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Chapter Text

Part I: Inferno

My love,

I have heard that happiness is a place. Once discovered it can be returned to, yet no one is allowed to stay permanently. Did you ever pursue a desire, knowing well enough its acquisition would be temporary? Even when you make the choice to stay, to believe, to conquer, to struggle, the inevitability of its end provides no closure. Resolution, if any is achieved, rests entirely on the fact that you chose this path for yourself despite the unknown of its end.

Many sunsets ago I read, "The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, but in ourselves, that we are underlings." I may curse providence all I want my darling but, however tragic, I do remember this fate was chosen by me. And, if given the chance to repeat it for all my strange eternity, I would not dare change a thing.

"Do not dare unsheathe your sword, Logan," she said with a harsh tone. He paused for a moment while still hovering his hand over the hilt.

"And why should I heed your warning?" he replied.

"Because I have a pistol and you are no match for its speed," she reached behind her back and pointed the gun at her older brother. Logan quickly raised his hands in defeat. "Pop! Pop! Pop!" she cried while Logan clutched his chest where blood should have been oozing out and leading to his inevitable death. His lanky frame shook before he fell to his knees, throwing his fists into the air. Taking in a deep breath he hollered, "Curse you! Curse you Beatrice for betraying your own blood!" After a few dramatic choking noises and rolling his eyes into the back of his head, Logan fell back to the ground and did not move.

A triumphant Beatrice skipped over to him, where he looked as if he was more asleep than dead, and kicked him in the side. Logan pushed himself up on his elbows and looked at her, "Stop that! No more battle after one of us dies!"

"The rules of fair play do not apply in love and war!" Beatrice laughed and pulled her brother up, then headed to her father's desk in his library turned office. While Logan preferred to play their games in the castle War Room, she felt most alive surrounded by the ceiling-to-floor bookshelves.

"You cheated," Logan said behind her. There was a silence.

"How so?" Not facing him, she continued to look through the miscellaneous papers and maps that covered their father's walnut desk.

"I never knew you had a gun. We were only supposed to use swords. Those are the rules," he made an annoyed huff as he crossed his arms.

"You keep your rules, I will be happier without them. I won, didn't I?" She whipped around and stared at him with wide blue eyes. She could feel his anger rising by the second and quickly reconsidered her approach. Beatrice slid off her father's chair and wrapped her arms around her older brother, "Logan, I promise I won't do it again. I'll follow the rules you set for us."

Trying to break himself free from her embrace, Logan gave up and patted her on the back, "Thank you, dear sister, now back to the matter of planning our next…"

But before Logan could finish speaking, Beatrice gave him a surprised look and put her finger to her mouth, motioning for him to be quiet. She whispered, "Do you hear that?"

"No, I don't hear anything," he replied.

"It's footsteps, and it's not just Papa, someone is with him. Logan, take cover!"

The two children immediately ran to their favorite hiding spots in the opulent office. Logan bounded for the heavy, navy blue curtains behind his father's desk. They were long enough to hit the ground and cover his feet. His slender frame did not create even a bump in the thick fabric. Beatrice, who was smaller, opened the door of her father's mirrored schrank and nestled herself inside next to a short stack of books. Carefully, she pulled the door toward her, as not to rattle the mirror and give away her position to the approaching adults. She almost closed it, but was unable to without pinching her fingers. The opening created a small sliver of light in the dark of the shrank. She repositioned her body to the corner so that she would remain unseen. The children waited patiently.

"Beatrice," Logan whispered from the curtains, "I think you heard wrong."

"Shhhh, be quiet! They're almost here," she said as softly as possible through the crack. At that moment, Logan could finally hear the shuffling of feet outside the door. There was a conversation happening and he was unable to discern words, but he could hear the deep tones of men in discussion.

The double doors of the office swung open and two men entered. Beatrice listened carefully to their movements to determine how close they were to the shrank. She concentrated on the two bodies, knowing quickly one was her papa. She smiled to herself tenderly. The other figure she could not read at all: not his body, nor his energy. She closed her eyes as tightly was possible and tried to focus in on the second man, just as Papa had been teaching her, but she felt nothing.

"I have to say, yours is a face I did not know if I would see again in my lifetime, old friend," her papa exclaimed to his guest.

"Then you must be elated at the privilege of gazing at it again before you die," replied the nothing man. His outlandish manner of speaking intrigued Beatrice and she wanted to gaze through the crack in the door to see him. Like pouring wine from a decanter, she gracefully moved herself near the narrow opening of the shrank. Looking around the office swiftly, she saw her papa behind his desk and could immediately feel a strange stirring within him. Who is this visitor? she wondered.

"I am here with an invaluable proposition, Sparrow. After leaving that boring and barren wasteland Garth called home, I realized I am outgrowing my current career. While I do still find the salty air of the sea invigorating, I am afraid the days of piracy have begun their end." The nothing man paused as he flourished his hand in the air. "Soon Bloodstone will no longer hold the same appeal for me as it did. Such a pity, but one must move on."

"What are you planning to do?" her papa asked as he relaxed in his chair.

"Primarily, I no longer wish to have those negative monikers attached to my name. Thief. Pirate. Smuggler. Debauchee. Oh, my mistake, I will gladly keep that last one," he answered while slowly pulling his gloves off. "Despite having many courtesans to choose from, my greatest love affair has always been with my own affluence. It is newly the 19th century, Sparrow. Industry is where our country is headed, and more importantly, the wealth of our country is headed." The nothing man crossed his legs and stretched out lazily across his chair, "You need me as an advisor in all matters of business now that our little country is united under your throne. Condemn the nature of my trade to satisfy your inane moral obligation, but do not deny my success."

"That I can't," Sparrow replied, "but I wish you had chosen markets less black."

"And what would have been the fun in that? I am the ruler of my own underground empire and have enjoyed the fruits of my labor voraciously," the nothing man sighed dramatically, "but I also want more than what my current lifestyle offers. I have matters of relevancy to consider. I cannot remain underground forever and Albion cannot remain in the dark ages. It is time we create a new domain to conquer, one of iron and steam, that will ensure Albion, and myself, security for years to come."

Beatrice edged even closer to the crack. She closed one eye and tried to look at the man who was visiting her papa, but his face was out of view. All she could see was his outfit up to the tails of his cravat. It was black with red detailing, form-fitting, with leather boots that looked remarkedly like a pair owned by her mum.

Her papa rested his palm on the right side of his chin, which Beatrice knew he did when he was deep in thought. After a few minutes, he lowered his hand, "I'm assuming since you are bringing this up to me now, that you have already begun and require my help?"

The nothing man chuckled, "My, my, you do know me well, Sparrow." He paused for a moment and his voice suddenly gained a smoothness Beatrice had not expected. "I have not entirely abandoned my current profession, but it does not mean that I am not preparing for this new horizon. I cannot refute that certain aspects of my recent industrial undertaking may improve when you decide to support me. And, undoubtedly, all aspects of your rule will improve when I become your advisor."

The king wanted to reject the proposal, but he knew he greatly desired the expertise. He wanted time to think about it. "If you were just one percent less condescending you would be fifty percent easier to swallow, Rea…," but before finishing, Sparrow abruptly stopped speaking.

His guest snorted at the sad attempt of an insult, "Rest assured that I am swallowed regularly enough to believe there must be some ease to it." When the king did not react to his comment, his expression went blank. "I was unaware that losing one's sense of humor is required to become royalty…," but he fell silent as well when he noticed Sparrow's perked ears and concentrated face. The nothing man looked around the room expectantly with a cocked eyebrow.

Beatrice stopped breathing, but she could hear Logan's restless heartbeat speeding up only steps away. She knew it was as loud as thunder to her father's sensitive ears: they were caught.

"Reveal yourselves now!" Papa boomed in a stern voice. The nothing man was excited by the change in mood.

Logan pulled the curtains back and walked out slowly with his eyes lowered. Beatrice pushed open the right door of the schrank with her index finger, alert and quickly looking over to her father's guest. The nothing man darted his eyes back and forth between the two children before his mouth began to curl downward and his expression soured.

Beatrice hopped off the edge of the shrank and landed on the plush carpet below with poise before walking to stand beside her brother. She held his hand and gave it a squeeze. She knew Logan hated disappointing Papa.

"My business and my meetings are not part of your battle games," he said while putting his calloused hands on each of their shoulders. "This interruption has now wasted both mine and his time. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, I understand. This misjudgment will not occur again," Logan muttered.

"Me too, Papa!" replied Beatrice before laying her cheek on her father's hand that still rested on her shoulder. She felt warmth spread through him before she looked up to his face and saw a slight grin. He hated disciplining them in this manner. Truthfully, he believed that children should be children. It was an opportunity he missed and he did not want to chastise the two people he loved most for using their imagination. But they also needed to mind him; an entire country judged their every move. They could afford to make mistakes in private, but not in public. He knew the masses were cruel.

"What a touching, familial scene," gibed the nothing man, who was twirling a letter opener between his fingers at an unnerving speed.

Motioning for them to follow, their papa began walking both children to the door. While passing the nothing man, Beatrice kept her eyes fixed on him the entire time. Her gaze was met by his and she felt something unfamiliar. An adult had never looked at her that way, like she was a threat. Right before reaching the door she stopped moving and turned around to her father.

"Papa, can we please be introduced to your guest?" Beatrice inquired. Like a flash of lightning, her father gave her a look that said, you best behave. The nothing man, oblivious to Beatrice's request and the three sets of eyes now staring at the back of his head, continued sitting in his chair while balancing the letter opener on one finger.

"Reaver, I would like to introduce you to my children," her papa announced.

"Oh, really? Why?" he asked as he spritely leapt from his chair and sauntered over to stand in front of the small family. Beatrice was taken aback and giggled; the physics of his movement was different than anything she had seen before. Immediately she imagined him as a dancer in her ballet class, there to perform a perfect glissade.

"This is my son, Logan. He recently turned fourteen. As brilliant mind, truly," Papa patted his shoulder and Logan stood up taller. Reaver raised both of his heavily arched eyebrows and nodded with no more enthusiasm than a castle servant agreeing to wash extra linens. "And this is…" Before her father could finish, Beatrice stepped forward and mimicked the nothing man's meandering gait before she politely curtsied. Her mockery was not lost on him.

"Good day Mr. Reaver, my name is Beatrice. I am seven and a half, I love ballet, my favorite flower is the Punica granatum, and I think you are very pretty."

Reaver laughed, much like the laugh he used for his own jokes, and looked back at the king, "Sparrow, it seems as though your daughter, despite her young age, has already developed a well-trained eye for the aesthetic."

Sparrow could not entirely disagree, but he wished Beatrice would learn the difference between what should be said and what should stay inside her head. Reaver looked down at the young girl again who had yet to move. Why hasn't she left yet? he thought. "Is there a third child? What are we waiting on?" he asked the room.

"Reaver, when you receive a compliment from a child, it is polite to reciprocate the sentiment," Sparrow said dryly. He was evidently ready for this moment to end as well.

"Oh! Is that why she hasn't budged?" He paused and thought about a compliment. What could possibly be good about a child? Beatrice waited in hopeful expectation as he mulled over his next comment. "I've got it!" he clasped his hands in front of him and moved them up and down in time with his words. "Princess Beatrice, you appear to be cleaner than most children. Less covered in those vile elements, like soil and soot." Pleased with himself, Reaver smirked and gaily walked back to his seat. Plopping himself down in the overstuffed chair, he did not look back again.

Beatrice looked at her papa and shrugged her shoulders, "He's not wrong."

Her father shook his head and motioned for the children to leave. Both Logan and Beatrice galloped down the long hall that headed to the castle's main staircase. Sparrow closed the doors of his office and readied himself to continue the conversation.

Reaver had not asked to stay that evening in the castle, but the queen insisted. She told her husband in private that it would be socially inappropriate to make him leave before serving food. "If he stays for dinner, he might as well stay for the night. It is not as if we don't have the room, my love," Iris told her husband while they dressed for their evening meal. She paused, "Do you dislike him?"

"No, I have come to enjoy his company, but I prefer it be the two of us without my family present." His wife looked confused and he continued, "He may be charming, but so is an incubus. Just don't become too comfortable. Most rumors you've heard about him are true, and the others you haven't heard are true as well."

Iris knew a bit about the characters of her husband's past, but most had not visited. His friends were few and she thought Sparrow would enjoy the company. Of course, she had heard of Reaver, but stories about him seemed like exaggerated pub folklore. She knew he was wealthy and that he did not seem to age, but she only ever thought him to be an eccentric libertine. She certainly did not consider him to be a threat. "I'm sorry, my dear. For the future," she said with a smile while hugging her husband from behind, "we should create a signal, that when used, means the other should stop speaking immediately. And we definitely should include our little Beatrice in on this secret."

Sparrow laughed at her suggestion. It was her brand of thoughtfulness and humor that replenished his soul daily. He turned to her and dramatically winked. She shook her head no and then pulled on her left ear. Sparrow nodded in agreement, "One tug means stop, two tugs means run?"

"Perfect," Iris said while she kissed him on his ear, "I love it!"

After dressing, the king and queen walked to the children's bedrooms to escort them to dinner. Both were giddy at having company. Logan was ready by the time they arrived, while Beatrice could be heard running around in her room next door. Logan had put on a skeleton suit with an uneven cravat he tied himself to match the new guest. Beatrice, who always ended up in an outlandish outfit if it was not picked for her, was dressed in riding attire complete with a toy pistol. Jasper had come out after her, claiming that he had tried to put her in a gown but she refused and that, "Yes, that is Logan's former coat. Beatrice has decided that she prefers being a young boy this evening!" Iris wanted to laugh at her children's silly attempts for Reaver's attention, but Sparrow's words of warning rang in her mind.

Beatrice poked her brother and yelled, "Race me!" before sprinting down the hallway. Logan did not react; he knew he would never catch up to his sister. She as if her life depended upon it. Within seconds she was out of sight.

Beatrice reached the dining room before the rest of her family. She slowed herself before entering and calmly walked to the seat next to the nothing man. She politely wished him a good evening, just as she and Jasper had practiced an hour before. When he responded to her just as Jasper told her he would, it was the first time she appreciated her manners lessons. They waited for the others in silence.

Reaver picked up and admired his dinner goblet, turning the silver back and forth to catch the candle's light. While he watched the cup, Beatrice watched his hand.

"Mr. Reaver?" she asked.

"Staring is rude," he matter-of-factly replied.

She was surprised he noticed. "May I touch you?"

Before finishing her question, she began reaching a small hand out to touch his. He pulled back immediately with a slight look of indignation. "No, you cannot touch me," he sat the goblet down. "I now know why your father tucks you away in this castle as if you don't exist."

"Please reconsider! I can't…I can't sense anything coming from…" Beatrice wanted to explain, but her parents and brother entered the room.

As smooth as silk, Reaver's grimace turned into a charming smile as he stood and greeted them. The family quickly took their seats while Beatrice remained quiet; she was worried her father had overheard her. Jasper entered the room, taking his post near the door, and smiled encouragingly at her. She shyly returned the gesture and fiddled with a button on her coat.

