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Dust motes swirl in the air like miniature ballerinas, and Beatrix is alone until suddenly she’s not.
The chair beside her pulls out, old wood dragged across even older carpet: it’s Stella.
Stella who seems a bit hungover. For someone who drinks as much as she does, she doesn’t handle her alcohol very well.
“You’re here early.” Stella’s voice is textured with sleep and headache. “Ugh. You’re as insane as Aisha.”
Stella pillows her arms on the table and rests her head down, eyes squeezed shut as if hoping for more sleep.
Beatrix watches the sunlight kiss the edges of blonde curls, following the path like water in a stream.
"I have to get here early so I can avoid everyone staring at me," Beatrix says.
Stella hums. "You used to like people looking at you."
"True," Beatrix allows. "But it's significantly less fun when they're staring because they hate you."
Beatrix sighs as she closes yet another book and adds it to the useless pile. At this rate, she’ll never find anything about Aster Dell. It’s like someone went through and erased the place from history altogether.
And in doing so, it’s like they erased a part of her.
She takes a book from the other pile, a heavy one with a mouldy cover and faded calligraphic ink.
Stella's head rolls over, one blue eye peeking upwards. "’m sorry. You’ve just got to ignore them," she says.
Beatrix falters – just for a second – in scanning the page. Then she continues, flicking to the next, and bites back the instinct to make a sarcastic comment. It tastes like salt in her mouth, the urge to thank Stella for her revolutionary wisdom.
“I know,” Beatrix says. “That’s what I’m trying to do.”
Stella hums. Her fingers draw circles on the wood.
Beatrix tries to focus on the book and not the sight of Stella’s hands.
After a few minutes of reading and trying not to be distracted by the girl besides her, said girl speaks.
"Found anything yet?" Stella asks, her tone softly curious.
And Beatrix doesn’t know why, exactly, but the gentleness in her voice rubs her the wrong way, and she isn’t fast enough to swallow her venom this time.
“Oh, yes. I’ve found this magical chapter which tells me everything I’ll ever need to know. I’m this close to finding my parents’ phone number,” Beatrix sarcastically bites.
And instantly, she regrets it. An unfamiliar cold stone drops into her belly as Stella’s eyes move from warm summer sky to cold cobalt blue.
She’s an asshole, and she knows that she’s an asshole, but – most frustratingly of all – she has no idea how to stop being an asshole.
Because she doesn’t mind being a bitch to most people – it’s fun, why lie? – but not to Stella. She doesn’t particularly want to be mean to Stella, not when she seems to be the only person who can stand talking to her lately.
But she doesn’t know how to stop. The bitchiness runs in her veins as thick and hot as her blood.
Beatrix knows she should apologise, but all that comes out is, "I'm frustrated."
And Stella says, “I know,” as if Beatrix had, and her eyes ease back to summer sky.
Something in Beatrix’s chest tightens. She turns to stare out the window, gazing down at the grounds outside. The grass is wet with dewy raindrops.
It’s October. Rainy season.
After a minute or so, Stella says, “My head hurts,” as if this is somehow supposed to be news.
Beatrix turns to see Stella has closed her eyes again. Her face is glowing soft amber, the sunlight bathing her head in a halo. Her skin is a shade paler than usual: it’s the hangover.
“Well, we are in the library. It’s the perfect place to take a nap.” Beatrix’s voice comes out light and airy, calmer and softer now that Stella’s eyes are closed.
Stella smiles, her nose scrunching up. “You’re right,” she half-laughs. Her arms stretch beneath the table like a lazy housecat, and Beatrix watches like a little kid desperate to reach out and touch. “Maybe I will,” she murmurs.
The morning swims past, and Beatrix drifts through the hours as she usually does. The classes are easy, the people tedious. The most interesting part of the morning happens in the period before lunch: it’s plant study with Professor Harvey out in the greenhouses, and Stella’s in this class too.
Beatrix pays more attention to Stella than she does to the instructions. She doesn’t care much for this class, or for her education in general – as far as she’s concerned, she knows the important things. Andreas had taught her more than anything one could find in a textbook. He’d shown her what true power looks like, how to fight, how to be ruthless. He’d taught her to go after what she wants and to not let anything stand in her way.
She thinks about this as she watches Stella, who groans, dirt spilling onto her jeans, as Terra accidentally grows a plant too fast and bursts the clay pot.
