Chapter Text
Bimbette’s Books
Nowhereisastreetname Street,
Eden Village, Neverwinter Continent, Montressor Planet
Noon, 12/28/0370
The open kitchen is a bustle of activity and smells: roasted coffee beans, sugars, fresh milk, syrups, jellies and jams, cookies, muffins, pies… A riot of cozy delicious humming over the clanking of dishes and gurgling of boiling water. The oven bakes the entire room. The windows and doors are wide open, exchanging the steaming air of the kitchen for the scents and sounds of the village. Flies buzz towards a blinking light and get stuck on the sticky paper. Wasps and yellow jackets crawl through a hole in a mason jar only to be trapped inside, drowning in sugar water.
It's homely. That’s the important thing. Homely and holding no secrets.
Belle sits on the service side of the coffee bar, sucking the pain out of her thumb as she glares at the coffee mill. After a moment, she glances at her thumb: it’s stopped bleeding.
Good enough.
She pries off the front and pulls out a small box.
A tea-pot sings. Paulette swiftly takes it off a stovetop and puts another on. She drops the teabag in as she puts it on a tray with a small strainer.
The turning wheel just … fell completely off in the middle of rush hour. The outer burr had disappeared again – among other problems like the broken cup fragment she’d just discovered – and she’d just grabbed a box of parts from the shed to Frankenstein it back to life.
Studiously ignoring two children running past her, merrily chanting a nursery rhyme, Belle prods the machine with her screwdriver, trying to pop out the other half of the stupid rod.
“Jill and Jack sailed in the Black, off on a great adventure. Jill’s cut down, abandons her crown, and Jack comes falling after…”
Her eye starts twitching again. There go those boys again. Over. And over. And over…
“Ah, Belle. I’m here for my regular.”
Ugh. LeGume Gaston, their dear governor. Who spends way too much time in this building.
“Of course. I’ll see if it’s out of the oven.” Belle pushes away from the coffee mill, wiping her hands on the grease-rag.
The bristly avian stares down his long nose, crest and cheek feathers raised, tapping a thick, brown claw at the black streaks smearing her hands. “Goodness child! Aren’t you supposed to be serving customers?”
“But I have to fix this … thing…” Belle cuts out the accurate but inappropriate descriptions.
“Well. If you must.” The governor scoffs. “You … Claudette. Your hands are clean. Correct?”
“Half a second!”
Belle goes back to her headache. The half-a-rod finally comes out – oh there’s the outer burr! – and she begins the delightful process of putting this piece of junk back together.
“There we go.” She quickly assembles the pieces: metal rod, outer burr, ornate turning wheel, the wood-handle. Appropriate application of her wrench and choice descriptions of the mothers of the product makers… And done!
Claudette drops the plate beside LeGume and bustles off.
“Thanks?” He shoots Belle a mildly irritated glance.
“It’s your fault this many people come for lunch.” She grumbles, double-checking her work. She turns the wheel and listens to the smooth sounds. That should be the correct tension, but Paulie’s gonna have to adjust for grain size. “Paulie, I fixed it!”
“Oh thank goodness.” Paulette calls over the melancholy but triumphant orchestra playing over the radio. She is currently bent over the oven, balancing a tray of raw cookies balanced in one hand while two other hands pull out gooey, ugly, homemade chocolate chip goodness that sell-out before they’ve even gone into the oven.
Belle licks her lips and leans back to better watch. Claudette stops at the coffee bar. LeGume taps his plate and cocks his head, his crest feathers lifting. Several customers have mysteriously arrived.
“Would you be patient?!” Paulette yells. “They have to cool first!”
With many sad mutters and grumbles some of the audience leaves.
A tea-pot sings. Paulette swiftly takes it off a stovetop and puts another on. She drops the tea in the pot as she puts it on a tray with a cup-sized strainer.
Claudette sights, turns the radio down, and grabs the tray with the teapot.
“Hey!” Paulette yells, “Turn that back up!”
“Then put on something happy!” Claudette stuffs an entire muffin in her mouth as she passes.
Paulette growls, her antenna lifting. “Technically …”
“We don’t need technicalities!” Laurette flies past with an empty coffee pot. Her antenna bounce as she stops. “The tempo is slow and the tone is cry and we don’t need that kinda negativity here!” She leaves with a full coffee pot, stuffing her mouth with a crescent roll melting in butter.
Belle snorts as she winks at Paulette and innocently flicks a switch on the radio.
Drums rip through the air almost blasting Paulette back and definitely attracting the attention of customers. Belle laughs hard enough she almost drops her toolkit.
“Belle I’m going to murder you!” Claudette shrieks. “In your sleep!”
Belle continues to cackle as LeGume slowly unruffles his feathers and shakes his head, pinching the bridge of his nose.
The bell rings and Izumi and her rookie partner - Officer Murphey - enter. Belle pointedly does not tense up. Officer Murphey pauses and holds the door open.