Despite the king's minor apprehension surrounding the evening, everything was going surprisingly well. Reaver charmed his hosts, telling them stories about life on the sea, exotic lands he visited, and the riches he acquired. His stories were muddled with innuendos that glided over Beatrice and Logan's heads. Iris would chuckle and Sparrow couldn't help but heartily laugh at his old friend.

By dessert, Beatrice was staring at Reaver with the same wide-eyed interest as earlier. Her mother noticed first. She knew that look and what it meant but carried on with dinner conversation.

Sparrow noticed as well and was inclined to stop his daughter, but decided against it. Let's see if Beatrice learned anything from today, he thought.

Reaver hesitantly looked down at the girl. His smile was gilded and his eyes were dead. Beatrice did not blink.

Reaver cleared his throat and reached for his wine. He did not particularly enjoy hurting children, but it was not beyond him. While sitting in front of the child's entire family? Also not beyond him, but most children did not have a Hero king for a father. Pushing back his instinctive desire to physically stop the thing that was annoying him, he turned and looked back at the Queen and continued with his story.

"You look very young for being very old," Beatrice whispered at a nearly inaudible level. Her mother and Logan did not catch the comment, but both men at the table did. Reaver glared at her with the same menacing expression as earlier that day, but his eyes were darker than before. Beatrice felt an internal prickle of excitement: her favorite feeling.

She didn't need to touch Reaver to know he was upset, but as his glare darkened her excitement turned to fear. She could see her own image in the darkness of his pupils, as well as the glowing flames of the fireplace behind her. And she could have sworn to Avo that the two were not separate, but that the Beatrice-shaped homunculus at the center of the tiny conflagration in his eyes was being burned alive.

Instinctively, Sparrow's will charged at the growing tension between his daughter and the industrialist. The normally invisible scars lining the king's body glowed, but it was at such a low level that only those with eyes as sharp as birds of prey would notice - both Reaver and Beatrice looked toward the scintilla of supernatural light radiating from Sparrow. The exchange took place for no longer than a second, but the mood of the three Heroes shifted dramatically.

"Mr. Reaver? Excuse me, Mr. Reaver?" asked Logan, after an awkward silence.

And as if their strange interaction had not occurred, Reaver immediately looked up at the boy with contrived interest, "Yes, Prince Logan?"

"What type of ship do you own?" he inquired.

Reaver let out a haughty laugh, "You ask as if I only have one!" and he began to explain his collection in extraordinary detail. While Reaver spoke, Sparrow glowered at his daughter from across the table and she knew she was in trouble. Not speaking again that evening, Beatrice hurriedly finished her dessert and left for bed without a word. As she walked to her bedroom, she wondered how Reaver's penetrating glare lasted only a moment but felt like a century. One day, she hoped, I will have that effect on people, too.

"It's February and they have not reupholstered the furniture from their winter hues? How abhorrent!" Reaver continued to mutter to himself while looking around his quarters for the evening. While the room housed luxurious carpets, rare ornaments, ample seating, and an oversized fireplace, he could not help but realize that the washroom of his holiday home was more palatial than this. He derisively clicked his tongue on the roof of his mouth three times while shaking his head.

Earlier in the evening, he had propositioned a servant to keep him company for the night. The young man evidently worked in the gardens. He was tan, with a strong jawline, and a physique that was difficult to hide under clothes. Sparrow's rapacious wife probably handpicked him, he thought, such an obviously undersexed woman. His strapping entertainment for the evening was told to arrive precisely at midnight.

Reaver sat in a chair near the fireplace, toying with his Dragonstomper .48 between agile fingers. He lazily glanced at the clock near his bedside. He had been acutely aware of its loud ticking, which he categorized as just another discomfort of the horrendous room. Realizing midnight was approaching, he placed his gun in its rightful holster and began untying his cravat. Walking over to the mirrored armoire, he could not help but gaze at himself as he slowly pulled laced drawing string from eyelets near his collar. Coaxing his reflection, he winked, "Oh you handsome devil."

A slight tap at the door caught his attention, but he did not turn away from the mirror. "You're early but come in already, I'm tired of waiting." The door opened slightly and those same wide, blue eyes from dinner stared back. Reaver took in a deep breath and clenched his teeth. He had no desire to withhold his annoyance, "You again? Leave at once." As if he had not spoken at all, Beatrice came into the room and carefully shut the door behind her. She began walking toward his empty fireplace. "I am many of the things that people call me, but my proclivities do have their boundaries. You, a child, cannot be found in my room at this hour. Go now," he pointed a long finger at the door. His hand was shaking from the amount of control it took not to simply pull out his gun and relieve her body of its head.

"I'm here to help you, Mr. Reaver," she innocently replied. "I overheard your conversation with Thomas. You told him that you felt it was rather cold in your room and you could use his assistance to keep warm tonight. But he's rather busy in the kitchen right now and I knew I could help you much faster. I wanted you to be able to sleep." Reaver shut his eyes and furrowed his brow. Without thought, he balled one fist around the grip of his gun. Biting his lip, he struggled not to hurl abuses at the awful twit until she cried. Was his partnership with Sparrow worth dealing with this insolence?

Beatrice didn't mind him. She sensed his anger, but it felt different than others' anger and fascinated her; his anger reminded her more of Logan and less like her father or Sir Walter. After a night of hiding from adults to get to his room, she was unwilling to leave without a fight. She had been asleep in her bedroom earlier, only to be awoken from a dream in which a woman told her to sneak into the kitchen immediately if she wanted to learn more about the nothing man. To her surprise, when she followed those instructions, she had found him in time to catch the end of his conversation with Thomas and remain undetected.

While Reaver continued to make a pained face in response to his self-restraint, Beatrice picked up the skirt of her white linen chemise, lowered to her knees, and sat back on her heels before the fireplace. Cupping both of her hands together in front of her, she closed her eyes in concentration and slowed down her breathing. Reaver heard her heartbeat change. What had been a steady thump all evening now sounded like a hummingbird flutter. He knew the change in tempo was unusual given her meditative state; this both annoyed and intrigued him.

"You are odd. It is in your favor tonight that you are the daughter of a king," he declared aloud. Beatrice did not react. Too much like your father, he thought to himself. Deciding that threatening her, despite how it may upset Sparrow should he find out, was better than being found in his room with her by an excitable servant boy who would love to tattle on him. He would obviously dispose of the boy before that could occur, but what would he do with the tiny witness in his room that looked as if she was praying to his hearth. He rolled his eyes and shut them for a moment. Now, he told himself, is the perfect time to forcefully throw her out of the room the way you wanted to earlier. You could even ensure that she hits the wall on the other side of the hallway, just for good measure. A wicked smile grew on his face.

Opening his eyes back to the bizarre scene unfolding in his room, all of his thoughts stopped.

Before him, inside of Beatrice's small hands, was a growing flame. It hovered above her skin and shimmered with iridescence. He was all too familiar with this type of fire: it was that of a Will user. Starting small, and having a strange shape like that of a roughly cut jewel, the flame grew at a rapid pace. Once an appropriate size, Beatrice leaned forward and blew. Instead of extinguishing the delicate fire, it leaped out of her hands and floated nimbly onto the firewood below. After some crackling, a sizable flame emerged and the hearth shone brightly with many colors, like sunlight hitting stained glass. It shifted to a different hue with every new flare. Reaver recalled Garth's being blue and Sparrow's being red, but Beatrice's fire shimmered like a dark opal. The young princess sat as still as stone on the floor with closed eyes and cupped hands. Even Reaver understood that her amount of control was rare; Sparrow had required gauntlets to summon his will.

"Princess Beatrice," Reaver said softly in a tone he had not used with her before, "other than his lovely display, do you have additional talents?"

Immediately her eyes flew open and she looked at him with excitement at gaining the interest that eluded her all evening. "Oh yes, Mr. Reaver! I have a garden that grows the most delicious herbs. My favorite is sage, and should I have a child one day, I would like to name them after an herb because…"

He cut her off. "Hmm, that is…marvelous. But do you ever have those foul, unwanted pests in your garden? How do you rid yourself of, oh let's say, beetles?" he inquired with precision.

"That's easy, with my bow. And I never miss," she lifted herself off her knees and tried to look at him in his face. He was so tall that it hurt her neck and she could only see his chin, nostrils, and the curl of his dark hair.

"And when you play the 'battle game' with Prince Logan, I imagine there must be some real fighting, some wrestling?" Beatrice nodded at his question. "Great. And who is victorious during those real battles?"

"We both win, but if I'm honest, I let Logan overtake me. I don't think he would play anymore if his little sister always won. He's embarrassed easily." She placed both hands on her hips, stuck out one foot, and glanced upward and to the side to match Reaver's own formidable stance. It was a game she played with herself to see how long it took for an adult to notice, but the nothing man did not even look down. She frowned.

"Interesting," he muttered. Thoughts quickly raced through his mind. What would he do with this budding Hero? Should he kill her now so that she is not a problem in the future? He shook his head back and forth, instead content with a future challenge she may pose. Should he kidnap her, raise her as his own, and control her powers? Immediately he shuddered at the thought of a grubby child running through his pristine halls. Finally, he agreed with himself. He would harbor this secret, which he was sure only known by the king, and use it to his advantage when the time came.

While Reaver was in thought, Beatrice had been slowly inching closer. Before he could notice, she reached out and lightly gripped his hand. Instinctively he broke her touch and forcefully grabbed her by the forearm, turning it upside down and pulling her closer to him. He bent down to look at her face-to-face. Reaver noted this was the first time he observed the girl showing even an ounce of fear and he could not help but be pleased that he was the source. A large, curved smile spread across his face. Beatrice stared back in horror, her eyes dilated to an unnatural size. Reaver could see his reflection staring back in the black of her pupils. He leaned in closer than he knew he should and her mouth remained agape in a silent scream.

Speaking in a grave tone he scolded her, "Tsk-tsk, little princess. Did I frighten you?" He paused for a response, but she said nothing. "Well, then do tell. Why did you touch me even after I forbid you from doing so?"

Beatrice stayed catatonically still. Tears began running down her cheeks, but he did not feel her attempt to pull away. Reaver happily slipped back into control, "I truly applaud your evident disregard for authority, but not when it comes to mine. And I underestimated you, Beatrice. I did not believe you knew how to shut your mouth but look at you now. Such self-control! I ought to learn something from your example." Squeezing her arm tighter, he pulled her close enough to feel the heat of her breath and lowered his voice to a growl, "The time is now for you to return to the safety of your room princess before I decide to truly terrify you."

Letting go of her arm with a push, Beatrice tensed in surprise. The blue in her eyes returned at a rapid pace as her pupils contracted. She clutched her arm to her chest and her body shook as if she were just pulled from ice water. While in a daze and wiping her face in confusion, she tried walking toward the door, but could not keep to a straight line. She looked around the room as if it were her first time there. Finally placing her hand on the knob, she opened the door to exactly the width she needed to leave. She turned around and tried to focus her eyes, but found it to be too difficult.

Beatrice concentrated on the center of the four swirling Reavers in absolute disbelief. The nothing man was not filled with nothing: she had been disastrously wrong.

"Are we dreaming?" she asked. The words barely tumbled out of her dry lips. She wanted to ask again, but her saliva was sticky like taffy and it was difficult to speak.

Already sitting in his chair near the fireplace, Reaver did not look at her. With a flick of his wrist, he motioned for her to leave. Immediately he heard the soft click of the door shutting and the sound of small feet on the thick carpet outside of his room. He knew she wouldn't return. Her face had looked like that of a person the exact moment before dying when the knife is plunged into their gut but they are still aware enough to panic over their coming death.

Reaver stared into the lustrous fire created for him and replayed her words in his mind a few times before decidedly entertaining them. Are we dreaming? What nonsense, he thought to himself, this is why I loathe children, they are senseless.

After some time, he heard a brusque knock that could only be produced by a strong fist. "Come in," he shouted at the door, "I'm tired of being bored."

Reaver left the castle in the early morning by carriage. After a quick discussion, he was the newly appointed business advisor for King Sparrow of Albion.

Hours later, Iris walked to the children's rooms to escort them to breakfast. She lightly knocked on Logan's door and heard a quiet, "Come in," from the other side. She entered the room to see Logan sitting upright in his bed, reading one of his many books. He looked up, pressed a finger to his lips, and pointed next to him. Iris walked closer and saw Beatrice sleeping next to her brother. She was curled around a pillow and seemed frustrated in her sleep – her eyes would tighten periodically and her brow regularly furrowed.

"What happened?" Iris asked as she sat on the edge of his bed.

"She came into my room late last night and asked if she could sleep next to me. She was complaining about a nightmare. I had difficulty understanding her mum, but it was obvious she had been crying in her sleep," he closed his book, "and mumbling something about screaming in her head." He lowered his voice further, "She claimed it was too loud for her to sleep, that they "woke her up" on purpose."

"She is prone to nightmares, but this sounds worse than those before it." Iris could not hide the concern in her voice while she looked at her daughter. She is too small to have these troubles, she thought.

"I don't mind it," Logan interrupted her thoughts.

"Mind what?" Iris replied.

"Her coming in here with me. It's sort of nice, in a way." He continued, "I'm her brother. It's my duty to protect her, even if the threat is not real."

Iris smiled at her son, "What about when it is real? Will you still protect her?"

"Absolutely," Logan replied, "I cannot imagine any other way."

Chapter Text

Waiting in the antechamber of her mother's sickroom with Sir Walter, Beatrice stared out of the cottage's main window in a trance: it was the first day of Spring. When he and Logan arrived minutes before, she opened a window to let the sweet scent of an overgrown honeysuckle shrub find its way into the home. On the edge of the window rested three tightly sealed jars, each with different colored glass. Inside of the jars were leaves, herbs, and berries of different kinds melding together to make sun tea. Behind the jars, a wind chime that Beatrice made for her mum played simple melodies with the breeze. Through the window and past their yard, an ocean of bluebells near the Brightwall Library swayed harmoniously with the wind and seemed to dance with the chime's music. While we love her every season, Beatrice thought of the old maxim, it is springtime in Albion that makes the blind wish they could see again.

And it was the exact reason her mother requested to live out the rest of her days in Brightwall, rather than stay at the castle in Bowerstone. When Beatrice asked why she wanted to move to the country town last Spring, her mother replied, "My love, because the bluebells are to die for," with a wry smile. It was now eleven months later and the violet-blue bulbs were appearing yet again, although Beatrice knew this would be her mother's last season. She had been dreading this day. Beatrice could not shake the feeling that her mother's indomitable will to stay alive these past few weeks, despite being at the peak of her illness, was for the sole purpose of seeing the flower in bloom one final time. She felt a heavy pull in her chest as she stared into the rich blue blossoms; it was only a matter of time.

"Beatrice," Walter interrupted her thoughts. "I know this is hard for you, and I want you to know that I am always here. Before your father left, he asked me to take care of you and your mum until he returned," he shifted uncomfortably in his chair, "and I have done so with honor. So, tell me kid, is there anything I can do?" He gave her a serious look, "Because honest to Avo, you look like you'd jump out the window next to me if I weren't here to grab you."

