Archive of Our Own

The nights are getting longer, and Agnes figures she’ll have to wear her coat soon. It’s strange that it will be a dull brown color, exactly matching her newly acquired outfit. 

When she looks at her reflection on the glass panes of the door, she can never seem to bring herself to like it. It’s too dim and boring; doesn’t compliment her complexion. Maybe if the shade was a slightly different shade or tone she could appreciate it more, but she can’t think that way anymore. 

She mustn’t be this mindful of her appearance. Aunts physically disappear within the crowds, but their command is what powers through. That’s who Agnes should be as of now— or at least, training to be.

Agnes blinks away her thoughts when someone opens the door, bringing her back to reality. 

“Oh, look who’s here,” Sophie, the Chapin household Martha, greets her warmly. “Blessed day.”

“Blessed day,” Agnes responds with a polite smile.

Sophie widens the door to welcome Agnes inside and says, “it’s lovely seeing you after all this time.”

“I hope it hasn’t been too long.” It’s not like she can pop in anytime she wants. Any visit she made here had to be approved by Aunt Lydia. In fact, Lydia had to initiate the visitation conversations because Agnes shouldn’t show this much eagerness. She should be focused on her studies and training. 

She does get lucky sometimes, like today. 

“Please make yourself at home,” Sophie gestures to the living room as she heads to the kitchen to prepare the tea. “Mrs Chapin will be down in a moment.” 

Becka, Agnes wants to say. Her name is Becka. 

As she stands still on the foyer, her eyes linger on that door that used to be Dr Grove’s dentist office, but it’s covered with a curtain and all the waiting seats are gone, along with the pictures. She ignores the tightness in her chest and heads straight to the couch, waiting for Becka. 

“Blessed morning, Aunt Victoria,” a familiar voice says from behind her. 

Agnes turns around and Becka’s standing by the entrance in her teal dress with her teal cardigan and the teal shoes. She can’t say that she’s used to looking at her like this. 

“You don’t have to call me that,” Agnes breathes out a small laugh. She stands up and fixes her posture instinctively. 

“Still Agnes?” Becka teases her, raising up a brow but her subtle smile on her face is sweet. 

She’s trying. Agnes knows that she’s trying.

“Still Agnes,” she nods. They sit down across from each other and there is an awkwardness in the air, because Becka’s silently looking at her new uniform; looking at details of the new look; Aunt Victoria’s new look. “You look well,” she tells her. 

“Praise be His grace,” Becka sighs, eyes locked on the carpet. 

But it is true. There’s slightly more life in her face and it does seem like she’s actually been eating.

The first time they saw each other after the wedding was when Aunt Vidala took the class to see Becka in her newly wedded life. It was about two weeks after, and Vidala told them to be mindful as ‘Mrs Chapin’ was still in mourning over the recent losses she’s suffered. 

It was so strange seeing Becka in teal, sitting at the head of the table with such hollow eyes and gaunt cheeks. She barely made any conversation, and Shu tried her best to take over that task for her. 

But for a new wife to appear so small and withdrawn in front of guests, that even her Martha had to practically sit her down, help her up, and hold her arm during the house tour. It wasn’t the typical field trip to congratulate Becka. She didn’t look like a wife, she looked like a child wearing blue. 

Why did they have to all go visit and see her like that? What was the reason? 

That was nearly many months ago, and Agnes had her calling soon after that. 

Sophie walks in with tea, biscuits, and cut fruits for the table and she lights the fireplace. She whispers something in Becka’s ear and she shakes her head to whatever she said. Before Sophie leaves them, she tucks the stray hairs from Becka’s side to behind her ears, hoping to make her look neat and put together. 

“Did they give you a rod?” Becka asks her when they’re alone. 

“No. Not yet.” 

“I can’t imagine you with one,” she looks sideways, drawing her brows together. “Hard to imagine you hitting Plums because they’re talking too much in the hallway.” 

Agnes’ mind swims back to all the swats her and Becka received due to that exact reason. “It’s not supposed to be easy but,” she sighs and tidies her skirt with her palms. “We are instruments of the Lord, and the Lord disciplines those he loves.”

Becka looks deeply uninterested and indifferent when she hears that. Agnes can’t fault her at all, and she can recognize the complicated relationship she might have with the Aunts right now.

But that doesn’t make the embarrassment that Agnes feels brewing behind her neck any less palpable. There’s a ferocious desire to impress her and rope Becka back into her atmosphere. She doesn’t want Becka to think of her as one of those grouchy, mean-spirited aunts.

Agnes has so much more to her.

She sits up straight and blurts out with eager eyes, “I’ve learned how to read.”

Becka snaps her head up when she hears that. “Praise be,” she blinks, looking at her with wonder. There’s a tiny glimmer in her hazel eyes, and Agnes knows that she succeeded in piquing her interest. “Already?” She asks her, leaning forward.

“By His grace, but I need to practice,” Agnes tells her. “I’m still slow.”

She walks over to where Agnes is sitting on the couch to be near, putting a few feet between them, and she leans forward as though she’s asking something wrong, not wanting anyone to hear. “Can you write too?” She asks quietly with a little mischievous tone. 

Agnes nods and says, “still learning.”

Becka opens her mouth to say something, but she doesn’t utter a word yet. Agnes knows that she’s processing it in her head right now, and she lets her be. 

“Wow.” Becka’s entire demeanor changes, welcoming this new information, like she just discovered a new corner in her room to fixate on, and letting that particular glimmer in her eyes shine through. “Agnes, that’s— that’s wonderful.”

There’s heat flushing through Agnes’ cheeks. She knows she’s not supposed to be talking about this at all— she should be here to check up on Becka, make sure she’s okay, and leave it at that, but nothing compares to the thrill of Becka’s delight.

“Did you read the bible?” She inquires further, refusing to end this conversation knowing they’d get in trouble if someone heard them indulging this topic too much. 

She did, but she doesn’t want to tell Becka how different everything is from scripture class. Not because she can’t handle it— in fact, she can, but it’s not worth the misery it’ll bring her. 

“There’s other stories too,” Agnes tells her instead. “About all sorts of things, not just scripture.”

“Like what?” Becka excitedly leans her body closer, putting a hand on the cushion for support. “Pray, tell me.”

