Chapter Text
Agnes wakes with a start the night before the ball. There’s crickets chirping outside, the rustling of her curtains from the soft breeze, an easy stillness disturbed by the rush of Agnes' breath. She springs straight up, her hand clutching at her chest as she pants. A sob works its way up her throat, muffled when it escapes her mouth, and tears prick at the corners of her eyes.
In the dream, she was an Aunt. Brown robes adorned her figure, a rod clutched tightly in her fist, power ebbing from its interior, like just looking at it would sting. And when she spoke her voice was rough, determined, loud like a megaphone. She felt the sudden autonomy rush through her, buzz in her ears, her hands trembled at the mere idea of it. Of being one’s own.
She prowled the hallways of the academy, her rod dragging against the brick, ears pricked up and waiting for the slightest unacceptable movement. Outside girls twirled croquet racquets, swung them with intention, their hands flinching on the down stroke. They’d never been able to hit something else before. It felt like splitting the sea in half.
While watching them, she felt a presence over her shoulder, and when she turned her head, she was met with a vision of Becka. Her hair was loose and undone, her face soft and unguarded, like when they would hide underneath her blankets and whisper about the outside world. When they thought they would remain unknown, untouched by everything else besides each other.
In the dream Becka’s hand brushes Agnes’. She traces her pointer finger down the line of Agnes' wrist, slowly bringing her whole hand to clasp around Agnes’ own. The rod grows heavier in her palm, as their eyes met. Her own widen a fraction when Becka looks back at her, like she isn’t afraid of looking too long, of being suspected of something. A small grin pokes at the corners of Becka’s mouth, and she bites her lip to keep it from widening. At this her heart stutters, like someone manually squeezing it, her breath coming in shorter, sharper bursts. The rod slips from her grasp, rattling on the marble floor, but she doesn’t spare it a glance, as Becka’s head inclines toward her own. There’s a moment where their faces are inches apart, and Agnes can feel the heat of Becka breath on her lips, the tremor in her fingers where they still grasp Agnes’.
Then, she distantly feels her hand raise, poised beside her head, flat and open, palms spread like a beggar. She watches in horror as her fist closes tightly and her arm cocks back. But there is nothing to be done, as her fist collides with the soft underside of Becka’s jaw, sending her careening to the floor. Becka whips her head back toward her, her hand shaking where it clutches her face, looking up at her with barely disguised terror. She hardly recognizes her voice when she looks down at Becka, motioning for her to stand.
“Come now, get up. God does not have patience for wicked girls, Rebecca.”
School the next day is excruciating. Agnes winds through her classes, haunted by her dream, dazed when Becka brushes her arm, or steals a carrot off of her plate at lunch. It feels like her body is only now becoming aware of itself, a tragic moment of self-realization, wherein she feels Becka’s body move as though it were her own. Maybe, she thinks, when she pulled me out of the water, we fused together. Maybe it made us whole again, into just one thing, instead of two shallow halves.
Becka seems mostly aware of their predicament, though entirely focused on acting normal in sake of forgetting it. After all, the ball is only a few hours away, a clock ticking down. They are so close to womanhood they can taste it, see it in the distance, waving back and forth, like a white flag surrender.
Soon, men will look at them with a barely concealed sentiment— with lust and lewd appreciation. Agnes will step forward into the embrace of a man, and she will leave behind her memory of gentleness, of Becka’s arms guiding her through the movements, fingertips light on the small of her back. She remembers the feeling, their wrists touching, winding around each other in half-certain strides, her mouth catching on a grin as Becka wiggled her eyebrows.
There is little gentleness in a man’s embrace. They do not have to treat anything with gentleness. Society does not require it of them. They are protectors and warriors, strategists fending off terrorists. For them to learn gentleness would be to jeopardise our nation, to throw our careful lives into unbridled chaos. And so we must be willing to live with its absence. Must convert their abrasion into softness, their harshness into tenderness.
Agnes’ mouth twists softly. I don’t know that I’ve ever seen a man tend to something. Besides his scotch, or himself.
There’s a loud crash from a neighbouring table, and the sudden bark of an Aunt starles Agnes from her stupor.
She shakes her head softly, refocusing on her lunch, and the rapid conversation at her table. Shunamite leans over, elbows braced on the table, mouth moving a mile a minute as she interrogates Daisy about her former life in Toronto.
“So, pray. You’re saying you went to the same school as boys?” Daisy fights an eye roll as she smiles tightly.
“Yeah, it was just… normal. I didn’t even think about it.” Shunamite furrows her brow, mouth quirking to the side.
“But, weren’t you worried about being,” she lowers her voice before continuing, “corrupted?”
