Chapter Text
Beatrice is nine-years-old when she first falls in love.
Her name is Sofia Agosti and she makes Beatrice laugh.
“You’re too serious.” Sofia taps a finger against Beatrice’s button nose, freckled and pink from the bright Sicilian sun.
“I’m not serious,” Beatrice answers, rubbing a hand over her nose to rid herself of the tickle Sofia’s finger has left. “I’m pensive.”
Sofia drops their things on the sand and begins to spread out a large red beach towel with a picture of a sun in sunglasses on it, which Beatrice thinks is silly and superfluous because the sun wouldn’t need glasses if it wasn’t looking at itself.
They’ve been exiled to the beach while Beatrice’s parents attend a conference at the university. The summer day is hot and uncharacteristically dry for July. Blue water glitters in the distance as frothy white waves lap at the shore. Above them, seagulls shriek rudely. Beatrice never sees days like these in London. The heat makes her feel giddy.
“This is not just a holiday,” Beatrice’s mother had reminded her as they left. “Be sure to practise your Italian with Sofia. With all the time you’ve been spending together, I expect fluency when we get back.” She smoothed Beatrice’s hair down, running her hands down the two dark plaits that fell past Beatrice’s shoulders.
“Yes, Mum,” Beatrice had replied, standing on her tiptoes for her mother to kiss her forehead, hoping to catch a whiff of the specific scent her mother wore—oranges and spicy vanilla. Sometimes, when her parents were on long trips and Beatrice was at home with her tutors, she would crawl into her mother’s closet and breathe in deep, curling up against the tails of fur coats and velvety dresses.
“And no sweets,” her mother stated as she left the room. “You’ve already had too much ice cream this week.”
“Yes, Mum!” Beatrice called after her, watching her disappear.
Beatrice tries to speak to Sofia in Italian, but Sofia laughs and tells Beatrice that “at the beach, they speak English because no one should be learning at the beach.”
Beatrice tells her that learning should be everywhere, but likes the fact that she doesn’t have to think about conjugation while watching the ways that Sofia’s pink mouth forms words. Sofia wears a grape lip gloss and immediately licks it off after applying a coat.
“You want me to bury you in the sand? I'll give you mermaid boobs!” Sofia grins and Beatrice feels flutters in her stomach like a thousand Western pygmy blue butterflies have just emerged from their cocoons. Sofia’s front teeth are very white and a little crooked. She has a dimple in her right cheek.
Beatrice is suddenly shy and embarrassed. She can’t believe Sofia actually said that word. “That’s—you can’t just…” She finally asks, “How old are you anyway?”
“Old,” Sofia’s eyes widen comically. “I’m sixteen.”
“Exactly,” Beatrice drags her toes across the sand. She’s not sure if she likes the sensation or not. “You’re too old to be this silly.” She says it the way her mother does, with a clipped tone and a vague air of disappointment.
“And you’re too young to be this boring.” Sofia jumps up and brushes sand off her thighs. “Come on, race me!”
“What?”
“To the surf and back. Winner gets an ice lolly!” Sofia calls, already running, turning back just to stick out her tongue. When Sofia smiles, Beatrice thinks it’s the most lovely smile she’s ever seen.
Beatrice laughs and then she runs.
They stay out until the tide pulls back, low and calm. Until the sky goes from blue to orange to black.
When Sofia reaches out for Beatrice’s hand, Beatrice takes it, grasping Sofia’s strong fingers in between her small, slender ones. Beatrice has always been a slight child, elfin and wispy. Beside Sofia, she feels tall. She feels important.
“Oh, look!” Sofia points as they walk up the sandy steps that lead to the street. “Cassiopeia is bright tonight!”
Beatrice looks up. She knows Cassiopeia is a constellation, but she can’t pick it out among the millions of other bright lights. It embarrasses her to not know and so she says, “Yes, it is!” The lie feels awkward on her tongue. She’s never lied to Sofia before. Beatrice licks her lips. They’re salt chapped and cold. “Is it,” she points up and squints. “Is it that one?”
Sofia laughs, but not unkindly. She doesn’t tell Beatrice off for being unsure either and Beatrice feels a rush of relief. “Close,” Sofia says and sits on one of the wooden steps. She pats the space next to her for Beatrice to sit.
“Do you see that little cluster over there?” She drags Betarice’s pointed index finger across the sky. “Right under the dark spot?” Beatrice nods. “Cassiopeia goes from that one,” she takes Beatrice’s wrist and moves it. “To that one.”