Agnes hums and looks up at the ceiling. Then, her eyes flit to the portrait of Garth and Becka on their wedding day; a small frame over the fireplace. Garth looks solemn, while Becka just looks empty. It looks entirely wrong. 

She claws the fabric of her skirt and thinks about the stories she’s read. 

“There’s a midsummer night’s dream,” she tells her, loving every bit of sharing such secrets with her. “It’s a play. A funny one, but it was different and hard,” she continues with passion. “I had to check the dictionary all the time—“

“What’s a dictionary?” Becka interrupts her, inching closer. 

“It’s a book that has all the words and their meanings.”

“All of them?”

“Most of them,” she tilts her head. 

Becka eagerly nods and takes it in. “Well, the play? What is it about?” Becka asks and looks over her shoulder to check if Sophie’s nearby, possibly overhearing them. That could be troublesome. 

“It’s a love story,” Agnes smiles at her. “Hermia’s supposed to marry Demetrius, but she’s in love with Lysander. So, she runs away with him to the forest,” she gushes with a shy chuckle. “There’s Helena who’s in love with Demetrius, and they follow them into the forest,” she instinctively holds Becka’s arm. “There’s fairies in the forest, potions, magic— and there’s an accident with the love potions!” 

Becka’s jaw slacks and the eager curiosity that was in her eyes turns into something that looks more enamored with a twinge of sadness. 

“What does it look like?” She quietly asks. It sounds like she’s pleading. “All the words?”

If the Aunts knew what she was doing right now, stripping her off her Aunt training program would only be the beginning of their punishment. 

“Well,” she takes Becka’s hand and flattens her palm to face it upward. “Imagine a straight line like this,” she traces her index finger on Becka’s palm, and Becka doesn’t even look down. Her gaze is stuck on Agnes’ face. It isn’t until she feels movement of scribbles and random shapes does she look down to see. 

“That would be your name,” Agnes says. 

“Can you do it again?” She asks, holding her breath and feeling hot all over. 

Agnes obeys. 

“Rebecca Grace,” she mutters as her finger moves across the surface of Becka’s hand. “Here.” 

“And your name?” Becka wears a smile when she requests it, and who does Agnes think she is to deny her.

“Agnes Jemima.”

Then, it is silent. There is no sound surrounding them whatsoever, unless you count the crackle of the fireplace and Becka’s breathing pattern. Even Sophie’s movements faraway are gone. 

Agnes lays her hand flat on Becka’s palm, and Becka takes her other hand to secure the hold, letting the moment stay still for as long as she can. 

They look into each other’s eyes, and Agnes’ chest feels lighter and lighter as each second passes, and the calmness she feels makes her want to pray. 

But she’s taken off guard when Becka leans her head impossibly close to her and whispers into her ear, “Would you read it to me?” 

Agnes pulls back and chuckles with amusement. “What?” 

“A midsummer night’s dream,” Becka says. “Garth has a lot of books in his office. I’m sure it’s there. He won’t say anything— I know it! He won’t even know.” 

“Beck…” Agnes isn’t sure if she can risk getting her into trouble like that. The Eyes surely won’t show mercy again.

“Sophie’s gone to the market. It’s perfect,” she says, so much tension on her forehead and her eyes look watery. “No one’s here. It’s my house and it’s just us.” 

“I want to, but I just—“

“Please,” Becka frowns, holding their hands tighter. 

Agnes takes a deep breath and twists her mouth. She pretends that she has to think about it, but it’s a losing battle. 

It’s God’s will.

She lets Becka lead her to the bookshelves in the library and she does indeed find a copy. They sit next to each other while Agnes reads out for her, showing her where each word is, but Becka stares at her in awe the entire time. 

She doesn’t read the entire thing, that would be impossible in their short time together, and she knows Becka didn’t fully understand what was being said, but she engages with it; latches on to the words and compliments the rhythm. 

Then, Agnes reads out to her: 

Ay me! for aught that I could ever read,

Could ever hear by tale or history,

The course of true love never did run smooth;

She looks up from the page to see Becka’s face. She’s looking at the words and letters and there’s a trail of tears down her face to her chin. 

The mist lifts and vanishes inside of Agnes’ mind. She hears the voice of God calling her to higher service, and it’s to serve none other than Rebecca Grace by giving her tales and poems and sonnets, handing moments of escape and levity. 

This isn’t wrong. It can’t possibly be wrong. 

She remembers how Helena had said: 

I'll follow thee and make a heaven of hell,

To die upon the hand I love so well.

This is how Agnes will bring Becka back to life.

—

The snowfall hasn’t dwindled since the early morning. It worried Agnes for what it might mean for her; a cancellation of the Chapin household visit. Aunt Lydia has been pretty generous with those visitation arrangements after Commander Chapin had called and said that his wife brightens up whenever her friends come see her, namely Aunt Victoria. 

But the car came to pick her up regardless, and she underestimated how cold the frigid air would be. The coat she’s wearing isn’t enough.

When Sophie welcomes her inside, Agnes rushes to drop to her knees by the fireplace, ignoring Becka’s presence in the living room just a few steps behind her. She’s distracted by flames in front of her and a certain sound floating from behind her.

She hears Becka laughing from where she is due to the display at hand. Agnes turns her head back to look at her and they share pleasant smiles, and Becka lifts a brow to tease her for succumbing to the cold like this. No one could blame her; the heating at Ardua Hall is deeply inadequate.

However, another type of warmth washes over when she sees Becka sitting on the couch with a dulcimer on her lap. 

Right, Agnes registers the music. That’s where the sound is coming from.

“Blessed morning, Becka.”

“Blessed day, Agnes,” she says, strumming the strings noncommittally. It’s a departure from her hammered dulcimer talents, but she asked Garth a while ago to bring her the instrument so she can brush up her old skill, but she was actually learning it alone. It’s something familiar, she could figure out the mechanics herself with all the time in the world that she seems to have. 

Agnes always knew that Becka was particularly blessed with her musicality. It’s no surprise that she already knows how to play the dulcimer with her fingers and not the hammers. 

“Are you still cold?” 

Agnes nods and Becka tilts her head towards the couch with the grey woolen blanket. 

