explained her family makeup.
“It’s just Gigi and I and Mama and Papa and Baby.”
“Mama and Papa? So you’re parents?”
Dickie paused, then laughed. “Sorry, her parents. It’s what everyone calls them. Baby is actually my uncle. His real name is Blackjack Jr., but you can see why no one calls him BJ.”
Daisy winced. “Yeah, I see why.”
So she called him Mr. Blackjack, upon landing in Dawson City. The airport was the tidiest she’d ever seen, and the massive, tall grizzly bear was waiting at the entrance. His arms were raised with his claws clasping a white board. Daisy F. Duck.
Dickie, she wanted to complain, but she couldn’t deny the flutter in her chest when she saw someone holding a sign with her name on it. Isn't that what she always wanted? Recognition?
But she was confused by the bear. Dickie hadn’t mentioned her family’s species. Daisy assumed they were ducks, and as she greeted the statistically massive grizzly bear, she remembered Dickie mentioning her grandmother was adopted into the family. She also recalled Dahlia’s warning about cannibalistic bears. I’m a duck, she assuaged, waving at the bear holding the sign.
“Hello? Mr. Black Jack?”
“Daisy!” He said with a distinctly and unbelievably warm Canadian accent, or what Daisy presumed was one. “Come on, dear, you can call me Uncle Blackjack, and we’ve got a long road ahead of us.”
Dickie warned that although her Gigi held property in Dawson City, she usually traveled further north to an equally old claim she abandoned years ago. Or was abandoned the accurate word for their situation? If she ventured here and there for repairs, then the property wasn’t exactly abandoned. Daisy tried to retreat to her classes. What did her instructors say about bridging gaps between interviewer and interviewee?
“So…” Daisy said, trying to fill in the silence. “You’re Mrs. O’Gilt’s brother?”
Uncle Blackjack grinned. “One of them, I suppose.” He said with a long row of sharp, ivory white teeth. Genetics were unusual, but she tried not to focus on the menacing gleam for too long. It was just his teeth. He couldn’t help that. “Ma and Pa adopted her when we were kids. Of the two, I’d say she’s the favorite. Mama and Papa always wanted a little girl.”
So their parents were bears. Question after question tickled Daisy’s curiosity. It was more than unusual when carnivores, grizzly bears at that, adopted herbivore animals. But a bear and a duck? There’s a story behind it, Daisy mused, shaking her head. That wasn’t why she came here. She came to see Dickie and prove to her communications teacher she possessed adept interviewing skills. By interviewing the world’s most reclusive millionaire.
“So…what’s she like?” Daisy asked Uncle Blackjack, at his insistence. “Hardly anyone knows Goldie O’Gilt exists.”
Uncle Blackjack smirked. “She’s a hardass, but I guess it really depends on who you are. Dickie probably sees her as the sweetest, most doing grandma around.”
“Is she?”
“Dickie would probably say no.”
Daisy was tempted to remark that most grandmothers reserved two million dollar purses with wings for their wills, not a casual gift their granddaughter never asked for. But she sensed the old bear already knew about the purse and any other eccentric gifts Dickie received.
“Dickie said her grandma sometimes visits some old property in the Klondike?”
Uncle Blackjack sucked on his teeth. “White Agony Creek?” He said, surprised Daisy knew of the term. Or that Dickie had told her? Daisy couldn’t tell. “Oh, yeah, she’s there right now. She goes there every few decades for repairs. She says it’s to make sure there isn’t any gold left, but we all know they dried it up back in 1953!”
They? Daisy paused, brain snaring at the word. 1953? Dickie was 21. Her grandmother could be in her seventies, possibly eighties. Well, eighty was the new sixty these days. Her mom carried herself like a woman in her fifties when she neared her sixties. But who were they ? What an innocuous term that contained so much power. Someone else was with Ms. O’Gilt when she found the gold. Who were they? What was their relationship with her?
Daisy didn’t think it was Uncle Blackjack or Mama or Papa. Shaking her head, she moved to the window and watched the wilderness broaden around them. The wild always seemed…dangerous in ways most people didn’t realize, or perhaps, they did. Daisy was a city girl through and through, having grown in a modest neighborhood with less than modest neighbors. The wilderness was endless, wide, and terrifying. The more they drove into it, the more she feared being sucked into it. Alone. Devoured.
“She’d never admit it,” Uncle Blackjack said, “but she appreciates nature.”
“Huh?”
His black marble eyes narrowed, and she fought the urge to not sink into her seat. “Goldie, I mean.” He grinned. “She appreciates the finer things in life, but deep down inside, really deep, she’s an outdoorsy gal. That’s why she comes up here every now and then, to relish in the past. Make sure you put that in your book.”
“Book?” Daisy blinked, then chuckled nervously. “Oh, no. I’m here to see Dickie.”
“And to interview Goldie?” He smirked knowingly.
She didn’t know if that was a warning or just a knowing comment. “I’m not exactly subtle, sure,” she conceded. “Dickie invited me to meet her grandma, and sure, I’ll say interviewing the most reclusive yet ridiculously wealthy hotel owner ever would be amazing. But that’s not totally why I’m here.”