She took her eyes off the bluebells and smiled weakly at Walter, "I'm sorry, I wasn't meaning to ignore you. It's that…everything hurts like it did when Papa went missing." She squinted her eyes and searched for words, "Even, even the flowers, Walter…I wish I could pause the sun and stars for one day." He nodded his head in sympathy. He is too kind to me, Beatrice thought to herself about her companion. Since her father left, Sir Walter had graciously filled the empty spot in Beatrice's life. Most days he trained her in combat, some days they would walk the gardens while she asked him questions and he shared war stories. He escaped to the provincial village to visit her as often as he could, and she knew he was too busy to come as often as he did.

He had been her listening ear when work consumed Logan. The arms that reached her during her darkest days and placed her on her feet time and time again. A shoulder to cry on when Jasper explained to a young Beatrice that, "feelings for the housekeeper's son are natural, but he is not of your class." The calloused hands that escorted her and her mother to their seats at royal banquets when others had their husbands and fathers to fulfill the duty. The heart that took in his king and closest friend's children when he had not asked for the task, when he had not had children of his own. None of this was lost on Beatrice and she was eternally thankful for his unconditional love. Knowing that her mother's death was coming and that Sir Walter would try to take on the role of both parents, her gut became heavy with guilt.

"There is something you can do for me," she said to clear her mind. "Don't let Logan leave for Aurora. We need him here. I need him here. I imagine it will only be days when he is no longer prince regent and crowned the new king." Her voice was rising in anger with each word. "What could possibly be so important that he would leave at a time like this?"

"You know your brother. When his mind is settled, it is impossible to move him. He is like a boulder," Walter said before lowering his voice to almost a whisper. "Beatrice, you and I both know he hasn't been himself lately. Like you, he too is in pain. He busies himself to cope," Walter stood up and motioned for Beatrice to do the same. He held out his arms to her and she could not help but want the comfort of his embrace. She didn't make a noise as she rested her head on his shoulder. He squeezed her tightly and, when she closed her eyes, it was as if she was hugging her father again.

"Have you gotten taller?" Walter asked.

"I think so. I'm fourteen, soon to be fifteen, you know. Logan is almost as tall as Papa was, maybe I will be too," she replied.

"Wow, only fourteen, huh? And to think you're more mature than me," he laughed.

Beatrice knew he was trying to distract her, trying to make her feel better for even a moment. But she couldn't stand it, not when she wanted answers and certainty. She cleared her throat and asked, "Are you going with Logan to Aurora, Walter?"

He paused and responded, "No, I'm staying in Albion. We've already worked it out." Softly, he stroked the back of her head.

Beatrice let out an exhausted sigh. "Thank you, thank you, thank you," she chanted. Pulling back and cupping her hands around his in appreciation, she gushed, "You have no idea how much this means to me."

"Thank your brother then. It was one of his many pre-departure plans," Walter replied. Now that she was more grounded, Beatrice could sense a cloud of resistance growing within him.

"What other plans does he have?" she asked.

Walter shook his head in exasperation, "Logan has scheduled a meeting with our favorite business advisor. He wants to give him complete control of industry while the soon-to-be king is away. It's an absolute balls idea, but he cannot be convinced otherwise."

"Does that mean Reaver will visit Bowerstone more often?" she asked.

"I suppose. I know that he is having a manor built in Millsfield, so he'll be physically closer." The reaction of the princess surprised Walter. It was the first time she displayed an ounce of energy since he and Logan arrived, "Why? Do you need to see him?"

"Oh no, I'm just shocked is all. I cannot believe Logan is sharing any of his work burdens, especially with the likes of Reaver." Beatrice was lying, but Walter failed to notice. Unbeknownst to anyone except her mother, Beatrice had been trying to contact those that would be able to help her find her missing father and Reaver was on her list.

Beatrice had wanted to search for her father the moment he was declared "dead," but it was as if life circumstance prevented her. Her mother's sickness, which meant she was now living outside of the castle in Brightwall, and knowing Logan refused to discuss the subject, left Beatrice few options. She tucked her desire to find her papa beneath her duty as her mother's caretaker and did not mention it again.

She had been living in Brightwall for exactly five months when the dreams began.

On the first night, she dreamt that she was a child again, sleeping in her bedroom at Bowerstone Castle. Her papa stood in her doorframe and beckoned her to follow him. She struggled to keep up with his long stride while they wandered the hallways. Finally, reaching their destination at the doors of his office, her papa turned around and smiled at her. Walking toward the bookshelves that lined his walls, he knelt, grabbed her small hand, and ran her fingers over the spines of his books. Suddenly, she was back at the start of the dream and her papa stood in the doorframe once more. The dream repeated itself for the rest of the night.

When Beatrice awoke the next morning, she quickly reached for the dream journal she kept near her bed. Everything had felt so real – as if it were a memory rather than a dream. Thumbing through pages and pages of entries for that year, she looked for any mention of her father. Not once had she dreamed of him; instead, her entries were riddled with nonsensical images and the same recurring nightmares from her childhood. Beatrice wanted to believe it was a sign, but as the excitement of seeing her father again settled down. She told herself that his "visit" was simply a product of missing him.

Yet the next night, she dreamed of him again. She knew she was in a portside town when salty air filled her lungs. A large stone building was to her right. At first, she thought it was a castle in ruins, but as she approached she realized it was a stadium. Roads were muddy and houses were unkept, and most townspeople around her mimicked their surroundings in both attitude and uncleanliness. She could feel that she was taller and more powerful than her waking self; she must have been older. Beatrice looked around for her papa, but he was nowhere to be found. An overwhelming sense of panic filled her and she began running up the hill towards a wooden tower that overlooked the town; any reservation she had was gone as she desperately looked through the crowd of people for her father.

"Papa! Papa!" she screamed at the top of her lungs, but it was not her voice she produced. She stopped in her tracks right before hitting the tower. Beatrice felt a hand on her back and she swiveled around.

"Ah, Sparrow! There you are," the man said with a large grin. "Got that 5,000 gold for me yet?"

"Who are...?" Beatrice replied.

"You'll be well-pleased with the results, Sparrow. This area is ripe for expandoration!" The man laughed again and Beatrice stared at him incredulously.

"What did you call me?" she asked.

"Sparrow? That is you, innit? You look the same as ever," his mouth relaxed into a straight line. Beatrice reached behind her and immediately felt the hilt of a sword. Pulling it over her head, she gazed into her reflection. Looking back at her, in the polished metal of the blade, was the face of her father. She was him.

"Do you see it?" the man asked.

Beatrice returned her sword to its rightful place, "I think I do."

"No. Do you see it?" He asked again and pointed to a pocket on her chest.

"Oh!" Beatrice slipped her hand into the pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. She unfolded the paper along its single crease, revealing a photograph.

"Do you see it?" The man was smiling again.

Beatrice studied the photo; it was of her Papa and a woman. And despite the woman being older than she was now, Beatrice knew it was her. They stood next to each other, stone-faced, directly facing the camera. Their bodies were identically postured, with one glowing hand to their side and another hand rested on the hilt of a long, uneven sword balanced on its tip. The man before her stepped forward and ran his finger back and forth over the crease in the photo. He placed his hands over Beatrice's, folding and unfolding the photo before her eyes. She realized that when folded, her father laid perfectly on top of her. They were mirror images. One of the same.

"I see it now," she whispered.

Beatrice hit the ground beside her bed with a hard thud. Moments passed before she realized where she was and her mind was racing. Grabbing her journal, she stumbled through the dark to her desk. After finding a match to light an oil lamp, she began sketching furiously. She drew the face of the man from her dream, the town she had visited, and in as best detail as she could, the photograph. Trance-like, it wasn't until she had finished that Beatrice took stock of what laid before her. None of it was recognizable, but she knew it held significance.

The third evening, Beatrice was jittery with anticipation. She was afraid that she had overthought it – that she ruined the possibility she would dream about her father again because she wanted it so badly. She closed her eyes and concentrated her breathing to lull herself to sleep. Four breaths in, six breaths out, she thought as her chest filled and deflated.

Soon, Beatrice found herself standing at the top of a tall peak. Her senses were heightened and she was filled with wild anticipation. She looked down at her hands; they were her hands. She felt her face and ran her fingers through her hair; it was her face and her hair. She was dressed in the same chemise she had gone to bed in. Looking around the gray rock on which she stood, she could see figures materializing to her left, front, and right, but it was difficult to concentrate on any single object.

"Beatrice, what exactly does Lucien want?" said a familiar voice to her right. In complete disbelief, she turned toward the direction from which the comment came. Standing face-to-face with Reaver, Beatrice did not immediately recognize him. He was leaner, youthful even, with blue eyes that were intense and unnatural. There was no foreboding discomfort. No air of malaise. No hint of existential ennui. It was not the dark figure to which she had become accustomed. Beatrice was bewildered that he seemed to have asked a question for which he did not already know the answer.

"Reaver…are, are you okay?" she asked.

"Aside from godlike power? Hmm, that's a tough one," said a woman to her left, who Beatrice immediately recognized as Hammer.

It dawned on her. She knew enough history about the Heroes of the past, including her father, to know the story that was playing before her eyes. It was the night her father defeated Lucien. Her eyes scanned the darkness and soon, as she expected, the foggy image of Garth began to form.

"That kind of power is a means, not an end. What does he want to do?" Reaver replied.

The apparition of Garth had turned into a corporeal being. He spoke, "When I knew him, he wanted to resurrect his family. Probably still does. But, give a beggar a million gold, he'll buy food – until he's full. And then he realizes bread isn't the only thing for sale." Beatrice could not believe it – the stories of her childhood were coming to life before her and it felt so very real.

"Now we can begin…" came a woman's voice from behind her. "Stand in the center, Beatrice. You represent that which binds the three together: Strength, Skill, and Will." Cautiously, Beatrice stepped toward the area asked of her by the voice. She looked at the Heroes that surrounded her. Auras were forming around their bodies and it wasn't until she heard the scraping of Reaver's boots against the stone that she realized they were being lifted from the ground. Each, floating in the air, was held in place like stiffly shifting animals caught in a trap.

"Gaze into them, Beatrice," the voice felt closer, as if inside her own mind. "Gaze into them in the way that I know you can."

Closing her eyes, Beatrice felt a cracking stone under a hammer, the recoil of a discharged pistol, the hanged man's snapping rope. Her head broke the surface of their tepid inner waters and she drew in a sharp breath, her first breath. She opened her eyes and felt the flutter of eight eyelids. Staring in front of her, she saw herself from three perspectives while still maintaining her own line of sight. She looked down and saw Garth's hands, Hammer's hands, Reaver's hands, her hands before her. She felt their rage and her calm, their fear and her excitement, their strong push and her stronger pull.

Becoming faint, Beatrice concentrated all eyes to the center of the circle and stared at her own body before her – this is strange, this is strange, this is strange, this is strange, she thought, and the words echoed through four minds harmoniously. Her body, her true body and not the others she currently inhabited, rotated its neck and the three necks around her moved in complete synchrony. She balled Garth's fist and all the other fists followed. She pushed Hammer's foot into the ground and felt the ground push back four times over. She ran Reaver's hand down the length of his other arm and felt the sensation hundreds of times over, as both the one touching and the one being touched. It was an exponential combination of limbs.

And it dawned on her; Beatrice was not controlling them, no, she was experiencing them. I represent that which binds, they all thought while a smile spread across their four faces.

"Good evening, princess."

Beatrice shot up from her deep sleep and stared at the end of the bed. She felt nauseous as her focus adjusted to being only a single set again. She tightly closed her eyes and placed her palms on her temples as the room spun around her.

"Good evening, princess," the voice called out again and she knew it was real. Beatrice's eyes shot open to reveal her bedroom illuminated with a bright light. It was as if someone had sucked the pigment out of the entire room. Everything was a shade of gray.

A hooded woman stood at her footboard, her hands clasped before her. "I would introduce myself, but I do believe you recognize me."

Beatrice studied the woman as her eyes adjusted to the light. Her heart felt as if it were in her throat. "Yes," she whispered, "you're Theresa. It was your voice in my dream."

"That it was," Theresa replied as she stood still as stone. "I realize you could not have expected me. My presence on the night of Lucien's defeat did not make the history books."

Beatrice nodded, "I know you from my father's journals. He was an excellent artist."

"Much like yourself," Theresa moved a single arm and beckoned for Beatrice to follow her. As if being pulled by an invisible string, Beatrice's body immediately reacted.

"Is this a dream?" the princess asked.

"Does it feel like one?"

"No, but neither did my other dreams."

"Interesting," Theresa replied as she guided them to the bedroom desk where Beatrice immediately opened her journal and inked the steel tip of her dip pen. "Listen carefully princess, it is time to begin the search for your father. You are the only one capable of leading him home."

"Where is he?" Beatrice wrote in her journal, directly under the area she had transcribed what Theresa had told her a moment before.

"No place that I can reach. But, I believe the three Heroes of your father's past can aid you. Begin with your father's journals, within them lie secrets that only you can decipher." Theresa paused, "The two of you share much more than blood, Beatrice."

And as quickly as she had appeared, Theresa vanished.

Before her mother reached a point of no return in her illness, Beatrice would sneak away from Brightwall to the castle and look through her father's journals for the clues Theresa had mentioned.

Four months before, she found the whereabouts of Hammer, a now central figure of the Warrior Monks of the North. Beatrice wrote a letter to her pleading for her help. Hammer responded and politely declined, sharing her condolences for Beatrice's loss and citing her role as head of the monastery for the reason she could not leave.

Not that I'd expect you to remember, but I was there a few days after you were born Beatrice. I had never seen a man more in love with a little face when Sparrow held you in his hands. Your father was a protective and resilient warrior, Hammer wrote, and if he is out there physically, or spiritually, I know he is still taking care of you in his own way.

A month before, Beatrice located Garth and tried a different approach to his letter. Both being students of Will, Beatrice confessed to him that she had sensed her father's energy well past when he was believed to be dead, and when it did vanish it was not the way one's life force slowly slips away in death. She had received his letter only one week before.

Garth, unlike Hammer, did not express an ounce of empathy. The only good to have come from his letter was an affirmation: he too had interpreted Sparrow's disappearance in a similar manner as Beatrice. Garth suggested that her father had not died but instead transformed. It would explain the supposed evaporation of his life force from the limited spiritual plane that Beatrice had access to at her stage of Will development. He had also warned her that she might prefer not to find Sparrow if his prediction were true, that her efforts could be worthless, dangerous, or unviable. Surprisingly, Garth had invited her to visit him if she had the desire to become his apprentice in all matters of Will. Beatrice refused to respond to him: she was angry and afraid of his prediction. Any hope of finding her father was depleting daily, but she still had one more person left to contact and she was saving him for last.

Despite his role as advisor to both her father and brother, Beatrice had not interacted much with the bizarre industrialist since her father left for his quest in the Winter of 1819. Even before Theresa suggested contacting her father's old friends, Beatrice had thought Reaver was hiding information about her father. He was a man that knew a considerable amount on every subject and going-on under the Albion sun. She had wanted to talk to him, but she suspected that Reaver actively avoided her. And, truth be told, she was hesitant to approach him.