She stands up to take off her coat and she comfortably lays down, putting her head on the cushion and haphazardly covering herself with the blanket. 

She would never ever behave like this in any other house. Becka’s home is different and luckily, Sophie is kind and just lets them be. 

“Just rest for now,” Becka says. “God knows how much work you’re doing in Ardua Hall. I’m sure you’re tired.”

“I’m okay,” Agnes says, but she shudders.

It elicits a breath of laughter from Becka. She shakes her head and says, “just rest. We can start Twelfth Night later.”

They have gotten smarter about this so they don’t get caught rummaging around Garth’s office. Agnes took it upon herself and used God’s gift of memorization to soak in as many scenes as she could before seeing Becka.

She can’t risk losing the privilege of this time she has alone with her by acting foolish. For now, she doesn’t read to her, but rather recites the scenes.

“I memorized the first two scenes for you.”

Becka shyly smiles, a hint of pink blooms on her face. “Pray, is it good?”

“You’ll love it,” Agnes nods.

She goes back into her own world when plays music again. Agnes can’t say she recognizes the song, but maybe Becka’s just inventing new ones along the way. Wishful thinking has her praying that Becka’s playing music to impress her the same way she’s memorizing all of this Shakespeare for her. 

To say, look what I can show you— look where I can take you too. 

Agnes is hypnotized into a trance by the soft melody, nearly tricking her into a false sense of security where they can remain in this moment forever, stuck in this loop. 

Oh, she does not want to leave. She does not want this to ever end. The sunlight travels through the frosted glass panes, touching Becka’s figure, making her loose curls glow into a golden-like brown. She always wears her hair down now, and Agnes loves it. Pinning her own hair back is part of her uniform, so she enjoys the view of second hand freedom.

Her gaze drops to Becka’s hands strumming and gliding. There’s divinity in her intention and precision while making each delicate movement with the tips of her fingers. Agnes wonders what it would be like to put her head on Becka’s lap like that, and have her fingers run through hair, or trace her face, or feel her hand touch her body. 

She squeezes her eyes shut and prays the ideas away to just pause her train of thought before it goes furthermore. 

But how could she? How could she make it pause when Becka hums along to the music? And Agnes knows in her heart of hearts that the harmonies of the angels don’t hold a candle to Becka’s heavenly voice.

She tries to recite the lines in her head, but she only makes it to the third line before the warmth and music lull her into sleep.

If music be the food of love, play on;

Give me excess of it, that, surfeiting,

The appetite may sicken, and so die.

—

“Thank you so much, Aunt Victoria,” Sophie says by the entrance. “For coming on such short notice.”

“By his grace, Sophie,” she meekly smiles. “Pray, is Becka feeling well?”

“Oh, dear Mrs Chapin hasn’t been feeling well for days,” she frowns. “She’s been in bed, refusing food, sleeping all day,” she genuinely looks worried. “Commander Chapin brought in a doctor, but her headache still persists.”

She feels her heart twinging when she hears that. Becka’s wellbeing feels like her own; they’re tethered together by their heartstrings, she’s always felt that. When they were younger, if Agnes had gotten the fever, Becka’s body temperature would spike that same night, despite Agnes staying home that day. 

Hulda had said it’s probably because they spent all their time together, even after school. But Agnes prefers the more romantic version, and wonders if the connection holds as strong today. 

“I’ll go see to her,” Agnes says, walking towards the stairs. 

“I think she’s sad,” Sophie says, cutting through Agnes’ steps. She pauses but doesn’t turn around quite yet. “And lonely.”

Agnes turns her head slightly, viewing Sophie with her peripheral vision. 

“She probably just needs a friend,” Sophie continues, her voice is nervous. 

Agnes swallows and nods. “I’ll take care of her.”

She hears Sophie sigh and say, “under his eye.”

“Under his eye.”

She expected Becka’s room to be dark and cold before she knocked and opened the door, but all the curtains were pulled open, allowing the sunlight to come in through every window. It made the room feel hotter than it should. 

“Becka?” Agnes calls out the sleeping figure in bed wearing a nightgown, back facing her. She responds with something between a hum and a groan. Agnes sits on the edge of the mattress, still not seeing her face, so she puts a hand on her shoulder, her thumb moving in comforting strokes. “How are you doing?”

She doesn’t quite answer the question, but she grabs the hand on her shoulder and says, “come here,” slightly dragging her forward. “I want to see you.”

Agnes lets go of her hand and rounds the bed to lay on the pillow next to Becka’s. She knows Garth doesn’t sleep here; in her childhood bedroom. He doesn’t sleep with her anywhere at all, she hasn’t asked but she knows. 

It takes moments of them gazing into each other’s eyes before they start talking. There’s no sound at all, there’s only Agnes seeing Becka’s chest go up and down. 

“What happened?” She says just as quietly, not wanting to break the hushed air. 

“My head hurts.”

Agnes puts her palm on Becka’s forehead and cheek, checking for any abnormal heat, but she seems okay. “Did you eat anything? Drink water?”

“No,” Becka swallows tiredly. She looks like she hasn’t been sleeping at all by the darkness underneath her eyes. “Sophie and Garth keep coming and going. I think he opened the curtains before going to work.”

“Pray, were you living in absolute darkness for days?” She teases her. 

“No,” she grumbles, maybe a lie. 

“Becka,” Agnes says to grab her attention, putting a hand over hers. “What’s going on?”

She stares at her before answering, wondering what’s the right thing to say. “Do you ever dream of your mother at night?”

Agnes takes a sharp breath. “I used to,” she slowly nods. “A lot, actually.”

“You never told me,” her frown deepens. 

The memories are a blur, and Agnes can’t fully identify what her dreams even were. Maybe they were nightmares, because sometimes she would wake up scared and out of breath. However, sometimes she woke up with her face already wet with tears. 

She was always missing someone or something. 

“I didn’t really know what to say. It was a long time ago.”

“I want mine to stop,” Becka says. “I want to stop seeing my mom whenever I close my eyes.”

Agnes wishes that she knew what to say or do for this sort of situation. One would assume she’d know the answer considering her own losses and grief. 

But Becka gives her the mercy of continuing to talk. “She’s just there inside my dreams, inside this house— her house,” her eyes darken. “She doesn’t say anything, Agnes. She doesn’t talk to me, and sometimes I hear it,” she whispers. 

