Chapter Text
Chapter One: The Manor
Beatrice is twelve years old when her parents die.
She does not cry.
Due to being important diplomats, the small family had been stationed in British India for almost a decade. Her parents would meet with local government officials, as well as those higher up the political ladder, and when not working, they would attend lavish parties thrown by other aristocrats in the area. Oftentimes, Beatrice was left to her own devices under the watchful eye of the various servants of the bungalow. But even the servants were neglectful to Beatrice; they would rather have showered her with gifts and toys and dresses than create any true relationship with her.
It had made for a lonely time in a foreign country. So, as most children would do when left alone in a world that had made no space for them, Beatrice had created her own; she turned to her books. The subjects were wide and varied, and Beatrice was starved for any information she could consume, desperate to find any kind of connection to the universe around her.
Over the years, she had taught herself how to speak the various dialects that filtered through the large bungalow, learned all about the local flora and fauna, and had come to understand which animals she could cautiously approach, and which ones to stay clear of. She read about different scientific topics like the water cycle, how different rocks are formed, and basic physics. Fictional books, while uncommon in her family’s library, were an entirely different joy to read — and Beatrice especially liked stories about knights and other valiant heroes.
After one particular fixation, Beatrice had even badgered her father until he had bought her a brand-new archery set (if only because he had shot down her request for sword training).
She was a natural. When her father had watched her one day, and she had hit the center of the target each time, his mustache had twitched in a way that meant he was pleased with her — a rarity in its own form that made her stand a little taller, shoulders strong and proud.
During her family’s stay in India, Beatrice had become skilled in so many things.
Unfortunately, medicine had not been one of them.
The cholera takes her parents’ lives before she can prepare herself; attending a party one night, dolled up in their best jacket and dress, and then gone before the sun can properly set the following day. In fact, the cholera ravages through the village they live in, wiping out anyone who stands in its way. The only reason Beatrice herself does not catch it, does not suffer the same fate as her parents, is because she has been left alone in her bedroom; forgotten and ignored.
She never even has the chance to interact with anyone infected.
The remaining servants leave without looking back.
Beatrice is twelve years old when her parents die, and she is twelve years old when she suddenly finds herself alone in a large and overwhelming world.
It takes three days for British soldiers to find Beatrice, alone and scared, hiding under her bed. It’s with pity in their eyes that they take in the dirt caked to Beatrice’s feet, the way her hair is unwashed and knotted, and the stains on her dress. She can only stare up at them, eyes wide and woeful, before curling in on herself further.
Beatrice — all gangly-limbed and weighing the equivalent of a sack of potatoes — is swept up and away from her family’s bungalow. Away from her parents, now contained in two boxes buried six feet under the Indian soil, and away from her toys and dolls and fancy dresses. Everything of value is sold off in an effort to cover her parents’ expenses, and Beatrice is only allowed to take with her a single suitcase filled with her most treasured belongings.
The adults she travels with, two British soldiers of some lowly rank, talk over and around her. She can count on one hand how many times they have looked her in the eye, let alone addressed her presence directly.
“Where should we send her?” the older man of the two asks, as if Beatrice is only a thing to send in the post, and not a suddenly orphaned child. His mustache quivers as he methodically stuffs tobacco into his pipe before lighting it with a deep inhale.
Beatrice scrunches her face in thinly concealed judgment as he puffs away, filling the small car they are traveling in with smoke. Beatrice never liked tobacco. She always thought it smelled horribly.
“Well, the Mister and Missus was important blokes, yeah?” replies the younger man. He is the one driving and even Beatrice, who has never sat behind the wheel of a vehicle, can tell that he is not very good at it. His hands on the steering wheel are placed in the incorrect position, and he constantly looks away from where they are driving and out the side window, as if he could spot the cholera chasing after them.
“‘M sure she’s gotta have some distant relative willin’ to claim her.”
Beatrice knows there aren’t many to choose from. Both sets of grandparents are long passed at this point. While her mother is… was an only child, her father had a sister. However, Beatrice only ever met her aunt when she was so young that her memory can only conjure a vague shape of the woman. Beatrice knows nothing about her temperament, or if she enjoys reading books, or if she has any children. Has no idea if she would even be willing to take in Beatrice.
Besides, Beatrice is not entirely keen on being dropped off on some stranger’s doorstep — relative or not. If it was up to her, she would happily find a quiet library somewhere, and make camp among the tall shelves and dusty books.
(As her eyes drift out of the car’s window, she catches a glimpse of the small city she had once called home, if only out of familiarity than anything else. She watches it fade, refusing to blink even though her eyes start to burn, until it shrinks and becomes almost nothing on the horizon. A small x on a map as if to say, I was here, once. I may not have done anything important, nor created anything of value, but this is where I slept, where I ate, where I read and dreamed. I was here and… now I am no longer. A ghost sent to haunt someplace new.)
But Beatrice supposes, as she finally blinks against the burn and turns her eyes away from the window, many things are no longer up to her. She slumps down, letting her shoulders round out and sag forward, until she is as tiny as she can make herself. Reaches up and fiddles with the locket hanging at the end of a thin chain clasped around her neck.