Even when she tried to find him, Reaver was always a room or hallway away, surrounded by others like a shield or had departed alone without a word. She knew he attended royal events and met with her brother regularly, but he somehow stayed just out of her reach like a dark mirage. But despite his distance, Beatrice sensed he kept a keen eye on her every move, whether they were standing inches apart or on opposite ends of a ballroom. And though she still was still unable to read him, she could not mistake the burn of his stare.

After neither her father nor his men returned by 1821, Reaver suggested that Logan stage a symbolic burial for their father and solidify her brother as the future monarch. The closed casket ceremony had taken place a year ago, and it was the last time she had tried to speak to Reaver about her father.

"We need to talk after the burial. Privately," Beatrice had said in a low tone after arriving at his immediate right. She had snuck away from her mother, fought her way through a crowd of admiring men and women, and forced a woman near him to move after giving her a quick shock on the thigh. Despite his not showing it, she knew he had not expected her to approach him; she had broken their unspoken agreement to stay away from each other.

"No," he replied in one short note.

"I was not asking you," she responded.

He looked at her from the side with surprise, scanning her from head to toe. "My, my, how bold you've become, little princess. Your demands are a hard slap across the face, whereas good persuasion should be as delicate as a kiss upon the cheek." He placed one gloved hand on her shoulder and hissed in her ear, "Which do you think I prefer?"

"I do not know," she replied with sincerity. He continued to stand near her in silence. When she looked up to his face, which was considerably closer than when she was a child, he seemed to be waiting. And even she knew Reaver did not wait for long. Beatrice cleared her throat, "May I speak to you, in private, after the service ends?"

"Oh, I don't know," he sighed. "I'm rather busy, but I will think about it during this charade of a memorial." Before leaving her side, he asked, "Do tell, how is your training coming along with Sir Walter? I've seen you practicing quite often during my visits with your brother. His choice in office location allows him to have a full survey of castle grounds from his window." Reaver smirked, "Discovering any newfound talents, princess?"

"I will share every detail you desire after our discussion," Beatrice replied coolly. Reaver let a small hoot, and if she were correct, it seemed as if he were amused by her candor. He nodded his head and tipped his hat to her before sauntering off to his seat where a butler waited with an umbrella to block the sun from his skin.

Once the funeral had ended, she searched for him in the ample crowd of attendees that flooded the front courtyard of the castle. Considering his height, and ostentatious manner of dress, she quickly noticed him walking alone into the castle and toward the gardens. As if he could sense her stare, Reaver turned and looked at her. She knew it was an invitation to follow.

Beatrice attempted to move through the crowd, but mourning nobles surrounded her to express their long-winded sympathies. Her agitation was beginning to show and she was getting short with the guests. She could feel that they were either emotionally vacant or fearful of the coming change in power, not necessarily upset by her father's assumed death.

"Yes, yes, thank you. Yes, it is awful. Absolutely, I understand. Okay, thank you. Thank you. May I please get…okay, yes, I know. This is a difficult day for us all, but I need to move…" Beatrice muttered to the crowd while trying to avoid eye contact. The number of people surrounding her seemed to grow by the second. It overwhelmed her.

She struggled to break free from their touch and questions when her fingers began tingling. "Oh no," she muttered to herself and looked at her hands. They felt stiff as if readying for an attack. In her confusion, she could not discern what power was building in her; fire, wind, electricity, or something else entirely? Whatever it was, it was numbing her extremities and made her feel as if she were standing ten feet away from her body, like a specter watching a human drama unfold. She wrapped her arms around her chest as if she were giving herself a hug to ground herself in the present. Beatrice tried to speed her breathing back up instead of slipping into the tranquil state of her Will, where time moved infinitely slower and her thoughts became dangerously singular. She readied to move out of the growing circle of people around her before unintentionally injuring them and outing her powers on the most public day of her life.

Unexpectedly, she felt the firm grip of two hands on both of her shoulders and it snapped her out of her trance. Logan placed his head near her ear and softly spoke. "Beatrice, can you at least act the part today?"

She turned to her brother, arms still wrapped around her chest, and pleaded, "Logan, please. Please, I need to go to the garden, you don't understand…"

He cut her off and spoke through clenched teeth, "No, I think I understand completely. You are a princess, and with the privileged life comes an irrevocable duty to act like one. Right now you are being a child."

"Reaver is waiting for me in the garden, I need to speak to him!" She was raising her voice and he gave her a quizzical look.

"He is not waiting for you," Logan pointed toward the cobblestone road that led to the castle gates, "He is leaving," Just as her brother had stated, Reaver was walking toward his carriage with the quickened gait of someone not returning to their previous place. Her heart sank and any cresting Will left inside of her fell back immediately.

She knew she could run after him. It would have been easy to scatter the horde of people with a burst of fire from her hands. It would have been exciting to leap upon his moving carriage and stealthily slide through the door with grace. And it would have been satisfying to sit across from Reaver and have this full attention. No doubt he would have been impressed, even if he tried to hide it.

Yet, she did not move; instead, she kept up appearances for the sake of Logan and the court. In that moment, as she watched Reaver head away from the castle, she made a promise to herself that changed the course of her life. From that point on, she Beatrice, daughter of Sparrow of Bowerstone and Iris of Woodseed, Hero Princess of Albion, would stay loyal to her own desires and not to the expectations of others. Especially those who demanded arbitrary social order.

Her father's mock funeral occurred the year before and during that time her mother was soundlessly developing a deep sickness. Beatrice immediately felt whatever was growing inside and was terrified beyond words. It was no surprise when the royal physician shared the results of her mother's exam weeks later: she was dying. As months passed, her mother became a shell of her former self. She lost weight to the point of being skeletal, bruised easily with even the gentlest touch, and found it increasingly difficult to breathe with activity. Beatrice tended to her daily. She read her books from the castle library, made her various tonics from the garden, and would lie in bed with her mother and watch her sleep. The reality of her mother's coming death consumed her thoughts and she was obsessed with keeping her well. It wasn't until Theresa's visit those few months before that Beatrice even considered taking up the task of finding her father again. She shared Theresa's prophecy with her mother and it was the first time the ill queen felt hope for a future she would not see.

Despite her death coming soon, Iris asked to be moved to Brightwall to live out her final months. It was where she met Sparrow all those years before becoming Queen, before bearing their children, before she knew what it meant and what it took to love a Hero. They had married in the newly built Brightwall Library, a gift from her fiancé and inspired by her love of knowledge. It was there, as her first act as new queen, she tended to a large vegetable garden that supplied free food for Brightwall citizens. She taught classes on herbology and passed down familial recipes to anyone who would attend. It was that same garden that she had taught Logan and Beatrice about the omnipresent spirit of nature and how to listen to its voice. Brightwall was the place that Logan learned how to swim and Beatrice climbed trees. It was the place that Iris discovered Beatrice could make the same fire as her husband within her tiny hands. And it was the last place she had seen her love, Sparrow, before he left on his final and fated quest. Beatrice knew these details well, and when her mother asked to move to Brightwall during the Winter of 1822, she happily agreed to go with her. It would not be until their mother passed away that Logan would finally gain the official title King of Albion…

"Beatrice," she heard softly behind her. Snapped back to the present again, she turned to see a solemn Logan leaving their mum's room. "I've missed you," he confessed as he approached her. Beatrice immediately felt the urge to run to her brother, but she stopped herself. He looked sick with grief and responsibility. The wrinkles along his forehead belied his twenty-one years of age.

"Oh Logan," she sighed. Within a single hand, her brother could hold all things he cared for, but he cared for them so deeply that he hid them from himself. When Beatrice peered into her brother, she felt his love for family and country and it looked very different than her own. Logan could easily be overwhelmed if he felt those same things he cared for were slipping, like the potential loss of their mother, so Beatrice eased herself into his space. Just as when they were children, Beatrice had to follow Logan's rules if he was upset. Otherwise, he would let his anger get the best of him.

"Don't use your little gift to read me if you hug me," he said flatly.

"Brother, I wouldn't dare," she replied as she walked into his open arms. Trying her best to keep her promise, Beatrice focused on physical senses so as not to "read" him. She felt his warmth, heard his rapid heartbeat, and discerned the difference between the smell of his waistcoat versus the smell of his skin. His body was stiff and she reminded him, "I've told you before, I cannot hear thoughts and I do not see the future. I just sense things, like feelings," she closed her eyes and hugged him closer. "Logan, your face has always revealed how you felt. There is nothing to hide with you because it is already on display," she added, attempting to relax him. It worked.

She felt his body soften a little and he reciprocated the strength of her embrace. What she did not mention was that her little "gift" of reading others was developing quickly. It was no longer just feelings and images she saw when she read someone – now they stayed longer and were in her control. No surprise readings anymore. She could see clearer and search deeper, peeling back the layers of a person's inner world like the petals of a rose. Just days before, she touched an object and successfully detected the residual emotions imprinted upon it. She would not dare mention this to Logan, who she knew would have felt threatened.

"You smell like home," she commented.

"You should come back to Bowerstone once this situation has," he hesitated, "finished."

Beatrice nodded in agreement, but her return would not be the return her brother expected. It would be easier for her to explore her father's belongings and continue her search for him. "Logan, I would love to come back to the castle. Are all of my things there?"

"Just as you left them," he responded.

"And what about father's things? I wish to archive them with Samuel. They are artifacts of our country's history now," she asked with hope.

"Well, yes. Anything that you would consider appropriate for a library has been moved to his former office. I don't go in there often. I have turned the War Room into my personal study."

"That sends quite the message, doesn't it?" she commented. Walter, who had been waiting quietly while the siblings spoke, coughed to stifle a small laugh. For a moment, she thought the remark would upset Logan. Sometimes it was if he regarded every one of her actions as an attack. But, instead, he laughed softly.

"I cannot wait for that wit to return home. How has the castle survived without it?" He replied in jest and walked to his coat. "Beatrice, these past few years have been trying ones. I do appreciate the time you have spent with mother. I hope I do not come off as unaffected." Buttoning up his coat and retying his cravat, he nodded at Walter that is was time to leave.

"You hurt, Logan, just like the rest of us. It may appear differently, but I will never dismiss your feelings because they do not look like mine. I love you." Beatrice sighed, "But I wish you would hold back your voyage to Aurora until after the funeral, I don't want to do this without you."

His signature frustration with her began to arise. "Beatrice, you are not alone. The court will assist you with all arrangements. The staff will wait for your word and properly take care of any issues. You are well supported without my presence. You are turning fifteen soon, you are nearly an adult." She opened her mouth to speak, but he held up a single finger. "This is how I wished to see mother last, alive and with her full dignity. She is not upset with me. Unlike you, she is fully aware and understands the duties of a king, just as she did with Father. Albion cannot wait a moment longer."

Beatrice kept her mouth shut tightly. A part of her wanted to fight him on this, point out the error of his thoughts, tell him that she needed him there, not for taking care of arrangements, but for solidarity. But a much larger part reminded her that with Logan's absence, she could return to searching her father's journals without his watchful eye. "I do hope you are more successful than Papa with your campaign."

He ignored her comment until he reached the door. "Do not worry yourself any more than necessary, Beatrice. It isn't good for your health. I will see you as soon as I return," and with that, Logan and Walter left the cottage.

Three days had passed since Logan left for Aurora. Sir Walter had returned to the cottage and brought several of the castle staff with him. They came in shifts; one in the morning, one in the afternoon, and one for overnight. Beatrice didn't mind the extra company, although she felt there was not much to be done except wait. Obviously, she told herself, when Mum passes their real work will begin. Beatrice let out a ragged sigh and walked outside to the front of the house. She turned in the direction that she knew faced Bowerstone and felt incredibly empty.

"What will I do without her?" she asked herself. Coming from behind, she heard the pitter-patter of little feet. She turned to see a young girl running toward the house holding a bonnet in one hand and a small parcel in the other. Beatrice walked toward the road to the greet the girl.

"Hello there!" Beatrice said and bent down to meet the tiny messenger at her eye-level. "Are you coming to visit me?"

The girl was grinning from ear-to-ear. She whispered, "Are you Princess Beatrice?"

"Why yes, I am," Beatrice pulled up the sides of her dress slightly to denote a small curtsy while still balancing herself low to the ground. "And what is your name?"

"Martha," she replied and returned the curtsy.

"Princess Martha?" Beatrice responded quickly with an encouraging smile. She loved the energy of happy children. It was infectious.

"Princess Martha!" the little girl mimicked with enthusiasm.

"And what royal business do you bring me today, Princess Martha?" she asked.

"This here is a parcel for you, princess. I was told to run!" Martha handed the package to Beatrice. She turned it over and saw a tag with distinctly untidy handwriting spelling out her name. Immediately she knew it was from Elliot. Reaching into the front pocket of her half-apron, she fished out two silver coins and a small piece of candy for the girl. Martha squealed with happiness, waved goodbye, and ran back in the direction from which she came.

Inside the parcel were four items: a small satchel of dried tulip petals, a needlework bookmark embroidered with from my Heart, a dark green ribbon, and a small note. Beatrice unfolded the paper and read:

My dearest,

My parents and I are swiftly traveling back to Albion. I plan to meet you in Brightwall unless I receive word to do otherwise. The satchel is for your mum and the rest is for you. I have missed you greatly and wished my return was under different circumstance.

Tenderly,

Elliot

She placed the contents of the parcel into her half-apron and went back to the house. Beatrice had not sent for Elliot, although she was relieved to hear of his return. She now knew members of the court in Bowerstone were sending word to those close to their royal family. People were gathering, preparing for a ceremonial transition of power, but she refused to acknowledge it aloud. I wish Logan were here, she thought.

Without saying a word to anyone in the house, she hurriedly ran up the stairs to her mother's room. As soon as she opened the door, she was greeted with the scent of medicinal herbs and fresh flowers. Her mother weakly looked in the direction of the door. With every passing day, Beatrice's heart sank while she watched her mother disintegrate in front of her eyes. Her bones jutted out of her skin unnaturally, like poles meant to pitch the fabric of a tent. Her legs had swollen beyond use, leaving her bedridden. It wasn't long before she had stopped eating completely. Unsure if out of solidarity or grief, Beatrice had stopped eating too. As minutes passed Beatrice knew she was approaching her greatest fear: death meant that she and her mother would be eternally separated by the impenetrable void, cast from each other only to be left completely alone. And for what? she found herself asking the silence of her mind.

Since birth, Beatrice was told she was the mirror image of her mother, Iris. Everything about them was fluid. Their round and expressive faces, curved figures, ocean blue eyes, silken hair the color of honey. Both moved their bodies freely like water running down a window and possessed a presence that warmed those around them like summer rain. And now her mother laid before her as solid as a corpse, each gurgled exhale sounding as if she were drowning in herself. Without her mother, without her mirror image looking back at her, Beatrice did not know who she was to be anymore.

"You look beautiful," Beatrice whispered and she meant it. Iris smiled. "Elliot sent a gift for you," she said as she pulled the satchel from her half-apron. "They're dried tulips. The fragrance is pleasant." Her mother did not react but closed her eyes. Beatrice pulled a small stool close to the bed and sat down. She clutched her mother's hand, "Mum, I wish you would eat. If not for you, then for me?" At that, her mother's eyes slowly opened again and she turned her head to face her.