“It is beautiful,” Beatrice whispers, seeing it clearly now, like one of those magic eye posters that you have to squint at and move slowly from your face before the picture reveals itself. She thinks about it for a moment before asking, “Do you think God decided on all of the constellations beforehand or did he just put stars in the sky and we were the ones who found the patterns?”
Sofia looks down and blinks at Beatrice with something like surprise and something like fondness. And then, in one fell swoop, she shakes the very foundations of Beatrice’s world.
“I don’t believe in God,” Sofia says, like it isn’t the most absurd and ridiculous statement ever made ever.
Beatrice frowns. She doesn’t quite understand. Not believing in God is like not believing in trees or, the ocean. He’s there. There’s no option to not believe in Him.
And so she tells Sofia this. And when Sofia laughs this time, it’s in that way that grown-ups laugh when they know something you don’t and you’re left feeling foolish and confused. Beatrice hates feeling foolish and confused.
“I don’t know why you’re laughing,” she says with a pout. “It isn’t very nice.”
“Oh, I’m sorry! I know. It’s just,” Sofia smiles at her. “You’re so serious.”
“God is a very serious matter,” Beatrice replies. “You can’t say you don’t believe in Him. He’s everywhere.” And then, in a lower tone, “He’s listening right now, you know.”
“Well, I do believe in the trees,” Sofia says, matching Beatrice’s tone. “And I believe in the ocean.” She looks up. “I believe in the stars.” And then she smiles a smile so beautiful, that Beatrice’s heart feels thick and warm. “How could I not? Look at how brightly Cassiopeia shines for us.”
Beatrice wants to argue that God made all those things, so really Sofia is just appreciating His creations. But she yawns when she opens her mouth to speak, and Sofia hops up. “Alright, you. It’s time to get you back to your mum and daddy.”
The thought of leaving the beach suddenly fills Beatrice with a bottomless sadness, like she’s leaving something behind, but she follows Sofia all the way home without saying a thing.
That night, after prayers, as her mother flicks off her light, Beatrice asks, “Can Sofia come back home with us?”
“I don’t see why she would,” her mother answered. “You have your tutors at home. Besides, she’s only been looking after you as a favour to us while we’re in Pozzallo.”
“But she’s so much better than the others!” Beatrice sits up, suddenly possessed with the need to make her mother understand. “She tells me jokes and, and she showed me a card trick. She told me her girlfriend will be studying in London next year and she’d love to go and anyway, she’s much prettier than Maestra Bianchi. She could be my new tutor.” She doesn’t tell her mother about the conversation about God. Somehow, it feels like a secret, even though Sofia never told her it was. Beatrice doesn’t think her mother would understand.
“Enough!” her mother interjects and Beatrice flinches, uncertain what could have made her mother suddenly so cross. Then, in a softer tone, her mother says, “That is enough now. You need to sleep. Sofia Agosti has been filling your head with nonsense and we have a long flight in the morning.”
“Mummy?”
“Yes?” Her mother sighs, but stays in the doorway, half-lit by the glow of the corridor behind her.
“May I wait for Sofia on the steps tomorrow? She said she would come say goodbye.”
“We’ll see,” her mother says, and shuts the door before Beatrice can say anymore.
The next morning, Beatrice is made to pack, and wait, and eat apple slices while the car is being loaded with their luggage. She sits on the warm, tiled steps of the villa, halfheartedly flicking through a dog-eared copy of Vingt mille lieues sous les mers as she waits. And waits.
“Have you checked under your bed for everything, darling?” Beatrice’s father asks, walking by with an armful of papers.
“Yes, Daddy,” Beatrice answers diligently. And then, “When is Sofia coming?”
“Oh,” he turns to look over his shoulder. “She isn’t. Your mother decided that since we were leaving quite early there would be no use in wasting her time. Roberto, aspettare! ” Her father, distracted, raises his free hand and calls to their driver as he walks towards their car, leaving Beatrice alone on the steps.
Beatrice is nine-years-old when her heart first breaks.
______
The phone call comes sometime after midnight. Beatrice rolls over and sits up after one vibration. She’s a light sleeper, always has been, but since leaving the convent she wakes up multiple times a night, often convinced that she’s heard someone call her name. She inevitably wakes to darkness, to the murmured bustle outside, and the same hollow loneliness that’s become her constant bedfellow.
