Chapter 3
Beatrice doesn't understand why the spells to heal injuries don't soothe the pain too. Or maybe there are spells that do both, but neither Bernard nor her know them. Or maybe Bernard does, but decided not to use them on her.
She thought he was being kind — her big brother, her Bernard, the boy that stole her favourite doll after Father confiscated all of her toys when she was seven and snuck it back to her, putting a finger to his lips and telling her to hide it —, as he unlocked the door to her room during the afternoon, quietly making his way over to where Beatrice was hiding behind her chest of drawers, making her raise her head to look at him. He almost looked mad for a second, when he examined her swollen eye and the blooming bruises on her cheek. She can't remember why Father had gotten mad in the first place, perhaps she hadn't been fast enough to stop herself from letting out a witty comment, perhaps she had been looking at the burned holes in the family tapestry for too long, perhaps she had asked for her wand back.
Does it matter in the end?
Bernard healed her, making the bruises disappear and leaving her as good as new, to the outside eye, at least. For a single short second, she thought he was back to his senses, back to her, that he was going to tell her to hang on until he could find a way to get her away from here, away from them. But then her Mother had called, telling her she needed to get dressed for the soiree, and Beatrice had realised she had been the one to send him here.
And so here Beatrice is, wearing a dress even more ridiculous than last time, shivering in the cold air of the ballroom. She looks like someone's dead great aunt, just as she had whispered when her mother had had the amiability to ask her for her thoughts. Her mother had gripped her wrist, burying her nails in her flesh, and hissed in her ear: 'Behave. Do not disgrace this family again. You already know the consequences.', but she could have sworn she heard Bernard chuckle.
Beatrice is simply trying to survive through the night, one day at a time. One hour, one minute, one second. One breath after the other.
"Hi," a voice says, and Beatrice has to stop herself from jumping as she turns around, finding Chanel in a beautiful golden yellow dress, her smile fading away as she looks at her. "Mercy Lewis, what happened to you?"
"What?" Beatrice bites back.
No vulnerability. No kindness, no pity. Young's only inspired respect and fear. That was the law.
"You look... Like you're about to die, honey. Are you okay?"
Beatrice hates how kind Chanel is, how her voice just wraps her up in a warm embrace, and how weak she is to it. She hates that she's not strong enough to repair the broken window that is starting to let people into her family's empty house.
"I'm fine," she dismisses with a wave of her hand, like it's nothing, like she's not having trouble being alive. "I am," she insists when Chanel raises an eyebrow.
She wonders if Chanel can see through Bernard's spells — It's impossible, but people are not supposed to be able to levitate without their wands either.
Randall is charming an old witch in the background, pretending to listen to her talk about her lineage as Zori is stuffing food into her pockets, sending a look that says 'I dare you' to Beatrice when she catches her watching.
"Okay, well, Ava asked me to talk to you."
Beatrice whips her head back towards Chanel, pretending not to notice the girl's smirk, as if she knows something.
"What do you mean?"
"She's... Well she's gonna do something weird and kinda scary and she's afraid you might bolt so I'm supposed to stop you from running away," Chanel says, bringing her flute of champagne to her lips.
Fear swirls in Beatrice's stomach, her heart missing a beat in her chest. That information only makes her want to make a run for it, because what could Ava do that would scare her that much?
"Is she going to drop from the ceiling?" She asks breathlessly.
Chanel snorts out a laugh.
"I wish."
There is a movement in the room and Beatrice's attention drops from Chanel's smile to the staircase that conveniently stops right at the beginning of the ballroom.
For a few seconds, Beatrice forgets to breathe.
Ava is wearing a little red dress that shows as much tan skin as it can without being indecent, vulgar, but Ava makes it perfect, angelic. Holy, almost. She is beautiful, incredibly so, with her wild brown hair down her back, her red lips eased into a pout, her doe eyes sparkling under the lights of the chandelier.
If Ava had been born a god, Beatrice would have become a nun right away.
