26 Beatrice
26 Beatrice
There were simply... too many Clares.
Indeed, one Clare was very nearly too many, in Beatrice’s consideration. Yet she now found herself overwhelmed by Clares of every manner
in every corner of Vermillion Vale. Of course his legend earned him his own convention.
The real Clare was, of course, delighted. Once the surprise of the development wore off, he settled into pointing out every
version of himself like they were visiting the exotic creatures of the Beastuarium.
“Oh, there’s me from the masquerade we had to go to!” he cheered. “How clever. Ghosts, next to him is my deluxe-edition Hero
Card outfit. Not the ordinary portrait for common collectors. The deluxe,” he explained.
She’d had enough.
Beatrice halted them in the center of the casino floor, rounding on the infuriatingly real Clare. “You do realize we’re here
looking for Order members,” she snapped. “Not... Clares.”
He was unmoved.
“I’m capable of both, thank you very much,” he informed her.
She was formulating some jab on the theme of him overestimating his capabilities—it was going to be quite savage, in fact—when the future king interjected enthusiastically. “Oh, you must note this one,” Sir Hugh commented, pointing. “It’s you when you escaped the Grimauld Mines.”
“Where?” Clare whirled.
Beatrice frowned, robbing the boys of their fun. “You’re a bad influence on him,” she informed Hugh.
Hugh hung his head in good-natured contrition. “Very sorry, Lady Beatrice,” he replied.
She did not correct him on the lady part, wishing not to remind everyone once more of her divorce.
Indeed, she could not withstand more reminders herself. She knew she was being short with her companions because Vermillion
Vale left her ill-tempered. The reason was not simply the countless walking imitations of her vain ex.
No, it was because she had honeymooned here with Robert de Noughton.
The casino floor itself—where opulence became oppressive, where every surface shined with gold inlaid in obsidian like some
monument or mausoleum—reminded her of the cowed, wounded woman who went wherever Robert wanted because she was too full of
self-loathing to imagine living the life she wanted. Guilt for surviving Galwell, guilt for being happy she survived him, had made her feel like she deserved punishment.
So she’d punished herself. She’d indulged in deprivation. Life with Robert, starting here, was the perfect prison.
Not this time , she told herself. Her life wasn’t the same anymore.
She noticed Clare spontaneously join a group posing for a portrait conjurist, grinning like one of the many impersonators
and not the real hero himself.
She could not help smiling. His joy was contagious.
Watching him, she could not deny how on this quest, she’d started to... want things again. Quietly, she knew she could not return to the life she was only pretending to live.
He caught her eyes on him. Oh, of course he did, damn him . Was his magical gift knowing whenever he charmed someone? It would suit.
Refusing to let her gaze skitter, she held his. She was not rewarded when cocky smugness settled over his features. With the
conjurist’s image finished, he strode over to her.
“Hello,” he said.
She was indeed starting to want things once more. With his half-grin luminescing like the enchanted candles flanking the entrance, she felt pulled to him.
No—she always felt pulled to him. Now it was more. Now it was dangerous inevitability. The knowledge of what would happen when his inimitable Clare-ness pulled her in. She found her body turning toward him, reminding them both where they once fit together.
“Hi,” she replied.
Deftly he pulled a drink from the tray of a drinkmaid passing them. He handed the goblet, effervescing with lavender foam,
to Beatrice.
“Are you a time-walker?” he said with his customary combination of joking and not. “Because I see you in my future.”
She laughed, remembering the very first words Clare Grandhart ever said to her. The laughter brought unexpected nostalgia.
No-longer-Lady Beatrice had more experience dragon-jousting than with feeling nostalgia. Yet Clare’s jesting invocation of
their first night reminded her of how the fabric of her past was not sewn entirely in sadness. Heroism and sacrifice were
not the start and end of their story. There was humor . There was lust. There was joy.
Perhaps, she considered, such reminders were why she found herself remembering how to want. Perhaps he was helping her remember what to want.
Nevertheless, she refused to reveal her fondness for his reprise. “It really is a terrible line,” she chided him.
He raised an eyebrow. “I remember it working out pretty well for me once.”
“Only pretty well?” she returned.
Was she flirting with him? She was. His eyes widened in delighted surprise. He leaned even closer, close enough to whisper
in her ear.
“Beyond my wildest dreams,” he murmured.
She shivered, not needing her magic to remember the night he described. The feeling of his mouth on hers, his fingers pressing
her over the edge...
“Friends! Dear friends, look!”
