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A warm spring day finds Priscilla and Beatrice at the beach-side gazebo, sharing a stack of books and gasps of delight. Before Beatrice moved to Rigbarth, Priscilla had kept her romance novels squirreled away, only tucking into their worn pages in the comfort of her bed. Now, it’s second nature to huddle together over her favorite series.
“This one is amazing. It’s finally Violetta’s turn to find love,” Priscilla says.
“Oh! Such a charming princess, yet she has been in the background until now. What sort of admirer does she meet?”
Priscilla clutches the book to her chest. “You’ll never believe it. She falls in love with a seamstress.”
“One of her own attendants?”
“No, the seamstress comes with a family that visits from far, far away. It’s the first time she’s traveled, but Violetta makes her feel safe.”
She always rereads it whenever she gets the itch to find her childhood hero. She can never banish the images of monsters clawing up carriages, or streets filled with shadowed, faceless strangers, but if one kind person were to walk beside her…
Not that she could bother just anyone with that. Well, it’s a fantasy for a reason.
“If only,” she says with a sigh.
“Would you like to travel, Priscilla?”
With the attention turned on her, Priscilla tries not to squirm. “Yes, but I… I still can’t go out alone. For now, I’ll just have to hope my dream princess comes to me.”
“Dream princess?“
“It’s silly, really.” Then again, Beatrice would be the last person to laugh at it. She sets the book in her lap. “Maybe it’s because of some things I went through as a kid, but I’ve always longed for a prince or princess to come sweep me away.”
“How lucky they would be to find you! There must be one to whom you would make a splendid match.”
If it were anyone else, Priscilla would think she was being mocked. “You really think so?”
“Of course. The princesses at court study hard to achieve half your graciousness.”
“I… I don’t know about that. Even if I were to meet someone like that, I wouldn’t have the faintest idea what to do.”
So it’s back to working hard, like always, until that day comes.
“Most people aren’t trained in courtly romance.” Beatrice takes the book, more reverent and careful than she handles most things. “I must admit, I’m always most fascinated by romances between social classes. They love with a freedom that’s beyond my reach.”
“That’s right. Even as a noblewoman, somebody will probably pick a match for you.” The thought gives her a pang. “But if you were in love, I’m sure someone as brave and honest as you would find a way.”
Beatrice stares at the book’s cover until Priscilla worries she’s upset her. Just as she’s about to ask, Beatrice sets the book aside and pops up to her feet.
“That’s it!”
“What’s it?”
“I must give you princess lessons.”
“You… you what?”
Beatrice nods like it’s already been decided—whatever ‘it’ is. “I shall teach you all you need to know, so when an heir appears to court you, you shall be ready.”
“Oh, no, I couldn’t burden you like that.”
“Nonsense. I fear I have been the burden. You taught me all I needed to settle into town. Now I can bake, and eat stew, and even attend pajama parties.” Beatrice bends to take Priscilla’s hands. “Please, let me repay your generosity.”
“You don’t need to worry. It was fun doing all that stuff.”
“As I shall enjoy tutoring you.”
By now, Priscilla knows that when Beatrice gets an idea in her head, she won’t be swayed. “Okay. What should we do first, then?”
“In many of these stories, the lovers meet at balls. Do you know how to dance?” Beatrice asks.
“Unless you mean the kind at harvest festivals, then no. Not at all.”
In the books, the couples sweep so gracefully across the floor, their bodies almost meld together. The idea of doing that without tripping over her feet sounds impossible.
Beatrice claps as if Priscilla’s ineptitude is something to celebrate. “Marvelous. That flat area by the plaza should have plenty of space. We shall just have to pretend there are lights and decorations strewn about.”
They head off toward the plaza with Beatrice’s arm looped through Priscilla’s. Their closeness makes Priscilla giddy before they’ve even begun. Maybe it’s the way Beatrice charges forth into the world, as if she is reaching out to all of it at once.
