40. December 5, 1916 Barnbow, England
Beatrix shivers against the sudden rush of cool air as her wool blanket is torn away.
“Rise and shine, Sleeping Beauty,” a woman says in a raspy voice.
“Come on, Marjorie. Already?” Beatrix groans. She swears she has just lain down.
“Third shift starts in twenty,” Marjorie says pointedly. “Quit hogging the bed.”
The mattress springs creak as Beatrix slides out of the low, lumpy cot. She won’t even have enough time to stop by the canteen for a glass of milk. Not that she particularly enjoys the stuff, but it keeps that yellow hue out of her skin, a side effect of handling explosives six nights a week.
She grabs her scarf from the trunk at the foot of the bed and wraps her hair in the gauzy fabric, trying in vain to control her unruly strands without the help of hairpins.
She throws her peacoat on over the dress she has slept in and steps into her worn-out shoes.
She turns back to wish Marjorie a good night, but the woman is already snoring.
Beatrix’s breath clouds as soon as she steps outside. She clutches her coat closed and hurries down the muddy path, past rows of long, low sheds and railway tracks.
The changing rooms are empty, the rest of her shift far more punctual than Beatrix.
She pulls a pair of baggy, buttonless coveralls from her locker, strips to her underwear, and pulls them on.
Her rubber-soled boots are two sizes too big for her feet and her cap sits low over her eyes, even with all her hair piled beneath it.
She trades her iron ring for a necklace—a round disk the size of a sixpence hanging from a knotted cord, stamped with her name and the birthday she made up when they hired her. B. Lancourt, forever twenty-three. She tucks it beneath her collar and hurries off to start her shift.
Dozens of women in coveralls work at long benches, inserting fuses and screwing caps onto loaded artillery shells. Beatrix squeezes into a spot between two young women at a table near the door. One of them stifles a yawn.
“Don’t start, Kath, we’ve not even been here half an hour,” the woman across from her says, loud enough to be heard over the din of the capping machine.
“Sorry,” Kath says, yawning again. “Charlie sent a letter. I was up too late writing him back.”
“Oh, that’s lovely! Has he been—”
A burst of light blinds Beatrix just as a thunderous boom cracks the air.
White-hot heat sears through her arm, and the floor rocks violently beneath her, throwing her to the ground.
Ruptured steam pipes send scalding water pouring down into the smoke-filled room.
Kath shouts something, strains to pull her friend off the floor. All Beatrix hears is ringing.
Someone lifts Beatrix to her feet, stumbles with her through the smoke. Her rubber boots slip on the floor—slick with water and blood—and she almost goes down again. Rough, urgent hands pull her up, drag her through the chaos, everything passing in a blur and standing still.
She bursts out into the night, stumbles away from the building, retching against the acrid smoke burning her throat. Her ears are still ringing.
Beatrix is wrapped in a blanket. She can’t remember how she got it. Everything sounds like she’s underwater. It feels like that, too, everything muffled, like she might find peace if she lets herself sink into it.
Someone stands in front of her, silhouetted against the flames, trying to speak to her. But the fire is still raging, and Beatrix can’t tear her eyes from it. She wonders, dimly, if the windows have blown out yet.
“Miss Lancourt? Beatrix?”
“What should we do with her?”
What to do with Beatrix?
“Give her over to the medics. They’ll see to her.”
Give her to the river.
Give her to the abbey.
Give her to the boy.
An arm around her shoulders guides her away from the flames. The scent of apple trees and lavender fields and old familiar woods pulls her back to the present.
It can’t be—
“Oliver?” She looks up into shining blue eyes she hasn’t seen in sixty-five years.
He takes in every inch of her. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine. What are you doing here?”
“You’re shaking.” He pulls the blanket closer around her.
“I’m fine,” she says again. As if saying it enough times will make it true.
The furrow between his brows grows deeper. “Why don’t we get out of here? I can find us somewhere to stay in town.”
Oliver opens the door and switches on the light, casting the guest room in a warm glow.
The innkeeper was put out by their knocking—it was too late, they weren’t expected, there was no room ready.
His wife came to see what the fuss was about, took one look at Beatrix, and led them to a room herself.
Oliver tosses his coat on the end of a double bed that fills most of the space. Beatrix wanders across the creaking wooden floor to the bathroom. She studies her face in the oval mirror hanging over the white pedestal sink: pale and drawn under dark streaks of grime.
Oliver leans against the doorframe. He meets her gaze in the reflection.
“Do you know what happened?” she asks.
