37 Beatrice
37 Beatrice
Nothing compared to the dessert table.
Beatrice stood with Elowen, gazing over the vast spread of sugary confections produced for Thessia’s wedding. The friends
were dressed in glittering gowns—Elowen’s forest green, the same dress Beatrice remembered from the weddings they’d attended
before their first quest, and her own shimmering pale pink. Queendom’s castle matched them for finery, from the flowers decorating
every corner and entrance to the fine silk garlands draped in every corridor.
Beatrice examined the sumptuous sweets with indecision. When you were the queen, she guessed, your nuptials would compel every
dessert you could imagine, and some you couldn’t. Thessia’s royal event planners had held competitions for the finest culinary
hand magicians in the realm to dazzle them with delicious inventions. Everyone in Mythria had watched the conjurations.
The results waited in front of them. Elaborate, high-reaching sculptures of Mythria’s castles constructed entirely of sweetened
cream enchanted in unmelting soft ice. Sugar flattened into parchment-thin sheets folded into flowers and other sculptures.
Pearlescent jelly globes with colored sweet liqueurs swirling within. There were even imitation wedding rings with gems of
candy.
Elowen scooped some iced cream—strawberry, its pink sheen suggested—right out of the wall of the nearest sculpted castle. “I think,” she commented, slipping the spoon past her lips, “I made a mistake living in the trees for ten years.”
When Beatrice bit into the round pastry she’d chosen, caramel liqueur flowed from the fluffy center. How in Mythria did they get the liqueur inside without moistening the cake? She would need to watch the competition conjurations when she returned to her room.
“I’m leaving Elgin and moving to wherever has a bakery that sells these ,” she declared.
Elowen giggled. It made Beatrice smile like no wondrous confection ever could. Her friend had laughed more freely in the days
since they’d defeated the Fraternal Order in Vermillion Vale and returned victorious to Queendom.
She laughed with Vandra, she laughed with Clare—she’d even laughed with Beatrice on their sleeping rolls from the quest, laid
out on the floor in Beatrice’s room in the castle, where Beatrice had invited her in imitation of the “sleep outside” parties
they would have when they were children. They’d stayed up until sunrise watching their favorite Desires of the Night episodes and catching each other up on their lives.
They piled their plates high with cakes, creams, and citruses and brought them back to their table, where Vandra was seated,
drinking wine.
Vandra, who took formalwear very seriously, had had a magenta one-piece suit custom-made for her. Queendom’s finest fashionist
had cut every line perfectly, leaving Vandra looking like she was dressed in blushing daggers.
She pulled Elowen into her lap, making Elowen giggle once more.
“You just missed the royal scribe,” Vandra informed her. “He wants to make some sort of dramatic reenactment conjuration of our heroics.”
Beatrice snorted. “Ghosts aid him,” she commented, hand hovering with indecision over her plate. Chocolate-covered plum with
silver-painted shell, or dragon sculpted out of folded sheet sugar? “I certainly don’t need to relive any of it!”
“Let him interview Hugh,” Elowen suggested. “He’s the real star.”
Vandra reached up, gently brushing Elowen’s hair behind her ear. While Elowen had politely yet firmly resisted the queen’s
maids’ efforts to decorate her face with rouges and gem dust, she’d consented to just a little magical enhancement of her
hair. It shone like winter sunsets.
“I don’t know,” Vandra replied gently. “While Hugh has the glory of defeating Myke, no reenactment would be complete without
a certain heart magician releasing all the souls trapped in the Sword of Souls.”
Elowen didn’t shy away or cower from the attention. She preened. “I was quite magnificent,” she conceded. “Elowen the Excellent,
perhaps.”
Vandra gazed into Elowen’s eyes. “Elowen my everything,” she offered softly.
Beatrice smiled. Wanting to give the women their moment, she excused herself on the premise of wanting more chocolate plums,
which was not entirely fabricated.
Like Sir Hugh’s victorious duel, stories of Elowen’s feat of magical power had grown in recent days to the stuff of legend.
Beatrice could not put into words the pride she felt watching her once-fearful friend contend gracefully with fame and fans.
No one, however, had spoken of Beatrice’s time-walking.
She’d requested her friends conceal her newfound power. As far as Mythria knew, the plan all along was for Beatrice to race toward Myke and rip the sword from him.
In honesty, she knew the renown—not to mention the new requests she’d receive—were not the deepest reason she wanted secrecy.
She did not know how she felt about her new magic herself. How did one rewrite every memory of one’s life, knowing in each
of them, part of oneself remained hidden within?
One day, she would know.
Just not yet.
She wandered through the courtyard-turned-flower-festooned-revel while the musicians struck up one of the newer songs captivating
Mythria. “King of Heroes” was written in honor of Hugh himself. When the singer picked up the first verse, she nodded along
to the pleasant melody.
A hand found her waist.
“May I have this dance?”