She slowly goes down the staircase, her hand into JC's elbow as he leads her down, his white shirt buttoned almost all the way up. Professor Vincent meets her at the end, presenting his hand to her and Ava takes it graciously, with her most angelic smile plastered on her face. Beatrice knows it's fake. Ava's smile is big and sunny and warm, and she's seen that smile so many time before — on her mother's face, on her brother's face, on the reflection of her cup of tea as her father read a journal with the name of a new dark wizard (Adriel) written all over it, on her own reflection in the window of the living room as one of her uncles tried to convince her she was only good for marriage — she practically learned every curve of it.
"Ladies and gentlemen, the New Areala," Professor Vincent says, quietly, but somehow everyone hears and whispers swirl around the room as Ava smiles.
Beatrice has to stop herself from letting out a snort at the way one of Ava's eyebrows rises, JC tightening his grip on her hand like he's afraid she'll jump at Professor Vincent's throat.
"As you all have heard, Miss Silva here has shown prowess of magic for years now. She is one of the brightest witches of our academy, if not the most gifted, dare I say."
"You're too kind, Professor Vincent," Ava says, and her voice is perfectly controlled, malleable, sending shivers into Beatrice's spine.
JC looks away, looking like he is trying really hard not to laugh, and Ava pinches his elbow without even looking away from the crowd.
"There is a bright future ahead of Miss Silva," Professor Vincent continues, "And ahead of the whole wizarding world, if I dare say so myself. I truly believe that she will guide us towards a brighter future, just like many other talented witches and wizards have done before."
Somehow, Beatrice feels something akin to worry as she hears those words echo in the ballroom. Because there is something dangerous to this type of speech, something that the world has seen before and will keep seeing again and again until the end of time.
"Indeed," Professor Vincent announces, "Miss Silva comes from a long lineage of powerful witches that fought against the Dark Forces and she is, as some have guessed it, the descendant of Areala who will take up the family torch and end the fight of Good against Evil magic."
Beatrice hates how much his words sound carefully chosen, how this all seems like a well-practised show that is completely unlike Ava. But Ava doesn't know or she chooses to ignore it, instead staying immobile as Professor Vincent turns towards her, nodding. She pouts, frowning and fretting like a child that doesn't want to do something. Professor Vincent whispers something to her, and she rolls her eyes but starts walking towards the empty circle in the middle of the room.
Chanel gestures for Beatrice to take a step back, but Beatrice doesn't, clutching the fabric of her dress as whispers swirl around the room.
Ava takes off her heels, looking at Professor Vincent straight in the eyes — she will do what he asks, but under her own conditions —, and shoves them into JC's hands, making him almost stumble backwards, and Beatrice cannot stop the chuckle that makes its way past her lips.
Ava walks barefoot to the middle of the room, and Beatrice can hear a few scandalised scowls at her indecency, but Ava doesn't seem to care, throwing her hair back, smoothing her skirt.
She stands with both feet settled into the ground, her elbows at her side, her hands outstretched in front of her, palm to the sky, as if ready to receive a deity's blessing. Her gaze searches the crowd, finds Beatrice's.
Ava doesn't smile, Ava doesn't throw a joke at her. Ava opens her mouth slightly, and mutters a word that Beatrice cannot even read.
Every candle in the room dies suddenly as they plunged into darkness, a few screams of surprise echoing in the room. Beatrice clutches her dress in panic, trying to find something, anything, to hang onto, but light finds her before she does.
When Beatrice thought of Ava as the sun, she didn't think she would actually see her become one. And yet here Ava is, tanned skin producing a golden glow so strong the whole room is suddenly lit up, and Beatrice finds Chanel standing next to her, an unimpressed pout on her face as she claps lightly with the rest of the crowd.
Ava doesn't stop here. Her eyes are closed, but Beatrice sees her mouth a word, quiet against the rumours of the ballroom. All of the light leaves her body and shoots out of her chest, in between her outstretched hands.
Beatrice expects — and dreads — a Thestral, but it's a child made out of light that runs straight in front of Ava, before disappearing in a puff of sparks that fall like snow to the ground.
"Necromancy?" Beatrice breathes out, not even registering the words before they come out of her mouth.
"Worse," Chanel whispers next to her.