Her flat, the one she’s been staying in for the last four months, is above a busy street in Covent Garden, so she’s used to late-night noise. She doesn’t mind it. It’s better than silence and she likes feeling like she’s part of the crowd below, even when her nights are spent curled up with a book on her couch. She goes out sometimes, meets with one or two of the friends she’s made at the pub just down the street. Tentative friendships are better than none. She’s created a small, but livable space and most days, Beatrice tells herself that she’s happy.
At night, Beatrice has a dream that goes like this: She and Ava go to an island. Sometimes it’s Mallorca, sometimes it’s the Seychelles or Palawan. They go to be away from the rest of the world, because Ava wants to swim in the ocean and Beatrice wants to give Ava everything. From their bedroom window, they can hear the crash of waves and every few hours, the deep bellow of a tug boat. They eat fresh fish and get lemon juice all over their fingers. They kiss on sandy, touristy streets and Ava’s lips taste like salt.
She wakes with salt on her cheeks instead.
Now, she blinks at the too-bright phone screen. It’s 12:24 AM in London and Spain is an hour ahead. Why would Camila be calling now? Beatrice doesn’t dare hope, but Camila is breathless. Her voice cracks with excitement. “Beatrice. She’s back. Ava is back.”
Beatrice exhales a fragile, petrified breath. Her head swims and she wonders if this is what fainting feels like. She wouldn’t know. It’s never happened before.
Silence extends and Camila says, “Beatrice, did you hear me? It’s Ava. She’s back. She came through the portal an hour ago. She’s at Dr Salvius’s lab. She’s—”
“I heard you.” Beatrice cuts her off.
“Well?” Camila asks with impatience. “Are you coming home?”
Home.
Beatrice swallows. “I’m coming.”
_____
Ava is different.
The planes of her face are sharper, her cheeks more hollowed out. Her hair is pulled back in a dark braid—much longer than it was when Beatrice last saw her. Beatrice’s hand goes up to her own hair, recently cut, short enough to brush her shoulders.
Ava frowns in her sleep, brow furrowed and lips pursed and Beatrice wants to bury her face in Ava’s neck, run her lips over Ava’s worry lines and kiss her until she’s smiling that wide, contagious smile that makes Beatrice’s heart scramble up to her throat.
Instead, she stands with her fingertips pressed white against the glass of the window looking into the small room filled with medical supplies and a ventilator. Ava is on the narrow hospital bed, covered in a thin blanket that she’s half kicked off. Beatrice wonders if she’s warm enough.
“Is she in pain?”
“I don't think so.” Dr Salvius’s voice is quiet and cautious beside her. “She’s on some strong medication and I’ve done the best I can with her injuries.” The most significant of Ava’s wounds is the three-inch hole through her left shoulder, just above her heart. Beatrice hadn’t seen it before it was sewn up and bandaged. She trusts that Dr Salvius did her best, but she wishes she could have watched the process. Just to make sure.
Dr Salvius sighs. “I can’t imagine what she’s been through.”
Beatrice’s jaw tenses. She can and has imagined it. She’s spent the last eleven months imagining it, wondering if sending Ava through the portal had been a mistake, wondering if she was safe, if she was ever coming back.
Now that it’s happened, it feels surreal. “Why isn’t she healing faster? The halo should—”
“They didn’t tell you?” Dr Salvius interrupts. “I’m sorry, I just thought Camila or Suzanne would have explained.”
“Explained what?” Beatrice’s heart begins a hard, nauseating thud. She doesn’t tell Dr Salvius that she’s been ignoring all of Camila’s calls since the first one. She doesn’t tell her that she couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep or even speak until she’d seen Ava. She’s beat them to the compound, but they’ll be here any minute, Beatrice knows and then it’ll be hugs and questions and eyes on her.
“Beatrice,” Dr Salvius begins, “the halo didn’t come back with Ava.”
Beatrice blinks. “What?”
“The scar is there,” Dr Salvius continues, “but the halo isn’t. It looks as though it’s been surgically removed.”
Beatrice’s knees feel like they’re about to give out. She can’t fathom what this means for Ava, for the Order itself. She looks back through the window. Ava’s arm is flung above her head, her fingers twitching slightly as she sleeps.
Beatrice wonders how long she’s allowed to stand out there like a coward when Dr Salvius says, “She said your name. Just before she lost consciousness.”
Beatrice turns to look at Dr Salvius before looking away, swallowing back a surge of emotion. It feels too big, too raw and uncontrollable. She wants to run, to take this feeling and stab it, bury it in a box under a tree.
After a protracted moment, Beatrice asks, “What if it’s not real? What if I go in there and she… disappears?” She frowns at herself, at the weakness of her doubt, at the terror of saying these words out loud for the first time since Camila had said Ava’s name on the phone.