Inside holds a portrait of her parents on their wedding day.
They are young and beautiful in the photograph, and Beatrice aches when she realizes she will never know what they will look like as an older couple. She will never get to feel her mother’s hands become soft with wrinkles, will never get the chance to tease her father about his graying hair. They will not get to witness Beatrice becoming a teenager, a young woman, an established adult; they will not get to meet the person she will become.
Beatrice is alone now, this she understands. Even if the priest who came to pray over her parents’ bodies suggested otherwise. Guardian angels, he had called them.
Her parents, despite their busy government lifestyle and flickering attention, did their best to raise Beatrice as a proper Catholic. They would take her to Mass, have her sit on hard wooden pews while a man droned on in Latin, and would reprimand her when she would inevitably fidget. And even if her parents are now watching above her as guardian angels, they are not here to hold her hand when she is scared, they are not here to wipe her tears when...if they finally decide to fall.
She is unsure if she believes in God beyond the forced-faith her parents pushed her into.
But in the back seat of a soldier’s car, as it slowly fills with the putrid smoke from a tobacco pipe, Beatrice sends a silent prayer to Him — just in case He is listening. As they rumble along the bumpy road, taking Beatrice deeper into the unknown, she prays not for a miracle or for time to undo itself… but rather, she asks simply for one thing.
A friend.
.
Beatrice is handed a ticket, sat on a small plane, and flown to Spain. Someone had managed to get into contact with her aunt, who apparently agreed to take up guardianship of Beatrice. Her estate sits a few hours outside of Madrid and an additional car ride will be required after Beatrice lands in the country. She’s already dreading it.
On the plane, the flight attendants are nice and offer Beatrice juice and cookies. One of them, a kind woman named Theresa, holds her hand when they experience a sudden burst of turbulence that has Beatrice convinced that they will fall right out of the sky.
Beatrice squeezes the woman’s hand so tightly she’s worried she has broken bones. But Theresa never complains, never does anything but offer a frightened girl words of reassurance.
You’ll be alright, she reassures Beatrice. Even if it gets a bit rough sometimes, the plane wants to be in the sky. It would take more than some pockets of air to keep it from where it’s going.
Beatrice squeezes her eyes shut and nods. She offers another silent prayer, just in case.
The landing is jarring, but Beatrice is thankful to be back on the ground once more. Though it does not take long for her relief to turn sour in her gut. She has never been to Spain before. She does not know what it will be like, outside of the tarmac. Sure, she has read about it briefly in one of her geography books, but Beatrice has also read stories steeped in science fiction and monsters and has never encountered any of those things, either.
That is to say, reading is one thing; experiencing it for yourself is an entirely different beast.
The first thing she notices when she steps outside is the sweet smell to the air. The final whispers of winter have been quietly swept away, and the slowly budding flowers and sleepy sun have coated the city in a certain type of magic that is unfamiliar to Beatrice. At any other moment, Beatrice would have smiled. She would have tilted her face toward the sun, would have closed her eyes and taken a deep breath, letting a sense of adventure fill her until she knew what it was like to have purpose. To be excited to take that next step.
But this is not another moment, and Beatrice does not smile. Instead, she grabs the handle of her single suitcase, and drags it along behind her.
.
There is a man in a simple and modest suit waiting for Beatrice. He has salt and pepper hair, a groomed beard, and a sign that reads her name in neat cursive. She walks up to him, timid, nervous, and already half-way resigned that this will be another man who will ignore her presence — but, instead, he looks her in the eye and greets her with a polite smile.
“Hello, you must be Miss Beatrice,” he greets in a slightly accented voice. When she nods, he continues. “My name is Vincent. I’m here to take you to your new home.”
He takes the suitcase from her, and a small, bruised part of Beatrice wants to reach out with grabbing hands and snatch it back. Everything else in her life has already been stolen from her, and without this final tether to the world around her — to the history within her — Beatrice feels lost. Unmoored.
But she presses her thumb against the side of her finger, just like how she learned to do in church, until the dull burn eventually grounds her, and she follows Vincent all the same.
He leads them to a simple black car; while it is not as fancy as the cars her parents owned back in India, the interior smells clean, like leather, and the seats have been warmed under the afternoon sun. Beatrice settles herself in quietly, folding her hands in her lap and letting her shoulders cave inwards, and Vincent offers her a subdued smile before turning the engine over.
Beatrice watches out of the window as they drive back to her aunt’s home, traveling first through the bustling city, and then out of it; the buildings, all made of different shapes and sizes, seem to sprout directly from the stone roads, until they are replaced instead by wide open fields and vineyards. Likewise, the people in their bright clothing crowding the streets and sidewalks, walking from store to store or gathering at tables for an early lunch, slowly dwindle in number until only the two of them in the car remain.
(Beatrice wonders if any of the people they pass have experienced a loss like she has. Thinks it to be impossible that this void that has taken residence behind her sternum could be a universal experience. It cannot be, because if it were, if others were as numb as her, surely there would be no way society could continue to function. Surely, the theaters would remain empty, and the art canvases blank, and there would be no music to play, no songs to sing. They would not enjoy their early lunches with their friends, they would not go shopping for new ties or beautiful shoes or silk head scarves.