Beatrix laughs, the distress on Stella’s face something comical. Such a princess, she thinks.
Stella’s mouth sits downturned, ridiculously sour. Then her eyes trace across the room, searching for anyone who’d seen, and their eyes meet.
Beatrix does nothing to hide her amusement; she watches as Stella’s eyebrows pull together, her pout growing even more exaggerated. Beatrix mimes wiping away a tear, and Stella flashes her a pearly white smile, pairing it with a middle finger.
It’s all Beatrix thinks about for the rest of the lesson.
At lunch, she wanders into the cafeteria, alone as usual. Someone barges past, knocking into her shoulder on purpose – and it says a lot, really, that they’d have the nerve to do that now – whilst she remains invisible to everyone else.
These days, she’s either an easy punchline or a toxin to be avoided.
She tells herself that this doesn’t hurt her, that she’s above it all, as she collects her food. She doesn’t care that she has nowhere to go, that everyone else in the room is mingling with their friends and talking, laughing, sharing inside jokes, ones that might even be about her.
Across the room, she sees Riven stroll past, an apple clenched stupidly between his teeth. Even further back she sees Dane watching him, his boyfriend forgotten at his side, and as Riven disappears from view, she and Dane are left looking at each other.
Dane’s mouth flattens into a callous line. He stares down at his plate like they’d never known each other at all.
She can’t decide if it’s worse or better than his words, which had been cold and cut to the bone.
She’s about to leave, ready to hide outside Rosalind’s office, when she sees her. Stella is sat alone on the end of a table, her lunch tray untouched. She’s hunched over her phone, thumbs flying fast. Her shoulders are up to her ears, the collars of her coat turned up – cold, maybe, with the October chill coming through the open windows.
Beatrix takes a step forward, but her plans dissolve as people slip into the vacant seats. Bloom puts her tray down with audible force, pissed about something, her mouth moving rapidly as she barely pauses to cram fries inside her mouth. Aisha sits on the opposite side wearing a disapproving grimace, watching Bloom’s abhorrent table manners.
Stella looks up from her phone and turns to speak to her friends, oblivious to Beatrix’s gaze. Aisha says something and Stella pulls a face, then looks at Bloom and laughs, and her smile cascades across her face like a lone comet soaring through the night sky.
Beatrix leaves to find somewhere else to eat.
Later, when it’s dark, she heads up to Stella’s suite with a bottle in hand.
It’s Musa who opens the door. Musa looks suspicious when she asks for Stella, but she doesn’t slam the door. Her eyes slide over the bottle with something that is neither disapproval nor endorsement before she goes to fetch the girl.
Beatrix waits outside in the hall, conscious of the lack of invitation inside.
And then there’s Stella. She appears in the doorway, already shrugging on her long overcoat. She smiles at Beatrix warmly, blind to Musa’s frown, who is stood hovering in the lounge area behind.
“What are we having?” Stella asks.
The muscle behind Beatrix’s ribs pulses, straining out against the ribs. Stella’s coming, no questions asked.
“Whiskey from Andreas’s cabinet. Don’t worry, he won’t notice it’s gone. I’ll replace it before he does,” she says, seeing Stella’s uneasy glance.
“As long as you’re sure we won’t get in trouble. I’m sure Mum would have an absolute field day adding ‘stealing’ to the list of things she finds inadequate about me,” Stella huffs.
They walk down the corridor, away from prying eyes, and the knot in Beatrix’s stomach unravels.
Stella slips in and out of sight, the evening light shadowy and uneven through the windows. Her blue jeans look almost black in the dark.
Outside Rosalind’s office, they settle at the corner table. There are no glasses so they pass the bottle back and forth. Beatrix watches the curve of Stella’s mouth around the bottle neck, the way her eyes soften with every mouthful.
The whiskey works its magic on Beatrix too. Soon she finds it difficult to stop her eyes from lingering on Stella’s face, on the dip in her cupid’s bow, on the shape of her fingers around the bottle.
“I feel like a collared dog,” Stella says at some point, when the bottle is half-gone and the stars are dripping through the blinds.
Her arm folds backwards, fingers splayed across her upper-back against the spot where the red gemstone bites into her skin. She keeps her hand there whilst she takes another swig, perhaps hoping the drink will make her forget its presence.
“At least you dress well,” Beatrix tells her. She accepts the bottle back from Stella, trying to ignore the static in her fingertips as their hands brush. “Well. Most of the time.”