"Trust me," she said so softly that Beatrice almost thought it was in her own head. "I am not leaving."

"Yes, you are," Beatrice spat out through clenched teeth. Her own bitterness shocked her and she instantly regretted her tone.

"I am only…changing," Iris struggled with her words. It sounded as if stones were tumbling around her lungs with each breath. "You are the love of my life," she paused and looked her daughter in the eye. "And that," she exhaled roughly, "doesn't die."

Beatrice leaned forward and rested her head near where she clutched her mother's hand, "I do trust you, Mum."

Iris was ready to depart from this world, and without being able to explain it, she knew Beatrice was somehow keeping her alive. She had no tangible proof, but she had long accepted there were forces at play in this world much bigger than herself. Her daughter, like her husband, was given the gifts of a Hero. Was that not proof enough of the divine? But, there was another power inside of her daughter that was not skill, nor strength, nor an ability to conjure fire at her will. Iris always described it as Beatrice being able to see another's soul, but she did not know her daughter could also reach inside and hold that soul in her hand. She discerned that Beatrice was not aware of it either, at least not yet.

Knowing it was the only way she would be able to move on, Iris asked her daughter what she had wanted to ask as soon as the bluebells bloomed that final Spring, "Let me go? I am tired, my love."

Beatrice noiselessly lifted her head from its place on the bed with a wide-eyed expression. Tears had been cascading down her face since she had laid her cheek to the quilt. The two women stared at each other in complete silence. Beatrice's emotionless face slowly turned into one of realization and Iris did not have to ask; she knew her daughter was reading her in that moment. And she knew Beatrice understood the depth of her request in the way only one who can hold souls can understand.

Delicately, Beatrice pulled her hand out of her mother's, stood above the bed, and kissed Iris on the forehead. "I love you," she managed to say while trying to control the lump growing in her throat. Iris looked up at Beatrice to reply, but Beatrice just smiled and nodded her head, "Sweet dreams, Mum."

"Goodbye, my love, until we meet again," Iris closed her eyes peacefully as if falling asleep. Beatrice silently walked across the room and sat in an armchair that faced the bed. She laid back, closed her eyes, and concentrated on the feeling in the room. Her mother's essence was vanishing. If death only changes us, Beatrice thought as the life force across from her faded, I have yet to find the new form of anyone I've lost.

She thought of a young Logan dancing in the kitchen while their mum made rosewater and of Jasper helping her mother fix her crown, which always seemed crooked. She fondly remembered Sir Walter chasing a weasel out of her mother's castle apartment while the children yelled at him, "Don't hurt the little weasel! Sir Walter, be careful, he's so tiny!" and her mother laughing until she produced tears. Beatrice thought of her mother and father and their glances to each other, always with the hint of a smile and always filled with love. And then there was just her mother; the image of her in the garden, wearing her favorite white gown that settled like seafoam at her feet, smiling and opening her arms to her daughter.

When Beatrice opened her eyes, her mother was completely still. She sat for a moment, checking the room again for any sign of her mother's presence, but she could find none. Beatrice exited the room and shut the door behind her softly. She looked at the lady's maid that waited near the wall and solemnly nodded her head.

"She's gone for good."

Chapter Text

Chapter 3

Pomegranates and Puppy Dogs

03 August 1823

Daily Diary of Elliot A. J. Price,

           You would begin to think that after these many days I would have become accustomed to our nightly ritual. But there is something strange about nighttime when you share a secret. It may be the nature of the dark; it conceals what no one else knows – and what no one else will ever know. It makes you wonder if what you experience is real or merely a dream.

           If the warmth of Beatrice’s body next to mine were suddenly absent, or if I had not come to know the feeling of her head pressed against my chest, I might believe it all to be untrue. While my sense of sight is hindered during these hours together, it only seems to heighten every other capacity of mine to feel. I cannot feign modesty anymore – I have come to know my sweet Beatrice in body and soul. And she knows I.  In the night, we are free. Before daylight, I carefully leave her room and return to my quarters across the castle.

           During the day, I do not speak of our nights together. Beatrice maintains a sheer veneer of reservation for the public eye, but I have my suspicions that she has a difficult time maintaining self-control. She will happily flash me a knowing and mischievous smile while we are around others. I feel a shock start at the top of my head and end at the bottom of my feet as if she had just run her fingers through my hair, despite her being across the room – what an arresting quality she has! I return her smile with my eyes, admiring her body from its bottom to top, ending at her face – which is already fixed upon mine. Each time I expect her to have not noticed me, that I may catch her while her guard is down, but I am found every time. It is a game I could play forever.

           Initially, I was afraid that her affections were in response to the loss of her mother earlier this year – that she was lonely and sought me as some sort of substitute. As always, in the day she appears to have acclimated to the tragic life change well enough. Her preoccupation with searching through her father’s old journals, documents, and travel notes borders on obsessive, but Jasper says it is not worrisome, that Logan does the same when consumed in work and it is merely a shared sibling trait. And certainly, none of us would mention any concern – Beatrice would only say, “Oh, it makes me feel close to Papa again. You must understand there is no harm in a little reading.” And I cannot argue; both of my parents are alive. I do not know how that special sort of grief changes a person. Instead, I do my best to listen without judgment.

           During our sleep, I must say that I am often stirred awake from her nightmares and will gladly hold her until she falls into a peaceful sleep again. I have never been much of a brawler and so it fills me with a virile joy to hear Beatrice say that she feels safe in my arms. She tells me that she is haunted – which I first thought to be hyperbolic, but I am starting to believe. I have nightmares perhaps every other year, but Beatrice experiences them every other evening.

           Last night I purposefully stayed awake to watch one occur. I struck a match and lit a candle after she had fallen asleep. Fifteen minutes had passed when she began twitching her limbs. She mumbled something inaudible, so I leaned closer. “No, stop…no, what have I done?No… Death…no,” she repeated before beginning to toss. I can only imagine the depths of her plea – who is she referring to? Her parents? Logan? Sir Walter? Me? Herself?

           At that point, I roused her as gently as I could. Frightened, she awoke with a start and I could feel her clamminess in the dark. I touched her face and it was evident she had been crying. She kept apologizing, telling me that she was, “very sorry, so incredibly sorry, I can’t take it back, please tell them I can’t take it back, I’m sorry, tell them I’m sorry.” I asked her who she was referring to, but by the time I calmed her down and regained her attention, she was unable to answer me.

           This is the behavior that worries me, but Beatrice reassures me that this is nothing new. She claims that she has had the same nightmare since she was a child and she does not know what spurred it. She promises that the episodes are benign, but she did not hear the desperation in her voice when she begged for forgiveness. Whatever is inspiring this guilt, whether from her waking or sleeping self, is undeniably real.

          I must leave you now, Diary. It is time for me to join my princess for the evening.          

Until tomorrow,

          Elliot 

 10 August 1823

          Beatrice found herself walking aimlessly around the garden grounds. Sir Walter had originally planned to meet her hours earlier, but she had received word from the guard that his arrival had been delayed by days. Walter had sent his deepest apologies and a note with a single message: Happy fifteenth birthday, Beatrice.

          The pattern of her steps was always the same; leaving through the doors of her room, passing stained glass depicting the royal crest, and down a dizzying number of steps. She started to the left, meandering around statues, fountains, a gazebo, the mausoleum that led to the catacombs, which led to her mother’s full grave and her father’s empty one. Each time she ended her walk in the far-right corner of the gardens where the view of Bowerstone was its best. It was the area that she had scattered bluebell seeds she collected while still in Brightwall with her mother.

Beatrice told others that she needed the corner to herself to check on those little shoots, but that wasn’t the case. She knew she was seeking something outside those castle walls, but she could not pull herself away from her father’s journals, maps, and artifacts that were housed inside the castle. So, she settled for the view as a reminder that the world extended far beyond the confines of leather-bound books and scrolls and that one day she would enter it.

          As Beatrice wandered closer to her favorite spot, she felt Elliot waiting there for her. She hurried her pace and rounded the corner to see him sitting just in the way she had imagined him in her head. Placed in his lap was a black and white puppy not much larger than his cupped hands.

          “You sensed I was here, didn’t you?” He asked her while petting the small dog.

          “How could you tell?” Beatrice moved closer and sat next to him, reaching her hand out to pet the tiny creature. Playfully, she asked, “And are you going to tell me why you’re holding a dog?”

          “You did not look surprised when you saw me – your face gives you away,” he looked at her and smiled. Holding the pup to his own nose for a quick nuzzle, Elliot handed the dog to Beatrice, “And this little thing is yours. Happy birthday!”

          “Elliot! Thank you, thank you! Oh, this is perfect.” Beatrice held the puppy close and could feel its chest moving up and down. It rubbed its head on her and looked as if it was about to fall asleep. Looking around to make sure they were entirely alone, Beatrice placed her hand behind Elliot’s head and pulled him in for a kiss. She kissed him fully and passionately, in a way that he had become accustomed to only while they were alone.

          “Beatrice,” he pulled his head back slightly from hers, “Can we find someplace more private? I am afraid I will be unable to hide my…,” Elliot cleared his throat in embarrassment and glanced at his lap, “…hide my excitement for you as we walk back to the castle.”

          “But what if I want them to know?” Her eyes did not move from his as she asked her question. Even she knew it was an especially brazen suggestion, and she was surprised it came out of her mouth. Someplace deep within her did not care if anyone knew that she and Elliot were lovers. And even deeper than that: she wanted them to know. The thought was thrilling, but she could feel his discomfort like a wave washing over her. “You know what, my love? Let’s wait a bit, while sitting separately, until you are more suitable for walking the grounds and we will show everyone the wonderful present you gave me.”

          “Thank you,” Elliot said hastily and kissed her on the cheek. They shared a few moments of silence. Beatrice was cradling the pup in her arms and had turned back to look at Bowerstone.

          “It’s a girl,” she said, “And I’m calling her Juniper.” Beatrice ran her fingers over the newly named pup. “Her tufts of hair look like flowers on a juniper shrub, the way they lay and layer.”

          “Juniper? I like it. Do you think Juniper likes it?” Elliot asked.

          “I think she loves it. And I think I am already in love with her.” Beatrice hugged Juniper even closer turned to look at the city in the distance. She whispered to the pup, “I’m bringing you everywhere with me. Every adventure.”

Taking her eyes off the smokestacks and looking down at the sprouting bluebells, Beatrice was struck with a marvelous idea.

          “Elliot! I have it!” She shouted, startling the sleepy Juniper.

          “Have what?” Her exclamation had startled him from a daydream as well.

          “I want to move everything to the Brightwall Library. All my father’s work and artifacts. Not just to archive, but to study and organize there,” she spoke at a rapid pace and was yet to slow down.

“I need to leave the castle, Elliot. And everyone would understand why I was leaving,” she turned and looked him in the eyes again, her face as solid as stone. “No one would question why I left, no one would be looming over my shoulder, no one counting the hours.”

          Elliot felt immediately anxious. Beatrice looked bizarre, as if her eyes were turning to crystal. She continued staring into him and he suddenly felt relaxed, as if he were being lowered into warm water. His eyes felt heavy when he snapped back to it, “Beatrice! Are you reading me? What are you doing?”

          She quickly looked down, “Yes. Yes, I’m sorry.”

          “Why can’t you just ask me how I feel? Rather than…” Elliot searched for the words to describe her ability, “Rather than look in to me? Do you think I am going to be dishonest regarding how I feel?”

          “Of course not. I am sorry. I wanted an answer quickly, and sometimes people do not know how they truly feel inside! Their emotions are clouded by their thoughts, by how they want to be seen by others or how they want to see themselves. I see it all the time, everyone does it.”

          “And I do this?” He asked without expression.

          “Yes, at times. But as do I, and my mother and Sir Walter, and Logan, and my father. It is human to conceal. But I am sorry, I should let you decide how you want to react.”

          “Thank you and you should. None of the persons you just listed were ever comfortable with their emotions being…read like some book you pick up for enjoyment! And,” he continued, “you are always allowed to decide how you react since no one else is reading you back.”

          “Elliot,” Beatrice said his name softly, “you are absolutely right. I’ve been working on training myself to stop.”

          “I need you to show me that you trust me,” he said back, just as softly.

          “I do, I really do. It’s just something that I’ve always done. It’s how I exist, but I’m working on it.” Beatrice looked up. Elliot’s expression was one that she had seen before many times. She already knew the question that was coming.

          “And you swear you’re not reading my thoughts?” He asked, for the hundredth time.

           Beatrice had sworn to him that she was unable to read thoughts the ninety-nine times he had asked before, but she told him again. What she read in others was entirely a feeling. It defied logic and was pure intuition. She tried to explain it to him through sensations; she said that anxiety was like swallowing lightning, anger was bubbling sewage under her skin, sadness was drowning in tar, loneliness was hearing the echo of a pin drop in a cavernous room.

           She claimed people had specific images tied to their emotional selves; he was smooth and easy to digest, images of clouds and rolling hills. She admitted that her father was vast on the inside, a lush forest of experience and wilderness. Her mother? Water, sometimes a puddle and sometimes an ocean. Logan was a pestle grinding into an empty mortar. She even confessed she had read the inscrutable Reaver several times, and that his insides were defined by the feeling of just having pulled back the hammer of a gun, finger pressed on the trigger, and ready to fire. She described Reaver as the most liminal of internal spaces.

           Elliot felt jealous – there was nothing masculine about a cloud. He wanted to be the sound made when a sword is being drawn from its sheath…

          “Elliot?” Beatrice said his name sharply, bringing him back to the present moment. “Why does it worry you that I want to leave the castle at times? I need you to support me in this, Elliot. I must find my father and the answer lies hidden in those texts. I know it to be true.”

          “How are you so sure?” He shot back, fear in his voice. He was concerned for her well-being. Images of her nightmares flooded his mind, of her pouring over King Sparrow’s personal journals until her eyes were red and inflamed, of right now, her lack of care for what those in the court thought of her.

          “I was told by someone…someone who can see the future.” Beatrice felt a weight being lifted at sharing this secret again. The only other person who had known of Theresa’s visit was her mum.

          “A fortune teller? As with cards?” He asked.

          “It was more than that. It was the same seeress that guided my father in his war with Lucien. She told me that I needed to seek the answers in his books and from those Heroes of legend. I had dreams that helped me. And, Elliot, most of all,” Beatrice scooted even closer to him in her excitement, “it has been working! I mean, I do not know where my father is yet, but I have found those she had instructed me to find. I have reached out to them and they now know of me and my desire to find Papa. Garth had…you know, Garth, right?”

          “Yes, I know who Garth is. I heard the same childhood stories you did,” Elliot stated plainly.

          “Garth agreed that my father had not merely died either! Just like I had felt happened.” Beatrice moved back to where she was originally seated. “I am closer than I was before, and I am not giving up on this. There is work to be done and I feel trapped here, I can’t shake the feeling. It’s as if the castle walls watch me.”

          “Who else and what else are you looking for – other than Garth?” he asked.