With one hand still in front of her, Ava gestures around, and this time the windows break all around them, glass falling from the ceiling as the crowd screams. Beatrice raises a hand to protect herself, to no need: all the shards of glass have stopped over their heads, still as they recover from their surprise as best they can.
Ava is still standing in the middle of the room, eyes closed, but her breathing is faster, erratic and hoarse. Beatrice expects her to change the glass into something, anything — sand, rain —, but it's snow that lands softly into her hair, and she can't help but shiver at the memory of the Dementors — and Ava's hand in hers.
Transfiguration.
As she looks up she realises that Ava is doing much more than that. The sun rises from where it had fallen, making its way backward into the sky until it falls again, and night envelops them before it starts again, faster and faster and faster.
Time magic.
Ava holds the sun in the sky for a moment, not even seeming to hear the exclamations of admiration, then releases it and it starts turning and turning again, rising and falling until it stops, back where it was.
Snow rises from their shoulders and out of their eyelashes, transforming back into shards of glasses that gather together to form a mosaic of broken glass. With a wave of Ava's hand, all of the cracks assemble and all is left are the windows and the glass ceiling just as they were.
Beatrice hears shouts and turns back to Ava, only to see figures of light make their way through the crowd to stand behind her, one after the other, in a long line of luminescent women. Ava seems to have lost every ounce of control she once had, her hands trembling in front of her as she shakes like a leaf.
The women take a step forward, merging into her, and Ava gasps as she stumbles forwards, opening her eyelids and the warm brown of her eyes is gone, replaced by a blinding light that is gone the next minute when she blinks.
Candles light up once again around them, and Ava straightens up, her hair hiding her face. She turns around, ignoring the gaping mouths and hesitant claps of the crowd, walks back to JC and rips her shoes from his hands, whispering something to Professor Vincent before making her way back up the stairs without a single look behind her.
A hand brushes against Beatrice's arms, and Chanel is raising an eyebrow.
"Breathe, Young."
Beatrice inhales a gulp of air through her open mouth, stuttering as she tries to regain composure.
Around them, wizards and witches are whispering to each other, some of them going as far as yelling, and Beatrice feels fear resuming its grip on her.
"What the Hell was that?" She grits out.
Chanel shrugs.
"Vincent needs people's support after the latest murders, Ava is just out of Castelobruxo, people still think she's a kid that wants the attention on her. And well... We can't fight when we don't have any weapons."
"Murders? What murders?"
Chanel looks at her up and down like she's never seen her in her life, and Beatrice crosses her arms over her chest in defence.
"Do you live in a cave?"
"Something like that," Beatrice mutters, thinking about the newspapers her father doesn't allow her to read and that she keeps trying to steal before he burns them.
"Eight wizards and witches dead somewhere in Mexico. They didn't even have time to draw out their wands. Women. Children," Chanel grits out. "With the sentence 'Praise Adriel' written on their forearms. The fucker is signing his crimes now."
Beatrice wants to ask why Aurors aren't doing anything, why the MACUSA or the British Ministry of Magic isn't doing anything, or even why Ava has anything to do with this, but her parents are approaching, and she shuts her mouth. She thinks about running for a short second, about shaking Chanel by the shoulders and screaming that this is not normal, but she can't.
She stays frozen and her Mother and Father make their way to her, and only when she realises that JC is standing next to them does she allow herself to breathe.
"The New Areala is requesting your presence, Beatrice," her father says, poison in his voice and curiosity in his eyes, and Beatrice looks at them all with wide eyes.
"Me? Av— Miss Silva wants to see me?"
Melanie has always told her that she was a bad actress, Beatrice thinks that she's been pretending since she was seven.
"Yes," JC says, interrupting her mother before she can even begin to speak, and Beatrice wants to laugh at that. "Just you," he adds, not quite looking at her parents but clearly talking to them.
"Alright, show me the way," Beatrice says, throwing her skirt over her forearm to walk faster.
"Beatrice," her mother hisses more than she says. "Don't be ridiculous. You need a chaperone."
And oh right, etiquette. Unmarried women are not allowed to be left alone in the presence of a man, blah blah blah. Beatrice fights the urge to roll her eyes, instead extending her arm towards Chanel, looking at her mother straight in the eyes as she says:
"Shall we?"