“Hear what?”

Her face contours into something slightly more harrowing. “Her neck,” she swallows painfully. “The rope and her bones snapping. I don’t know if she screamed. No one tells me anything, but I can always hear her screaming.”

Agnes leans closer to put her forehead on hers. “Don’t think about that,” she says gently, caressing her face. “Your mother wouldn’t want you to.”

“My mother isn’t here. I got her killed.”

“Becka, no,” she says firmly and quickly, praying it’ll immediately block any hope of doubt. She ignores that her heart had turned into tiny pieces of shards, stabbing her insides. “You cannot do this to yourself.”

“I don’t have a family anymore, Agnes.” 

“There’s Sophie. She’s always taking care of you and clearly adores you,” she reminds her. “And there’s Garth. He is kind and gentle, isn’t he?”

Agnes doesn’t really cross paths with Garth anymore, but Becka briefly mentions throwaway comments on how they usually have dinners together and how they’re getting better at making conversation.

Becka stiffly nods. “I think it’s only a matter of time though. I can’t expect him to tolerate our situation forever. He probably wants a real wife eventually,” she averts her eyes away from Agnes. 

“He won’t leave you behind,” she says surely. She wants to tell her that she made sure of it, but did she? “And you have me. I’m your family too,” she softly smiles at her. 

“You’re training to be an aunt. They will move you away as soon as you’re finished to do all that missionary work.” 

“That’s not until a really long time.”

“It’s still coming, and when that happens I’ll truly lose everything,” Becka says tearfully. “God’s punishment will be complete.”

The lump on Agnes’ throat is starting to choke her. She inhales a painful breath and says, “you’re not being punished, Rebecca. You will see through this.”

“No,” she shakes her head. “I killed my father and I don’t regret that, but I ended up killing my mother, ruining Garth’s life, and yours as well. You should’ve been married by now.” 

“Becka, you saved my life,” she reassures truthfully. “In more than one way— in all the ways. Your bravery saved my life.”

She looks at her doubtful. “And my poor mother’s soul?”

“That was not your doing.”

“Whose then?”

“Not yours.” 

Becka doesn’t seem convinced whatsoever, and that’s okay because Agnes didn’t think it would happen so soon anyway, but God called to her for higher service, and chief among those services is telling Becka stories to set her free even for a few minutes from this prison. 

If she’s being honest it’s for the both of them. 

She feels Becka shuddering, and Agnes strokes her hair and says, “I’ve got something for you.”

“What is it?” 

Agnes sits up, leaning back on the board and Becka follows. She lifts her long skirt to lower her right knee-high sock and reveals a small folded paper. 

“Sorry, I didn’t have time to memorize anything this week,” she says, wearing a sneaky smile. “But I didn’t come empty handed.”

Becka’s eyes grow bigger and her heart’s beating faster. She’s able to distract her grief-stricken mind for a while. 

“Is this Romeo and Juliet?” Becka asks. They haven’t finished it yet and it’s been a while since Agnes last came over. She doesn’t always recite to her word-by-word, sometimes she just recalls the story’s events and the conversation would take it from there.

“No,” she shakes her head. “It’s something else. It reminded me of you.”

She looks at Agnes with both intrigue and confusion, drawing closer to her and wiping her face from stray tears before wrapping arms around Agnes’ upper arm and resting her chin on her shoulder to look over the paper. 

Agnes clears her throat and Becka looks at every letter and word on the small piece of paper with a sense of longing to understand what’s written. 

And Agnes reads:

You dare easier be friends with me than fight with my enemy. 

Is Claudio not approved in the height a villain, that hath slandered, scorned, dishonoured my kinswoman? 

O that I were a man! What, bear her in hand until they come to take hands; 

and then, with public accusation, uncovered slander, unmitigated rancour, – O, God that I were a man! I would eat his heart in the market-place.

Becka faintly smiles, feeling flattered and amused, but she scoffs and looks up at Agnes. “I am nothing like Beatrice,” she says. 

Agnes is in awe of Becka. She truly is, in all accounts, in awe of her. Of course, she would remember the few acts she had told her of Much Ado About Nothing those months ago. She’s starting to see how much Becka has memorized after her, asking her to repeat them again and again until she gets it. 

“I think you are,” she tells her. “You’re brave, clever, and ferocious.”

“You flatter me,” Becka says humorously. 

“No, truly. You changed us, Becka— you changed me.” She goes to grab Becka’s hand and puts it over the paper. “The agony Beatrice was feeling all these centuries ago because of the pain Hero is going through. She wished to seek vengeance herself. You are alike, and you both protect those you love. You brought justice and served God’s will,” she says. 

“Did Beatrice murder anyone?” Becka whispers in shame. 

“That’s not important,” Agnes nears her head to Becka’s temple. “You protected me, Hulda, and many other girls. You’re the hero of this tale.”

“I don’t think anyone sees it like that.”

She flattens Becka’s hand over the paper and explains, “there’s all these worlds out there where everyone would understand, and in those worlds, everyone would know your mother loved you the whole way.”

“Do you believe it?”

“Entirely.”

Becka lifts her head from Agnes’ shoulder and her shoulders slump in surrender. “I miss her terribly.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“I feel like there’s a heavy ball inside of my head, like this pressure here,” she presses her forehead. 

“How about you drink some water? Maybe a bath?” She suggests. “It’ll cool you off.”

“Later,” she says, but not fully dismissing it. “I’ll just stay here with you while you’re here.”

She holds Agnes’ hand that’s holding the paper. The both of them are tracing the words with their thumbs. 

“I worry you’re risking too much for me with this,” Becka says. “If any of the Aunts saw this, I might never see you again.”

“Don’t worry. I’m careful.”

“I know,” she nods, head falling back to the crook of Agnes’ neck. “I just don’t know if it’s worth the trouble.”

“Of course, it is.” It is God’s calling to Agnes. There is no question. “You’re worthy.”

“Agnes…” Becka whines in a teasing way, growing red in the face.

“Do you want to know why?”

“Tell me.”

They are so close to each other right now. They don’t need to speak above whispers.

“Because Benedick said something before Beatrice spoke those lines here,” Agnes explains. “And I saw myself.”