          “I have already reached out to Hammer. She did not have much information to share, but I know she will keep me in her thoughts.” Beatrice unexpectedly felt a nervous ball in her throat as she continued, “And Reaver. I need to discuss these matters with Reaver. I have tried before, but I cannot seem to get what I need from him. He has a way of controlling the conversation.”

          “That does not surprise me at all. But doesn’t he visit the castle ever so often?” Elliot asked, confused by her hesitation. He knew Reaver was a formidable figure, but matters like that never seemed to bother Beatrice. “And he now lives in Millfields, although I wouldn’t suggest making a home visit.”

          “I’m honestly considering it, but I am waiting until it feels right.” Beatrice placed Juniper softly in her lap and grabbed Elliot’s hand with her own, “I will not do anything without telling you because I do not want you to worry. But, I need to know I have your support. It would mean the world to me if you were with me through this.”

          Elliot drew in a sharp breath. He looked pained, not as if he did not believe her, but rather he was not ready to deal with the consequence of the truth. He regained his composure and placed a hand on her cheek, “You have my full backing, my princess.”

          “Then I will consider it my second birthday gift!” Beatrice exclaimed, standing up swiftly. “Come with me! It is time to write Samuel at the library about this!”

          Walking from their favorite part of the grounds, Elliot turned and looked back at Bowerstone in the distance. For the first time, he allowed himself to see the truth. He now knew that Beatrice did not arbitrarily pick an area for her bluebells – she had an intention, she always has an intention. If she desired a wall to block her view, she would have planted them by a wall. No, she wanted a world of possibilities to keep her company while she tended to her thoughts in this small corner of Albion.

20 September 1823

To the Honorable Princess Beatrice,

             I am deeply grateful that you have asked to further your archive efforts by moving the castle collection of King Sparrow’s artifacts to Brightwall Library. We here at the library welcome you with open arms and I have begun the effort of creating a private space for your studies, as well as finding additional help to catalog and store your pieces of history. I assure you that your work will remain anonymous, as well as your identity. Even the hired help will not know the nature of your work, or what is stored in your boxes. Considering the value of these items, I find it of utmost importance to protect them until they are properly placed in safe keeping.

             And, as always, I must extend my eternal gratitude to the royal family for their continued support of our magnificent library. It was a privilege to have worked closely with your mother as I did in ensuring her vision of the library continued far beyond our lifetimes. The beauty of her spirit lives on in the bright minds that find refuge within these walls and I think of her daily.

Yours,

Samuel Williamson

Head Librarian of Brightwall Library

17 November 1823

          “Will it not be strange staying here alone?” Elliot firmly sat on the dining room table in the large cottage home near Brightwall Library. Beatrice insisted on spending her days there, rather than at the local inn or in a rented home, and he had difficulty understanding her motivation. He did not know why she would want to return there after losing her mother in the very same space eight months before.

          “No, in fact, it feels like home.” She paid him little attention when he acted this way. She was too busy stacking a final bundle of smaller journals to take to the library to concern herself with his worry. She had work to get to – and she had been trying to get to it since the moment Samuel agreed to let her come to Brightwall. It was nearing sunrise and she wanted to begin her short trek to the library.

          “But you will be alone,” he said again.

          “Elliot, when am I ever really alone?” She pointed toward the front door of the cottage, where they both knew two armed guards were standing. She pointed to the back window, where one could see two more armed guards in the area behind the house. One was pulling a pail of water from the well, another admiring the shrubbery that was surviving the winter.

          “Those two don’t seem much on guard, but I suppose you’re right,” Elliot conceded.

          “Thank you for acknowledging me. I understand your concern, but this place does not hurt me. It makes me happy, I have far more happy memories here than sad ones. And I think the time alone will be good for me.” Beatrice bound her stack of books together with a leather strap, pulling on it tightly before buckling it into place. “I am heading back to Bowerstone Castle in three days. It will give me some time to decompress and start the process of organizing the unbelievable number of documents we brought here.”

          “I will leave you then, but know that I and Juniper will miss you,” Elliot said while standing from the table. He seemed taller in that moment, a bit older than before. Beatrice was afraid that his constant concern had taken permanent residence on his face.

          “I will miss you too, but you cannot stay. Your parents are arriving this evening at the castle and someone must be there to greet them,” she replied, sitting her stack of books down and coming to him for a hug. He took her in and squeezed her tightly, burying his head her neck. Pulling back, Elliot kept her gaze with purpose before pushing her back on the dining table and kissing her roughly. She felt his hand slip underneath her chemise and slide up the length of her leg, grabbing her sharply. She took his hand in hers and slid it between her thighs. He pushed his body on hers, running the tip of his nose up her ear before whispering, “I should leave.”

          “What?!” Beatrice broke out of her haze and straightened. Elliot was standing upright again with a large grin on his face. “Elliot Andrew Jameson Price, are you teasing me?”

          “Perhaps? Perhaps I’ve been reading the copy of Fanny Hill you gave me?” He laughed again, “I certainly don’t agree with all of it, but I can’t say that I haven’t learned a few things.”

          “Well, you don’t have to leave just yet,” Beatrice propped herself back on the kitchen table and leaned back on her elbows.

          He looked her up and down with a sly grin. “I believe you have a time set to meet Samuel, and I do remember you asking me to leave around sunrise. It is that time already.” Elliot leaned in to kiss the confused Beatrice on the forehead. He was pleased with himself.

          “I think I am going to die,” she whined.

          “I am sure you will find a manner to relieve yourself,” he responded, flicking his index finger back and forth as he walked toward the coat rack. “And if you don’t, I will see to the matter myself when you return to the castle.”

          Beatrice couldn’t help but smile at his playfulness, “I look forward to it.”

          “But seriously, do be careful here. Don’t stay up all night with your research, and if you start to feel lonely, at least go into the village and have a conversation. I worry about you.” Elliot’s brow lowered, “You have a heavy mind.”

          “I will be on my best behavior, sir.” She slid off the table and grabbed her stack of books again. She and Elliot helped each other put on their coats and he opened the door, following outside behind her. They walked together to the library in silence. She knew he would have stayed with her if she would have pressed – but she wanted the time alone. He kissed her on the forehead before leaving her on the steps of the library. Beatrice watched him as he walked back to the village, inevitably to leave by carriage to Bowerstone Castle. It was only a matter of minutes before he was a dark figure in the snowfall. She turned and entered the library when he was entirely out of view. She could barely contain her excitement – she was free to dive into her work, truly free for the first time.  

          “Ah! Princess Beatrice, right on time!” Samuel was waiting in the main foyer of the library, sitting by a series of candles and oil lamps he had lit for light. She knew it would be dark, but the reality surprised her.

          “Hello, Samuel! Thank you again for letting me do this in your library. It is a welcome change from the confines of the castle.”

          “Confines? One would think that castles are preferred places of living, but then again, you have always housed a significant amount of your mother’s spirit. She always did prefer the forest to anything else. I was surprised that she stayed in the royal cottage here and not a gypsy tent in the woods.” Samuel smiled jovially and motioned for Beatrice to follow him. “I moved a few things around and created a space for you in the back of the library. Now, we are open throughout the day, so you will not be entirely alone, but I will keep these doors shut for privacy.”

          “You could keep them open if you prefer. I hate to cut off anyone from their favorite reading nook.” She followed behind Samuel as he opened the tall, oak doors that revealed where the crates and chests from the castle had been stored. They were meticulously stacked, with papers numbering each one of them.

          “While that is a sentiment I greatly appreciate, Princess Beatrice, I do not think the public is quite ready to be exposed to what you have brought here or to be face-to-face with adult royalty. You are fifteen now, correct?” He asked, without pausing for her to answer. “While the citizens of Brightwall are quite accustomed to you from your year of living here with your mother, we have travelers from all over Albion and I would not want you to be disturbed to the point of being unable to work.”

          Beatrice nodded in agreement. Samuel seemed to be as practical and structured as the bookshelves that lined the walls of his library. She admired him for it. Taking a seat at the large table he prepared for her, Samuel pulled a crate to her side.

          “Best of luck, princess. And should you need anything, do not hesitate to ring the bell near the door. I will hear it, or one of my attendants will alert me, and I will come into the room to help you.” And with that, Samuel exited and left Beatrice to the task at hand.

           Hours passed like minutes. Beatrice had barely made a dent in the first crate, but she found it difficult not to read every single word written by her father. He took meticulous notes during his years adventuring, while at war, while at peace, and while traveling in his bid to unite all of Albion. And then there were the personal journals, lined with marginalia of his life’s story. So many sketches of her mother’s face and even more of her and Logan.

At times she had to distance herself from it all; despite how obvious it should have been to her, she was continually surprised by how painful it was to search through his old things. Her father never experienced the dissolution of their family, considering it began with his disappearance. Everything he had written was filled with hope for the future, or with happy reflection into a past that seemed to create the beautiful life he had in the present. It was too much for her to bear at times – she knew that his happy-ever-after never came, but part of her still wanted to believe in his optimism.

Beatrice often stepped away from the desk and paced at the end of the room, staring out at the snowy landscape just beyond one of the stained-glass windows. She rang the bell for tea or a snack and, as he said, Samuel would quickly appear and help her while often asking what she had found.

          Grabbing a particularly worn leather-bound journal, Beatrice felt a small jolt. She sat the book before her and placed both hands on it, concentrating on the feeling she just experienced. Immediately she saw an image of Theresa, followed by her father as a young man. He was running with a plaguing sense of urgency through a foggy marsh. She opened her eyes and smiled widely.

          Beatrice untied the string around the book and several loose pieces of paper fell out, along with a gold-trimmed tarot card. She picked up the card and flipped it over; on the opposite side was the image a bloody hand mirror lying on a what seemed to be a wooden desk. Across the mirror was a single red rose.

          “A bit dramatic, eh?” Beatrice chuckled and said aloud to the empty room.

Looking closer at the card, in embossed letters framed by the gold trim, was the title, The Thief. She narrowed her eyes in interest. Shuffling through the papers that fell out along with the card, Beatrice found a sketch of the same mirror and rose, with notes written beside it. It was her father’s handwriting:

          The Thief (Fate Card No. 3)

          Per Theresa,

          The Thief is the most mysterious and contradictory of figures. It is the synthesis of beauty and cruelty, vivacity, and decay, the ephemeral and the eternal. The mirror represents vanity; the rose, hedonism. And the blood is the violence that binds them together. The Thief is age, which robs us of our strength and looks. It is death, which robs us of our life. It is the worst in all of us. It is what we must all fear.

          The Thief. This Hero harbors a soul without a glimmer of light. I see choked weeds and water. He lies just out of reach.

          Underneath the description, where Sparrow had underlined “out of reach” was REAVER in large letters. Circled multiple times, with things like “Pirate King” and “Bloodstone” and “perfect shot from a mile,” and (perhaps most damning) “insufferable,” written around it. Beatrice flipped the page over, revealing one of her father’s most detailed sketches yet – the face of Reaver, just as she had seen him in her dream the year before. He was younger, lighter in features, with narrow eyes and a hungry look. She found it hard to keep eye contact with the page and turned it back over. For a moment, she was afraid he could somehow see her through the paper.

          “A soul without a glimmer of light?” Beatrice asked over and over, feeling herself slip into a trance as she meditated on the phrase. She tucked The Thief card into the front of her corset. For the briefest moment, she let her mind travel back to the evening when she visited Reaver’s guest room at the castle as a child. She usually had difficulty remembering the details of that night, as if her mind would not allow her access.

           But she could now recall walking into his room, the resolve she had felt when she entered, conjuring a flame for him – she knew she had wanted to impress him, she sought his approval. She distinctly remembered wanting to make him smile – a special smile meant only for her, not her parents or brother, the way he smiled at Thomas in the kitchen. She could feel her chemise dragging the floor again. She again felt that same intense urge to reach out and touch him – she needed to read him. He was a challenge. She wanted to know if he was filled with nothing – the nothing man, she had called him. She had never known anyone to seem so empty – so full of blackness. But she was wrong. Beatrice smiled a sick, wide smile; it was coming back to her. She had been terribly wrong. She had loved that she was wrong. Where she assumed his darkness to be empty, it was solid like obsidian. Mirrored and hidden. His insides pushed outward – how did he even exist? She could easily recall his visceral anger at her presence – she had been so unaccustomed to it, and being so young, she did not know she was in any real danger. But that was where the memory blurred into what felt like a dream – and then that same, thick darkness surrounded her.

           It was when he had grabbed her arm! Yes, when she reacted to her touch. The room had been sucked out from under her tiny feet and she had no concept of endings or beginnings. All breath was forced out of her as if punched in the gut.

           Beatrice closed her eyes and pressed her palms hard on her upper thighs, trying her best to concentrate and slip back into that evening those many years ago. She had been unable to recall this moment for so long.

          “What happened that night?!” She screamed but was answered only with the echo of her question. Breathing heavily, she felt the familiar tingle of energy in her gut. Flipping her hands over in front of her she let the surge rise and watched the white-hot electricity jump around her fingertips.

Whispering to herself, she asked the empty room again, “What happened that night?”

She was losing the room around her and slipped back into the darkness of her memory. She felt his hand seizing her arm again, clutching it with inordinate pressure. It was a pressure that should have crushed her tiny, child bones, but her body had withstood the assault. Why did he clutch me so tightly?

Suddenly, the phrase entered her mind again, a soul without a glimmer of light. Light. Light.

Light.

Light.

No light.

Dark.

No dark.

           Balling her hands into tight fists, the Will that had been dancing between her fingertips reentered her body and she fell completely back into the memory of what she saw in Reaver that night. It was as clear as the first time: there were dark figures, a blazing and bright conflagration, and she felt the unceasing pain of an eternal agony. Beatrice opened her mouth to scream in horror, but there was no sound.

           Hot tears were running down her face. The sensation brought her back to the present. Her eyes shot open and Beatrice took in a sharp, painful breath. Was I even breathing?! Her mind was racing. She stared straight ahead in disbelief, her chest heaving up and down as if she had just run madly through endless fields. Running to escape something.

          Taking her dip pen, she mindlessly scribbled underneath her father’s notes, there was not a glimmer of light, but a raging flame. – Beatrice, 1823, before her head dropped to the table and she blacked out.

          What time is it? Beatrice lifted herself from the desk and began rubbing her face. Sitting before her was her lunch. Samuel must have delivered it and assumed she was napping. Touching the bread before her and feeling its lingering warmth, she knew it must have only been past high noon. She had been unconscious for over an hour.

          Quickly eating some of her food and drinking all the water and tea, Beatrice resolved to walk around a bit. She needed fresh air and wanted to sit in the glass courtyard behind the library.

           Quietly, she opened the large oak door and peeked out to see if Samuel was lingering about. She worried he would tell her to keep to herself – or worse, clear out the library just because she wanted to leave her designated study for a few minutes. She rounded the corner heading to the south wing toward the small, back courtyard. She made it to the hallway that led outdoors undetected, except for a young man that was sitting on the floor near the back doors, his nose buried in a book. She had almost walked past him entirely, but he looked up as she passed, and she felt a small shock – his eyes were a striking shade of blue. She slowed her pace for a moment and it was all the opening he needed.

