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Bernadetta’s room was her safe place. When she needed to be alone, or to escape, or both, she could always count on the warmth and comfort of her room. She wouldn’t let anyone step over the threshold and disturb her sanctuary of solitude, and she would never go into anyone else’s room and disturb theirs.
Yet here she stood, in Dorothea’s room surrounded by Dorothea’s things.
Dorothea had wanted to take her to her room to look at dresses for the upcoming ball. Bernadetta hadn’t wanted to go in. She’d frozen in place, arches on the threshold, rocking back on her heels so that her toes hovered above the floor. Dorothea had insisted she could come in, and when she didn’t, Dorothea dragged her in and shut the door behind them.
Shut the door. Oh, no.
Dorothea hummed, rustling through her closet, hangers clinking. Now and then she would say things like “oh, this old blue shift” or “green would look lovely with your eyes,” but Bernadetta didn’t really catch it. She was still trying to process being in someone else’s room, let alone another girl’s room.
Bernadetta stood stock-still, right in front of the door, heels firmly in place. It smelled so Dorothea-like in here. Dorothea was so soft and kind and pretty, and she always smelled like strawberries, vanilla, and sunlight. She smelled like the word “aria” sounded. No, she smelled like an aria itself, like the light and airy aria that a songbird would sing.
Bernadetta started hearing poems in her head. It was a normal writerly thing to happen, but lately it had been happening a lot when she was with Dorothea. She saw Dorothea coming up to her at the ball in a red dress, extending a hand, inviting her to dance. Sweet-smelling Dorothea, tall and beautiful Dorothea, charming and pretty and perfect Dorothea.
The head-poem went like this:
Sweeter than the old lyric the smell of you / shedding your uniform you’re clad in scarlet / when I ask for a dance you can’t deny / and I bow and bend because I have… “no choice?” No, that was too easy. And I bow and bend because I…
Dorothea grumbled, hands on her hips, staring into her closet. “Oh, I’m just not sure if any of my dresses or skirts will be the right length. Or if they’ll even fit you.” She turned around. “Bern? You okay?”
Bernadetta blinked. What was she thinking, composing head-poems while she was supposed to be looking at dresses?! She was terrible at this being-friends-with-Dorothea thing.
“Ye—Yeah, um, sorry, I had something else on my mind.”
Dorothea frowned, folding her arms. “You still look so overwhelmed. Have you really not been in anyone else’s room before?”
“I’m sorry. I just don’t know how to say it. This is just so… weird. I feel like I’m invading on your private space. Oh, why did I even follow her in? I just make everyone uncomfortable.”
“You’re not invading my space. I wouldn’t have invited you in here if I didn’t feel comfortable with you. Come on, let’s look at dresses.” She rushed back over to the closet, pulling out a long lavender dress embroidered with ornate flowers. “What a beautiful hue. And look at the needlework—it’s so you, Bern!” Then she reached for a very short dress that was a dark red. “Or something more daring, a deep crimson. The color of passion.”
The way Dorothea said “passion” made head-poems flow through Bernadetta’s mind anew. Ideas and images were rushing through her head and she could barely wrangle even one of them.
“They’re pretty,” Bernadetta offered, trying to remember her first head-poem and pay attention at the same time. “I like the purple one.”
“It’s more of a summer dress. But I know you said you don’t want a long-sleeved dress because you’ll have to roll the sleeves up… Oh! I have a better idea. You can wear my fur collar if it gets cold.”
All of the dresses in Dorothea’s closet were heavily worn, but the fur collar was especially ragged. Winters were usually temperate in Enbarr, but that fur collar looked like it had withstood at least five winters.
“I know, it’s quite old. Before I went to the opera house, this kept me warm for many nights on the streets. But in spite of all that, I’ve always thought snow was lovely. What if it snows on the night of the ball? It’ll be so picturesque. Like a scene from a storybook.”
Bernadetta always stayed inside when it snowed. It was safe inside, warm in her room. On the day she had gone out in the blinding white for the first time, she had lost her way, and then she’d met a boy. The boy played in the snow with her. He was very kind to her, and he even apologized when he pushed her too hard and she fell on her back. She came home with wet hair and a smile on her face, but as soon as she saw her father’s expression, she knew she had made a mistake.
She never saw the boy again. And she’d never had the chance to apologize to him.
“I don’t want it to snow,” Bernadetta said, very quietly.
“Hm?” Dorothea looked up from the dresses, then she breathed in. Her heels clicked as she walked over to the bed to set down her dresses, and then over to Bernadetta.
“Bern. Tell me. Are you still scared?”
Bernadetta shook her head. “I just can’t talk about it.”
“You don’t have to talk, but please. Listen.” Dorothea set her hand on Bernadetta’s shoulder. “Nobody’s going to come after you or after me. You know your father’s back in Enbarr, and so are all the nasty men from the opera. No one will hurt us, as long as we’re together.”
“I just don’t want it to snow. Bad things happen when it snows. Something bad might happen again, something really, really just terribly awfully bad, and then you’d find out that being my friend was the worst possible idea you could have ever—”
“Well, I don’t believe any of that. You know, it was snowing on the day I first arrived at the opera. So I, personally, think something wonderful is going to happen at this dance. And if it doesn’t, that’s not going to change how I feel about you.”
Thoughts of the snow had frozen the spring of ideas in Bernadetta’s head, but now her mind-fountain cascaded anew, her heart pounding in her ribcage.
“How you feel about me?” Bernadetta squeaked.
“Bern, I know you don’t think so, but I think you’re beautiful and radiant. You’re one of the strongest and sweetest girls I know. You remind me of… that sparkly shimmer when the sun reflects off the snow. No matter what you wear, no matter if it snows, you’ll glitter. So come on. Let’s find you a nice dress.”
A wave of emotions crashed over Bernadetta. She felt like a tiny clipper ship adrift in a dark winter storm. There were still chunks of ice in the frigid sea. But Dorothea was her lighthouse. And Bernadetta was the light reflecting off of those icebergs.
The poem was coming to her, fuller than before. She vowed to write it down as soon as she had paper. It was clamoring inside her like the secret words she so badly wanted to say to Dorothea, and she had to let it free. One day, she would let the secret words free, too.
Sweeter than the old lyric the smell of you
shedding your uniform for scarlet and blue
you offer your hand and I take my place
I bow and bend and fall into your embrace
my room is cluttered with things unarranged
they are as my thoughts, tangled and quaint
paths I take in my mind, they lead me to speak
and I envision your red lips staining my cheek
at night, you glow in dresses thinner than light
come to me treading lakes and air, in flight
you fall back and I’m caught up in your grace
it’s from your touch that I fail to escape
the turbulence in my heart undoes my sight
no matter how I twist, I return to you blind