“What did he say?” Becka sings softly. 

They’re breathing each other’s air and Agnes is certain that if tilts her head just a hair closer to Becka she’ll be able to hear her heart beating— or is that her own heart pounding in her ears?

Hazel eyes swirling in grays and greens; worlds of their own. 

It’s them and Shakespeare. Everything he ever wrote feels like it was written for them alone. No one outside of this room exists at this moment.

So, Agnes wears her heart on her sleeve and decides to be brave like Becka. 

“I do love nothing in the world so well as you: is not that strange?” 

Becka is lucid this time, and she’s starting to believe in the other worlds out there. She looks at Agnes’ eyes, then lowers her gaze to her mouth. 

She cradles her jaw and connects their lips with reckless abandon. 

The softness of Agnes’ lips are familiar to her, but it’s different this time. Becka’s not walking towards her eternal doom this time. She’s heading towards a holy shrine— towards Agnes.

She’s been walking towards her for a really long time now.

—

“What do you think?”

Agnes presses her lips and tilts her head sideways. “It’s…” she starts slowly. “Interesting.”

Becka stifles a chuckle and looks away from Agnes’ face. “It’s really something, isn’t it?” She teases.

“Praise be,” Agnes responds. She’s unsure if Becka’s tone is an indication of her humor or not.

“We really did consider putting it downstairs in the living room,” Becka says. “But Garth said it would clash with the colors there,” she breathes out a laugh through her nose, clearly amused. “He put it here. He said the sunlight would hit it nicely.” 

“I think I agree,” she nods. “The light compliments all of the green.”

“It’s The Forest,” Becka says, looking up at her. “From a midsummer night’s dream.”

They’re in the hallway upstairs standing in front of a framed painting Becka had made recently. Needless to say, Becka isn’t quite as gifted in the visual arts as she is in the musical department. However, it is nice that it seems like Garth indulges all her hobbies whenever she pleases. 

That pleases Agnes, and maybe the aspect that Becka has drawn something that’s a secret between them is even more pleasing. 

“What made you want to paint it?”

It’s just abstractly drawn blobs of greens, blues, and browns that look like a forest once you’ve been told it’s supposed to be a forest. 

Becka looks thoughtful about the question, wrapping her mother’s cyan cardigan around her nightgown. She looks brighter these days; easier to make laugh, more color in her eyes. 

“I had a dream that we went there,” Becka says shyly, and she shifts closer to Agnes. Their hands are brushing against each other. “And I never want to forget that.” Agnes’ fingers twitch, instinctively seeking out Becka’s hand. “I’m dreaming again, Agnes. I go to nice places when I’m sleeping— all those stories you tell me,” she sighs, sounding peaceful. “I’m dreaming again.”

Agnes stops fighting and takes her hand, interlocking their fingers together. She can’t stop her heart from palpating and bursting out of her chest. 

This is God's will. This is why God called to her for higher service; it’s for this exact moment. 

For Becka’s happiness, as much as she can gather of it. 

“Pray, what else are you dreaming?” Agnes leans closer, and she cannot contain the smile on her face, putting her dimples on full display.

“My mother,” Becka says. “I was on a carousel. She was holding me since I was too little. There were sounds everywhere.”

“That sounds lovely,” Agnes says. 

“I think it’s real,” becka holds her hand tighter. “From before. It feels real like it actually happened.”

“Sometimes I feel like I remember things too.”

“Like what?” Becka asks, looking behind her to see if Sophie has returned from the market.

“I don’t know if it’s real either, but I think I remember my parents. Not them exactly, but the fact that they were here—like I remember their presence. I think I remember school and playing outside and going to places with them,” she smiles shyly, looking down. “I could be making it all up.”

“It’s real if you remember it,” Becka looks up at her with knitted brows, mouth dropping into a small frown. “It exists somewhere inside of you. It’s real.”

Agnes nods. She can’t take this away from her; the only glimpses of her mother’s memories. Becka doesn’t have much else, and she’s not going to debate whether any access she has to any good memories with her mother are real.

If Agnes spent nights tossing and turning, thinking about the legitimacy of her own memories, then Becka doesn’t have to experience that.

“It’s real,” Agnes repeats to reassure her. 

Becka exhales and looks back at the painting. “It’s terrible, isn’t it?” She presses her lips

“It could be improved.”

“You’re right,” Becka hums. She doesn’t truly care about the painting. She grips on Agnes’ hand and walks towards her bedroom. “I’ve got something to show you.”

“Another painting?” Agnes jokes. 

Becka laughs but she shakes her head. “I’ll make another one soon but no. I’ll show you something else,” she looks back at her. “It’s a secret.”

Becka digs through her nightstand drawer and grabs a small flashlight, then she crawls under the bed, gesturing for Agnes to follow along, like they used to when they were kids.

They’re laying underneath the bed, shoulder to shoulder, and Becka feels giddy as she’s tapping on her flashlight. “Ready?” She asks her.

“Ready,” Agnes nods, unsure what to really expect. There’s already some illumination sneaking in from the glass windows but it’s not enough to see anything.

Becka turns on the flashlight to display the row of wooden planks holding the mattress up, and Agnes isn’t sure what she’s supposed to find until Becka takes her hand and lets her trace the side of a wooden plank with her fingers. It's not smooth, it feels like it’s been messed with.

Then Agnes sees it. 

BECKA

She lingers on it for a while, letting her finger glide through it over and over again, finding so much divinity in her carved name. 

“I remember the shapes of the letters,” becka whispers in a hushed voice. “I wanted to put it somewhere.”

It’s easy to tell which scribbles of the letters were drawn first to write out the name. Becka doesn’t have practice, she’s never seen anyone write using a pen on paper. 

“I think your handwriting’s beautiful,” Agnes turns her head to see her, and she’s being completely truthful. No one else in the whole world knows what Becka’s handwriting looks like except for her now. Such thrill it brings to her heart once more.

“I was going to write yours as well,” Becka says with a sly grin. 

“You know mine?”

She takes Agnes’ hand and traces the letters in her palm like she did to her. “Like this.”

“You should’ve carved it here then,” Agnes raises a brow. “Next to yours.”

“I didn’t want to get you in trouble,” Becka says. “Just in case.”