          “Hello, a fellow patron of this fine establishment. You smell like pomegranates. Pomegranates and puppy dogs,” the young man blurted out, grinning ear to ear, looking up at her from the ground.

          “I had a pomegranate for breakfast,” she replied, taken aback.

          “Aye, that must be it then,” he resolved, folding a corner of the page he was on and shutting his book.

          “Have you always had such a refined sense of smell?” Beatrice shot back. She was genuinely curious. She also found herself curious as to why her heart was speeding up the way it was.

          “Yes, actually. Consider it just another attribute on my list of impressive qualities,” he was now standing before her. He was slightly taller than her, gangly, and tan. Now that she could see his face clearly, she could make out a constellation of freckles under his eyes and across his nose.

           She laughed at his declaration, “Filed right under being literate, fellow patron?”

           “In this day and age, that might need to be at the top of my list. The ladies do love when you can actually read them poetry, rather than just guess what’s on the page.” He ran his hand through his blonde hair, moving it away from his eyes.

           Beatrice could feel her heart speeding up again. Oh, gods, pull it together, she told herself.

           “What are you reading?” She asked and pointed to the book in his hand.

           “Oh, this old thing? It’s a book on pirate life. A funny story, it’s told by an old second-in-command to Captain Dread. He’s long dead now. It’s supposed to be nonfiction, but I have my suspicions on the matter,” he replied.

           “And why is that?” Beatrice asked.

           “Because it’s the story of how Captain Dread lost his title of Pirate King to another younger pirate called Reaver. Name ring any bells? I didn’t think it was the same one until Dread’s mate started describing him. He’s a tough bloke to confuse with anyone else.” He shrugged his shoulders, “Interesting story either way. Real or not.”

           “Do you mind if I read it?” She quickly responded.

           “Then what will I read?” He retorted, even quicker.

           “Well, what do you like to read? What is your favorite subject?” She looked him up and down. There was something about him that she couldn’t put her finger on. Something different.

           “Heroes. I want to know everything about Heroes,” he said with absolute seriousness.

           “Which is your favorite Hero? I’m sure I can help you with that,” Beatrice smiled.

           “The late King Sparrow, is…well, was my favorite,” he responded. “He was the most adventurous of all Heroes, y’know? And probably the last one. Started as a gypsy with nothing and became ruler of Albion. United all the different areas. He saw everything, did everything.” The young man’s eyes lit up and Beatrice could feel the excitement pouring out of him. Despite it being in the middle of an icy November, she felt the comforting heat of the sun on her skin, all radiating from this person in front of her. It took almost all she had not to reach out and run her hand across his chest, just to get closer to this phantom warmth.

           “You should come to Bowerstone Castle sometime, you could see the items he collected during his travels firsthand,” she blurted out.

           “Oh, that would be great. And then right after that, I’ll head to Millfields and demand a mansion – in fact, I’ll take that ancient bloke Reaver’s place. And when I’m tired of that, I’ll borrow a ship from the Bowerstone port and sail around the world,” he started laughing at himself, “What a life I’ll have! It’ll be great!”

           “I mean it! If you come to Bowerstone Castle, I’ll show you around myself. I have complete access to my father’s weapons collection –  it’s all underground, but well managed. He had a fabulous array of…” Before Beatrice could finish speaking, the young man held up his hand and stopped her.

           “You’re so pretty that I’ll role-play this little fantasy with you as long as you’d like, but don’t start making promises you can’t keep. You’re getting my hopes up.”

           “I’m not joking. Sparrow is my father,” she stopped for a moment and then uttered, “Thank you for calling me pretty.”

           “You’re telling me you’re Princess Beatrice? You’re too old,” he responded while cocking a single eyebrow.

           “I look old?” Beatrice gave the young man a confused look.

           “Heavens to Avo, that’s not what I meant. You don’t look old, you just look,” he surveyed her from top to bottom and she felt her face warm, “like a woman. Princess Beatrice should only be fifteen. Barely fifteen.”

           “You’re not from Brightwall, are you?” She responded, already knowing the answer to her question.

           “No, I’m from a small hamlet to the east of Brightwood. I just got into town a week ago for…” Suddenly, a look of realization spread across his face. Beatrice couldn’t help but smile again; maybe if he’d believe her, he really would come to the castle. How would I explain him to Elliot? she wondered, Stop that. He encouraged you to not be a loner.

           “Bollocks,” he said, nearly to himself. “You are Princess Beatrice, aren’t you? I’ve just never seen you before, not even a portrait.”

           “Most people haven’t,” she replied, “My father kept my brother and myself out of public view. Although, Logan no longer has that privilege…” Beatrice trailed off, feeling a raw sting of longing for her brother. She hadn’t spoken his name in how long, she couldn’t remember. “But you’re right, I’m not recognized easily. Unless you’ve lived in Brightwall your entire life or knew my mum.”

           Still bewildered, the young man ran his hand through his hair, “I suppose I should have believed you when I saw you had all your teeth.” Beatrice laughed aloud at his comment, but he shook his head at her, “I’m not kidding.” She stopped laughing and touched her hand to her mouth.

           The young man lowered his voice a bit, “Since you mention it, I’m awfully sorry about your mum, I think everyone was really upset when they heard. She was well-loved, all over. Losing people,” he paused, “it’s hard.”

           “You know, typically when someone tells me that, they do it to acknowledge my sadness. Like a social nicety or gate pass to talking to me about anything else but the sad part. But with you, I believe you mean it.” Beatrice furrowed her brow, “There’s something different about you.”

          “Is that right?” he answered in a soft tone. The two stared at each other in silence. Being so immersed in their interaction, both failed to hear Samuel’s approaching footsteps, nor when he rounded the corner to the hallway where they stood.

           “Benjamin!” Samuel cried out, a distinct tone of annoyance in his voice.

           “Benjamin?” Beatrice asked, smiling again. “Benjamin is your name?”

           “I’ve got to go!” He placed his hand on her upper arm, giving it a friendly squeeze and handing her the book before running to meet Samuel at the end of the hall.

           “I promise I’ll make good on our trade, Benjamin!” she called out as he ran to meet Samuel at the end of the long hallway. She had an overwhelming desire to find him one of her father’s better journals, perhaps something during one of his more dangerous travels…

           Lingering by the door to the enclosed courtyard, but out of sight, Beatrice could hear Samuel heavily chastising the young man. She had thought he was a patron, but from their conversation, it was exceedingly apparent that he was part of the hired help for her archive project – maybe that’s how he realized she wasn’t lying about her identity? She had a distinct feeling that despite Samuel’s strict adherence to anonymity, Benjamin had peeked inside of the books he had been hired to stow away. Beatrice slipped out through the back door and into the courtyard with her newly acquired book before Samuel found her next.

           “Ben-ja-min,” she said to herself, slowly, “Ben-ja-min. Hmm, I have never met a Benjamin before.” She rubbed where he had touched her arm – it was hot as if she had been sitting in direct sunlight on a warm, summer day. She was near the point of breaking a sweat. How peculiar, she thought.

            Finding a private nook in the courtyard, Beatrice sat with her new book. The entire room was made of glass and iron – she had hoped the cold would keep others away. She had always been somewhat impervious to extreme temperatures, a trait she no doubt inherited from her father. The snowfall had lessened because the sun was out, but nothing could deter the growing inches of white on the ground. She ran her hands over the book – it was just as old as Benjamin had made it out to be. She could feel its age. She opened the book to a handwritten title page that read, in handwriting that seemed as if someone was trying very hard to make it legible, The Pirate King, a tale as told by the grateful Smiling Jake, the only crewman left alive by the most formidable and cunning Reaver. Beatrice let out a snort.

           Nearly halfway through the book, she was convinced she was reading about the industrialist. She was shocked that this book existed at all and wondered where Benjamin had found it. This explains why Reaver hates libraries so much, she thought, the written word is hard to control. You can’t intimidate an idea. Rapidly soaking in the pages, she found herself lost to the world. She knew that Reaver was old, much older than he looked. She always sensed that his contrived youth was by unnatural means – but she had never considered his actual age. She had assumed he was the same as her father, mostly due to a lack of imagination.

           Turning to the next page, her heart felt as if it stopped.

           The messenger glanced right and left, seemingly concerned that he was being observed by the terrifying individual of whom he was speaking. “Well...            word is …” He hesitated once more to gather his nerve and push on,” … word is that he started as just another cheap thief, trying to build a reputation. But            then he crossed a line.”

           “ What sort of line?” Dread did not seem to be following.

           His voice dropped further, so low that Dread had to strain to hear. “They say he cut a deal with…with dark forces…that made him immortal. And            every year, he then makes fearsome sacrifices to those same dark forces in order to– “

            “Wait, wait. Immortal? Are you saying he can’t be killed?”

           “Oh, he can be killed… I suppose… if someone gets near enough. But it’s not as easy as all that.”

            "Why not?”

           “Because,” said the messenger with increasing fear in his tone, “it’s said Reaver is the most formidable marksman in the whole of Albion. Can shoot a flea off a dog’s head without leaving so much as a scratch on the pooch, is what they say.”

           “Is that what they say?”

           “Yes. And he also wields a weapon. A pistol called the Dragonstomper .48. Only five others like it in the world. Nothing can stand up against it. Plus, he even had it enchanted so that it never needs to be reloaded. Leastways that’s what I heard.”

          Dark forces. Sacrifice. A soul without a glimmer of light. That night in Reaver’s room. Her nightmares. Years and years and years of nightmares. Her eyes began to well with tears.

           Beatrice pulled The Thief card from the front of her dress. She had stowed it there for this exact reason: it was the perfect bookmark. She pressed the card between two pages, shut the book, and headed back to her private portion of the library. She felt as if she had just entered a labyrinth and she could not have been more determined to explore its depths, regardless of what lied ahead.

18 November 1823

           Ben spent all morning finding excuses to walk down the same back hallway of the library. If Samuel needed someone to take something to the South wing, he volunteered. If one of the “not to be disturbed” crates needed dropping off to the private room, he ran for it. If another hired hand looked as if they might break a sweat, he happily offered to take over if it meant passing by the room where Beatrice was working.

           “Pssst! Look over here!” came a voice from behind an oak door.

           As soon as he heard the whisper behind him, Ben whipped his head around and met eyes with the princess. She waved her hand at him, beckoning him to come in and leaving the door slightly ajar.

           “Shut the door behind you,” he heard her say as she hunched over the table and rifled through stacks of paper, books, and scrolls.

           “Didn’t get much sleep last night, eh?” He asked while looking around the room. Most of the contents of the crates had been emptied out, meticulously stacked, and marked with pieces of paper denoting years and locations – she was making a timeline. And it all looked more put together than Beatrice herself. Her hair had been quickly braided as if to keep it from falling in her face, but it wasn’t doing much good. Strays were poking out and, despite the cold, she had obviously been sweating. Much to Ben’s surprise, she was wearing a men’s horseback riding outfit, complete with a floral cravat and breeches.

           She’s sort of odd, isn’t she? he thought to himself, I’m impressed.

           “Almost no sleep at all – it takes too much time!” She exclaimed, head still down and searching, “And thank you, I appreciate it! I had this outfit made specifically for me.”

           “What? I didn’t say anything about your outfit,” he was confused.

           “Oh, I guess I thought you said it aloud.” For the first time, Beatrice looked directly at him and he was taken aback by the intensity of her gaze. He immediately felt comfortable, as if he were lying on a bed of pillows, despite the fact he knew very well that he was standing on the hard marble of Brightwall Library.

           “Benjamin?” she asked.

           “You can call me Ben, it’s what my friends call me.”

           “I have your book, Ben.” Beatrice picked up the leather-bound journal from the pile she had been searching through. “I told you I would make good on our trade. This is from my father’s time in The Spire. A reflection of events, of course, since he would not have been able to journal while there. And there is mention of the other Heroes!” She walked from around the table and handed him the book.

           “Thank you, princess.” He was still thrown off by the force of her stare. It seemed as if her pupils were getting larger by the second.

           “Beatrice. Please call me Beatrice.”

           “Is that what your friends call you?” Ben wanted to call her by her first name, but few manners his mother had instilled in him made it feel wrong. She was, after all, royalty.

           She snorted kindly, “What friends?”

           Without hesitation, he responded, “What about the fellow who walked you to the library the first day? Is he not your friend?”

           Beatrice paused. She had been reading Ben since he entered the room, and while she had been experiencing that same strange heat coming from him as she did yesterday, there was a sudden surge in his question.

           “That is Elliot. He is a friend. A close, family friend.” How had he even seen us? It was snowing so incredibly hard that morning. “You must have impeccable eyesight, Ben, to have seen him drop me off.”

           “That’s why I’m the best shot in all of Albion,” his chest puffed up a bit.

           “Is that so? I don’t quite know if I believe you,” she teased.

           “Oh, I am, and you should hope you never have to find out,” he played back.

           “Even better than, what did you call him? That ancient bloke, Reaver?” Her eyes widened again. “Which reminds me, I do believe Smiling Jake’s tale of Reaver becoming the Pirate King is true.” Beatrice turned and motioned for Ben to follow her to the table. “I’ve been finding so many things all night about him, stories from my father’s time battling Lord Lucien that only back it up.”

           “What about the sacrifices? And all that mess about being possessed and selling his soul?” Ben asked. As Beatrice sat in her chair, he pulled himself up to sit on the table.

           “There was nothing about possession or selling his soul – only that he made a deal with dark forces and it requires some sort of sacrifice to continue.”

           Ben laughed sarcastically, “I highly doubt they met in your regular ol’ court with some ol’ supernatural barristers and signed your regular ol’ contact. I mean, maybe the story didn’t come out and directly state it, but when a person makes those types of unnatural dealings they don’t walk away without losing some part of themselves. It’s kind of common sense,” he shrugged his shoulders, “if making shady deals with dark beings is your… common… experience...” Ben trailed off after noticing the blank look on Beatrice’s face. She had grabbed paper and a dip pen while he spoke and began furiously sketching a scene. He couldn’t quite make it out, because of the angle he was sitting, but he could see five different figures, three large one medium, and one small.

           He quickly backtracked, afraid he had offended royalty in the way his mum said he would if he ever met any of them, “I mean, you’re probably right though, it probably was just a one-and-done - here’s the sacrifice you wanted from me, Dark Forces - ok, great, thanks Reaver, just what we asked for, here’s your immortality - sort of deal.”

           “No, I think you’re right,” she replied coolly, her face still expressionless. “I’m just taking all of this in. I think you’re very much on to something.” She looked directly at him again, “Please know that I’m not easily offended. I want to know your ideas.”

           “Why do you say that? I didn’t say anything about it,” he thought for a moment and cautiously asked, “did I?”

           “No, you didn’t. Let’s just say I could feel it coming from you,” she smirked.

           Ben did very little to conceal his emotions. He didn’t have the same filters that others around her did. That did not mean he lacked complexity or depth, but it was if he were transparent enough for her to glimpse at his interwoven web of emotion, thought, and experience. Beatrice wanted to dive completely in but held herself back. She didn’t want to frighten him and, as she recalled Elliot’s conversation with her, she knew it would deny him the choice of presenting who he wanted to be to her. But Avo willing, it was difficult. She wanted to sunbathe inside him; he held an eternal summer.

