Chapter Text
The winter had passed, spring and summer had come and gone, and autumn had set in, nuzzling itself into the land of the Unknown. Leaves from the oak trees, birch trees, and ash trees and most other kinds but the Edelwood had fallen in sprinkled shades of reds, oranges, and yellows. No one had seen the Edelwood trees for many months, not even in the deepest parts of the forest. No one missed those dreadful, grotesquely grown mysteries of nature, and folks thought it was better this way. The trees that did grow in the forest stood firm against the north wind which was, rather uncharacteristically, soft that afternoon. Some of the leaves that had fallen to the earthy floors were swept up and pranced about in the faded blue sky. Most of the leaves, however, stayed in their bunched heaps, just ripe for stomping around on and jumping into.
Beatrice found herself smiling at her young brothers and sisters who were outside, doing just that. She imagined Greg out there with them, prattling about rock facts and rolling about in the windblown leaves, mud collecting on his trousers and sticks weaving themselves into his little locks. He and her siblings would have gotten along famously.
All children seemed to go through a stage when they believed they were indestructible—belief that the world was really, very simple and straightforward and that they could not be taken down by concepts like mortality. Wirt probably tried to talk this common sense into his brother before, but as far as Beatrice could tell, he’d given up. Wirt let his brother understand the world in his unique perception, though that may have been due to the stress that seemed to consume Wirt at a constant rate. In any case, if Greg would have been outside helping the way he believed he was, Wirt would have been raking with the older children. He’d mumble those weird verses of poetry under his breath as the younger children would race circles around him, pulling at his cape and further soaking themselves in grim and decomposing leaves.
No, Beatrice snapped harshly at herself. Not this nonsense again. She stood up suddenly from her seat by the window, causing the chair to squeal unnecessarily against the uneven floorboards. She left her sewing on the window ledge and peeked into the kitchen. Her mother was still there, preparing the festive dinner and whistling softly to herself.
Beatrice had heard the song before. Her mother claimed to have learned it from the wind in the trees during their time as birds. An ancient tune that the forest had carried for eons, the song was like a souvenir from a strange dream. But it hadn’t been a dream, Beatrice knew well. After all, there were constant reminders everywhere—like her younger siblings and their refusal to wear shoes, how they curled their toes when they horsing around and pushing each other. It was traces of that instinct to grip with their feet, to use their claws and dig into the ground or around a branch to find stability, security, and safety. Sometimes she noticed her father shiver, and how he would shake in a wave of tremors from head to toe, as if resettling invisible feathers. It was these small things that brought both small pleasures and torment simultaneously.
Beatrice had vowed to forget the two tender-hearted friends she had met in the woods as a bird. But like the traces of having done “bird-time” in her family, she found traces of the brothers everywhere as well. There was no escaping them. Reminders shadowed her all across the forest, in the towns, on the roads, in the sleet and snow, in the vegetables she cut for dinner. Her memories would not let them fade into the back of her mind and stay silent. At first, she had tried to deny they existed in the first place. That hadn’t worked for long, as her mother pestered Beatrice for the mysteriously determined boy’s identity, his relation to her, why she had left Wirt in her mother’s care. Soon she was eaten away by anger, seething and calling them foul names, enraged that they had not stayed longer, enraged that Wirt had not tried to convince her harder, enraged that they had left her anyways.
She was being selfish, she realized. Wirt and Greg were home, among the people who loved them and where they belonged. Their home and lives had different challenges they would confront and different rules to abide by. No life was an easy path through the woods, everyone had obstacles to face. Wirt and Greg had faced many with her, but now it was time the brothers faced new challenges alone, and it was time she did as well.
“Go on and get ready, dear.” Beatrice’s mother said without turning around. “They’ll be here soon.”