Papa enters. He laughs, claps a few people on the back as he passes them, and doesn’t actually stop to talk to anyone and barely gives his thanks to Officer Murphey.
It’s Bones. He saw Bones.
Run.
Her breath catches in her throat. For an instant, she is absolutely positive he knows. He can see the blood under her fingernails and knows who it actually belongs too.
Officer Murphy slides to the coffee bar, snagging a cup of coffee and scanning the book that goes with it. “Ma'am. This is another one you’re selling without license.”
“Which one is it.” Laurette stops at the table and leans towards the book.
Belle feels sweat dripping down her back: this is something she pulled out of the soon-to-be-unlicensed box sitting at her feet.
“Okay, one, I was pulling your leg. Two, the universe is literally ending if the powers-that-be pull the license for Charlie’s Web.” The officer drops the book and steals a muffin.
“Well, they just pulled the plug on half the Dr. Zeus’s so consider the universe ending.” Claudette is saying.
Belle laughs and sighs.
Papa points at the muffin in Officer Murphey’s hand. “You are paying for those, right?”
“Put it on my tab. I’ll settle …” He checks his watch. “Friday. When we finally get paid.”
Officer Murphey snags another muffin. “Paulette – no, you’re Laurette.”
“Yes sir. Another to the tab?”
“You got it. See you soon.” He mock glares as Belle. “She’ll make sure of it.”
Papa frowns at her.
Run. Belle rolls her eyes. “Aye, somebody’s gotta keep you lazies on your toes.”
Izumi tips her hat. “You take care now.”
Officer Murphey waves they leave. “Let's motor.”
Papa stares at her with a bland, genial expression.
How much does he know? How much had he just never thought to tell her? And how much - a poisonous voice in her mind whispers - has he been hiding?
“Papa?” She manages a tired smile, brushing back the hair tickling her nose – she’d lost the clip pinning it back and hasn’t had the time or energy to find a new one.
“Ah my little starburst.” He drops into the seat beside LeGume. “There’s grease on your nose.”
Eh…?
Belle goes to rub her nose and LeGume sighs.
“Belle, just …” Laurette pushes her away with her free hand. “Go clean off.”
Belle twists around to see if little moth scales are smeared on her blouse. “But…”
“Out of my kitchen you grubby … why does our coffee mill have grease?” Paulette frowns, running all four hands over the favored machine.
“Um. That would be my tools …” Belle blushes. “For my solar surfer…”
Paulette’s face makes many expressions, and she sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Belle get that filth out of my café.”
This is a threat.
Belle twists around, grabs her toolbox and grease rag, and hot-foots it to the shed.
She inhales deeply. The garden is a sparse affair of wildflowers – none of them in bloom. So instead of fresh green, the air is permeated with the stench from the street.
The splinters in the shed door bite her fingers. She closes her eyes and hangs her head, tightening her grip on the world with both hands as her heart continues it’s frantic pattering.
He doesn’t know.
It was fourteen years today.
She squeezes past the printing press and shoves her toolbox in its shelf. Her solar surfer takes up a corner, the leather strap keeping it in place needs replacing or repair.
She stops at the sink and it’s cracked mirror, carefully washing her hands and face. Her cup of tea is still balanced on the empty printing press, cracked but usable.
It’s still smeared in blood.
She jerks back and blinks. No. That was just her guilty imagination. It’s a clean cup with a floral pattern and a gold rim. That’s it. Cracked. Too be used and, by being used, safely hidden from its grim origins.
She exhales – grief tastes like poison. Sweet and bitter at the same time.
She realizes she’s scrubbed her hands red and turns off the water. Her nailbeds hurt from where she tried to wash the blood out… Grease! She was trying to wash the grease off!
Tell no one…
Bones’s voice has hissed in her ears all day.
Papa would know. The instant he starts talking about it – and he will. Ever since Uncle Ben and Mama left, he’s so careful to make sure he talks to her… And he’ll know. Because she is an open book to her family and friends. Doesn’t matter how she tries to hide things, keep her face blank. Somehow they always know.
The only reason they don’t know now is because it’s the anniversary.
She looks up – her reflection is a wild, shattered thing. Curly hair frizzed out of its ponytail. Eyes burdened with dark circles like bruises. The thick, splotchy freckles from long days in the sun that darken her skin. The cracks in the mirror all seem to focus around her right eye – a shattered star lighting a broken soul. The air shimmers green and fire crackles in the mirror as her hazel eyes turn blood red.
She takes a step back from the beast in the mirror and inhales. Stupid, overactive imagination. That’s all this is. Stupid, stupid brain from reading too much speculative fiction. Ghostfire isn't real. Dreams aren't dangerous.
“What’s wrong with me?” she slaps her cheek hard enough to leave a red imprint. Then turns on her heel sharply, grabbing her cracked teacup.