Agnes’ forehead rests on Becka. “Well, aren’t you good at keeping secrets?”

“Conceal me what I am, and be my aid,” Becka teases, and Agnes pins the Twelfth Night line at an instant and she’s utterly charmed. 

Agnes steals a quick kiss and when she pulls back, she bites her inner lower lip and says, “I’ll keep your secrets.”

“I’ll keep yours as well,” says Becka, linking their pinkies together.

They’ve become so good at that. Their entire relationship seems to revolve around secrets shared between them, and she has no idea how long until they get found out. She doesn’t know what kind of punishment they might even receive for reciting all these forbidden books to Becka, for kissing her, for considering leaving once and for all without a trace. 

“The world feels so big now, Agnes,” Becka tells her, eyes burning like embers with hope. Her hand holds Agnes’ face. “I can’t make it stop. There’s so much to think about.”

Agnes thinks back to the painting on the hallway of The Forest; it’s the place to run away to seek refuge from the laws of the land. The maze-like woods are enchanting, and there’s magic and chaos to whomever stumbles upon it. The Forest is so disorderly and unpredictable and full of madness.

It doesn’t make it any less desirable for either of them. 

But it’s also a faraway, confusing dream. There’s no certainty if The Forest or the outside world is real for them— no certainty if it all exists outside the realms of their dreams. 

Agnes rolls the question around her head a few moments before she asks, because she knows she’s treading unmarked territory here. 

“Do you think we’ll ever see the outside?”

“Yes,” Becka answers surely, firmly, confidently. 

Agnes believes her. 

—

Agnes can’t say she fully understands the type of relationship Becka and Garth have. She’s not sure what she even thought of them before, because she knew they were cordial and had a budding friendship, except she never really saw them interact at all, just a few mentions of his name here and there. 

It was only when she was in the back of the van, waiting for Becka to climb after, arm already stretched to help her in, did Becka suddenly turn around to throw her arms around Garth and hug him ferociously.

Right, Agnes thought. They are married.

Even if their marriage wasn’t convenient, they kept each other safe in a way. They were husband and wife in a way that absolutely didn’t matter to Gilead, but they were companions nonetheless. Maybe they had secrets of their own that Agnes wasn’t privy to. 

So Agnes understands their relationship better when she hears Becka tearfully asking him to promise that he’ll find a way out eventually— that he can’t spend the rest of his life here. 

Garth reassures her, tells her that he took care of everything for her and Agnes to leave, and that he’ll pray for their safe arrival. He politely bids his farewell to Agnes and tells her that they should take care of each other from now on. 

Agnes nods, and she grabs Becka’s hand to pull her before Garth shuts the door behind them. 

She doesn’t think they’ll ever see him again.

It already feels like it happened in another lifetime, but it’s only been hours and it’s still dark out. Agnes can’t understand how time is moving anymore, because it’s hard to keep up with your train of thought when you’re in a rocking inflatable boat amidst a freezing river. 

There’s three other people with them; a Martha and a married couple from the Econopeople. The boat is moving with the stream inviting a bit too much water inside than one can handle. Maybe it’s the fact that Becka and Agnes are badly dressed for the occasion. Becka’s own pants are held up by Garth’s belt that he punctured more holes on for her sake. 

She can hear Becka’s teeth clicking and even though she has a strong grip on her hand, it hasn't stopped shaking from the cold. Agnes isn’t doing much better either; she’s uncontrollably shivering and her fingernails are changing color, and yet she has to check every few minutes if Becka’s eyes are still open. 

There’s only one small light in the boat to provide very little illumination, it’s enough for Agnes to see the expression on Becka’s face; peaceful surrender as she’s staring into the starry night sky. 

She nudges her elbow lightly. “What are you thinking?” She whispers. Agnes doesn’t want their voices to travel across the river nor does she want the other people to hear their conversation.

Becka inhales shakily and says, “I’m thinking that no matter what happens today, my life will never be the same.”

Agnes notices that Becka’s lips are turning blue, similar to her own purple-ish nails. 

“It’s been changing for a long time now,” Agnes tells her.

“Right,” she nods. “But this all feels a bit final, doesn’t it? Like the ending of a story.”

Agnes shifts closer to her if it’s possible, and she wears a tired smile to reassure her despite her heart trying its best to keep her from falling asleep. “I think this is the beginning of another one actually.”

“You’re scared, aren’t you?” 

“I’m very scared,” Agnes admits. “But we’re so close and we’re not alone.”

“Your mother’s waiting for you,” says Becka, squeezing Agnes’ hand. 

“And I can’t wait for her to meet you.”

Becka sighs and looks back up at the sky. She puts her arm around Agnes’ shoulder and brings her closer, holding her other hand. “I don’t think I’m scared.”

“You’ve always been brave.”

“Not braver than you.”

Agnes teasingly knocks their heads together. “Okay,” she rasps out a small chuckle. “We make each other braver. It’s not a competition.”

Then, it’s quiet again for a while. It’s easy to pretend that no one else is with them in this miserable boat with the icy waters sloshing around their feet and legs up to their knees. 

They could seriously all just drown if there’s one wrong movement or one silly accident. The life jackets might help them float but Agnes isn’t sure if the temperatures will show mercy to their lives. It doesn’t help that she and Becka never learned how to swim. 

The movement of the boat is making her ill and she keeps her eyes closed to control her nausea. She wonders if Becka’s getting a good handle of this, because it only seems like she’s struggling with the cold. The jackets they have on don’t have any padding or enough layers to sustain them.

“Good or bad,” Becka whispers in her ears, jaw shaking. “Whatever happens to you will happen to me.”

Agnes understands the painful undertones of what she just said. She leans on Becka for support and finds great comfort in her arms. 

“That’s oddly reassuring,” Agnes tries to joke, and she puts some effort to look up at the stars and the moon; to see what Becka sees. “It’s a beautiful night, isn’t it?”

Becka nods and surprises Agnes when she says, “when he shall die, take him and cut him out into little stars, and he will make the face of heaven so fine that all the world will be in love with night and pay no worship to the garish sun.”

“God, Becka,” Agnes smiles. “You really do remember everything.”

“How could I not?” She looks at her. “You told them to me. Of course I remember.”