Chanel gladly takes the extended arm, and her mother gapes at her as they walk past her, but what can she say? Explaining why Beatrice cannot be left alone with a girl either would be defeating the whole purpose as to why she needs surveillance.
"Damn," Chanel chuckles as she guides her up the stairs and into a hallway. "Didn't know you had it in you."
Beatrice simply hums as an answer, too focused on the fact that Ava directly asked for her instead of finding a way to sneak her away. It was important.
Chanel stops in front of the door, and Beatrice sends her a questioning look.
"You're not going in with me?"
"Like JC said, she only wants you. Knock first, though," she says, turning her back to the door.
And so Beatrice does, knocking and waiting for a muffled 'Come in' to enter the room.
From what she understands, this place are some sort of MACUSA issued headquarters where Ava managed to drag her friends in with her, and even though there is a ballroom, Beatrice didn't expect Ava's room to be so big — 'Not everyone has chandelier hanging in their living room, Young,' Melanie had told her once.
Sure, it is modestly simple, and it's spacious and full of light but somehow it doesn't seem like Ava. Ava is messy, Ava is sunny and lovely and this room has too much space, it is empty. There is just a bed way too big for her in the centre and a couple of chairs but everything is too impersonal and it reminds Beatrice too much of her own bedroom.
Ava is sprawled on the ground, the little red dress thrown in a heap next to the door. She is only wearing a t-shirt and sleep shorts, cradling a bottle of Firewhisky against her chest like it's a baby, and Beatrice instinctively starts folding the dress, trying really hard not to think about the fact that it is still warm under her fingers.
"English!" Ava squeals, before erupting into a feat of giggles.
"Ava," Beatrice greets back, putting the folded dress on a chair. "You asked for me?"
"Yeah," Ava slurs, wriggling from where she's seated. "All the others are meeean!"
She pouts, pressing a kiss to the bottle and Beatrice raises an eyebrow.
"Are you drunk?"
"Nah."
"Are you lying?"
At this, Ava seems to hesitate for a long second, and Beatrice raises an eyebrow.
"Yes," Ava whispers finally, like a disobedient child.
Beatrice doesn't know if she should cry or laugh.
"So!" Ava yells. "Whaddaya think?"
"Think of what?"
"The show! The magic and the — whoomp shee! — pizzazz!"
"Well, it sure was something," Beatrice says carefully.
"Ha! You don't think it was good," Ava says sadly, bringing the neck of the bottle to her lips.
Something is lying on the ground next to her, and Beatrice has seen many of those things before without figuring out what they are — they look like headbands with strange devices for the ears and cords connected to them.
"I think," Beatrice says, kneeling in front of her, "that you didn't do it because you wanted to, and that takes the beauty of it."
Ava nearly chokes on her mouthful, wiping her lips with the back of her hand.
"See? You see soooo many things and it's not fair!"
"How much have you had?" Beatrice asks, eyeing the bottle suspiciously.
"Not enough," Ava says, raising the bottle to her lips, but Beatrice grabs it before she can take a sip.
"Ava."
"English! Come on, you're no fun."
"I know."
"You don't know shit, English," Ava suddenly laughs, and Beatrice sets the bottle on the chest of drawers next to them. "Nobody does! Nobody knows anything or well, they don't care."
Beatrice kneels back next to her, awkwardly arranging her dress around her.
"Then why don't you tell me?"
Ava seems to really think about it for a second, perhaps she is wondering if Zori was right in her assumptions.
"I have to stop him."
"Who?"
"Adriel. He's a bad guy, a grade-A asshole, a dick. He needs to be stopped, and I'm just here, parading in my little dress, making a show of my powers so that those fuckers will help me stop him. Meanwhile he's killing people in the street."
She's playing with the cords of the things Beatrice doesn't know the name of, and Beatrice can only look from where she's seated at a reasonable distance.
"It's not your fault, Ava."
And Ava laughs, even though it's not funny, and Beatrice waits for an explanation that never comes.
"Alright," she sighs. "Let's get you into your bed."
"Nu-uh, gotta put that away first," Ava says, handing her the thing, like she doesn't trust herself to get up without falling back.