Stella’s eyes shine like diamonds. She rests her head in her palm, her smile easy and relaxed from the whiskey. “My crocs are comfortable,” she lightly intones.
Beatrix sips at the whiskey. The neck is warm from Stella’s tongue. She tries to push that thought away.
“It’s no excuse for ugliness,” Beatrix shrugs.
Stella gets up and goes to the window, restless. She presses her fingers against the glass and leans in close. Her breath mists the glass.
“It’s raining,” Stella says.
“Fascinating,” Beatrix deadpans.
Stella presses her forehead against the window and closes her eyes.
Beatrix watches in silence, drinking steadily as she does so. Her muscles relax with every sip, her self-hatred slipping back into that manageable background hum.
“My friends are going out to the pub this weekend.” Stella pauses after this announcement, her eyes screwing shut a little tighter. Then, “I told them I didn’t want to go. I said it was lame.”
Beatrix stares uncomprehendingly. “Okay.”
“I actually do want to go, but I can’t. I’m stuck here because of this stupid fucking thing in my back.” Stella’s voice turns bitter, angrier. She opens her eyes to glare out into the night. “Honestly, I don’t know when she’s going to stop punishing me.”
Stella paces around, running her hand through her hair, gold threads falling through her fingers. The drink in Beatrix’s mouth turns sour, Stella’s words rebounding in her head. She curls her fingers into her palms, feels the upset crackle of electricity in her fingertips.
Stella, if given the choice, would be elsewhere. Of course she would.
But Beatrix already knew that – it’s why they’d started drinking together in the first place. They both lacked other options, so to speak.
But it’s embarrassing how much it stings, how it births a humiliated flush in her neck as she thinks about how Stella – despite her secrecy – still has friends.
Unlike Beatrix. Impossible to have friends, or even acquaintances, when everyone thinks you’re the devil from hell. And that’d be fine too, honestly, if people were still afraid of her.
Which they’re not. They’re definitely not.
It pisses her off, actually, now that she’s thinking about it. Stella’s waxing complaints about not being able to go out, but if she told those obnoxious fairies, they’d probably drop their plans in the blink of an eye and plan something horrid for them all to do within the campus borders.
“You could just tell them, you know.”
Oh, and it slips out, more acidic than she’d wanted. Stella turns to look at her, cheeks flushed rosy and vulnerable, but Beatrix keeps going. The words continue to fly out, her natural venom strengthened with the alcohol.
“There’s nothing stopping you, but maybe you’re just not brave enough,” Beatrix taunts.
Stella doesn’t say anything, just looks at her for a few long moments, and Beatrix finds herself tipping back more of the whiskey to avoid her gaze. The flowers on the wallpaper are beginning to shake, so she knows she’s got to slow down.
She can’t lose control. If she doesn’t have control of the cards in her hand, what does she even have?
She puts the bottle down on the table, forcing her hands to let go of its safety. But her fingers stay resting against the label, picking at it with her nail for comfort, just like she did as a kid, picking and picking until they bled. Andreas had soaked her hands in vinegar in the end to make her stop.
“I’m not afraid to tell them. I just don’t want their sympathy,” Stella finally says. A pause. Then, “You know that. I’ve told you that.”
“Have you?” Beatrix dismisses, coldly blasé.
And there she goes again, being an asshole. Can’t help it.
She reaches for the whiskey again, knowing she shouldn’t, and drains it right to the bottom. Then she pushes back from the table, careful not to look at Stella – although she feels the girl’s gaze following her – whilst she walks to her desk.
She slips a key from inside her boot and unlocks the drawer, retrieving her emergency whiskey bottle.
Stella raises her brow once she sees it.
“Things are that dire tonight?” Stella quips.
Beatrix shrugs. She finally looks in Stella’s eyes again, braced this time to avoid drowning in blue. She steps closer and holds out the bottle: a silent peace offering.
“But what will you do if you get bored?” Stella asks.
Regardless, Stella takes the bottle and unscrews the cap. Her eyes narrow in curiosity over the top as she drinks.
Beatrix’s head feels fuzzy, her chest unusually warm. She internally decides not to drink any more tonight, and means it this time. “Raid Andreas’s cabinet again. Or see if Rosalind has anything interesting stashed around.”
Stella smiles, cheeks puffed out with whiskey in the moment before she swallows, a stray lock falling across her eyes, and Beatrix feels the whole thing like an unwanted stab to the heart.