“Don’t you have any dirt for me to taste?” Beatrice teased, standing at her usual post beside her mother. She had grown fond of the bird gags her family told. It was one big inside joke that no one else understood, and that made Beatrice feel whole. Dropping her tone, she said more sincerely, “Oh mom, can’t I help with something? Maybe I’ll go check on the stew? Should I prepare the—” Her mother hit her hand with a wooden spoon. Beatrice recoiled, rubbing the spot with an annoyed grimace.
“The only thing you can help with is putting on that dress and ruffling your feathers in way that is presentable.” The woman chirped.
“But mom…”
“No,” her mother pressed. “Now shoo! I will not have my daughter slaving away in the kitchen before such an important evening.” She stopped to wipe her hands on a rag.
“Please mom, I want to talk about this,” Beatrice pursued gently. She realized this was somewhat out of character for her, but her mother was much more sensitive about the topic at hand than Beatrice and she didn’t want to upset her by using the wrong tone of voice. “I’m ready to leave the family, but to a man I’ve never met before? I don’t know about this. Can’t it wait a little longer?”
There was a small moment of silence before her mother strategically whipped out an onion and began to peel it. “You’ll be fine, Beatrice. Leaving the nest to make another nest is the nature of all living creatures. The natural order. I’ve seen other animals do it, and I did it when I was your age. Your father and I are very happy together. You have nothing to worry about.” Her mother put the knife down and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “Besides, you look ethereal in that dress. Have you worked on your fan signals? I’ve left a fan for you on my table.” She sighed. “Oh, Beatrice, only a man blind and stupid would turn you away.”
That’s not quite what I’m worried about, Beatrice thought, but kept to herself. “Thank you.” She gave her mother a nervous smile, not that she would have seen with her back turned, and climbed the stairs solidly. Each foot felt heavier than the next time she lifted it, having come to a complete stop by the time she reached her shared bedroom with her three sisters. There, on the small wardrobe, was the dress her mother had finished sewing just the night before, laid out carefully without a misplaced wrinkle or crease.
Beatrice had personally sewn the pieces of delicate fabric together herself, but her mother had insisted on doing the embellishments with silver thread. Besides, Beatrice had never been very talented with needlework. It had taken her mother nearly three weeks of continuous effort to finish the curling, vine-like patterns around the bottom of the skirt, the hem of her sleeves, and the neck and waistlines. During that whole time, Beatrice had rigorously overseen her mother’s work in case she went and over-embellished (such as adding bows or beads or lace and ruffles) in attempts to beautify an already wonderful masterpiece with money they did not have to spend materials on. In any case, the dress was breath-taking. She would have worn it just to display her modest mother’s skills and the labour of love.
Beatrice snapped out of her nervous trance, stepping into the room and lifting the blue gown by the shoulders. Right, she thought. I can do this.
<oOo>
A little while later, the door opened and the sound of many heavy boots stomping through the entrance and laughter flooded the mill. Beatrice swallowed hard, hidden in the shadows of the stairwell while her siblings had stopped in their murmurs to stare at the guests. She heard her father’s voice first, calling to her mother with joy ringing in his words. There were more sounds of shuffling shoes against the worn wooden floor, and her mother’s muffled exclamations caused Beatrice to reach out for the handrail. I’ve faced vegetable-dressed skeletons, a yarn witch, and the nightmare of the forest known as the Beast. She could face this, there was no need to cower, no reason to flee. She was in no danger. Beatrice’s grip loosened and she let her hand on the rail lead her down the creaky staircase.
“What handsome company we’re in this evening!” She heard her mother say. “Let me just tell you how impressed John and I were by Harold’s letters. You, young man, have very refined writing. What did you say your occupation was again?”
Beatrice squinted a little as she entered the lit room, scanning the place until she spotted the two strangers who were unbuttoning their thick wool coats. The way their clothes were crisply sewn, the golden buttons, the sharp newness of their sleeves and collars—they were very wealthy, anyone would be able to tell. Their shoes shined even in the shadows of their trousers (a plus for the ladies), their ascots coloured purple and blue, hair combed back slickly and white gloves on each hand. Both were roughly the same height and were the spitting images of each other. The one in blue looked like a decade or so older but overall quite well-aged, and the younger in the purple, with his clean-shaven face, seemed to be in his twenties.
