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thatwhichmovesthestars · 6 years

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Chapter Two: The Dreams That Came

Chapter 2

The Dreams That Came20 March 1823Seven years later…

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."

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