Instead, if they truly knew what it was like, they would stay inside, under the covers — hiding away from it all. Because anything else would feel almost impossible.
No, Beatrice decides as she stares up at the sky. Normal people would not understand at all.)
(... She tries not to let the resentment settle too deeply.)
Like a reflection of her mood, the clouds above them, fluffy and full, slowly begin to darken and roil. It is not long before the sun is blotted out and the rain starts to pour. Beatrice sinks into the sudden muffled darkness of the car, and in the low light, lets her mouth pinch into a frown.
What a dreary welcome, she thinks to herself as the raindrops, fat but quick, race down the glass. It rained frequently in India, with monsoons plaguing their summers, and Beatrice never enjoyed it. She hopes that this torrent is not some sort of omen for the rest of her stay in Spain, but that hope is weak and fleeting, and it’s gone before she can properly hold on to it.
Beatrice sighs and leans her forehead against the passenger door, eyelids growing as heavy as the rain.
She falls asleep before she even knows what’s happening.
.
Beatrice does not dream.
.
It’s nearing three hours later when Vincent shakes Beatrice awake as he pulls up in front of a looming manor. The building is made of dark brick — made darker by the rain — and towering, wrought iron windows. At multiple points the roof pinches up into spires that seem to reach up and poke the sky before they, too, are swallowed up by the rain and dark clouds.
Beatrice is half-tempted to call it a castle.
Whatever the building is, it is also intimidating, and nervousness begins to creep in between her ribs like the fog twisting through the courtyard.
She is pulled from her staring when Vincent opens her door for her, suitcase already in hand.
“Welcome to La Casa Salvius,” he shouts in order to be heard over the rain, holding an open umbrella above her door with his other hand.
Beatrice takes one more glance at the manor in front of her before reluctantly planting her feet on the gravel driveway. She follows Vincent to the front of the house, their pace quick in order to escape the deluge. It does not keep her socks from becoming wet, however, and she grimaces at the unpleasant feeling squelching between her toes.
The large ornate door is pushed open, and Beatrice steps into the warm interior.
It’s massive, is Beatrice’s first thought.
The walls stretch up, at least twenty feet tall, and vases filled with wilting flowers are scattered across various small tables. Under their feet is a long rug, dyed a deep red, that runs down the foyer into the rest of the house. To the right are a pair of shuttered doors, and to the left is a grand staircase that twists slightly on its way to the second floor. The oak railings are shiny and Beatrice has the sudden compulsion to run her hands along them, to see if they are as smooth as they look.
It is an impressive foyer, and Beatrice feels herself getting swallowed up as the door shuts behind her, trapping her inside.
Her skin itches as the one known escape route is locked. But — where would she even go if she wanted to leave? Walk through the rain, all the way back to the airport? And then where? There is no other place for Beatrice now; only this manor with bars on the windows and dead plants in the vases.
“Are you hungry?” Vincent asks, pulling Beatrice from her brooding.
Beatrice blinks at him for a moment, but just as she opens her mouth to assure Vincent that she’s alright, her stomach lets out a grumble loud enough for both of them to hear.
The tips of Beatrice’s ears burn but Vincent only smiles, the corners of his eyes behind his glasses crinkling slightly.
“Let me show you to the kitchens. Supper won’t be for a few more hours, but I’m sure we can find you something to eat.”
Beatrice nods and follows Vincent deeper into the manor, doing her best to take in everything as they walk.
Save for a few sconces, the walls are mostly bare and unexciting – there are no stuffed and mounted animal heads nor gaudy chandeliers like in their bungalow. But in the middle of the hallway, unassuming and modest in size, is a single portrait. In it, stands a woman, slightly older and with long blonde hair, hands placed on the shoulders of a young boy, with matching blonde hair and looking to be about Beatrice’s age.
Their smiles in the portrait are a subtle sort of genuine.
(While Beatrice herself had never sat for a portrait painting, she had watched her parents get painted a dozen times. It seemed to have taken all afternoon, if not longer, and Beatrice was always happy to miss out on such a dull activity. She could not imagine the ache of sitting still for such a long time, with her chin tilted up and eyes facing forward, cold and aloof. Her parents saw it as a point of pride, if not a little arrogant, to have evidence of their wealth. Beatrice always considered it a sort of punishment.)
The people in these portraits must be her aunt and her cousin, she realizes.
She must not be subtle in her staring because Vincent pauses. Turns to look more fully at the portrait and takes a deep breath… before releasing it slowly.
“This is the Salvius family. Your aunt, Doctor Jillian Salvius, and her son — your cousin… Michael.” Vincent’s smile dims, melancholy tinting the edges, and his head dips into a bow. His hands come together in front of him, fingers lacing, and his shoulders drop with an invisible weight.
“Why do you seem sad?”
And it feels rusty, speaking for the first time in so long. But the sudden shift of Vincent’s emotions had been strange, yet uncomfortably familiar to Beatrice. She speaks before she can think better of it.
Vincent slowly looks at Beatrice, brows twitching as a frown pulls at his face.