“Without further ado, I would like to introduce my daughter,” her father grinned, turning to the staircase where Beatrice stood all dolled up in the dress she and her mother had made together, hiding the bottom half of her face with the antique fan her mother had given her for the occasion. The young one in the purple blinked at her with an expression she could not quite decide was more astonishment or confusion. The blue-ascotted man smiled at her and beckoned her closer. Beatrice walked across the floorboards as delicately and gracefully as she could manage, feeling unnerved as the one in purple continued to stare at her. Luckily he had the self-control to stop his jaw from dropping.
“Enchanté,” the one in blue said humorously, kissing her knuckles. “I’m Douglas Turner, a friend of your father’s. This here is Harold, my nephew. You two have been exchanging letters, and I would like to praise you for your intellectual writing. Quite the diplomat! Isn’t that so, Harold?”
Harold, who had finally seemed to be conscious of his surroundings, snapped out of the distressing daze and cleared his throat. “Harold Douglas—erm Turner, Harold Turner. Pleasure to finally meet your acquaintance,” he stooped to kiss the back of her hand. Beatrice found the gesture to be alarmingly long, and nearly pulled her hand away. Don’t mess up, don’t mess up, Beatrice chanted to herself, hiding her frown behind the fan.
“Pleasure,” said Beatrice as clearly as possible.
He let go of her hand, and she resisted the temptation of hiding it behind her or going to wipe it on her dress. She may have been pretending that her first impression of Harold did not bother her, but Beatrice was not dense. She could tell that he wasn’t someone she could possibly get along with, let alone get engaged or married to. Honestly, the guy annoyed her in a way that neither Wirt nor Greg ever had (of whom she at first found to be quite annoying). He was too forward in all the opposite directions. At dinner, he tried to engage her in conversations she did not care for (“Have you heard of the Assembled Men’s Club? My father created the organization, and since he’s been sick, I’ve been leading the regular fox hunts every Saturday.” “That’s nice.”) He would ask her all the questions she did not know how to answer (“Have you been following the witch spottings?” “Not particularly.”), and he rambled about all the things she didn’t understand (“I believe the blacks ought to stay in their place, all that anti-slavery nonsense is heathen.”) nor agreed with.
Harold adored her physical features, that she could tell. She had done up her hair and left a few curled strands to frame her face, rouged her cheeks and lips—as per tradition. He complimented her beauty and straightforwardness, and she did believe he was being sincere, but frankly, his compliments just didn’t mean very much to her.
Though bluntness started arguments, on the whole, Beatrice appreciated words a lot more when they stumbled out of the mouth naturally—genuine artifacts said unconsciously without forgery that summed up the parts of a person that made them, well, them. Though this was a presentation dinner, Beatrice still found that the “thick-layer-of-flattery” requirement filled her with repulsion.
The moon had hoisted itself high in the sky by the time their company had to part. Harold stopped once again to kiss her hand before he left, taking an even longer time than the last. “Until we meet again,” he said.
Beatrice replied, “I pray that will not be too long.”
Just get in your carriage already.
He tipped his hat and entered the carriage that had brought him to the mill. Beatrice watched from the window as they drove off into the forest before balling her fists and wiping them furiously on the window curtains.
“Heavens, what madness have you caught now?” Her mother pulled the curtains out of her hand.
“He’s sleazy, mom!” She erupted. “Didn’t you see the way he was looking at me? He wanted to ravish me on the spot!”
“Beatrice!” Her mother reprimanded. “Not in front of your brothers and sisters!”
“They all saw it, why not give them the word too?” She slumped against the wall. Now that the guests had gone, the children resumed their chaotic playing and were running in and out of the room. Her father was elsewhere, probably in the living room reading. “Just because he has money and he knows he’s good-looking, he thinks he can win a girl with that empty jug of a brain he has. Absolutely horrid.”