The breeze kisses Priscilla’s cheeks. Pink flowers bloom in the great tree and perfume the air, their petals scattered across the path like at a wedding. It’s not the first spring she’s spent with Beatrice, but it is the first one where they’ve been close enough to skip arm-in-arm through the plaza.
They arrive at the empty stone semicircle. The river winds beside it, sparkling in the clear afternoon, and Priscilla can’t bring herself to imagine the decorations Beatrice mentioned, not when it would mean erasing this view.
Beatrice dips into a curtsy, which Priscilla tries to mimic. Her movements are jerkier, and her dress is not made to fan out so elegantly as Beatrice’s. Beatrice offers her hand.
“May I have this dance?”
“Yes,” Priscilla squeaks. “I mean, you may.”
They’ve held hands before, but she’s hyperaware of their fingers locking together. Beatrice guides Priscilla’s hand to her shoulder and cups her palm at Priscilla’s waist, all while explaining the steps of a basic waltz. The words flit in and out of her ears like a bee. She’s never stood so close to Beatrice, face-to-face with her sky-colored eyes, as open as Beatrice’s personality. They usually sit beside each other, looking at their books and snacks.
And then there is the warmth blooming everywhere they touch, for all Beatrice’s crystalline adornments evoke ice. Nothing so clear and sharp has ever been so inviting.
Priscilla watches her feet as they begin to step—back, to the side, together, back, to the side, together—avoiding Beatrice’s feet along with her gaze. She feels oddly sticky, and they never work up to twirling effortlessly in each others’ arms, but she doesn’t injure her partner.
“You are a natural at this,” Beatrice says.
“You’re just being nice.”
“I speak truly. You should have seen me during my first lesson. I may have been a little too enthusiastic for such rote steps.”
Priscilla giggles. “Was it like your first harvest dance?”
“Pray, do not remind me. I am still appalled at having knocked over so many pumpkins.”
Unleashing Beatrice’s energy on a dance that was supposed to be wild and unmeasured had led to vegetables toppling in a chain. But that’s how it often is with Beatrice. One thing leads to another, then another, until her influence has touched everything.
“You, on the other hand, would be as splendid at court as you are at such festivals. I have no doubt your mystery suitor will be enamored,” Beatrice says.
At that, Priscilla finally trips over her toes. Because since leaving the gazebo, she hasn’t thought about why they’re doing this, about some childhood hero or storybook character coming to sweep her away. All she’s thought about is Beatrice.
Days later, they sit at the table in Beatrice’s room, for once ignoring the cookies Priscilla has laid out with the tea.
“Did you finish your letter?” Beatrice asks.
As part of her lessons, they agreed to write pretend love letters, ones worthy of the pages of their books. While Priscilla has written countless letters to Lucy, it took several drafts to write something formal and flowery enough. She ended up with a cramped hand and a hot face. Still, she promised Beatrice, so she pulls the letter from her vest. It’s even wrapped with a blue ribbon.
Beatrice unwraps it carefully, and Priscilla tries not to wiggle. She’s never had to watch someone read a letter she wrote, let alone something like this. What makes it worse is that every time she had searched for inspiration, she pictured Beatrice: her elegant speech, her endless curiosity, the feeling of embracing someone you should never have met yet feel you’ve always known.
She isn’t sure when her childhood fancies shifted to the woman in front of her. Maybe it’s simply that she’s grown impatient. That must be it—she would never risk such a valued friendship, after all.
She looks everywhere but at Beatrice. The ruins are a strange place to live, cold and foreboding with damp, uneven walls, but Beatrice’s canopied bed and vases of flowers transform it. Still, there’s something lonely about so much empty space.
“My, this is lovely,” Beatrice breathes.
Priscilla jerks back around to face her. “It is?”
“You have a splendid way with words, Priscilla. I envy the suitor who receives such heartfelt sentiments. Is this truly your first love letter?”
Priscilla ducks her face. “I may have practiced a bit in my diary, now and then.”
“Then you might find my own attempt lacking, but I would be honored if you would read it.”
As Beatrice passes it over, excitement overtakes Priscilla’s embarrassment. She pauses to admire the pink ribbon before unfurling the scroll. The letter seems to be written from the perspective of a princess like Violetta who has fallen for a commoner—not surprising, considering Beatrice devoured that book. Even more than the book did, the letter makes Priscilla’s heart race with every word.
…I marvel that your imagination is as beautiful as you, yet you possess practical skills beyond compare...
…If only you knew how much restraint I must exercise upon spotting smudges of flour beside your delicate mouth...
…I never thought the gods would allow me to fall for someone like you, a beloved friend with whom I could happily spend all my days…
Priscilla’s thumbs dent the paper. She releases it before she can ruin something so wonderful.
“I, I’m sorry. I just remembered I have somewhere to be.”
Her name echoes in the ruins as she rushes out.
Priscilla has to stop herself from over-kneading the pastry dough. Not only did Beatrice listen to her silly dreams, she tried to help her achieve them, and Priscilla rejected her kindness. Her feelings had simply become too big for her, too loud not to drown out a friendship with a fantasy. All she can do is fold her love and regret into each flake of crust.
As she’s arranging the pastries in a basket, a knock sounds on the door. She recognizes it instantly. Beatrice apparently never knocked before coming to Rigbarth, and now she pounds on doors to make sure she’s heard. Priscilla rushes to answer.
“Priscilla. Thank goodness you’re home. I—is that strawberry I smell?”
Beatrice peaks over Priscilla’s shoulder, and Priscilla shuffles aside. “Please, help yourself.”
Beatrice steps inside but doesn’t move toward the table. Is she too upset to accept an apology gift?
“I came to express my dearest regrets about yesterday,” Beatrice says. “Though you were too polite to say so, my letter clearly offended you. Even after a year in this town, I am still making mistakes. Please, forgive whatever insolence I have committed.”
Beatrice bows deeply. It takes Priscilla a moment to process that after everything, Beatrice is standing here, afraid Priscilla will spurn her for some misstep.
“No, not at all! I’m the one who should apologize for running out. I just got overwhelmed.”
“A host should never make their guest uncomfortable. May I ask what caused it?”
Priscilla has always had contingency plans, always toed her way forward, but with Beatrice in her house—not just a vision but her friend, solid and baffling but all the lovelier for it—her feelings spill from her.
“The truth is, I can’t pretend to date some imaginary person. The only princess I want to be with is you.”
Beatrice squeaks out a laugh, and Priscilla’s heart sinks.
“A princess? What would make you say such a thing?”
“I’m sorry. If you just want to be friends, it’s okay. Oh, I’ve made you uncomfortable, haven’t I?”
Beatrice shakes her head. “Please forgive my rudeness. I have never received such a confession. All of my daydreaming did not prepare me to reply properly.”
“I understand. I’m sure you didn’t imagine someone like me confessing.”
“No, that is not—” For the first time that visit, Beatrice smiles. “On the contrary. You are exactly as I had dreamed.”
Since she was young, Priscilla had imagined saying those words. Hearing them said to her, from someone so bright and dear, makes her woozy.
“Really?”
“Yes. I believe the letter I wrote described as much.”
So that was why it had resonated with each beat of her heart. That letter—all those beautiful words—had been for her.
Beatrice grows somber. “My only concern is that there are things about myself, about how I came to be here, that I cannot yet share. You make me wish to be forthright, but this is larger than me. I am afraid it may some day come between us.”
At times, when their friends are all together, Beatrice will withdraw and survey them, or look off into the distance. Priscilla can never seem to reach her in those moments. As she always wants to, she grasps Beatrice’s hands.
“I don’t really understand, but I trust you. I’ll wait until you’re ready to tell me.”
“Thank you, Priscilla. I hope we share many more wonderful days.”
Lifting her hands, Beatrice graces her knuckles with a kiss, and she feels buoyant enough to float above the clouds.
Just like in a dream.