“Do you think we’re looking at the face of heaven now?” Agnes asks, gesturing skywards. 

Becka looks at her with unabashed fondness, and smiles softly. “I think I am.”

It’s at that moment where Agnes removes any hair of doubt she has. If she was ready to surrender to the eternal slumber in Becka’s arm just a few minutes ago, then she fully threw that thought out of the window right now. 

There’s a spark inside of her heart that’s keeping her warm and alive, and suddenly there’s all these images in her head showing the life she could have with Becka once they see the finish line. Making it alive isn’t an option or a faraway dream, it’s necessary now.

She takes their interlocked hands and presses a kiss on the back of Becka’s, gently caressing her fingers. 

“I think God meant for us to meet so we can be here together,” Agnes says. “It was always fated. Ever since we were children.”

What exists beyond the finish line is nothing more than a vague concept of freedom, but right now they’re on a floating rocking boat that’s making them ill and the river surrounding them is massive and has the capability to swallow them whole if it pleases…that is if it doesn’t freeze them beforehand. 

Death is breathing down their necks and they can’t deny the possibility of everything going wrong at any moment, but they made it so far. 

There’s a vague image of freedom, yes, but it’s also the awaiting embrace of her parents, there’s all sorts of books she hadn’t read before, all sorts of music Becka wants to discover, and that’s just what her brain can conjure up right now. 

There’s so much more she doesn’t know yet. 

But there’s the moon hanging above their head, the soft powdery white light across the river guiding the way. She’d love to think that the prayers from all their loved ones are heard and answered. 

—

Agnes feels warm weight detaching from her arms, followed by a kiss to her cheek. She attempts to open her eyes but it’s too dark in the room and window that she doesn’t really bother. The sound movements and shuffling around the room lull her back to sleep. 

She doesn’t have to wake up for a couple of hours. She’s used to it. 

She’s forced awake by her alarm when the sun rays are sneaking in between the curtains. Agnes flips on her back to reach for her phone to turn the loud noise off. There’s no one in the house this morning to make sure she didn’t oversleep. 

Agnes throws her legs over the bed, looking at the framed photo of her and Becka in a photobooth doing all sorts of poses. She traces the glass over the photos and finds the surge of energy to begin her day. 

This is the quietest it's ever been in an early morning in their house. Her mom and Nichole are out of town for college campus tours, and her dad is joining them. Becka’s gone to the Porters’ gardens as she does most mornings of the week. 

So it’s just her, her playlist blaring from the small speakers, and her pop tarts. June told her that she’ll get tired and bored of the sugars and sweets pretty soon, but that didn’t happen at all.

The food was one of the first things that she and Becka quickly adapted to. Turns out all the garbage and processed foods were in fact delicious. 

She looks at all the pictures of everyone on the fridge. Her eyes land on one of herself, pinned by a magnet that says ‘Hannah Banana’ in the shape of the fruit itself that her mother got. She usually loves it, but it makes her eyes roll this morning.

When it’s almost eight-thirty, Agnes grabs her bag and heads out to The Paper Mare where she works. She puts her sunglasses and earphones on, and enjoys the flowy movement of her skirt as she walks freely.

She’s halfway through her shift when she receives a message from her mom that reads: this is for you and Becka <3 I’m sorry about yesterday. 

She opens the file attached to the message and almost laughs in surprise when she sees the tickets she got for them. That’s typical June behavior, said in absolute adoration, but the sweet and loving reunion could only last for so long. They grew this habit of arguing about everything, and it doesn’t help that they live together under her roof. 

The most recent argument was June saying that she should ask Rita to stay over with them since she doesn’t want to be alone overnight. Agnes could understand the paranoia and overprotectiveness, but that doesn’t mean she liked it. 

She argued back until June relented and Becka just stayed completely out of it. June and Nichole left early that morning without a proper goodbye, and she’s not sure if Becka saw them beforehand. 

Sweet Becka, surely she’d apologize on her behalf and try to bridge the gap. All the more reasons for her and Becka to move out as soon as they can for everyone’s peace of mind.

Don’t get her wrong. It’s not bad at all, but it’s probably healthier for her to live with her girlfriend in a different place than her mom and younger sister. It’s just that those things aren’t easy to get by, especially with their refugee status. 

She shoots a thank you message to her mother and attempts to give Becka a call but the store’s door opens accompanied by the ringing bell above it. She loves that sound. 

A mother and her young daughter walk straight to her. 

“Hey,” Agnes politely greets them with a sweet smile.

“Hello—“ the mother squinted her eyes to get a better read of her name tag. “Hannah.”

Right. That’s her name as well. Her old name. Her new name. Her old-new name. Her new-old name.

“How can I help you?” She asks them both, noting the girl shyly hiding behind her mother. “Anything I could find?”

“Well, little miss Alison here wants some animal books,” her mother says, a little exasperated. “I’ve tried a few stores but she didn’t like any of them.”

“Let me guess,” Agnes kneels down to Alison’s level and wears a welcome smile. “You’re a smart girl, aren’t you?”

Alison shyly nods and Agnes can see her cheeks turning rosy. “She’s super smart,” her mother encourages to step forward closer to Agnes.

“Let’s go find you really nice animal encyclopedias,” she reaches out a hand for the girl to take, and she does! “Maybe even some nature encyclopedias?”

“Yeah!” Alison nods and seems more enthusiastic. 

Agnes discovered that kids are weirdly attracted to all sorts of encyclopedias and they love finding random facts in them. Parents often think that they want storybooks, but they genuinely enjoy the gigantic information books with pictures. 

She’ll deal with this right now, and keeps it in the back of her mind to call Becka later if she’s not too busy. 

When she’s in the back of The Paper Mare, crouching down to the lower shelves to organize the new arrivals of books that came in today, she hears the bell ringing and she promises she’s not insane when she feels something in the air changing. 

Suddenly, it’s perfumed with something sweeter and flowery. It’s so much nicer to breathe and the goosebumps behind her neck are never ever wrong. 

They’ve always had a telepathic feeling for each other. 

Agnes quickly finishes up her task, and takes a good look at the shelves before dusting her hands and going back up to the front. 

The moment she arrives, Steve, her coworker, says offhandedly, “Becka’s here,” when he’s going through the invoices, and waves his hand towards a vague direction. 