Dr Salvius leans against the wall beside her, giving Beatrice the courtesy of avoiding eye contact.
“When Michael came back to me, I remember thinking that if I lost him again, I would die. And then I did lose him and the grief almost killed me.” Dr Salvius sniffs and clears her throat. “Still, I wouldn’t change it.” She does look at Beatrice now, and Beatrice feels hot tears spring to her eyes before she can blink them away. “Time is precious. Steal every moment you have with her. Be selfish.”
Dr Salvius touches her arm then, just a brief, light squeeze and Beatrice almost dissolves.
It’s been so long since she’s been touched. At Cat’s Cradle, there was always a hand to steady her, a quick hug from Camila or Mary laughing down at her, bumping shoulders. There was friendly sparring and the occasional punch to the face on the days she was a nanosecond too slow to dodge Lilith in training.
And then there was Ava. Ava, whose touch lingered everywhere. Ava, who never quite grasped the concept of personal space. Ava, who constantly had her mouth near Beatrice’s ear, her hands on Beatrice’s waist, her head tucked under Beatrice’s chin on those cold nights in their little flat.
Then Ava was gone and Beatrice was alone.
When Dr Salvius walks away, Beatrice counts her steps as her soft heels press against the floor. At twenty, she takes a deep breath and opens the door to Ava’s room.
________________
On one particularly rainy night in the Alps, Ava had somehow convinced Beatrice to walk home from the bar. “It’s just rain,” Ava had tugged on Beatrice’s hand, half out of the door, raindrops catching on the crown of her head. “Haven’t you ever wanted to run in the rain?”
“Not particularly,” Beatrice had answered, standing steadfast in the doorway, the key to close up dangling from a finger. “We should wait it out. The halo will not protect you from the common cold.”
“Come on, Bea! It’s…” Ava let go of Beatrice’s hand and stepped out, fully in the downpour now, “…romantic.”
Beatrice paused as her heart stuttered in that traitorous way that it did when Ava said something careless and wonderful. “It’s idiotic. You’ll catch your death.”
“Not if you catch me first!” Ava wiggled her eyebrows and jogged backwards, her smile a dare.
“You’re impossible,” Beatrice replied, grinning despite herself as she followed, the evening surprisingly warm and muggy.
She had watched as Ava spread her arms and raised her chin to the heavens. It was at that moment that Beatrice had first thought, “Oh, dear God. This is love.” She had waited for the shame, the terror, the guilt. But all Beatrice felt as she watched Ava embrace the sky, was the rain on her cheeks.
Beatrice thinks about this as she walks towards Ava’s bed, her steps cautious as if Ava’s going to sit up at any moment and yell, “Gotcha!”
But she sleeps, her body still, her breath soft and slow.
Beatrice settles herself in the small chair beside Ava’s bed, her own body heavy and exhausted. Ava’s hand lies palm down beside her cheek and Beatrice reaches out for it, gently lacing their fingers together, careful not to wake her. The touch sends a shiver down her spine and something deep and buried blooms hot and alive.
She’s here, Beatrice thinks as she watches Ava sleep. She’s home.
Beatrice wakes at the sensation of her hand being tugged. Ava’s hand is hanging off the side of the bed, their fingers still entwined.
Beatrice slides her thumb over Ava’s. Up close, she can see the hairline cuts across Ava’s cheek, the yellow-purple bruise under her eye, a new scar on her eyebrow, silvery and thin. Her eyes dart from Ava’s brows to her mouth, soft and slightly parted.
“You know, it’s rude to stare.” Ava’s voice is rough with disuse. She blinks open her eyes to look at Beatrice and her face splits in a grin that conjures up sunsets, and kisses, and freshly baked cookies and a host of other inane images that Beatrice can’t quell.
She’s imagined this moment a million times in a million different ways. She’s practised eloquent speeches and earnest confessions. But here, now, all she can utter is, “Ava.”
Ava raises her shoulders in a little shrug. “Hey, Bea. How you been?”
Beatrice exhales a breath that might be a laugh. “Never better.”
Ava’s still grinning like she can’t remember how to stop. “I like the hair,” she says, appraising Beatrice with dark, searching eyes. “Very chic.”
“You’re here.” Beatrice says, willing herself to remember how to speak. “I can’t believe you’re here.” The words come out faster than she’d like, with no finesse or control. Her fingers tighten around Ava’s, making as if to keep her from vanishing into the ether.