Her mother shook her head. “You can’t judge a man in one night.”
“Ooh,” Beatrice acknowledged with mocking agreement as she cleared up the dishes from the table “I see, so you can’t judge a man of all his characteristics in one night, but you can marry off a daughter to one in less than that time. Makes sense!”
“Now see here, I never said that!” Her mother snapped, putting out the light of the fancy candles and lighting up the regular ones. “No one said you were marrying him tonight.”
“Might as well have,” Beatrice retorted. “I’m not going through suitors. You’ve all made up your minds, haven’t you?”
“Don’t speak to me in that tone of voice, young lady.” Her mother took the dishes out of Beatrice’s hands and put them in the kitchen’s wooden basin, preparing to wash them.
“But you won’t change your mind, will you?”
Her mother sighed. “What is it that you want, Beatrice?”
“I don’t know,” Beatrice grasped handfuls of her dress. “I just—I can’t stand being here anymore.”
A silence fell over them for a small moment. “Here?” Her mother said in a small voice. “With us?” The clinking of the dishes in the wooden basin was soundless. “With me?”
“No, no!” She panicked. “Of course not. I want nothing more than to live with you—with father, with Eddie, Fern, and Sam and the others. I missed you all so much.”
“Then I don’t understand,” the clinking resumed.
“It’s just that,” Beatrice sighed. “I used to think this mill kept me safe, but now it feels like a prison. I want to go out and… and travel. You have no idea what sorts of things I saw when I was a bird, the kinds of things I encountered. Even though I was trapped in a bird body, I felt freer than ever before.” Her hands ringed together, a position of weakness that only her mother had ever seen. “I suppose what I’m saying is… I need to go away for a little while.”
Her mother shook her head. “Oh, I do have an inkling of an idea, Beatrice. This is about that boy you left in my care when we were birds. Is he the reason why you can’t marry Harold?”
“What?” Beatrice blinked. “No!” She thought some more, finding it suddenly difficult to express herself. “Well, okay, I traveled with him and his brother Greg for a little while. They helped me out a couple of times, and I owed them favours, so I was helping them get home. I suppose I miss that exploration and the sense of purpose. They needed to go home to their family and it reminded me… well, of us.”
“And Harold?” Her mother raised an eyebrow at her.
“He’s a jerk, mom,” Beatrice insisted. “I don’t want to marry him because I don’t want to marry him.”
Her mother scrubbed the dishes for some minutes without a word as Beatrice stood by the door, waiting for an answer. Her mother couldn’t stay quiet forever. But after perhaps thirty minutes, when the dishes were nearly all cleaned and Beatrice’s legs and feet were getting a little sore, she heaved a heavy sigh and figured she ought to at least change out of her dress.
“No.”
Beatrice stopped and re-entered the kitchen. “Sorry, what was that?”
Her mother turned to face her, standing up stiffly and wiping her hands on a rag. “I said ‘no’.”
A tumble of emotions burst in her chest as Beatrice fought to regain calmer, more sensible words. “But why—?”
“Because we need the money, Beatrice.” The frankness of the statement slapped her across the face. There, the truth was finally out in the open. She had never been sure who she got her stubborn directness from, but it certainly felt like it was maternal at the moment.
“I don’t,” Beatrice hesitated, feeling like a small child and unexpectedly foolish. “I don’t want to.”
“So you’re going to run away again?” Her mother propped her hands on her waist. “Like last time? Hm, maybe you should throw a stone at a flock of chickens next time around. That ought to curse and transform us into the type of people we really are.”
“Mother!” Her own voice sounded as wounded as she felt, ashamed and regretful as she would never stop feeling. Her hands feeling clammy, painfully clasped together. She backed away slowly, shaking her head furiously as if she could shake the words out of her head. “Don’t say that. Please don’t.”
“I’ve eaten real dirt, Beatrice!” Her mother lashed. “I’ve had to feed my children real dirt. And I never want to do that again, as a human or a non-human—never again.”