“… Has no one informed you?” At her visible confusion, Vincent sighs and squats so he is eye-level with her. “Miss Beatrice, I regret to be the one who has to tell you this. But, your cousin… he died.”
A pause. The quiet rings in her ears like a church bell.
“Almost three years ago, now,” he adds softly, reluctantly.
Beatrice blinks, once, twice, before casting her eyes back to the portrait.
Another family member gone, then.
The loss feels like another handful of dirt in a seemingly endless pit, and guilt (for what, she cannot begin to name — but perhaps it is for a missed opportunity, a chance cut short before it was able to fully form; always gone, always too late, little Beatrice left all alone) begins to spin and stick like spider webs, clinging to the corners of her chest.
Vincent pushes himself back up until he is standing tall once more. His hand reaches out, as if to touch Beatrice, and it makes her panic for a moment — enough to draw her out of her own spiraling thoughts. But Vincent quickly notices and catches himself. Awkwardly, he changes course and rubs at the back of his own neck, before clearing his throat.
(The panic subsides, like a wave pulled back to sea.)
“Doctor Salvius is away for business at the moment. We notified her of your arrival and she sends you her greetings. I’m sure she looks forward to officially meeting you in a few days’ time.”
Beatrice gives a small smile and nods, does her best to breathe through the gnawing in her stomach. She wants to ask more about her cousin, but Vincent has already turned and continued walking toward the kitchen. She gives a final glance at the family, and follows silently behind.
Despite the fact that it is still hours until supper, the kitchen is already bustling with activity. There is an older woman in a dress that is so dark gray it almost looks black, and she directs two other girls in the kitchen. The girls, one of whom looks older than Beatrice, while the other younger, seem to be preparing a roast and some vegetables. It smells wonderful, and Beatrice can feel herself salivating.
Her fingers clutch softly at her stomach; she had hardly eaten anything the past few days and it is quickly catching up to her. Between hiding under her bed, waiting for someone to find her, to being herded along from destination to destination, the food in between was scarce, and when it was present, plain and stale.
“Ms. Suzanne,” Vincent greets the older woman. She pauses in her instructions, something about cuts needing to be more orderly, and looks over to where Beatrice stands, pressed against the doorway.
The woman, Ms. Suzanne, has a stern look across her face. Her hair is plaited in a single, neat braid and there are two long scars on her face. Beatrice cannot help the minute widening of her eyes as she takes them in, how they slice down and across her eye and cheek. Ms. Suzanne clears her throat pointedly, and Beatrice’s eyes snap back to hers, cheeks burning at being caught staring.
“Ms. Suzanne, this is Miss Beatrice,” Vincent introduces, placing a warm hand on Beatrice’s back. It’s removed a second later, but not before Beatrice can shrink away first.
Ms. Suzanne does not pause in scrutinizing Beatrice as she calls out to one of the other girls in the kitchen. “Mary, keep an eye on the roast.”
The older of the two girls — Mary — nods and offers Beatrice a flash of a smile. The quick kindness helps settle the nerves in Beatrice’s belly, but only slightly.
Due to a limp in her gait, Ms. Suzanne uses a cane as she walks. Beatrice wonders if the limp is connected to the scars marring the woman’s face — is almost tempted to ask, but she bites her tongue, remembering at the last moment the manners her parents had beaten into her.
Ms. Suzanne comes to a stop in front of her, eyes analytical and making Beatrice swallow against a now-dry throat. The bottom of the cane suddenly lashes out, fast as lightning, smacking Beatrice on the back.
It stings.
“Fix your posture, girl,” Ms. Suzanne reprimands as Beatrice sucks a hiss of a breath through her teeth.
Beatrice straightens her spine obediently, but cannot stop the glare from appearing on her face.
“How dare y—”
“Hold your tongue and stop your scowling,” the woman cuts her off and Beatrice’s mouth audibly snaps shut in a suddenly quiet kitchen.
Ms. Suzanne raises an eyebrow at Beatrice, waiting.
Beatrice swallows the anger pressing against the back of her teeth and keeps her mouth shut.
“You are a girl of the house Salvius now, and as such, there are rules to follow. I do not know how your parents previously raised you, but there is a certain expectation set here. I will not see you stepping out of line. Is that clear?”
It is, and Beatrice nods her head.
“When I ask a question I expect an answer,” Ms. Suzanne states, the second eyebrow joining the first.
“Yes,” Beatrice grumbles, before forcibly adding, “Ma’am.”
The woman stares at her for another moment, pursing her lips slightly. Then, with a sniff, she raises her chin and calls out to the other girls in the kitchen.
“Mary, fetch Beatrice some stew. Camila, when she is done eating, show Beatrice to her room.”
Both girls nod and begin their new tasks. Ms. Suzanne gives Beatrice one last look before turning and walking out of the kitchen. Vincent follows her out of the room but not before first giving Beatrice a reassuring squeeze on her shoulder.
He’s gone before she can duck out of his grasp.
And then, Beatrice is alone in a large kitchen with two girls she does not know. There is an uneasy tension in the room, and Beatrice feels like she has failed some sort of crucial exam.
