28. January 27, 1819 London, England
Beatrix has never fitted in anywhere, but she has never been more painfully aware of it than in her work as a governess.
She went to the manor in search of Professor Winfield, England’s preeminent scholar on faerie lore.
More specifically, in search of his extensive library, which had just been featured in the London Times.
Her plans went out the window when she rang the bell and a frazzled maid ushered her inside, chiding her about being late.
Beatrix couldn’t get a word in before Mrs. Winfield marched past her in mourning dress, a young boy and girl with pale, tear-streaked faces trailing behind her.
When the door slammed behind them, she was left standing awkwardly in the silent foyer with the maid. Beatrix turned to her and asked, “Professor Winfield?”
The maid crossed herself and replied, “May God rest his soul.”
Beatrix never claimed to be the new governess.
She only told the maid her things would arrive shortly when she asked where they were and followed her willingly when she offered to show her to her room.
She had hoped to be left alone upstairs long enough to explore the professor’s library, but she only got a glimpse of the crammed shelves before the maid closed the door on it.
She’d need more than a few hours in the manor if she was to discover anything useful.
Beatrix has come to think of herself as a liminal person, existing in that space between the past and the present, human and yet not.
Now, she is a liminal person in a liminal position.
She is expected to look after the children as if they were her own, but she isn’t their mother.
She isn’t a servant, either. They won’t even speak to her if they can help it.
And she isn’t part of the family, a point Mrs. Winfield makes abundantly clear every chance she gets.
She takes most of her meals in the same room where she teaches, and she spends her evenings alone, reading in her bedroom.
It feels like her earliest days in London, when everyone looked through her until she was sure she was invisible.
It’s the books that keep her here. Each night before the kitchen maids rise, she unlocks Professor Winfield’s library with her borrowed key and slips inside.
She reads by the light of a single candle flame. She doesn’t dare illuminate the study, even though the rest of the house is asleep. Doesn’t dare take any of the professor’s papers from the room where his widow locks them away.
It is a strange library. The walls are built of books, the windows hollowed out of them, a reminder that a world outside the room exists.
The professor seems to have been the type of person who would forget that.
Papers cover his desk. The end tables are stacked with magazines and periodicals and various correspondences, some of which have never been opened.
She wonders if their writers are still awaiting a reply, if they even know that the professor died months ago.
Beatrix can tell the library was organized once, before the professor became overwhelmed by documents and illness.
It feels frozen in a moment, as if he has stepped out for a cup of tea, as if he might walk through his door at any moment, clap his hands together, and muse about where he left off.
At least, that is how Beatrix imagines the man whose letters she pores over every night, before the sun rises.
She reads tales of maidens and princesses, inescapable towers and magical forests, witches and imps and talking animals, evil queens and sorceresses, riddles and curses.
Oliver really did give her a gift when he left her in that inn with a pile of books and a letter she couldn’t read.
She wonders if she could be considered a scholar.
She has learned more about faeries than she ever thought possible.
Laughed when she discovered they couldn’t lie, that the faerie’s twisting words were her own sort of curse.
Cried at the tales of children left alone to die as changelings.
But she has found no stories of a human babe coming back as a faerie.
No stories of a woman with mismatched eyes coming back from death. No answers.
Snow floats past the schoolroom window in giant flakes, coating the manicured lawn and circular gravel drive with a dusting of white powder that reminds Beatrix of icing sugar on Venetian pastries.
The sound of pens scratching on paper fills the silence.
The Winfield children sit at their desks, copying the sentence Beatrix has written on her blackboard, a quote from a copy of Grimms’ Fairy Tales she snuck out of their father’s library.
Margaret, the younger at five, writes slowly, taking care with every letter. She pushes a strand of sandy-brown hair out of her face, smudging ink across her forehead. Beatrix can’t help but smile.
Victor scribbles his last words and hands Beatrix his page. He is two years older than his sister, with darker hair but the same wide green eyes, and no time for governesses.
She scans the illegible words. “Is this your best work, Victor?”
“Yes,” he says immediately. He won’t look her in the eye.
“I see.”
Margaret hands in her own paper, a much neater copy. “Now can we have a story?”
Beatrix considers them. Victor straightens in his seat. “All right. One, before it’s time to get ready for your mother’s dinner party.”
She crosses the room to an old armchair in the corner, meant to serve as her private sitting area since she isn’t welcome in Mrs. Winfield’s parlor.
It is far more comfortable than the wooden chair and table she is supposed to teach from, and the only one that allows Margaret to crawl into her lap when she reads.
Victor pulls the copy of Grimms’ Fairy Tales off the bookshelf and hands it to Beatrix as Margaret settles. “Can we have one of yours instead?” she asks.
Beatrix glances between the children gazing up at her; Margaret’s eyes are wide and round and pleading, Victor’s far too serious. She sees her sisters in them, Isabella asking for a tale of the forest, Alice pretending not to listen. “I’ll tell you one of mine if you can both agree to it.”