           After a few moments of silence, he pushed himself off the table, grabbed the book, and let out a sigh, “Well, I suppose I should get back to it then.”

          “Wait!” The urgency in her voice surprised even herself. “Would you prefer to stay? I would like the help, as well as the company.”

          “Well, yes, but what about Samuel?”

          “I know you’re working for him, but it is for my archive efforts. I will let him know that I need your assistance in other ways. I mean,” she tittered, “you do know how to read. And that is definitely helpful.” She stood from her desk and hurried to the door, “I’ll be right back!” and with that, she had left the room.

           As soon as Beatrice stepped out the comforting feeling that had been pressed against him was gone. He became acutely aware of the room again; it’s low light, the ornateness of each bookcase, the exhausting winter chill. He knew that the wealth in this room, in furniture alone, was probably worth more than all the property in his birthplace. It was hard to stomach at times. Those realizations suffocated him.

          “Princess Beatrice,” he said aloud to himself, not entirely sure of why he felt the need to say her name at all. King Sparrow’s daughter. Growing up, he had found so much comfort in knowing someone like Sparrow existed at all – he saw himself in the late ruler. A poor kid with an adventurer’s soul. He knew he’d never meet the old king, and now especially that he was dead, but he never considered that he might be pouring over his idol’s most intimate thoughts. Especially not with his daughter – who looked exactly like her mother. It was uncanny.

           Ben knew what Queen Iris looked like – he’d seen her official portraits a few times in announcements and in shops. He had even seen her in-person once. It was two years ago when he had first come to Bowerstone, months after the king had been buried. He went to the castle to see what all the fuss was about – because that’s just what people do when they visit – and she was leaving in a carriage. He was surprised that the curtains weren’t drawn, and he could see her as clearly as he saw everything else. They had met eyes and he could see the look he knew all too well: the look of loss. He smiled and waved – because again, that’s just what people do when they make eye contact – but all she could do was stare back, expressionless.

           He didn’t fault her for it. His mum had told him before that Sparrow and Iris’s love story was one for the ages, that Iris had been “one of them,” and Sparrow fell in love with her while on one of his quests. Ben, of course, thought his mother was sensationalizing everything like she always did – every good day was the most good or every bad day was the most bad – but after seeing Queen Iris in that carriage, he believed his mom might have been telling the truth about that one.

          “Great, it’s done! You’re mine now!” Beatrice bounded through the double doors with a renewed sense of purpose. She was dragging a rather large chair behind her. He was going to offer his help, but she had a graceful handle on the clunky piece of furniture. After swinging it next to her seat, Beatrice patted his chair and beckoned him to come over. The wrapped-up-in-a-warm-quilt feeling returned to Ben.

          Time passed quickly. Beatrice would sometimes steal a glance at her new colleague – he sat strangely, roughly. His legs were spread far apart, and he seemed a bit too large for his clothes. His hair – that moppish, blonde hair – was constantly in his eyes and, whether he knew it or not, every thirty seconds he’d tuck it back behind his ear only to have to fall out again. A part of her wasn’t ready for their day to end. She knew they still had hours left in their workday, but it didn’t seem like enough. She wasn’t accustomed to being this acutely aware of time – or better yet, losing time. It was a strange feeling. Even stranger, she wanted to invite him to dinner, but could not muster the words to do so. She’d practiced it in her head, “Let’s have dinner, shall we? What about dinner at my cottage? The guards are quite nice. Everyone needs to eat, right? Let’s do it together. Pub food bad, home food good.” But each time the words formed in her throat, her mouth became dry and she struggled to get anything out – she wasn’t dense, she knew she liked him. It wasn’t the first time she felt attracted to someone else, but it was the first time that she felt affected by it in this way.

          “I think you smell like pomegranates, in general,” Ben said, without warning.

          All of Beatrice’s thoughts on dinner stopped, “What?”

          “I don’t know that it’s just your breath. I think it’s your scent,” he put his book down but held a finger in place. “And if someone bit you, I bet you’d taste like ‘em too.”

Beatrice raised her wrist to her nose and smelled, but she didn’t notice anything.

          “I wasn’t the only one who noticed,” Ben held up the book and showed Beatrice what he had been looking at – it was a sketch of her, no older than six, holding a pomegranate in her hand with a large image of the fruit’s flowers blooming in the background.

          She smiled, “Found one of his book of sketches? They’re my favorite.”

          “It’s hard not to look at them forever. There is so much detail in every piece. I mean, just look at this,” he held up the next page. It was of her mother, who had to have been in her mid-twenties. Instinctually, Beatrice attempted to feel for her mother’s presence in the world but, of course, there was nothing to be found. She didn’t know why she kept trying at all; she was there when all of it, all her mother’s life energy, exited her body. Beatrice could reason through the pain, but it didn’t lessen it.

          “Can I see that?” She reached out to Ben and he handed her the book. Beatrice ran her fingers over the sketch, trying to remember what her mother smelled like – it was always a floral scent, soft like lavender.

          “I lost my mum, too.” Ben said quietly, in a deeper voice than normal. “She passed away not soon after your father. When I said I was sorry about your mum earlier, and you said you knew that I meant it, I think that’s why. I know loss. We’re sort of old pals.”

          “I’m sorry about your mum. And I mean it.” She sat the sketchbook down, “And the rest of your family? You said you know loss well.”

          “Well, that’s just it. None of them are left. It started with my three brothers, then my mum, then my dad, and now I’m just, sort of, here. Y’know, existing.”

          “I’m glad you exist,” she replied. When Beatrice lifted her eyes from the sketch to look at Ben, he was staring at her with the most peculiar look. The two sat in silence and Beatrice felt a prickle underneath her skin – she wasn’t reading him, these were her own emotions. She wanted to reach out and touch him, to let him feel what was going on inside of her. She didn’t even know if that was something she could do, she had never projected herself onto others before – not in a way that allowed them to gaze into her.

          “That’s probably the nicest and strangest compliment I’ve ever received,” he replied.

          Beatrice snapped back to the present. Her hand that had been slightly lifted, as if she were going to reach out and touch his face, returned to its place in her lap. Ask him about dinner, ask him about dinner, she told herself, but the words would not come out. Staying silent, an hour passed by before she had even noticed. Beatrice knew that dark would be approaching soon, and she would not have expected Ben to stay past his work hours.

            During their search through her father’s journals, they found wild tales of fighting hordes of balverines and accessing those strange demon doors. The two would share these stories with each other, gasping and laughing at Sparrow’s adventures and follies. But, whenever he found something on Reaver, Ben would quietly add it to a pile of documents for Beatrice – she didn’t ask him to do this, but he had figured out a part of the puzzle on his own. Beatrice could sense Ben’s curiosity. She wanted to tell him what she was doing, but that scared her. Beatrice didn’t know how safe this information was to share or what would happen if it became public – people could think she was insane or that she was questioning her brother’s rightful place as ruler. But there was something about Ben that made her believe he would understand her motivation.

           “Beatrice?” he asked, causing her to jump. “Oh, bollocks. Did I scare you?”

           “I was just deep in thought,” she laughed lightly. “What is it?”

           “I really enjoy being here and all,” he put his hand behind his head and mindlessly scratched his scalp, “but, thing is, it’s past my quitting time and I really haven’t ate. Don’t take it that I want to leave…”

           “Oh, my gods! I’m sorry – yes, it’s okay. I don’t take offense. Please, please. You are free to go.”

           Beatrice could feel her face turning red.

          Ben closed the books in front of him, placing pieces of ribbon Beatrice had cut into the pages to save his spot. He was efficient, neat, orderly. She sat there dumbly and watched him – all she wanted to do was ask him to come over for dinner, but it would not come out of her mouth. What if he said no? she asked herself, I would be mortified. Just let him have his evening, he’s been stuck with you all day.

          “Well, I guess this is goodnight, Princess Beatrice,” Ben stood from his chair and stretched his long body.

          “Will I see you tomorrow?” Beatrice asked.

          “Not here,” he smiled. “Tomorrow is an off day. Samuel was very clear about us staying away from the library on our days off. He would not pay us for any extra work put in.”

          “Oh!” her face turned a shade brighter. She could tell that Ben had noticed the change in hue. He smiled a little larger, a silly smile.

          “I’m at the inn. We all are,” he said.

          “Are the beds comfortable?” Beatrice asked. She winced internally at her own question, but her growing nervousness was taking over. She knew why she couldn’t ask him to dinner. Because it wasn’t just dinner. She didn’t want him to leave. She wanted to take him everywhere around the village with her. She wanted him to visit the castle – to stay there even! She knew exactly which guest room he could stay in. It wouldn’t be too far from her own room so that if he wanted to, he could visit her after everyone else had gone to bed. They could talk all night in her room. Play games. She would show him her telescope. She could even play him something on the lute or harpsichord – and maybe he knew a few songs, too? Her harpsichord was a gift from an ambassador friend of her father’s and it played itself. She would set it to play a waltz. They could dance by her fireplace. Maybe she would show him that she could summon fire in her hands. It would impress him, she knew it. He loved Heroes more than anything else. What if he knew she possessed Hero blood? Maybe if she impressed him just enough, while they were dancing by the glowing fireplace, he would feel an overwhelming desire to reach out to her, to…to…

          “They’re soft, but they smell like shite,” Ben replied. Then quickly added, “Rubbish. I mean they smell like rubbish.”

          “I’m sorry to hear that,” Beatrice felt her face and its radiating heat. “I hope you still can get a good night’s rest. Even with the distracting smell of past guests.”

          “I’ll give it a shot,” he turned and began walking toward the door to leave the room. Before leaving, he turned, “Bea…er, Princess Beatrice? I truly have enjoyed myself these past two days. I almost forget I’ve been hanging out with royalty. You make it feel as if we aren’t so different, y’know?”

          “It’s because we’re not.”

          He laughed, despite her serious tone. “The day that I go home to sleep in a castle and not a stinking mattress at a dodgy inn, I’ll agree with you. Night!” He left the room and shut the door behind him. Beatrice stared for a moment at the door. She didn’t like his comment – it made her feel guilty. She wasn’t oblivious to their class difference, but she assumed that it wasn’t an issue because she didn’t care. She never had. And she had assumed he did not care either. She didn’t want to be wrong.

           As she continued to work through her father’s artifacts, Beatrice could not get Ben’s comment out of her head. Her concentration would slip in and out of focus. Before she realized it, she was fantasizing about what she wished she would have said back to him, “You want a castle? You can have it. Do you feel different now?” or “You didn’t have to stay at that inn, Ben. There are rooms for rent elsewhere in town. Or a room for free at my cottage.”

          She shook her head at the thought. Stop that, she told herself. She exhaled deeply. She wished, more than anything else, she would have told Ben, “I like you. Does that make us equal?” but she knew she could not say it. The thought made her feel a small wave of relief at admitting the truth, followed by a surge of guilt at the thought of Elliot finding out she let herself fancy someone else. But even worse, and she could not escape her self-knowledge, she wished she would have told Ben anyway. Even if Elliott found out. She didn’t want to hurt Elliott, but she didn’t want to deny herself either. She wanted to touch Ben, to feel his skin and run her fingers through his hair. She wanted to put her hand on his thigh while he sat next to her in the library. To lean in slowly, so he knew she was going to kiss him, and he could meet his lips to hers. But more than anything, she wanted to feel that heat coming from his body as closely as possible. Outside, and inside, of her.

           Beatrice suddenly felt as if she were going to vomit from her turning stomach.

She laid her head down on the table in front of her and closed her eyes, trying to fight off the pain of her shame. She wished her father was there with her, but in a different way than usual – not just because she still thought he was alive and not just because she missed him. She needed his embrace. His reassurance that she wasn’t a bad person. She wanted to hear him say that he loved her, that she had a lifetime of boy troubles ahead of her, and to enjoy herself because she was young, she was learning, and this wasn’t the end of the world.

          But that reassurance wasn’t coming. The end of her world had already occurred and the type of advice her father would have given while alive no longer applied to her life. After the death of both of her parents, she was emotionally navigating her own post-apocalyptic inner terrain alone. She accepted that in times like this when she really needed her father’s kind words or her mother’s sympathetic understanding, it would never come. Yet, that fact never made dealing with the pain any easier. If anything, it pushed the knife deeper into a numb place, a wound that she didn’t know how to tend to and wished would die and leave her, too.

          “Ughhhhh,” Beatrice moaned into the table. She was met with silence. Pulling herself up, she stood from her chair and rubbed her face. She left her books as they laid; she didn’t want to clean up. All she wanted was to go home and sleep until she no longer felt this way.

          She didn’t tell Samuel goodnight. She couldn’t find him. The hallways of the library were noiseless. It was as if no one else were in the building. When she left out into the cold, it was no longer snowing. Whatever flurries had occurred earlier left a blanket of white on the ground, nearly undisturbed, except a single set of footprints leaving the library and headed toward the town. She knew the owner. Surprised they were maintained in such a pristine manner, she couldn’t help but think they were fresh. 

           “Good evening, Princess Beatrice,” the guard swiftly stood straight to greet the young woman approaching from the direction of the library.

          “Good evening, Second Lieutenant Baker. How are you enjoying this sleepy town compared to Bowerstone?” she responded.

          “It rather suits me. I was raised in a place much like this. Sort of feels like home,” his posture remained entirely intact. Beatrice surveyed him up and down. She wondered if he felt the same disconnect from her that Ben did.

          Wanting to try something, Beatrice reached out and placed her hand on his forearm. She gave it a soft squeeze and replied, “This feels like home for me, too.”

          The second lieutenant tensed, and she could feel him pull away slightly. Despite this being an unhappy surprise, she didn’t let it show and smiled as she walked into the empty cottage. She looked around the living quarters and felt the staleness of the room settle into her. Her bags had long been unpacked and she had set out dried flower petals to give the musty air a nicer scent.

          Upstairs, she cracked the window of her bedroom and stared at the setting sun. She felt overly cognizant of time – or rather that time was slipping away. Beatrice opened the window more, stuck her head out, and looked to see if she could still see the inn. Although no longer snowing, dark was setting in and the sleepy town did not light itself well at night. Her stomach growled and caught her attention. Everyone needs to eat, Beatrice thought absentmindedly.

          Grabbing her burnouse, she headed downstairs and into the kitchen.

          “Carrots, potatoes, leeks, onion, stock…” she listed out the ingredients to herself while grabbing them from around the kitchen and placing them on the table near her cloak. She knew the hired cook would arrive shortly and begin preparing dinner. On a piece of paper, Beatrice wrote the following instructions:

           Madam Francine,

           Good evening. I would like to request a stew for dinner – enough for six. I apologize if this disrupts your planned meal. Given the weather, a hearty stew seems fitting and delicious.

Yours respectfully,

Princess Beatrice of Albion

           Beatrice placed an onion on top of her note, threw the burnouse over her shoulders, put the hood over her head and headed out of the cottage.

           “Second Lieutenant Baker,” she announced, “I am attending to an errand and will return shortly. Please let Madame Francine know I have left a note for her in the kitchen. I plan to return with a guest.”