It was Hugh. He pointed, directing their reluctant gazes to one Clare impersonator dressed in floral-patterned pantaloons.
“It is Clare when the Castle Corpus raid called for him to pretend to be one of the Lord’s Jesters!” Hugh described with enthusiasm.
Clare closed his eyes, the reminder of his pantaloons at this particular instant paining him.
With the moment interrupted, Beatrice remembered herself. How could she imagine herself pulled to him? How could she credit
Sir Clare Grandhart with perilous inevitability? He was no witch of Megophar, capable of warping the heart with honeyed potions.
While her past with him did hold lust and joy, she needed only remind herself they were not the greater parts.
She needed to remind herself. If she didn’t... well, she knew exactly where things would lead.
She stepped back, frustrated. “We should split up,” she declared. “Cover more ground in our search.”
“Or... we could ditch Hugh?” Clare proposed, pretending inspiration had struck him. “Perhaps the Order would take him back.”
In no mood—or, desperate to be no longer in the mood—Beatrice frowned. “We hated each other only days ago,” she pointed out.
The remark did not have the desired effect. Clare shrugged, his grin insouciant. “Did we?”
His impossible rejoinder silenced her. Did they? She was furious with Clare even now, and she knew he was upset with her. Over the past couple of days, he’d eviscerated
any doubts on the matter. Yet... those feelings somehow loomed scarily small now. Figurines casting long shadows in the
wrong light.
She did not enjoy it. She’d given up so much, lost so much. She did not know if she could stand giving up her resentment of
Clare Grandhart.
“You search the shops with Hugh,” she said decisively. “I’ll go to the pools.”
His face hardened at her rejection.
“Very well,” he replied.
Turning, he headed where she’d directed, grabbing Hugh on the way. The inn’s luxury shops waiting to vend everything from
Vestryian masks to scarves of the softest magic-woven fabric to cheap sunshifting spectacles shaped like preening soliswans.
While Clare’s departure was what she intended, she could not help feeling hurt.
She set down her drink, the foam collapsing into lavender nothing. Walking out to the pools, she wondered if they had been
doomed from the start. Perhaps she and Clare were destined always to hurt each other, over and over.
Inevitability.
Just not the sort she wanted.
Stepping out into the sweltering heat, she ducked past a shirtless impersonator emulating Clare’s muscliest magazine cover.
Could she not have one moment without Clares of any kind?
She pressed on, feeling like she had felt on her honeymoon—surprised how one could find oneself miserable in paradise. For
the Vermillion Vale pleasure pools were paradisiacal. In their uncommon shapes, enchantment kept the water ever perfectly warm. Shimmering magical waterfalls in
pink and crystal-blue hues poured into their depths from conjurated rocks.
Beatrice was commencing her reconnaissance when she halted—utterly unprepared for the man whose eyes she caught near the closest
pool.
It was not Clare. It was not one of Clare’s many, many fans. No, it was the only person she wanted to see less than her ex.
Her other ex.
Impossibly, Robert de Noughton was poolside in the Vermillion Vale heat. He stood facing Beatrice while a woman rubbed tanning potion on his shoulders. He
and Beatrice paused, each obviously as shocked as the other. The other woman went motionless, watching Beatrice, who received
the impression of forest prey who wished to remain undetected.
Beatrice understood quickly what was going on here. He’d returned to their honeymoon destination with... Beatrice’s replacement.
Robert eyed her with embarrassment, perhaps even concern for hurting her feelings. Which was eminently reasonable—yet Beatrice
did not feel the hurt she expected. She found her pride unwounded.
“Robert,” she said without spite. “I would say I’m surprised to find you here. Except, well. You know.”
“Erm,” said Robert.
She intended the remark in jest. Robert rather looked like she’d hauled him in front of the Inquisitorial Guild. She softened
her voice. “Would you like to introduce me to your...?”
She did not know what word to fill in for the newcomer.
“Betrothed,” Robert provided, wincing. “Sorry.”
Beatrice shrugged, carelessness coming easily. It was marvelous, she found. “We’re past apologies, I’d say,” she remarked.
“You should live your life. No mourning period needed.”
Robert smiled gratefully. She did not resent his happiness, nor did she wish him ill. She had known evil men. While Robert
de Noughton was not a great man, he was not an evil man, either. With patience and the wisdom of his mistakes, he might make
a decent one.
And her?
She’d never loved Robert. She couldn’t have. She needed to heal in order to let anyone into her heart.