Victor loves for her to read the stories from his father’s book, even though she’s sure he can recite them all by heart. But he nods, in agreement with his sister for once. “Very well, then.”
He returns the book to its spot on the shelf and sits on the floor near Beatrix’s feet.
“Long ago, in a kingdom at the end of the world, there lived a clever princess and her brother, the bravest knight in the land.” That makes Margaret smile.
Victor rolls his eyes, but Beatrix can tell he is secretly pleased.
“One day, the princess and the knight took a tour of their kingdom. They stayed out longer than intended, but both knew they needed to return to the safety of the palace before sunset. The knight was very brave, so he told the princess they should take a shortcut through the forest, even though it was dark and no one was certain what lived there. The princess agreed, for she trusted her brother and knew he could protect them. They rode into the forest together.”
Margaret stares up at her, wide-eyed. Victor leans in closer.
“They rode and rode and rode, but the forest wouldn’t let them go.
No matter how far or how fast they went, the path never ended.
It grew darker and colder, until the princess was sure night must have fallen.
And then, standing on the edge of the river that ran through the forest, they saw a woman. ”
Margaret clings to Beatrix’s arm. Victor’s eyes widen.
“The brave knight called out to her, sure she must be some poor, lost soul in need of rescue, trapped in the forest just as they were. But when she turned and they saw her face, the princess and the knight realized she was no woman—”
Margaret gasps.
“Was she horribly disfigured?” Victor asks. “Did she have warts?”
Beatrix gives him a stern look, and he quiets at once.
“She was the most beautiful creature the princess and the knight had ever laid eyes on. Red hair that danced like flames, and a dress that shone like starlight in the darkness. Her eyes were two different colors, one the color of a summer sunrise, the other the cool white glow of winter’s first full moon.
And the princess and the knight knew she could only be a faerie of the woods.
“The brave knight asked the faerie to guide them from the forest, and she gave them the sweetest smile. But the clever princess, who was also very kind, knew it wasn’t genuine.
The faerie told the knight and the princess she would help them, but they must ask her politely.
Now, the princess knew you must never ask a favor of a faerie, for they do not grant favors, they only strike bargains.
She knew faeries liked nothing more than to take a desperate human’s wish and twist the words.
She also knew the faerie’s magic had trapped them in that forest, and only the faerie’s magic could release them. ”
“What did she do?” Margaret asks.
“Well, the princess was a very clever girl. She knew the faerie was cruel and proud. So, the princess thought long and hard about the proper way to ask the faerie to help them get out of the woods. She knew she had to choose her words with care. Finally, she thought of the right words, and she whispered them into her brother’s ear.
And even he was astounded by his sister’s cleverness.
Together, they approached the faerie, perched in the branches of an oak, grinning like a cat who had caught a mouse. ”
A soft knock on the schoolroom door draws Beatrix’s attention from the two rapt faces in front of her. One of the young maids dips into a curtsy. “Pardon me, mistress. The children are to prepare for dinner. Guests will arrive shortly.”
“Thank you, Celia,” Beatrix says.
The maid bobs and leaves without a word.
“What did the princess ask the faerie?” Victor asks.
Beatrix leans closer, as if she has a secret. “I’ll tell you what. Why don’t you and Margaret think about what the princess and the knight could have asked her? Write down all your ideas—neatly—and bring them to me at lessons tomorrow.”
Victor groans.
“You should have done your penmanship properly,” Margaret says matter-of-factly.
“Off you go to get ready for dinner.” Beatrix slides Margaret off her lap. “Don’t keep Celia waiting.”
“Mother says she’s supposed to wait,” Victor says. “She’s not allowed to hurry us along.”
Beatrix stoops to Victor’s level, until she is looking into wide green eyes she assumes must be the same as his father’s.
They have nothing of their mother’s unyielding gaze in them.
“That may be so, but being considerate toward others, even those of a lower station than you, will serve you both well.” She glances over to Margaret to ensure she has the little girl’s attention, too.
“Celia is very busy today. Every day, for that matter. Don’t you think it would be kind of you to make her job easier by doing as she asks? ”
Victor nods.
“Yes, mistress,” Margaret says.
“Good, now off you go, both of you.”
The children leave to prepare for their dinner party. Beatrix is sure their mother wouldn’t appreciate that lesson in manners, but she doesn’t particularly care what Mrs. Winfield thinks. If it were up to her, Mrs. Winfield would get a lesson of her own.
Beatrix smiles to herself as she turns down the narrow hallway to her bedroom. She wonders what answers the children will bring her tomorrow. In truth, she is stalling. She doesn’t know how to defeat a faerie with clever words. She’s not even sure it’s possible.
Words matter to the faerie—hold some power over her. Of that much Beatrix is certain. It’s how the faerie corrupted her wish, it’s why she can’t claim her soul outright. Why Beatrix has spent countless nights obsessing over the faerie’s own words to her.
You will live to regret this moment. And then you will keep on living.