Beatrix pushes open the bedroom door. William rises from his chair next to the cold hearth to go to the baby, fussing in a cradle in the corner. He scoops up the tiny bundle and rocks her in his arms. Beatrix’s heart swells at the sight of her precious daughter, at the way William gazes down at her. As if he is carrying his entire world in his hands.
She steps into the room. “I hope she has your eyes.”
William looks up sharply. The color drains from his face, and Beatrix can’t take another step. There is no relief in his gaze. No brightness. No love. “What’s wrong?”
He scrubs a hand over his face. “You’re not real. You can’t be.”
Beatrix’s heart hammers against her ribs. “What? What are you talking about?”
He shakes his head. “You can’t be.”
“You’re scaring me, William.”
“Says the spirit. Or maybe this is all a nightmare. Maybe I’ve fallen asleep where I sit.” He kicks the chair, and it tips backward onto the wooden floor with a clatter. The baby startles in his arms. He rocks her gently.
“I’m real.” Beatrix tries to sound calm. “This is real. Are you ill? You’re not thinking straight—”
He laughs, and it’s almost manic. It turns to sobs. He sinks to his knees, cradling the baby. “This is madness,” he whispers. He squeezes his eyes shut. “I’ve gone mad.”
When he opens his eyes, the look he gives her steals her breath. Like he has never seen her before in his life. He rises from the floor and takes her in. Her flower crown and wild hair. Her wide, mismatched eyes. Even the gold band resting on the finger where he placed it. “You look just like her.”
Beatrix swallows the lump in her throat. “I am her. Why is that so hard to believe?”
His voice trembles. “Because she’s dead.”
“No. I didn’t—that’s wrong. That’s—”
The faerie.
Her knees buckle, and she catches herself on the edge of their long wooden table. The clearing, the moor, that other Lancaut in the river—it was all a fever dream. It had to be.
Beatrix swallows the panic swelling inside her. If anyone will understand, it’s William. She has to make him understand.
“A faerie came to me in my dream.” It sounds terrifying and wondrous to hear spoken aloud. “I was dying, and I think…”
He shakes his head. He doesn’t want to hear it, but she needs to tell him.
“I was dying, and she saved me.”
“No,” William says. He’s crying again.
“She saved me, William. She’s real. The faeries are real.” She steps toward him.
He backs away, his eyes wide. He clutches their daughter to his chest. “You’re one of them, aren’t you? A faerie, come to take the baby.”
“No… no, I’mme. You must have made a mistake.”
“There was no mistake,” he says, anger and grief contorting his features. “The midwife said there was nothing to be done. And Alice—” He chokes on the words. “Alice ran for the priest. Isabella took the baby so I could be with you.”
His eyes shine in the flickering candlelight. “I held you. You were so pale. So still. And small. Like you were fading away before my eyes. The priest barely made it in time. I prayed for you. I begged whoever would listen to take me instead. But they didn’t. No one saved you. Not God. Not a faerie. Not me.”
Beatrix shakes her head, her voice lost. He’s wrong.
“I couldn’t save you. All I could do was hold you. Feel your heart stop. Watch you take your last breath.”
Silent tears spill down her cheeks.
“You died in my arms,” William says, his voice strained to breaking. “So don’t tell me there was a mistake.”