Clare Grandhart’s voice was sugarless, yet the sweetest sound she had ever heard. She turned, finding him waiting behind her,
his formal tunic glittering with black crystals in the moonlight. He’d let his hair grow out on their quest. It was now long
enough to fall very rakishly across his forehead.
Hardship had filled the past years. With Clare in front of her, she reveled in the joy of something wonderfully easy. She
smiled, placing her hand in his.
“You know the steps to this one?” she asked playfully when he led her onto the dancing parquet.
The courtyard was full, unsurprisingly. The wedding was the event of Mythrian society. Noblewomen Beatrice recognized from Robert’s banquets chatted over sparkling wine. Sir Noah Noble danced with his date. Nearby, none other than Cris demonstrated impressive dancing, dressed in his Clare regalia. Like many Clare impersonators, he formalized weddings in Vermillion Vale. He’d utterly charmed Hugh, who had excitedly suggested to the receptive Thessia the impersonator formalizing their ceremony. He now wore ring candies on each hand.
Clare smirked. “For a period, I was the most popular bachelor in Mythria,” he reminded her. “Unable to sit a single dance
out at any social occasion.”
His phrasing distracted her from the enticing proposition of mocking his vanity. “For a period, but no longer?” she inquired.
Clare swept her into the dance, of which he did, indeed, know every step. The parquet was open to the night sky, the stars
sparkling in the darkness like the gems he wore.
“Hugh has held the honor since we defeated the Order,” he explained. “However, I suppose since he was very recently married
off, his reign is now over.”
“He cuts quite the hero,” Beatrice mused. Her eyes found Clare’s. “It doesn’t bother you?”
Under her scrutiny, Clare’s smile softened. “It was a relief, honestly.” His eyes drifted to the center of the courtyard,
where Thessia and Hugh swayed, lost in each other, both dressed in stunning gold and white. “Free of the expectations, I’ve
started to remember who I am,” he said.
Beatrice said nothing. The notion filled her with indescribable joy. She’d known the Clare who preceded his legend, who considered
himself no hero. He was the greatest, loveliest man she’d ever met.
“But...” he went on hesitantly. Clare danced backward from Beatrice.
With the dance’s next step, he strode back up to her. Gazing sideways, his stare never left her.
In his pause, she heard—embarrassment? Shyness, certainly. On Clare Grandhart, wings or horns would’ve surprised her less.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Well, I’m...” he started. “I’m honestly not sure I am a bachelor anymore,” he went on.
Her eyebrows rose. Her heart picked up its pace. Yes, hope was dangerous. She was Beatrice of the Four, however. She could
face danger.
“Are you asking me a question, Grandhart?” she prompted him.
He was, or wanted to. He opened his mouth, squaring his shoulders. He looked just on the verge of working up the courage—
When rain fell from the night sky.
The droplets started small, strengthening quickly. In minutes, the rainstorm was dousing guests fleeing from the floor. Everyone
ran for cover—except Thessia and Hugh, who danced in the downpour like nothing could dampen their joy.
“Oh, come now,” Beatrice remarked. “Can this couple not catch one break?”
The moment the words left her lips, the rain stopped.
Or—not stopped . The raindrops changed into pink and white rose petals, drifting gently down onto the wedding. Cries of relief and awe went
up around them.
In the stunning enchantment, the floral rain decorating the night in descending petals, Beatrice felt moved. Magic need not
hurt or reveal or even save the realm. Magic could be happiness. Magic could be lovely.
When she faced Clare, her heart full, she found his eyes on the sky. Feeling something flutter over her fingers held in his,
she lifted their joined hands.
In the faint luminescence of Clare’s palm, rose petals swirled .
She gasped.
“You’re a hand magician!” she cried.
Clare pulled sparkling eyes to hers. He looked strangely regal, white petals coming to rest on his shoulders like cream medallions.
“An embarrassing gift for an extremely dashing scoundrel,” he replied .
Beatrice laughed. She pulled him closer, spinning with the music while every step kicked up flurries of petals under their
feet.
“I wouldn’t say it’s embarrassing,” she said. “Changing threats into flowers could be quite useful.”
“That would be indeed,” Clare returned. “Imagine I magicked the Sword of Souls into rose petals. But no, my gift is all but useless.
I can only change water into rose petals.” He shook his head. “It’s a parlor trick, if anything,” he admitted. “Only good for perfume
or scented baths.”
Beatrice threw her head back and laughed. With the dance’s next step, she pressed herself close to Clare, who watched her
reaction in confusion.
“I love scented baths,” she reminded him. “Didn’t you know?”
He blinked. Delight lit up his eyes like every star in the rose-filled night. He held her tight, embracing her with every
spinning step, continuing the dance like he would never let her go.
When the song changed, however, he slowed them reluctantly. Her reply, she noted, had given him his passionate, careful courage.
