Thunder rumbles in the distance. Someone shouts. The blade vanishes. The hands, gone.
Beatrix collapses. It takes everything in her to open her eyes, to not let the darkness pull her down.
Her vision swims, but there is no mistaking the creature in front of her. Not the sound of thunder. Growling.
The men scatter as the wolf charges, snarling and snapping, baring its fangs. They flee in chaos, leaving Beatrix alone with the beast. The clearing blurs, darkens around the edges.
If she is going to die, at least she is in the forest.
The wolf quiets. It turns toward Beatrix, and their eyes lock. Beatrix gasps. She understands now, what William meant. The wolf isn’t lookingather. It is lookingintoher with the wisest eyes she has ever seen.
One green. One brown.
It’s the last thing Beatrix sees before she tips into the darkness.
July 19, 1960En route to Paris, France
She’s been cut open again.
At least, that’s what it feels like. Sobs rack her body, centuries of rage and betrayal and grief flooding her banks. Oliver holds her close and lets her cry.
How could William think a branch would cut as cleanly as a blade?
How could her parents believe sending her away was the answer?
How could the village think she was the monstrous one?
Because it was easier for everyone never to face the truth.
Even her.
July 19, 1960Paris, France
Beatrix takes a cautious shuffling step in the dark. “Now?”
Oliver’s hands don’t move from her eyes. “Not yet.”
“You are full of surprises, aren’t you?”
“Surprises are the best part of birthdays.” Oliver stops walking, and she stops, too. “Don’t peek,” he warns. He steps away, leaving her alone.
A door unlatches with a loud click. A warm breeze brushes against her skin, carrying the low thrum of city traffic.
“Now?”
Oliver covers her eyes again. “Three more steps.”
He counts softly in her ear. They step together.
“One…” The floor changes, the give of the soft carpet turning hard and hollow under her heels.
“Two…” The light brightens beneath her lids.
“Three…” Oliver’s hands drop away, and Beatrix opens her eyes.
She gasps. Paris stretches out below her as far as she can see. A beautiful, old city. Even the Eiffel Tower stands silhouetted against the cloudless sky in the not-so-far distance.
“Welcome to Paris, Bea.”