Beatrix finds it hard to tear her eyes away from Stella, but the girl doesn’t notice, drinking so fast it’s like she’s on a mission to forget. They link arms and trawl up and down the corridors, thrilled at the thought of getting caught.
“But I can’t get caught,” Stella keeps saying every now and then, her drunken moods swinging between giddiness and paranoia. “Because –”
“– of your Mum, yeah. I haven’t forgotten,” Beatrix says, with only a smidge of bitterness that Stella is too intoxicated or seasoned to comment on.
She’s jealous, that’s the problem. She envies her, the princess who has no questions about her family line, who grew up in a palace with elaborate tapestries detailing every distant relation she could possibly want to know. If she ever forgets a name, she can just type it into the internet; there are colour coded family trees on Solaria’s official website. She knows because she’s looked.
“I’m not wearing very nice clothes today. And you don’t need to tell me how awful that is, because I know.” Stella rolls her eyes and adds in a thinly mocking tone, “I’m a princess, and I ought to care about how I look.”
Beatrix drawls, “I swear half of your personality is just mummy issues,” and her insides spin in delight when Stella laughs, some of the whiskey missing her mouth, cascading down the edge of her chin.
Beatrix resists the urge to swipe it away with her thumb, stealing it like spilled sugar from a bowl.
“Tragic, isn’t it?” Stella laughs.
They walk down the steps and through the front hall, crossing through to the back door. They step outside, sheltered from the spitting rain by the overhead arch.
Beatrix stays where it’s dry, but Stella – rather drunk now – wanders out onto the gravel. She twists, her trainers sinking into the small stones, the sound like glass pebbles rattling in a jar.
Stella tilts her head up towards the sky, one eye shut against the rain. Then she laughs, takes the bottle up to her lips and drinks again. She turns on the spot again, and then again, and again, and then stops, twisting to face Beatrix once more.
“I have an idea.” Stella smiles, holds out her hand, a ghostly white invitation in the night. Her fingers wriggle, nails pale pink. “Come lie with me.”
Beatrix lets Stella hold her hand, lets her lead them to the grass. The rain slows as if sensing their presence, the clouds sucking in their tears for a few minutes.
Stella takes another long drag of whiskey – too much, probably – but her smile is wide and her eyes are happy, dazed, and Beatrix doesn’t have it in her to tell her to stop.
“Lie down with me. No, like this.”
Stella directs them until they’re lying top and tails. Beatrix blinks up at the sky, wondering what this is about. She stares up at the stars, remembering being a kid and when it was just her and Andreas hiding out. They’d go out into the grasslands and stare up at the open sky. He taught her the constellations.
Her tipsy eyes skim across the sky, looking for some constellation to point out to Stella. She glances over to see her staring up at the sky, blissful.
Beatrix’s cold heart struggles behind her ribs, something twists in her stomach. Maybe her real problem isn’t jealousy at Stella's family. It might not even be anything to do with her popularity.
Well, who is she kidding? She knows what the problem is.
"The stars are so pretty," Stella says.
And she sounds so genuinely thrilled by this, so awed by this feat of nature.
And Beatrix knows it's the alcohol slowing down Stella's thoughts, making her gape and gasp at the world, but it makes her smile regardless, because there's something so intrinsically endearing about it.
Beatrix takes a deep breath in, deep breath out. She can feel the alcohol in her veins but it's not too much, just enough to take off the edge. Something to dull and soften the world.
Maybe Stella's right, too. The sky does look staggering tonight, a yawning mouth of black with specks of stardust.
She thinks, mildly, that with Stella here besides her, this could be their very own version of starry night, a delicate drunken vignette just for the two of them.
Stella breaks the quiet peace after a while, her voice low and confused with the drink. "I can't remember how we got here."
Beatrix exhales through her nose, flicks her gaze to see Stella continuing to stare up at the sky in wonder. She sees the slope of her nose, straight and soft in the dark, the glow of her light blonde hair against the thick damp grass; she smells the floral scent that always clings to her clothes, something like fresh daisies and air and perpetual summer dawn.
Words curl upon her tongue, ones so fragile they shatter before reaching her lips. She averts her eyes back to the sky, the smell of perfume still dancing at the back of her mouth.
"Me neither," Beatrix lies, because it’s easier – much easier – than the other thing.