“I’m here,” Ava confirms. Her grin dilutes into a small, unsure smile, lips pressed together in such a familiar way, that Beatrice’s heart aches. “Took me a minute to get back, but…I made it.”
“You did.” Beatrice attempts a smile, feeling the wild beat of her heart thrum through her limbs.
Ava sits up, or attempts to, and Beatrice is there in a second, holding onto her arms, helping position her against the pillows. It’s only when Ava tilts her chin up just so that Beatrice realises how close they are, how their noses are almost brushing, how she can count Ava’s eyelashes if she wanted.
“I missed you, Bea.” Beatrice watches the way Ava’s mouth forms the syllable of her name. How her chapped lips pull and push together. “Like a stupid amount,” Ava continues. “I can’t even…” She shakes her head as if trying to clear it. “Fuck, I missed you.”
Her hands fumble against Beatrice’s collar, pulling her in and Beatrice goes willingly and in eternal supplication. She buries her face against Ava’s neck, even as her knees hit the side of the bed with a dull thud. “I missed you too,” she breathes, her voice muffled against Ava’s skin. She smells the same. Beatrice has missed it. Beatrice has forgotten it. This above all is what finally breaks her.
Beatrice brings her arms around to encircle Ava, pulling her in.
“Ow! Ow!” Ava yelps and Beatrice automatically pulls back, panicked.
“Sorry! I’m sorry, I—” Ava’s face is blurry through her tears.
“No, it’s okay. I’m okay.” Ava holds tight, keeping her from moving away. “Just, stay here a moment.” She nuzzles closer, the tip of her nose cold against Beatrice’s cheek. “Just stay.”
“I’ve got you,” Beatrice assures her, blinking back tears. She isn’t sure which are hers and which are Ava’s. They remain like that for what feels like hours, just revelling in the nearness of each other. When Beatrice eventually extricates herself, her eyes are red-rimmed and her face wet.
Ava’s hands immediately clutch at Beatrice’s sleeves, as if she can’t break this physical connection. Beatrice understands. Part of her is still irrationally terrified that Ava’s going to disappear like a ghost. “Are you sure you’re okay?” Beatrice asks. It’s a nonsensical question, but it’s all she’s got. “I mean, you’re not in much pain?”
“Oh yeah.” Ava rolls her shoulder experimentally and winces a little. “Don’t love being confined to this bed, but Jillian’s got me on the good shit. So, if I, you know, say anything stupid, it’s probably the morphine.”
“An excellent cover for when something ridiculous inevitably leaves your mouth,” Beatrice bites down a smile.
“Hey,” Ava manages to look offended. “I saved the world. You can’t be mean to me. Besides, it’s been like six years on the other side. Isn’t there something in the Bible about respecting your elders?” She says it with mirth, but Beatrice detects something like uncertainty in her voice.
“That’s… a long time,” Beatrice says, hoping Ava doesn’t hear the sudden warble in her voice. Beatrice didn’t want to ask. There might have been a part of her that didn’t want to know. Six years away from home, from her.
“It really didn’t feel that long most of the time. Re—“ Ava swallows down the name like it’s something acrid and thick. “She made it so sometimes it felt like I’d only been there a few days and other times... other times it felt longer.” Ava’s eyes find Beatrice’s. “She, um… She took the halo. She…” Ava trails off, her voice catching in her throat.
“I know,” Beatrice says. “It’s okay.”
“She said I’d get it back. When the time was right, she would… it was the only way to come back. I wouldn’t have done it if I didn’t have to. I know how important it is.” She blinks back tears that seem to surprise her.
Beatrice tilts her gaze down to catch Ava’s. “It’s okay, Ava. I don’t need to know it all. Not until you’re ready.”
“I—” Ava looks like she might argue, might make light of it, but then she just nods. “Okay. Wow, way to bring down the mood, huh?” She sniffs wetly through an attempted smile.
“All that matters is that you’re here.” Beatrice exhales a long, deep sigh that seems to resonate through her entire being. Ava’s still holding on to her, fingers clutched around her wrist. The grip is warm and familiar. She says, “It’s been a long night. You probably want to get some rest.
Ava looks momentarily panicked. “I don’t…” She looks so small suddenly, so young. “Will you stay? Just until I fall asleep?”
Beatrice nods, trying to assure, trying to comfort despite needing a moment to breathe, to cry and process. All of that can wait. Because Ava is here and Ava is asking her to stay.
She sits down.
_____
It takes two days for the full story to be told. They sit in one of Dr Salvius’s many rooms, filled with many lamps. Like eager pilgrims, come from afar, eyes and ears on Ava as she recounts her tale.