He nods. Of course he does. He probably knows more than she does. At least that means she doesn’t have to talk about it.
He offers her a hastily folded button-down shirt, still warm from being worn beneath his sweater. “Sorry, it’s all I have. I can get your things from the factory in the morning.”
“Thank you.” Beatrix takes the shirt from him. The rough blanket slips from her shoulder. She tugs it back into place, but she can tell by his horrified expression that Oliver has already seen.
He steps into the bathroom and gingerly lifts the blanket from her shoulders.
“Hell, Beatrix,” Oliver murmurs, blanching at the sight of her charred, mangled arm.
“I’m fine.” She’s lost count of how many times she’s said it now.
“That’s not fine.”
But soon, it will be. Soon, it will be like nothing has happened. Not like the others. “Give it time.” She pulls the blanket over her arm, shielding it from Oliver’s view.
“What were you even doing in there?” he asks.
“I thought I could help.” After that night with Elsie and the zeppelin, she knew. She couldn’t leave England to fend for itself.
“You did,” Oliver says. “It makes a difference. You made a difference.”
Beatrix knows not to press him for details, but she’s never been more tempted to ask about the future. “Just tell me if we win.”
Oliver nods, the smallest of gestures, and tears spring to her eyes. It hasn’t all been for nothing.
“But not for another two years.”
Her relief is tempered by reality. Another two years of fighting and hoping, living and dying for this wretched war. She sways on her feet, exhaustion overwhelming her at the mere thought of that life. Two years has never felt like such a long time.
Oliver catches her uninjured arm, steadying her. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
“I’ve survived worse,” she says.
He doesn’t look convinced.
“It will be fine. I just need to get cleaned up.” She gestures to the claw-foot tub with her good hand.
Oliver reluctantly leaves, and Beatrix closes the bathroom door behind him. She can hear him lingering on the other side. She turns the taps on the bath. Hidden beneath the sound of running water, she lets her tears fall.
Oliver was never supposed to see her like this, broken and fragile. She was never supposed to feel this, to be this again.
“Hello, Beatrix.”
Beatrix whirls around, her heart pounding. The bathroom is empty, but the reflection in the mirror no longer belongs to her. “What do you want?” she hisses at the glass.
“Can’t I come for a visit to see how you’ve been getting along?” the faerie replies, as if she’s come for tea and gossip.
“Leave me alone.” Beatrix’s burned arm tingles with warmth, like pinpricks running up and down a limb that has fallen asleep.
The faerie sighs. “I don’t understand why you are so intent on suffering.”
“I wouldn’t expect you to,” Beatrix says. “I imagine it’s all a bit too human.” The suffering, and everything else that comes along with it.
The faerie’s eyes flare bright. Beatrix gasps as a wave of pain and nausea crashes over her. She clutches the edge of the sink until her knuckles match the porcelain.
“This can end tonight. Now. Just say the word.”
Beatrix struggles to keep her voice steady. “It doesn’t matter how many times you ask me. The answer will always be no.”
The faerie sneers. “Always is a very long time. Perhaps you don’t understand that yet. It has only been four hundred years, give or take a few decades. Not that you’ve made the mistake of counting.”
Beatrix glares at her.
“Oh dear,” the faerie says, mocking concern. “How very human of you.”
“Making mistakes?” Beatrix snaps.
“Hoping,” the faerie replies. And then she’s gone. The face staring at Beatrix from the glass is her own, white as a sheet.
She takes a shallow breath, steadies herself as the muscles in her arm stitch themselves back together, her nerves reconnect, her skin regrows. She can feel it all, like she’s still in that factory, still burning. Like it might just kill her this time.
She vomits in the sink. She deserves it. This is the price she pays for living.
“Bea? Are you all right?” Oliver calls through the door.
She doesn’t answer. She grits her teeth and sinks to the floor as another wave of fire pulses through her arm. A sob escapes her lips. She can’t hold it in. She squeezes her eyes shut, presses her forehead against the cold tiles.
She could end it.
She could call out to the faerie.
She could take it back.
Oliver’s hand slides into hers, a steady grip in her trembling one. He whispers in her ear, tells her it will all be over soon. That it will be all right. That he is here.
The pain subsides, and so do Beatrix’s tears. But she can’t will her body to move off the floor. Can’t bring herself to look at Oliver. He stays with her, stroking her hair, neither of them saying anything for a long time.
“Talk to me, Bea,” Oliver says quietly.
Beatrix is hollow. Empty, except for one thought rattling in her head. “I shouldn’t be here.”