She did not know if she had yet. Healing, she understood now, was its own quest, over uncharted ground, with demons of the
heart menacing her intrepid steps. She could not know what her destination would resemble or what perils she would encounter
on her way.
She knew she had started, however. Which was magical in itself.
No longer would she let the ruination of her marriage with Robert plague her path. If she’d learned anything from the costs
of saving the realm, it was how short—how devastatingly fragile—life was. Devoting years to regret and mourning would get
you nowhere.
Robert composed himself. With nervousness’s retreat, he looked happier. “I wish to introduce you to my betrothed,” he said. “The future Lady Marion de Noughton.”
The other woman clasped Beatrice’s outstretched hand, blushing.
“I am such a fan,” she enthused. “I hope this isn’t awkward to say, but you’re my hero. I was in university when you saved Mythria,
and hearing tales of your bravery inspired me to take on leadership roles of my own in school.”
Genuinely touched, Beatrice could not help smiling. “That’s very kind. No awkwardness at all,” she reassured Marion. “I wish
you every happiness.”
“Thank you, Lady Beatrice,” Marion said.
“It’s just Beatrice now,” Beatrice replied with instinct she found growing more instant. For the first time, though, it did
not feel like an evasion or a rejection or a contradiction. It felt like... her. She was Beatrice.
It was enough. At last, it was enough.
What irony , she found herself noting. In the city where she first got used to the name Lady Beatrice de Noughton, she now let its legacy
go. What happened in Vermillion Vale, stayed in Vermillion Vale, in the end. New to noblewomanhood, she’d wandered through
this same inn, perhaps even the same enchanted pool deck. It was funny how retreading old roads could lead to new destinations.
“What are you doing here in the Vale?” Robert inquired.
“Oh, you know, saving the realm,” she replied honestly.
Whether welcoming her candor or presuming she was joking, Robert laughed. He laughed! Not nastily, either! Beatrice commended
herself on the healing this no doubt represented. She could laugh with her ex-husband.
“It suits you,” he said warmly. “You look well. Like yourself.”
Beatrice’s smile softened.
“I know,” she said.
She started to go. Never one for the cues of concluded conversations, Robert went on cheerfully. “Well, I hope you’ll save
the realm before tomorrow night. There’s this splendid banquet being thrown. Every nobleman in Mythria was invited. It’s why we’ve come.”
She stilled. Every nobleman in Mythria. “Where?”
Robert puffed up, which she did not mind. If pride induced loquacity, she welcomed his self-congratulation.
“The Night Dragon,” he informed her.
Unlike Vermillion Vale’s older establishments, the Night Dragon, she’d heard from Elgin’s younger residents, was the shiny
new gem of the Vale. Fake gem, some would say, purchasing renown with gaudy luxury and constant revels.
If one were interested in promoting one’s renewed Order—or in having the realm’s most powerful people in one room for easy
magical mind manipulation—and if one were the vexatious Myke Lycroft, the Night Dragon would lend the perfect flash to one’s
fete.
“Thank you, Robert,” she said. “Thank you very much.”
She hurried from the conversation, knowing she’d uncovered where the resurrection of Todrick van Thorn would be held.
She’d done it.
Now she just needed to find her friends. Clare, she discovered promptly, made the task very easy. There he was, on the rock
waterfall directly in front of her, courting guests. It was very Clare. His idea of espionage was finding the nearest crowd
to impress.
Impress them he did, in fine form, orating with one hand on his belt. He’d undone the top ties of the white tunic he rode in wearing. Flush with the thrill of her discovery—not to mention the exhilarating confidence of finally knowing herself —she rushed up to him.
His back was to her. When she pulled on his bicep, he turned, smiling in surprised delight.
The sight, Clare with the turquoise of the waterfall surrounding him, was enchanting. His smile made his familiar features
wonderfully boyish, his blue eyes brightening in the light.
Certainty of every sort raged in Beatrice.
“I know we said we should split up, but I’ve changed my mind,” she declared.
Then, feeling daring—no, feeling fucking heroic —she kissed him.
He paused, stunned. When he kissed her back, it was fiercely. His embrace swept her to his chest. His lips were hungry, passionate,
consuming with the fervency of longing. For one perfect moment, it was everything.
Until she noticed Clare... did not smell like Clare.
She should have found herself wrapped in the morning mist of the Galibrand Straits, ocean water scented with sunlight.
She wasn’t. Instead, the kiss smelled like perfume oils. Pinroses overhung with sweat. Which meant...
Oh, Ghosts no.