And it really is like something from a fairytale…or some old religious text. A tale of how Ava, the halo-bearer was brought to Reya, a god in a realm of gods. How the halo-bearer was healed and taught about how to fight a war, where there was no good or evil, only different sides with different interests. How, in return, the halo-bearer had to leave her holy weapon behind, bringing back only knowledge and scars.
Of course this isn’t exactly how Ava tells it. Her version has a lot more fucks and bullshits, but it’s how it will be recounted in the fables, Beatrice imagines.
When Mother Superion asks when Ava will next hear from Reya, Ava shrugs. When Dr Salvius asks for more details about this supposed Holy War, Ava says she has none. And finally, when Camila asks if she’s back for good, Ava smiles and says, “Of course. You can’t keep me away.”
Beatrice thinks that Ava has become a much better liar.
She tells Mary this, on a random Tuesday night when Beatrice drives a distance from Jillian’s compound to Cat’s Cradle where they’ve erected a memorial. Mary. Gone but never forgotten.
Beatrice sits on the grass in front of the tombstone, her bottom wet from the late evening condensation, knees to her chin. She pulls out a little bottle of whiskey that she’d swiped from Dr Salvius’s bar cart. She doesn’t know if it’s any good, but it has a 25 on the little green label so she suspects that means it’s decent.
“I brought you something,” Beatrice says, and cracks open the top. She sniffs it once and grimaces at the strong, vegetal smell. She pours the amber liquid against the base of the stone. She knows Mary’s body isn’t buried here, but it’s as good a place as any to share a drink. “Cheers,” she says and opens the flask of tea she’s brought with her.
“I don’t know how you did it,” Beatrice says as the air grows chilly around her. Somewhere, a nightjar begins its trill, calling out to its nocturnal friends. “Loving Shannon…like you did. Knowing what her calling was. That,” Beatrice thinks back to Camila’s words a lifetime ago, “—she would never truly be yours.” She leans back, palms flush against the dewey grass. Beatrice imagines the layers of soil, alive under her hands — organic, top soil, sub soil, parent marital, bedrock. Everything moves, everything breathes. The night seems to exhale and Beatrice says, “She’s come back so beautiful. I mean, she always was. And she knew it.” She’s smiling now. “But there’s something more, something different. God, Mary, you’d make fun of how often she catches me staring like a fool.”
Beatrice’s chuckle is without humour when she says, “It’s ironic. You’d think this would have been harder when I was still a nun and yet…” She sighs and looks up. The stars are hidden by cloud cover, giving her nothing. “Possibility,” she surmises, “is terrifying.”
Mary, in her silence, seems to agree.
When Beatrice returns to the compound, it’s nearly midnight. She finds Ava in the kitchen with two marshmallows stuffed in her mouth, cheeks bulging like a greedy hamster.
“I believe they’re supposed to go into the hot chocolate,” Beatrice comments as she moves to the sink to empty her flask.
“But then they get all soggy,” Ava mumbles, chewing around the marshmallows. “And I like how they dissolve in my mouth.” Ava finally swallows and takes a sip of her drink. It leaves a chocolate stain on her top lip that Ava licks away and Beatrice has never been so jealous of someone else’s tongue. Beatrice’s teeth ache, thinking about how sweet Ava would taste right now. She runs her own tongue over the ridges of her molars. “Missed you at dinner,” Ava says, looking down as she uses a spoon to make a whirlwind in her mug.
“I went to see Mary.”
Ava looks up immediately. “How is she?”
“Oh, you know.” A small, sad smile. Beatrice scrunches up a dishcloth and dries the inside of the flask before putting it back where she found it. “Same.”
“God, I miss her,” Ava says and Beatrice nods.
“Yes.” What more is there to say?
“Want me to make you a cup?” Ava lifts her oversized mug. “I think I’ve perfected the ratio of chocolate powder to milk. It’s like 50-50 with a little extra chocolate to round it off. What you’re really looking for is that nice paste-like consistency.”
Beatrice wants to say yes, wants to accept the warm and disgustingly sweet beverage and then kiss Ava on her marshmallow mouth. “I think I should head to bed.”
“Oh.” Ava’s smile is a flicker of light in the dark kitchen. There and then gone. “Okay.”
“Goodnight Ava.” Beatrice turns to go, ignoring the insistent, invisible pull willing her to turn back around. She keeps walking until Ava’s voice is small and far away.
“Night, Beatrice.”