“Beatrice, what I was saying before... I would like to talk to you about our—I mean, my hopes for our future,” he explained.
“Perhaps tonight, in private. Would you... come back to my room with me?”
She kissed him deeply. Under his scents she loved—of dance sweat, of clear mornings—she noted the softest hint of roses. Her
outlaw king of flowers.
“I cannot tonight,” she informed him. “There is something I must do. But I was thinking I would move in with you. You like Farmount, yes?”
His brow furrowed. Not with displeasure, only surprise. “What?”
“Oh, apologies,” Beatrice went on. “May I move in with you? Or you can move in with me in my cottage—I care not. I just want
to be with you—”
He crushed his lips to hers, rogue and reverent. In the kiss, she could feel him smiling.
“Yes. Yes, Ghosts, yes,” he rushed to say. “Come to Farmount. I... picked my flat, my neighborhood, with you in mind. You’ll
love it. It’s wonderfully lively. You’ll never be bored, and I...” He faltered, only momentarily, summoning the same courage.
“I will try to make you happy.”
It really was easy with him. Knowing what to say, how she felt.
“You already do,” she promised.
Clare Grandhart grinned, wide and free.
“Wait,” he said after a moment. “What is it you must do this night?”
She squeezed his hand, where roses danced still.
“I cannot say just yet,” she confessed. “Do you trust me?”
Clare looked like he found the same ease in replying. “With my life.”
She leaned in to press a gentle kiss to his cheek. “Please let Elowen and Vandra know I had to go,” she said.
When Clare nodded, she released his hand. She walked from the parquet, past the desserts, out of the courtyard.
With her she carried only the song playing when she left, one commemorating their first quest and Galwell’s devotion to Mythria.
She hummed the musicians’ refrain even as she continued into the castle and the sounds of the wedding faded. All the way up
to her chambers, she carried the sweetly somber melody with her.
In her room, she did not light the torches.
Instead, she sank onto her bed. Like she’d done on hundreds of other nights in the past decade, she lay still.
The shimmering sheet of the past descended over her. Ramparts replaced comforting castle walls. In place of rose-petal rain,
dark lightning convulsed with evil magic.
Focusing on the day the Four first defeated the Order, she entered the memory one last time.
Where she’d just danced in her lover’s embrace, a bloody battle raged. She returned to her past self, standing above on the
ramparts. Turning, she knew what would happen next.
Todrick van Thorn emerged from the castle, zealous in the darkness. He held the Sword of Souls, the enchanted weapon shining
with pain. He planned to use it to extend his magic over the queen’s army surrounding the palace, the first step in his grand
design.
Beatrice was ready to die on the sword’s point to stop him.
He paused when he noticed her. Humor’s ghost entered his pretty, horrible features. “You,” Todrick said.
She opened her arms wide.
“One more soul,” she promised him. “If you can claim it.”
His eyes sparked like the lightning.
When she’d first lived this day, she did not know Galwell had climbed the ramparts behind her. She knew now. Todrick would
swing the Sword, and Galwell would charge in front of the blow, which would crash deep into him, ripping muscle, shattering
bone. He would die, slowly. Painfully.
Living her memories, she felt the same devastating inevitability. The pull of the past was strong.
Yet she knew now—she was stronger.
She stepped into the unfolding chaos. Evading the swing of the sword she’d meant to kill her, she feinted to the side, into—the solid form of the oncoming Galwell, pushing him out of the way.
“Galwell, now !” she cried.
The effort of screaming words she’d never said nearly made her black out. Every second of change wore on her. She felt her
pulse weaken, her vision cloud.
No. She fought to hold on. Just a little longer.
In her warping sight, she watched Galwell, the effortlessly expert swordsman, stab his own sword cleanly into the surprised
Todrick. The strike was fatal.
She knew what would come next. Myke Lycroft would come up the stairs. He would find his slain friend. He would weep on the
Sword of Souls, vanquishing its power. A magical explosion would decimate the ramparts. While they and Lycroft would escape
with their lives, Todrick’s corpse and the sword would fall down the cliffs outside Queendom.
Then...
Then, she didn’t know.
For Galwell the Great lived . He rushed to her side, leaving his sword sticking out of his fallen foe. His eyes scoured her for injuries he would not
find, for her weakness was owed to no slash or strike. Her magic fought the past, destroying her with the effort.
Sparing Galwell’s life and giving him the years he never had would require much of herself. Too much. If she continued here, it would kill her.
It was a price she would have paid, once.
With the companionship of friends she considered family and the greatest, loveliest man she’d ever known, she had come to
understand Galwell’s life was not worth more than hers. She would not embrace defeats she felt she deserved. Nevermore would
she sacrifice herself into the darkness. She would fight for the light.
She couldn’t change the last ten years without draining herself. So—
When Galwell knelt next to her, she grabbed his hand.
And with the last flash of magic in her, she pulled him out of the past.