(Her parents would have expected better, she realizes. With trembling fingers, Beatrice reaches up for the locket around her neck, and silently offers her apologies to her parents. Promises their ghosts that she will not make a mockery of their name.)
“Hi,” the younger girl warmly greets her. She could not be any older than ten, with short, black curls, and an easy but genuine smile on her face. Beatrice wonders how she can smile after witnessing such an incident; she herself would have been burning up from secondhand embarrassment if it had happened to anyone else. And yet, there is no judgment in the other girl’s eyes, no pity.
Only friendliness. “My name’s Camila.”
She’s holding a bowl of stew and nods her head to the counter. Beatrice stumbles over, pulling out a stool to sit on, and Camila places the bowl in front of her.
“Hello,” she replies stiffly, as if it’s her first time greeting someone. “I am Beatrice.”
“I know; Mother just said so,” Camila replies, handing out a spoon for Beatrice to take.
Beatrice’s eyebrows shoot up and she sends a worried glance over her shoulder to the place Ms. Suzanne had left. “Ms. Suzanne is your mother?” She tries to keep the horror out of her voice, but if the giggle Camila sends her is any indication, then she knows she has failed.
“No, not my actual mother. I don’t actually know who she is. But,” an easy shrug, “we call her Mother all the same.”
Beatrice gives a contained sigh of relief. But then shakes her head, confused.
“Ms. Suzanne runs the house when Doctor Salvius is away,” offers Mary from where she’s working. “I know she seems scary at first, and… that was a bit of a harsh first impression… but if you do your job well, she’ll leave you alone. I’m Mary, by the way.”
Beatrice offers her a small nod. “Hello.” She turns back to the bowl of stew in front of her, fiddles with the spoon. “I don’t… What will be my job?” Beatrice asks, unsure. “I’ve never had one before. Are they difficult?”
Mary pauses her motions and tilts her head, looking at the clean dress Beatrice is wearing. She gives a light scoff of a laugh. “I don’t think you’ll have to worry about a job.”
Beatrice frowns but picks up her spoon to finally dip it into the stew. “How come? I am very capable of many skills, you know.”
(Her mind drifts back to her bow in India. How the constant pulling motion had made the muscles in her back ache at first, but that ache had eventually dulled and faded until Beatrice felt strong. She enjoyed the calluses that formed on her fingers — proof of her efforts. It was a worthwhile endeavor, and she adds that activity to her long list of things to mourn when she’s capable.)
Beatrice takes her first spoonful of stew, and her eyes slip shut while she gives a hum of approval. The flavors explode on her tongue, and the warmth travels down to her belly. Camila giggles next to her, and a faint blush dusts across her cheeks as she opens her eyes.
“Do you like it, Miss Beatrice?” Camila grins.
Beatrice swallows and eagerly takes another spoonful, too hungry to feel sheepish. “It’s quite delicious,” she answers once her mouth is no longer full.
Camila gives a small, joyful wiggle and Mary throws a towel at her from across the counter. “You make one successful stew and you suddenly think you’re all that and a sack of potatoes.”
Camila sticks her tongue out at Mary, and Beatrice turns to Camila. “You made this?”
“Oh, yes—”
“—She cut the vegetables and made the broth,” Mary butts in.
Beatrice gives a smile, spoon already dipping back in for more. “Well, I think you did a wonderful job, Camila.”
“Thank you, Miss Beatrice,” the girl sasses, shooting Mary a playful glare.
But before Mary can retort, the sound of a bell rings through the kitchen. Beatrice turns to see a set of four bells, all connected to strings, fixed to the wall. The second one is currently swinging and the girls in the kitchen clearly understand what it means, because Mary sighs and turns to rifle through a cabinet.
Beatrice looks to Camila, a question clear in her eyes. But Camila simply shakes her head, smile now subdued and smaller.
“Nothing for you to worry about, Miss Beatrice.” She nudges the bowl. “Eat up and then I can take you to your room. I’m sure you must be awfully tired after all of your travels.”
Beatrice stares at Camila for another moment, before nodding, and turning back to her stew.
She doesn’t like not knowing — in fact it would burn her up every time her parents turned her away from a conversation, or shut her out of a room. Beatrice knows when something is not her place, understands that some secrets are best kept as secrets. But there is a stubbornness to her curiosity, and it is a herculean effort to keep her head down.
Out of the corner of her eye, she watches Mary leave, a tray full of medicine bottles in her hands.
.
Beatrice’s new room at Doctor Salvius’s house somehow looks both bland and expensive.
Much to her relief, the blanket on top of the bed is soft and clearly has a high thread count. The wardrobe is a solid and bright cherry wood, the mirror that hangs on her wall is accented with swirly filigree, and the nightstand holds a clean oil lamp. In the corner, under a window, is a small breakfast table with a pitcher of water and two empty crystal glasses.
And yet, the room bears no personal touches. There are no portraits, no dolls or toys, no books for Beatrice to thumb through, not even a pile of dirty clothes for the servants to clean. A stale draft chills the room, and it reminds Beatrice of an abandoned house.