She withdrew in horror. The Clare impersonator she’d just smooched smiled, oblivious to the misunderstanding. Not only did
he share Clare’s height and dress, she noticed now the strange immateriality of his features. He possessed, she realized,
some manner of hand magic allowing him to manipulate his face to resemble the real Clare’s.
She needed to get free from the crowd of people who’d just cheered their kiss. She started to bow, pretending she was just
performing, here for the Clare Convention. It was working, guests clapping while she retreated hastily, when—
Her eyes locked with Clare’s.
The real Clare.
He’d just entered the pool grounds with Hugh. From the confusion warping his features, he’d definitely just watched her kiss
someone else—someone she thought was him.
Beatrice wished the hroxen from Vandra’s memories could swallow her whole.
Alas, with no hroxen in sight, she settled for running away. She fled through the pool deck, embarrassment overwhelming her.
It was ridiculous! Knowing Clare was following her, wanting to make fun, or gloat, or whatever Clare reaction he would have, she continued like the Deathrose Guild itself was pursuing her.
Her mind racing like her steps, she knew her only chance was to venture from the path. Except... what surrounded the path
were luxurious pools.
Very well, then .
Refusing to lose her nerve, she ducked directly into the nearest waterfall she saw. The water was indeed magically warmed.
How lovely. Within seconds, she was utterly drenched.
Nevertheless, the measure worked. Past the curtain of water, she watched. No Clare emerged. Finally, feeling unwelcomely like
she was undertaking the Castle Corpus raid herself, she concluded she was safe to venture out.
Despite her clothes dripping, she held her head high as she reentered the casino. She needed refuge, some manner of—
Elowen.
No complicated history could vanquish her relief when she noticed the other woman sitting at one of the nearest gaming tables.
Upon glimpsing Beatrice’s sopping state, Elowen startled. “Beatrice! Were you attacked?”
“Much worse, I’m afraid,” Beatrice replied, sitting heavily on the open seat. She ignored the dealer’s look of disapproval. “I have been humiliated.”
Elowen evaluated her—no doubt preparing some means to jeer or further rub Beatrice’s face in her shame.
Instead, Elowen burst out laughing.
Beatrice glowered. “It is not funny.”
“It very much is,” Elowen confirmed. “What did you do? Oh, don’t tell me it has to do with the Clares running around everywhere.”
Deception, Beatrice knew, would get her nowhere with Elowen. She settled for sitting silently. Yet even quiet was confession,
she realized from the change in Elowen’s scrutiny. She’d handed over emotions of dread or regret to Elowen’s heart magic,
she guessed.
“Oh, Beatrice. What did you do ?” Elowen repeated.
“ I kissed one! ” Beatrice exclaimed.
Elowen’s eyes went uncommonly round. “Did you know—?”
“Of course I didn’t,” Beatrice replied miserably. “Worse, Clare saw. Our Clare,” she clarified. Oddly, sharing her misfortune
was easing the jumble in her head somewhat. She faced Elowen, ready for her reaction.
Elowen had ceased laughing. Real sympathy entered her expression. It was like seeing a sunrise, Beatrice found. Not pleasurable,
exactly. Yet lovely in its rarity, its profundity, nonetheless.
Elowen stood. “Come,” she said. “I can’t help with the humiliation, but I can help you to our rooms so you can change out
of your very wet clothing.”
Without hesitation, she rounded on her heel, leading the way.
Beatrice followed her best friend.
“I’m—I’m sorry,” she said. Yes, chasing impulses had gotten her into this disaster. Perhaps, however, it could make something
of the catastrophe.
Reaching the lifts where powerful enchantments ferried guests from floor to floor, Elowen glanced over her shoulder. “For what?”
Oh, what a question . Beatrice was sorry for so many things, she did not know where to start. How could she apologize for the death of a brother?
She couldn’t. She hoped Elowen understood the unspoken sorrows filling the futile silence. “For pulling you from your cards,”
she managed.
In the long gaze Elowen gave her, Beatrice knew she heard everything unsaid.
Elowen looked up finally, into the lighted shaft where the lifts rose high above them. “I was losing anyway,” Elowen informed
her. She paused. “It’s... okay.”
Beatrice nearly wept. For everything was not okay, she knew. She did not deserve Elowen’s forgiveness. The words were false mercy, the uncommonest of graces from Elowen.
Yet selfishly, she was happy to pretend for just a while.
The lift lowered to their feet. Beatrice stepped on, standing where she never expected she would again—at Elowen’s side.