“Stop!” She yelled. Her heart felt like it was bleeding, open for anyone to see and cut at further. She hated that feeling, but hated herself for wanting to flee even more.
“I don't make the rules,” her mother said, a voice close to tears coming from behind her lips, “It's your duty.”
“Stop it!”
Beatrice ran from the kitchen, up the stairs into her room where she ripped the dress off and banged her fists against the wall in a fit of rage. Some minutes passed and she calmed down, nursing her bruised hands and ducking her head between her knees. She didn’t want to remember, not about that day. The day she had received her first suitor. The dinner had gone just like the one that evening, only she had been hostile and unpleasant, cynical and uncaring and her actions had cost them. It was the reason why her family needed money more than ever now. Beatrice had run into the woods, disappointed and bitter with her dog following behind. She’d seen the bluebird, spiraling up into the sky, and jealousy took hold of her heart. Birds and their wings, they could go anywhere they pleased, procreate under less complicated restrictions. Damn those birds. Before she knew it, she was chucking a rock into the sky. The stone arched beautifully from behind, twirling in the air until it aligned with the creature and struck it on the head. And the rest was history.
Beatrice leaned against the wall, pressing her side against the dull, flat surface and rubbing a thumb over the nails that poked out of the corners where floorboards and wall met. If only I was a pushover.
<oOo>
She was shaken awake by her father, a lantern hanging from his arm, and a pack in the other hand. “Get some clothes together. I’ve put some money in a pocket, don’t lose it.”
“Dad?” She rubbed her eyes. “What… what’re you doing?”
“Helping you, dovehouse.” He opened the bag and showed her a few things he had packed for her. There was a canteen made from dark leather, a week’s worth of food rations, a moth-bitten wool coat, candles, a little bottle of oil, and more. Beatrice glanced around the room. Her sisters were sleeping soundly in the beds next to hers. She slipped out of the covers and tip-toed to her wardrobe, throwing in couple of under garments and autumn dresses in. When she had finished, she shrugged into the wool coat and headed down the stairs, cringing every time a stair creaked. Her father was waiting for her at the bottom, wrapping the oil lamp handle with a handkerchief and handed it to her after she had done up her boot laces. “Make sure you head straight to Maisie’s Inn and get your needed rest there before heading off in the morning. If you're hungry, put it on my tab and I’ll pay for it later.”
“Why are you doing this?” Beatrice blurted out, the sleepy haze that she had been encapsulated in had faded, and with its disappearance, common sense had taken hold.
“Because we need money,” her father said, “But I need you to be happy more.”
His smile was gentle and heart-warming, sincerity that she had never before seen in him. He must have overheard the argument with her mother, and it struck her as unusual that he hadn’t taken her mother’s side in all this. Society looked down on women who wanted to masculinize themselves, to depend on their own skills rather than wait for men to give them permission. Why was he letting her go?
“I don’t think turning into birds was a coincidence." He admitted. "At least, not for you. I feel a little of what you feel, that package of purpose and freedom together simultaneously.”
“It’s,” she felt bashful suddenly. She had never spoken about these kinds of things with her father before. “It’s not just that. I need to sort out my… my feelings. Find closure.”
“Do what you must,” her father grinned bitter-sweetly at her, a glimmer of pride in his voice. He reached out and patted her hand firmly. “You have more bird in you than any of us.”
She shook her head, giggling softly. “Thanks dad,” she hugged him fiercely, holding him and counting to ten like she used to when she was little. Back when his hands could envelope hers like a clam around its pearl. “I’ll come back.”
“Oh, my little girl, of course,” He mumbled into her hair. “You always do.”
Taking the lamp, she pecked him on the cheek and set out, refusing to look back even as she entered the forest. Looking back meant she had second thoughts, that she was doing something wrong. She would come back when she was ready, when she had proven capable of taking on her responsibilities without regretting anything. Beatrice exhaled sharply as a cold wind passed through the naked trees and the trunks shivered and creaked in an orchestral harmony.
I can do this.