She trails a hand across the nightstand.
At least the furniture has been dusted.
It takes Beatrice only a few minutes to unpack what few belongings she has. When she finishes, she sits at the built-in seat under a large bay window that takes up most of the far wall. It’s a beautiful window with an equally beautiful view, and Beatrice already knows she will be spending most of her time sitting beneath it.
(Her hands itch to flip through a book, to trace the pages with her finger and follow along. She wishes she had brought her favorites from India, but they had made her suitcase too heavy. It feels ridiculous to consider her books being the hardest goodbye… but they had known her the best, after all.)
Beyond the glass stretches the back fields of the manor, which sits nestled between a grouping of charmingly small hills in an otherwise sweeping valley. It had captured Beatrice’s attention when Vincent woke her in the car, but to see it now as the rain finally starts to slow, Beatrice’s breath catches in her chest.
A line of trees stands tall in the distance, marking the spot where valley morphs into forest. The space in between hosts a grand fountain that has a stone angel in the middle, though it currently has no water in it. On a beautiful patio made of various stones are sets of small tables and chairs for what once must have been teatime. Marble posts dot the perimeter, while a regal staircase separates the two levels of the backyard.
But it is what’s hidden away near the back of the yard that truly captures Beatrice’s attention.
Overgrown shrubs and hedges, covered in thick weeds and vines, wall off a section of the space. In front of the hedge wall sits an overturned wheelbarrow, a dirty bench, and a few stone statues that have been taken over by nature. There are piles and lumps of other things, but they are too far away and too small for Beatrice to make out.
The area is messy and unkempt against an otherwise polished yard. Beatrice cannot take her eyes off of it.
Her mother had always admonished Beatrice for sneaking into places she should not have been, for trying to listen in on those very important discussions her parents had with other very important diplomats. She would always tell Beatrice a silly little saying about a cat and curiosity that never ended well. But Beatrice knows she is no cat, and her curiosities would only ever lead to discoveries.
After all, isn’t that the point of curiosity? To poke, and prod, and to turn over the rocks to see what creepy crawlies hide underneath?
The roots of interest wrap themselves around Beatrice’s ribs, taking hold and digging in. Already she knows she will need to be smart about how she goes about her snooping; she very much doubts Ms. Suzanne would be thrilled to find her sifting through the dirt and overgrown nature.
Would most likely deem it unbecoming of a young lady.
Perhaps when Doctor Salvius returns Beatrice might ask her about this area of the backyard. Or maybe one of the girls, Mary or Camila, would have answers for her.
But her plotting is cut short.
The sound of shouting suddenly comes from outside of the room. It is unexpected and Beatrice flinches in shock, head snapping around to face the door. There is a muffled thump, followed by another, and the screaming pitches up into a shriek.
With one last longing look beyond the glass, Beatrice unfolds her legs from beneath her and walks silently over to her door, heart in her throat. Pauses — before rushing back to the breakfast table and swiping one of the drinking glasses. Repeating the trick she taught herself in India, the glass is pressed against the door, and then her ear against the glass. The commotion on the other side becomes much less muffled and easier to make out.
The shouting seems to be coming from just down the hallway.
Taking a fortifying breath, and trying to calm the pounding in her chest, Beatrice slowly turns the brass knob, pulling the door open — prays that the hinges are well kept and will not give her away.
Luckily, there are no squeaks as the door opens. Clutching the frame, Beatrice cautiously sticks her head beyond the doorway.
At the other end of the hallway is Ms. Suzanne accompanied by another older woman Beatrice has not yet met. She is outfitted in a similar fashion to Ms. Suzanne, though her dress is less polished and more of a faded gray. Her hair, whose color matches her dress, is tied into a tight bun, though there are pieces messily falling out.
Which makes sense when Beatrice realizes the source of the shouting.
It is a girl around Beatrice’s age, carried between Ms. Suzanne and the other woman. Ms. Suzanne has the girl held up by the armpits, while the other woman has her grasped around the legs. The girl is thrashing her upper body as much as possible and yelling at the top of her lungs.
“Let me go! Let me go, you witch, let me go!”
The other woman suddenly loses her grip around the girl’s legs, letting them drop down to the floor in a reverberating thud. Beatrice cannot help but wince in sympathy as the girl begins to wail and thrash even harder.
“Oh, would you bite your tongue, girl! You couldn’t even feel that,” snaps the other woman, and Beatrice frowns at the harsh tone.
“Frances, please,” Ms. Suzanne grits out. “She needs to get back to her room.”
Frances picks the girl’s legs back up and the two women continue carrying her down the hallway. The girl’s wailing has grown to the point where she is no longer making any sense, her words transformed into unintelligible shouts of anger and despair.
It’s a horrible noise and Beatrice wishes she would just stop already.
Just before they turn the bend of the hallway and out of her sight, Beatrice gets her first good look at the girl. She is tiny, almost frail looking, with dark, damp hair. While her cheeks are tinged red from her thrashing and yelling, the rest of her skin is washed out and pallid, looking almost as gray as Frances’s dress.
There is a sudden urge, deep within Beatrice’s chest, to step out from beyond the doorway of her room. To chase after the women, demand them to release the girl. It is overwhelming and unexpected, and Beatrice has to grip the wood of the doorway even tighter to keep herself standing still.
But it is when the girl takes a deep breath, preparing to continue her fight, that she catches Beatrice’s eye. Only for a heartbeat do they share this moment, only for a heartbeat does the air around them still, pausing and offering reprieve. Despite the great distance between them, Beatrice can tell the girl’s eyes are a dark brown. They look wild, and frightened, and electric with anger. Beatrice watches as they widen, and she cannot help but lean slightly further into the hallway.
From the moment Beatrice was sat on a plane, there had been an uncomfortable fizzing in her belly. A slight tingle to her fingertips. An unsteady tick to her heart’s thrumming, like a clock with a broken gear.
But in this single heartbeat, as her eyes lock with the girl’s, Beatrice feels herself settle.
And then the girl is gone, and so is the moment.
Beatrice is left standing alone in the hallway.
.
(All is silent. The screaming does not continue.)
.
Supper is a quiet affair. Beatrice is all too used to the extravagant dinners her parents used to throw in India; the table was always crowded, teeming with activity and important people who had no time to speak with children. But here at the manor, the meal feels almost like a wake; there is no boisterous laughter, rarely any conversation, and the air is tense and stuffy. The only noise comes from the cutlery scraping against porcelain dishes and the occasional hushed whisper.
There are faces Beatrice does not know, and by the way they keep their heads tilted down, she does not anticipate ever learning their names. Ms. Suzanne sits at the end of the table, though the head seat remains empty: a placeholder for Doctor Salvius. Next to Ms. Suzanne is Frances, and then what appears to be other staff across and next to her. Beatrice finds herself seated near the middle of the table with Mary, Camila, and another girl Beatrice has not officially met yet.
Mary sees Beatrice glancing at the stranger and leans closer.
“This is Lilith,” she explains, just above a whisper, not wanting the sound to carry.
Lilith’s eyes flick toward her, taking her in in a way that makes Beatrice feel like prey getting sized up. There is a slight sneer on Lilith’s face when she states, “Pleasure.” Lilith turns her nose up and away before Beatrice can reply, and Beatrice looks back to Mary for guidance.
Mary simply rolls her eyes and shakes her head, before pulling a quick face at Lilith. Lilith misses the look, but it makes Camila stifle a giggle into her hand. Lilith looks back to them at the noise, eyes narrowed.
Mary gives her an innocent grin, waits until Lilith turns away again before leaning over to Beatrice.
“Lilith was sent here by her parents as a way to ‘build character.’ They’re a well-off bunch, but don’t let her stuck-up nose fool you, Miss Beatrice. She can actually be sort of fun,” Mary pauses, her smile growing a little more. “Maybe you two could bond over silk dresses and fine china, or whatever it is you rich folk talk about.”
Beatrice chances another glance at Lilith, considers Mary’s words.
“The go-to topic of conversation is usually the number of yachts your family owns, but I’ll keep fine china in mind.”
Camila gives another giggle next to her, and it’s loud enough to catch the attention of Ms. Suzanne and Frances; the women turn to look at the girls, Ms. Suzanne’s face is unreadable while Frances scowls, and the girls duck their heads lower, trying in vain to hide.
(Amazingly, Beatrice feels her lips twitching. The first urge to smile in weeks and it feels foreign to her.)
Eventually, everyone turns back to their food, and the rest of the meal passes in silence.
.
When the dishes have all been cleared away, and the adults set off to their next duty, Beatrice meanders back into the kitchen. She feels lucky when she finds Mary and Camila alone.
“Hello again, Miss Beatrice,” Camila greets her from where she’s standing at the counter, smiling wide and genuine. Her sleeves are bunched up to her elbows, and her arms are covered in flour. “Have you ever made bread before?”
Beatrice walks over to Camila as she presses and kneads a bit of dough into a ball, before adding it to a slowly growing pile. Beatrice shakes her head. They had a team of cooks back in India who prepared all of their meals for them.
“I never had a reason to learn.”
“It’s quite easy! You just need a bit of patience. These will be had for breakfast tomorrow, but they need rest just like the rest of us.”
“It looks difficult,” Beatrice mumbles, staring at the way Camila stands up on her tippy toes in order to get enough leverage to push the dough down and forward.
“It’s actually a really nice method of getting over a bad day, if you can understand. People don’t take too kindly to being punched around here — the dough doesn’t seem to mind,” Mary jokes with a cheeky grin.
Beatrice braves a small smile in return; their supper together had helped Beatrice feel more connected to Mary and Camila. She’s not sure if she would call them friends — not yet, at least, but hopefully someday soon — but Beatrice at least feels like she’s allowed to be in on the jokes now.
The idea of girls her age wanting to be friends — or at least friendly — sends an unexpected thrill through Beatrice. She desperately wants to not mess this up, wants to have jokes that they can share — wants, wants, wants.
And… isn’t that something? Beatrice has never truly wanted for anything before. She never even truly wanted to be friends with the other children in India, either; they were far too condescending for Beatrice, far too childish and immature. She was fine with her books, she was fine with her imagination and archery and the games she would make up to play by herself.