“You’re here to shoot your shot with Goldie.”
“Yes, definitely.”
“And no shame?”
“None.” Daisy sulked, arms crossed. “I had a great internship lined up before someone decided they deserved it just as much as I did.”
“Did they?”
The right thing to say was probably. Probably was the closest thing to honesty Daisy would ever get to concerning the subject. Instead, she crossed her arms and scowled.
“She likes to believe she does.” She compromised, more with herself than the older bear driving the jeep. “I don’t think I’d get far with Ms. O’Gilt, but I’ll try not to get hurt.”
“You tell me, kid.” Then the jeep lurched to a sharp stop. “Cause we’re here.”
Whether Daisy’s gasp was full or shock or delight or both was to be determined. Either way, she spun to the window with wide eyes and saw the cabin only a few feet away. It was small, dainty but looked better than she imagined an aged cabin to appear. She must really be into renovation projects, Daisy thought as she climbed out of the jeep.
Her heels weren’t suited for the rocky terrain, but she made do with worse circumstances. Uncle Blackjack climbed out behind her, eyeing the cabin carefully. Daisy didn’t wait for him, quickly rapping her knuckles across the front door. Which was likely the only door, seeing the cabin was so small.
This is how people used to live, Daisy pressed a hand to her heart, oh Gods, they didn’t have toilet paper. No 3 ply toilet paper. How did they manage?
As she mused about the inconveniences of the past, a shot rang out. A loud, ear piercing shot. Suddenly, Daisy wasn’t standing anymore. She was on her stomach, lying flat on the ground with her hands covering her head (ruining her hair), as Uncle Blackjack’s stomach scraped loudly against the hard rocks below. He didn’t get the chance to make it to the front porch.
“Goddammit!” He shouted angrily. “What the hell, Goldie?”
“Goldie!?” Daisy exclaimed.
But the shots rang out five more times, five more times until silence returned, and Daisy lied on the front porch, feeling splinters tease her fairly fragile and delicate feathers hidden away behind her blouse. She stayed put. Don’t move. Don’t panic. But importantly, do not move. So she didn’t move. She didn’t breathe. Eyes closed, heart racing, she thought back to her family, her friends, and wondered if this was the day she was going to die.
“Gigi, what is wrong with you?” A strangled, obviously annoyed voice resonated through the dense forest. “You can’t go around shooting willy nilly! Someone could get hurt!”
“You don’t hear anyone groaning in pain, do you?” Replied an unmistakably dry toothed woman. “And besides, it got the bears off the trail, didn’t it?”
“But you could’ve -,”
“Goldie.” Uncle Blackjack roared. “Have you lost your mind?”
Able to stand, the grizzly dusted off his shirt and marched around the house, waving his fists in the air. “You nearly killed us and most importantly, me! Ma said not to go shooting near the cabin!”
“It isn’t her cabin!” The woman shouted back. “And I wasn’t shootin’ near it. I shot around it. Saw some poachers nearby.”
Then Daisy, as she tried to steady her feet, heard gentle grumbles and mumbles before someone asked, “Is Daisy with you?”
“Uh…yeah?”
There was a moment between standing, gripping the porch’s railing, believing she must have died and entered limbo, and Dickie gripping her shoulders, shaking her furiously.
“Daisy? Daisy? Gigi, y’see any blood?” Panic tightened her throat, giving her a shrill screech.
Heavy boots followed behind Dickie, and Daisy tried repeatedly to interject. She wasn’t dead. She wasn’t wounded. Terrified? Through and through, but in her mind, this was a small price to pay for her future endeavors. Speech retracted itself, and she stumbled over her sentences, unable to free them.
Someone cupped her cheeks, patted her down, and sounded understandably furious. “Gigi, we can’t add involuntary manslaughter to your arrest record.”
“Meh.” The older woman said, lowering her shotgun. “There’s no blood, no screams. She’s alive and healthy. And if she isn’t, she seems strong enough for a potion or two. It’ll keep the lawyers off my back.”
“What about me?” Uncle Blackjack said, right foot on the bottom step. “I ain’t getting any?”
Ms. O’Gilt, for she couldn’t be anyone else except her, whirled her pale blonde head around and glared. Dim traces of glamor clashed with her overalls and suspenders and boots. They didn’t seem to fit her, but she seemed comfortable, at ease and home in her dense brown boots.
“I don’t want Ma complaining.” She said sharply, swinging the door open. As she stalked inside, Daisy got the distinct impression she was adamant on refusing any sort of pleasantries most old ladies were known for conducting.
No tea and cookies. No how do you do? Not even a, “Dickie has spoken so much about you!”
The Ice Queen of Dawson perched on her throne, assessing this threat to her domain. Daisy saw an accusation in the side eye that met hers as she entered her cabin. It didn’t matter that Daisy was a guest, invited by her presumably beloved granddaughter. Nor did Ms. O’Gilt show any concern for the potential lawsuit Daisy could have initiated.
Because as she followed her friend and uncle inside, Daisy reconciled with the fact that she’d stumbled into a whole lot of trouble.
And she didn’t mind one bit, even when the screen door swung to a squeaky, rickety close.