Agnes knows. Obviously, Agnes knows. 

She follows her intuition and walks in between the shelves. It doesn’t take long until she finds Becka and her laser-focused eyes going through a random book she’d pick up.

She does that every time, and Agnes’ heart skips every time. Even after all this time. 

As she stares at her from a distance, before Becka notices her presence nearby, her mind drifts to her favorite Martha, Rosa, and she wonders if this is how she felt when she saw her husband in a bookshop in the cookbook sections. 

Did her eyes light up? Did her heart race? Did she hold back from running towards him? Did love feel like this all the time?

Oh, Rosa. How I wish you were here.

She gets taken out of her daydreams when Becka looks up and meets her eyes. She beams and returns the book, and they walk towards each other, meeting halfway. 

Becka’s in her denim jacket that’s a bit too big on her, and she’s wearing chunky boots that give her some height, but barely enough for her to comfortably put her chin on Agnes’ shoulder. 

She stands on her toes to wrap her arms around Agnes and pull her into a searing kiss, and Agnes holds her from the waist to draw her in as close as possible. 

She sneaks her hand underneath the fabric of her clothes and lets her hands roam on her skin. For years of barely touching anyone, only holding people through layers and layers of clothing, it was incredibly intimate the first time she had actually touched Becka’s skin. It was something rather holy. 

Agnes had never really realized that her skin ran hot all over and it wasn’t just her hands. She didn’t know about all the freckles and moles she had on her back. 

She wonders if people outside of Gilead take this kind of closeness for granted. Agnes knows that she doesn’t. 

“Hey,” Becka says when she pulls away. 

“Hey, she looks at her dreamily. “You smell great,” she leans in to kiss her neck. “Seriously, what is it?” She drops another one. 

“The Porters got a new body wash. I dunno what’s in it, probably some flowery scent,” she says, tucking her hair behind her ears. It’s much shorter now; wavy brown hair up to her shoulders, maybe an inch or two longer. She doesn’t like it when she can’t pull it out of her face with a small hair claw.

Agnes loves it when some of it frames her face like it does right now.

While becka cut shorter, Agnes let her hair grow longer and longer, enjoying every bit of styling and accessory. 

“How was the garden?” Agnes asks her.

“Great,” Becka nods. “I got you this.” She digs a container full of strawberries from her bag. “For you,” she proudly smiles. “Picked and washed by yours truly.”

Agnes relishes in the taste when she eats them and even handfeeds Becka a few pieces. She likes working in the Porters’ garden and helping them out at every farmers market on early Sunday mornings. 

She struggled in the beginning with the aspect of ‘being useful’ but not yet figuring out the whole reading and writing thing. She immediately felt the lack and it’s not like Agnes had much more credentials, but according to Becka, her literacy already gave her a bigger upper hand. 

While Becka buried herself in classes and textbooks, her dad, Luke, contacted the Porters and asked if they wanted a helping hand. 

Now they’re both busy all the time. It’s work, then classes, then errands, then therapies, then more classes, then more paperwork. 

At least, they end up every night together in bed. 

Agnes leans on the bookshelf, enjoying her strawberries, and Becka leans on the one opposite hers, staring at her. They’re playing footsie and carrying on the conversation.

Becka looks down and says, “June told me this morning that she only wants what’s best for us.” 

“Beck,” Agnes sighs, holding her hand. “I don’t want you playing middle man.” 

“I’m not,” she rolls her eyes goodnaturedly. “It’s just that she’s there and I’m there— and it just happens.”

“I guess we just have to see it through for now. We’ll get our own place eventually,” Agnes casually shrugs. 

“Don’t say it like that,” she mutters. 

“Like what?”

“I like your family,” she feels embarrassed saying it. “They feel like my family. They’re not— it’s not a bad thing.”

Agnes’ heart tightens and she puts the container aside. She steps forward and holds Becka’s face with her hands. “You’re right. They’re absolutely your family.”

“I know—“

“Nichole likes you more than she likes me,” Agnes laughs, scrunching her nose and revealing her dimples. 

Becka looks into her eyes and she can’t help but believe every she utters. “She does,” she looks sideways, rosy-cheeked. “No offense.”

“I love you,” Agnes says. “We all love you here. You don’t have to feel like you should fix anything. You’re here to stay with me— with us forever.” 

Becka holds Agnes’ hands that are on her cheeks and she tiptoes to kiss her softly. “I love you too,” she answers. 

“And get this,” she digs her phone from her pocket. “We have date night tonight. Hope you’re not busy.”

Becka looks at her suspiciously but she doesn’t say anything. Agnes shows her the screen and Becka’s eyes almost pop out of their socket. “Dream in High Park?!” She reads it excitedly. 

“June’s gifts,” Agnes shrugs with a proud look on her face. “She’s never really mad, you know?”

“Yeah, I know,” Becka nods, rereading the ticket information again. “Romeo and Juliet?” 

“Uh-huh. We better get ready to get decent seats.”

“I’m totally cancelling the guitar lesson today.”

In all of Agnes’ life, she had never imagined that she’d be in a beautiful green park, seeing the sun set above them, turning the sky from a sunny azure to the most delightful clashes of orange and blue unto darkness, watching a play written centuries ago about starcrossed lovers. 

She could never even fathom that she’d be here with the person she loved most in the whole wide world. 

They laughed, swayed to the music, cried when it got devastating, and the two of them managed to recite every single word from the play under their breath. 

They put their picnic seats together, shared a blanket, and Becka wrapped her arms around Agnes’ bicep to lean on her shoulder, while Agnes rested her head on Becka’s. They fit in together perfectly. 

Agnes understood Macbeth when he spoke of tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow. Life in Gilead felt a lot like that; just a dreadful march towards a dark nothingness. 

But this isn’t Agnes’ reality anymore. Her tomorrows are different; they’re full of hope and joy and love. Her forest is a maze of chaos and disorder, but she holds Becka’s hand and walks right in. 

It is the east, and her Becka is the sun. Her guiding light. Her true north. 

Agnes welcomes tomorrow with open arms, and she’s eager to grow up alongside her parents, to see Nichole grow up, and grow like the tulips Becka takes care of in the garden. 

Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow.