Oliver opens the door and switches on the light, casting the guest room in a warm glow. The innkeeper was put out by their knocking—it was too late, they weren’t expected, there was no room ready. His wife came to see what the fuss was about, took one look at Beatrix, and led them to a room herself.
Oliver tosses his coat on the end of a double bed that fills most of the space. Beatrix wanders across the creaking wooden floor to the bathroom. She studies her face in the oval mirror hanging over the white pedestal sink: pale and drawn under dark streaks of grime.
Oliver leans against the doorframe. He meets her gaze in the reflection.
“Do you know what happened?” she asks.
He nods. Of course he does. He probably knows more than she does. At least that means she doesn’t have to talk about it.
He offers her a hastily folded button-down shirt, still warm from being worn beneath his sweater. “Sorry, it’s all I have. I can get your things from the factory in the morning.”
“Thank you.” Beatrix takes the shirt from him. The rough blanket slips from her shoulder. She tugs it back into place, but she can tell by his horrified expression that Oliver has already seen.
He steps into the bathroom and gingerly lifts the blanket from her shoulders.
“Hell, Beatrix,” Oliver murmurs, blanching at the sight of her charred, mangled arm.
“I’m fine.” She’s lost count of how many times she’s said it now.
“That’s not fine.”
But soon, it will be. Soon, it will be like nothing has happened. Not like the others. “Give it time.” She pulls the blanket over her arm, shielding it from Oliver’s view.
“What were you even doing in there?” he asks.
“I thought I could help.” After that night with Elsie and the zeppelin, she knew. She couldn’t leave England to fend for itself.
“You did,” Oliver says. “It makes a difference. You made a difference.”
Beatrix knows not to press him for details, but she’s never been more tempted to ask about the future. “Just tell me if we win.”
Oliver nods, the smallest of gestures, and tears spring to her eyes. It hasn’t all been for nothing.
“But not for another two years.”
Her relief is tempered by reality. Another two years of fighting and hoping, living and dying for this wretched war. She sways on her feet, exhaustion overwhelming her at the mere thought of that life. Two years has never felt like such a long time.
Oliver catches her uninjured arm, steadying her. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
“I’ve survived worse,” she says.
He doesn’t look convinced.
“It will be fine. I just need to get cleaned up.” She gestures to the claw-foot tub with her good hand.
Oliver reluctantly leaves, and Beatrix closes the bathroom door behind him. She can hear him lingering on the other side. She turns the taps on the bath. Hidden beneath the sound of running water, she lets her tears fall.
Oliver was never supposed to see her like this, broken and fragile. She was never supposed to feel this, tobethis again.
“Hello, Beatrix.”
Beatrix whirls around, her heart pounding. The bathroom is empty,but the reflection in the mirror no longer belongs to her. “What do you want?” she hisses at the glass.
“Can’t I come for a visit to see how you’ve been getting along?” the faerie replies, as if she’s come for tea and gossip.
“Leave me alone.” Beatrix’s burned arm tingles with warmth, like pinpricks running up and down a limb that has fallen asleep.
The faerie sighs. “I don’t understand why you are so intent on suffering.”