At this Agnes sits a little straighter. A sudden warmth crawls up her neck, and her eyes drift to Becka, sitting across the table. She wonders if she has been corrupted. If they both have, after her initiation. To think that the same day she became a woman is the same day she undoes it all. The same day she shed every sensible instinct, every alarm bell ringing in her ears. The soft feeling of her lips against Becka’s neck, like sinking her teeth into the serpent’s apple, swiping at the back of her hand to catch the nectar running down her chin.
Maybe Paula is right, she thinks. Maybe I am selfish. To go and ruin both of us at once.
Her gown is too tight when Agnes tries to stuff herself into it. Despite all the tailor appointments and adjustments, it feels too long, too small for the way she’s been standing outside and staring at the wild beyond her fenced yard. Paula tuts appropriately, sighs when Agnes pulls at her skirt.
“Would you stop fidgeting, it looks… good. You look nice.” Paula smiles, or tries to, but it comes out more like a grimace.
Agnes fights the urge to roll her eyes and say something snarky. The mirror stands innocently against the door of her bedroom, and when she catches a glimpse of herself in it, for a moment it looks like two shadows, instead of just one.
Her hand is in mine, even now. Even when we’re about to meet our future matches.
Agnes descends down the stairs, watching closely as the band of staff waiting for her take her in, eyes trailing from the top of her neckline down to her conservative stockings. Garth’s mouth twitches, a small movement, but he looks away before she can investigate further. When she gets to the bottom, teetering on her heels, she finds Rosa beaming at her, soft and full of words unspoken: I love you. You’ve got this. Instead she presses her lips together, smothering some motherly instinct. She winks.
“Under his eye, sweetie pie.”
Agnes grins, “Bye, Rosa.”
She spins around, flanked by her guardians, and is escorted into the car.
Shunamite bursts through the doors leading to the classroom. They’ve all holded up in their embroidery class, Aunts flitting back and forth, girls touching up each other's hair. She’s out of breath when she approaches their corner, face red with exertion.
“The commanders have arrived, the lower ones.” Daisy’s nose twitches, and she cocks an eyebrow.
“The lower ones?”
Shunamite shakes her head in annoyance. “Pray why am I always explaining things to you? Keep up. The greens have to dance with the lower ranked commanders before they bring out the high commanders.”
Daisy nods absently, eyes on the floor, her fingers fiddling with the ties of her dress. She clears her throat.
“Right, of course.” There’s a crash, and their heads whip around to find Jehosheba sprawled on the ground, girls crowding around her. Becka rolls her eyes, muttering something under her breath. She tucks a stray piece of hair behind her ears, and Agnes knows she’s staring, knows that her eyes are fixed on the way Becka’s lip is tucked beneath her teeth. But she finds that she can’t bear to look away, and when she closes her eyes she can almost feel the huff of Becka’s breath on her lips, the way she said Agnes’ name, like it had always existed in her mouth.
“Agnes? Hello?” Hulda waves her hand in front of Agnes’ face, eyebrows stitched together. “The commanders are waiting. Are you ready?”
Am I ready? She thinks. Do I have any other choice?
An arm loops through hers. Solid, grounding, the soft scent of lavender pressing against her. She feels Becka tilt her head toward Agnes’ ear, feels her slight tremble, straining on her toes.
“Are you nervous?” She whispers, hot breath brushing the delicate shell of Agnes’ ear, and she has to fight off a shudder at the sensation. Agnes gives into the impulse to tilt her head a little, exposing her neck to Becka’s waiting gaze. There’s a catch of breath, and she swears she hears Becka’s heart pound faster in her ribcage.
“Yeah. You?” Becka grins a little, smug almost, before slipping her arm out of Agnes’ grasp, walking toward the ballroom. She slows her stride, turning her head to face Agnes, smirk tugging at her lips. She drags her eyes up the length of Agnes’ body, eyes catching on her lips, before meeting her gaze. Her smile widens before she speaks, and Agnes is reminded suddenly of her dream.
“A little. The commander I want is in high demand, I’m not sure I’ll get a dance.”
She winks before turning back around, and Agnes feels a twist of heat in her abdomen. Agnes starts toward the door, each step drawing her closer to her inevitable marriage, and separation from herself.
She draws a deep breath, thoughtful.
Every minute we become closer and closer to being away from each other. She squeezes her eyes shut, balls up her fists— hears someone outside call her name. If she doesn’t look straight ahead now, she could almost pretend it isn’t happening. Jaw clenched, she begins to march toward the ballroom.
Bitterly, she swings the door open, and steps outside.
In two years we’ll have forgotten about all of our pinky promises.
What will happen is already happening. -M.A