She was alone, but she was fine.
The thrill turns in her stomach, and Beatrice has to take a deep breath to keep from wailing.
Like lightning, Beatrice thinks back to the girl from the hallway. She worries her thumb against the side of her index finger and chances a look around the kitchen. When it’s confirmed that the coast is clear, she steps closer to Camila.
“… Would you mind if I asked a question about the estate?”
“Of course, Miss Beatrice,” Camila replies, before her eyebrows scrunch slightly. “That’s to say, of course you may ask your question — not that I mind you asking.”
Beatrice nods, waving off Camila’s small ramble. “How many other children live here?”
Mary pauses her ministrations at the sink and turns to face Beatrice.
“Doctor Salvius employs many children to help maintain the manor.”
And Beatrice knows Mary is being deliberately obtuse. Can see the way she is holding something back from Beatrice, unwilling to tell the whole truth.
She just doesn’t understand why.
“And of those not employed by Doctor Salvius?”
There is a moment, tense but fragile, until Camila shatters it.
“Oh, do you mean—”
Ms. Suzanne walks into the kitchen before she can finish, and Beatrice has to fight the urge to stomp her foot. It’s a childish impulse and she’s embarrassed for a moment — but she needs to know who that girl in the hallway was.
“Mary, Camila, finish your tasks and then turn down for the night.” The girls immediately nod and hurry back to their chores. Ms. Suzanne turns to Beatrice and tilts her head toward the doorway. “Come. It is time for bed.”
In India, there was no bedtime Beatrice had to adhere to. She was free to roam the bungalow, peruse the library until her candle had burned down to a stub, could go wherever she wanted — as long as she did not disturb her parents.
(It was the only rule, but it was the most important; to remain quiet, out of sight. To be nothing more than a shadow.)
So far, living in this manor is proving to be the opposite. It’s becoming near impossible for Beatrice to not feel like a prisoner.
She looks to Camila once more, who only offers her an apologetic smile, before turning and following Ms. Suzanne out of the kitchen. The walk is tense and quiet, the only sound coming from the steady tap… tap… tap… of the woman’s cane against the floor.
They arrive at Beatrice’s door and Ms. Suzanne turns and walks away. She makes it three steps before she hesitates, and Beatrice holds her breath as she stares at the woman’s back — unmoving and tense. And then, Ms. Suzanne’s stiff posture drops a fraction of an inch and she glances over her shoulder at Beatrice. The faint light in the hallway catches on her scars.
“I’m sorry,” Ms. Suzanne offers stiffly, eyes looking just to the side of Beatrice; her mouth twitches into a frown, small and severe, but it does not make her words any less sincere. “For your loss.”
And it’s not at all what Beatrice had been expecting, not at all something she thought she would ever hear. Especially not from Ms. Suzanne, and especially not after their first encounter in the kitchen.
Before she can think of something to say in return, Ms. Suzanne looks her in the eye for a fragile moment, nods once, and then continues down the hall. As if she hadn’t just offered Beatrice something no one else has even thought to give: an acknowledgment of her pain, of what she has lost, and a regret that she must experience it.
Beatrice watches her go, waits until she disappears around the corner before pushing into her room. It’s dark now that the sun has set, and she hesitates in the doorway. For half a heartbeat, and with an unexpectedness that has a lump forming in her throat, she wishes her mother was there to hold her hand.
When Beatrice was a little girl and afraid of the dark, her mother would tuck her into bed. And then, in one of those rare moments where she was mum and not Mother — she would get on her hands and knees and check under Beatrice’s bed.
Hello, she would call out. Are there any monsters sleeping under my darling’s bed? If so, I insist on inviting you out for a lovely cup of tea. A girl needs her beauty rest, after all, and cannot achieve that with monsters lurking about.
Beatrice would press her smile into her pillow because with her mum acting so silly there was no longer any space to be afraid. And her mum would pop back up, her beautiful shiny hair still perfectly in place, and she would declare that there weren’t, in fact, any monsters under the bed at all. Then she would brush a kiss against Beatrice’s forehead, and wish her sweet dreams.
And Beatrice would feel safe. She would sleep easy, knowing her mum wouldn’t lie to her. Not about something as important as monsters under the bed.
But her mum is not here. Will never hold her hand again. Cannot promise that there aren’t things waiting for her in the dark.
Beatrice curls her empty fingers into a fist, nails pressing into soft palm.
She steps into the room.
Her new bed is stiff, not as worn and broken-in as the one back in India. It takes a few moments of tossing and turning to find a position that feels comfortable to her, but eventually she finds herself on her side, staring out of the wide window.
The rain had officially stopped sometime during supper, and the moon peeks from behind the few clouds that remain. It is a tiny sliver of a thing — a waning crescent, if Beatrice recalls correctly, and barely visible in the sky. But it is there, doing what it can, with what little light it has to reflect.
(Beatrice tries not to empathize too much.)
She closes her eyes and wills herself to sleep — does her best to ignore the faint wailing through the manor.
Does her best to convince herself it is only the wind.