Her eye stops at the scar on her wrist – the burn that just keeps burning. Just another trick of her mind.
“I’m going to end up in the looney bin if this keeps happening.”
You’re fey.
I’m human. I’m only human.
She takes a sip of her tea. It’s lukewarm but her mouth is so dry that it’s irrelevant. She stops to grab Mama’s jacket and shrug it on. Then walks onto the low roof – the slope and many stacked boxes make it a thoughtless few steps. And she didn’t spill a drop of her tea.
She sits cross-legged on the hot terracotta and winces as a sharp fragment from a broken tile digs into her thigh. As she shifts, the mystery sphere falls into her hand... glowing like a tiny, dim star.
Apathetically, Belle runs her fingers through the glow, watching it behave like the "fire" on the roses. Growing bigger and bigger the more she plays with it.
She lets her mind drift as she plays with the sphere – circles overlapping circles within circles etched all over it.
“These markings are baffling.” She grumbles as she scoots over the vent – it leads to the kitchen and she hears the triplets bickering as they clean up. The lunch rush is ending. Finally. She isn’t leaving them in too much of a lurch.
But she can’t see Papa right now. Not when he’s seen Bones.
How could he have sounded so affectionate? He hated her. Does dying just change how you remember things? Or had he changed?
She presses her ear to the warm metal as she continues to examine the sphere. Circles overlap circles and within circles. Etched patterns like planetary orbits on the star charts she used to stare at. Solar systems and slipstreams and freedom she can’t grasp because who would take care of Papa…?
“Hey. You good?”
She jumps and looks over the edge of the roof. Papa and LeGume in the crummy town garden hiding under the thick flowering vines and passing a pocket flask.
“I…” Papa. “Yeah. Mostly. It’s … shocking but inevitable. Right?”
Belle wraps her arms tightly around herself.
“It’s just … too close?” To close to when Mama left…
“Yeah. I guess it’s just too close.”
Belle takes a breath. Eyes fixed on the sullied sky, she starts rolling the sphere in her hands. The innocent teacup perches in her periphery, dimmly glowing.
She expects to hear the door closed and be alone with her thoughts again. Instead there’s muttering. More quiet words – Belle’s more interested in her glowing magic objects then eavesdropping, but she hears: “Are you sure you’ll be okay?”
[click] Focus on something else .
“Yes. It’s … he was dead to me years ago. And good riddance!"
[twist] Something else.
"If your sure." LeGume, rightfully dubious. "I’m more worried about Belle.”
[hiss] Stop being rude...
“I’m worried too.”
Belle freezes.
"She’s been a real hellion lately. And this is only going to make it worse.” Papa…?
“I really don’t know how you handle it.”
LeGume’s always been critical of her, with cryptic cliches and sayings about pirates and generational curses and crap like that.
“Handle it? I'm at the end of my rope.”
Papa…
Belle hunches her shoulders, starts chewing her lip, hiding under Mama’s jacket.
“Ever since they left… well ... Belle’s just never recovered.” Her father’s voice is soft – she almost can’t hear him.
There’s something bitter and hot in her gut: she’s not the only one devastated…
“And you know how smart she is!”
He says that like he’s recovered. But she’s seen those long nights he just stares at the fire.
“And you know how smart she is! And yet, she is constantly in trouble, she picks fights with strangers and friends alike…" A heavy thump. "Lately, whenever I talk to her, she's like a stranger!”
Belle suffocates the scream filling her throat.
“I don't know, Gume. I've tried everything.”
Oh Papa.
“I am sure you have.”
LeGume. Unusually calm and steady. As critical as he is of the family Papa made and married, he’s always been there. Belle can’t think of a single week he didn’t show up and just casually spend time with Papa. A beer and a song, stories – not just of the ‘good ol’ days’ but also of what was going on in Eden or what nonsense their children were up too.
“It’s just… I keep dreaming one day, she’ll just knock down those walls she’s built… and there she’ll be just the way she was. A smiling happy little kid holding a new pet and begging me to let her keep it.”
A soft chuckle. “Ladies dancing, that was so long ago. Remember the spiders?”
“Do NOT remind me.”
Belle presses the palms of her hands flat against her thighs until they stop shaking.
Maybe she should ... She wants ... It hurts...
Don’t think, don’t think, don’t think, don’t think, don’t think, don’t think, don’t think…
“Ah. She really is her mother’s daughter.”
Papa sounds so fond. So wistful.
“No.” LeGume has a cutting edge to his wistfulness. “She’s her uncle’s niece.”
Belle bites her lip until it starts bleeding. Doesn’t know what to do with that assessment. Hates that in a very real way, it was Uncle Ben she had the closes relationship with.
He broke every promise he made that day. And yet, he’d only made her two promises that she remembers. To teach her to fight. To come back.
Maybe that’s why they were so close.
He only made two promises he couldn’t keep.