Beatrice fiddles with the headband, the little transparent box at the end of the cords.
"What is that?"
"'S a walkman. My mom. You put music in there," she explains vaguely, gesturing to the transparent box. "Top drawer, into the pink sock. You put it in there with the other tapes."
And so Beatrice does, opening the drawer and trying not to think about the facts that this is probably Ava's most cherished possession and yet she is hiding it, and that she trusts Beatrice to put it back in its hiding spot.
She shakes the thoughts away as she closes the drawer and walks back to Ava.
"Alright. Let's get you to bed."
Ava makes grabby hands at her as Beatrice bends down to put her arms around her waist, lifting her against her.
"Whooo you're strong!" Ava sings-songs as she leads her across the room to the bed.
Beatrice fails not to smile as she puts her into the bed, trying to move Ava to put the blanket over her. But Ava keeps trying to touch her face, giggling to herself.
"Ava, stop."
"But you're so pretty. It's not fair!"
"What is not fair, Ava?" Beatrice asks, trying to distract her long enough to grab the sheets.
"That you're so pretty and you're so kind and you say good things to me and it makes me want to kiss you."
Beatrice's heart stops in her chest, her body freezes in its spot, and for a second she is back in the darkness, back in the cold and the fear and Death. She wants to scream, she wants to cry, she wants to open the window and jump into the void and she wonders if she has ever felt that terrified in her life — she knows she has, but somehow, in the moment, it all seems insignificant compared to the deep and freezing fear that sets itself into her bones.
She grabs Ava by the shoulders, eyes wide with panic.
"Ava. Ava, you can't say that. You can't say those things."
But Ava just hums as an answer, her head lulling to the side --- she is already asleep.
"Ava?" Beatrice shakes her, but she doesn't react. "Ava, you can't say that. They'll kill you. They'll kill you, Ava. You can't go to the mausoleum," she chokes out, before being silenced by her own sobs.
She cradles Ava into her arms, begging for her to stop without knowing if her pleas are answered anywhere in the universe, like they never have been. When she feels the mirror cracking, she puts Ava back against the pillows, covering her with the blanket and stands on wobbly legs as she staggers to the door.
Chanel's face on the other side is closed and stern, her jaw is clenched, and Beatrice covers the door with her own body, ready to be brave, ready to be bold, if it means she can save Ava.
"Listen here, Young," Chanel says. "I get that we don't agree on everything, and frankly I don't know what Ava sees in you, but I won't sit there and listen as you say shit like that."
Oh. Oh, no.
"This is the 21st century, and maybe it's time that your family starts living in the real world, because that is some bullshit," Chanel spits out. "If you can't deal with the fact that the girl likes chicks, you better start moving away before I do it for you."
"It's not like that," Beatrice mutters out, before she can stop herself.
"Then what is it?"
Beatrice makes a mistake right there and then, standing in the lit up corridor in front of a girl she barely knows: she looks to the side, to the voice and the laughter they can hear from the ballroom. It only lasts a second, but it's enough; when she looks back at Chanel, the girl knows.
All of her anger melts away, her eyes turning sad and sorry.
"Oh God, no," she says and Beatrice breaks.
For a quarter of a second, she lets the mirror shatter and ducks her head as tears spill out, like blood from an open wound. Chanel wraps her arms around her, Beatrice grips the golden fabric of her dress like an anchor.
"It's gonna be okay, honey," Chanel whispers, but Beatrice knows it's a lie.
"Beatrice!"
Bernard rounds up the corner and Beatrice steps away from the girl just as quickly, building the mirror back to its original self. She is Beatrice Young. She is cold and she is sharp and she will be the perfect daughter, even if she has to die in the process.
Thankfully, Bernard doesn't seem to have seen anything, but he looks suspiciously at Chanel's absolutely destroyed face.
A part of Beatrice wants to punch some sense into her. If she doesn't get a grip of herself, her brother will know.
"Come, we're leaving," Bernard says, and Beatrice nods, stepping into his shadow as she follows him.
She turns back towards Chanel to send her daggers through her eyes, and the girl shakes her head.
She won't tell anyone.
Neither will Beatrice.