The story unfolded in fits and spurts, for Charles paused frequently to gather himself. Beatrice couldn’t blame him.

“At the beginning of our acquaintance, I thought her a demon. Untouched and untouchable, save by love for her order and hatred for our kind.” he paused again to scoff and take a drink of tea, as though the words soured his tongue. His gaze was distant, dark, but he must have glimpsed Beatrice’s questioning look.

“Fox’s power may be suppressed, but it’s never been so completely locked away as the Crown always claimed. Once every decade or so, her blessing breaks through. The League usually swoops in quickly, suppresses all word of the unfortunate’s existence. Intimidation is an art at which they excel. But among their own ranks, they speak of us as abominations against the shared will of all good spirits.” He looked up for the first time in a while to meet her eyes as she listened, a hand covering her mouth as if it could hold in her horror.

“I thought Darcy’s hatred could never burn out. And perhaps I was right…but for every day she tortured me, that fire burned deeper inward. What they made her do to me…it ate at her. It broke her. It changed her.”

Fighting to keep what little she’d eaten of her breakfast where it was, it took Beatrice a moment to speak.

“And yet, she continued?”

“She dared not stop, for my torment would only go on at the hands of another, and one who might not be so careful to preserve my life. But when her superiors were finally satisfied at my lack of power, when they finally called her off, she made the proposal. She’d take me into her newly-forming bachelor pack, that I might remain under their eye—just in case—without their having to imprison me outright. This was the reason she gave, and which they were happy to accept. It brought them no little joy, I’m sure, to send me home with my tormentor.”

At that, Charles took another drink and sat back, and in his eyes Beatrice saw that he’d lost himself to memory. She waited in silence for him to go on, hands twisting at the fabric of her robe. She wouldn’t push him, nor could she think how to comfort him with words alone. Again she longed to close the distance between them, the memory of his earlier embrace bright in her thoughts. But it had been he who’d taken hold of her then, and she was now rather more keenly aware of the inadequacy of her attire.

“Of course I didn’t trust her, when at last she’d gotten me away from the League and was able to speak freely. When she told me she meant to cleanse the corruption of her order from within. Not until the day she handed me a dagger, pressed her breast to its tip, and told me that if I would not take part in her redemption, I should at least take my revenge.”

Beatrice gasped, and Charles’ lips twisted up in a smirk.

“I’ve never met another person more a slave to her own sense of honor than Dame Darcy Stagston,” he said. “Nor shall I ever. She hardly even flinched when I stabbed her. Barely made a sound.” At the look on Beatrice’s face, he laughed.

“I stopped when I hit bone, of course, and she healed up well enough. She is a singular woman, your wife, our packmate.”

Something clenched around her heart.

“Do…” Beatrice bit at her lip, hesitating. “Do you truly believe Gray will be able to restore any of her memories?”

At that his already troubled expression darkened, heavy brows drawing together.

“Beatri—my lady, I…”

The door to the greenhouse balcony creaked open, and both their heads snapped up as Victoria wobbled through. Wild-haired and rubbing at her eyes with one little fist, she clutched a book under the other arm.

“Victoria!” Charles exclaimed, jumping to his feet only to kneel before her. “What are you doing up so early, dearest? Another nightmare?”

The little girl frowned, looking over her father’s shoulder at Beatrice as she spoke.

“I w-wanted to say goodbye to Papa Darcy before she goes away, but I c-can’t find her, and the Suits won’t take me to her,” she said, hiccuping a bit.

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“Oh, my dearest,” said Charles, lifting her up in his arms. “We told you that last night was your goodbye. You’re a growing girl, and you need your rest.”

At this the child frowned, now clutching the book to her chest with both chubby arms.

“But I want Papa Darcy.”

Charles’ brows flew upward.

“So I was mistaken, then, and you are not a growing girl?”

Victoria’s cheeks flushed a furious shade of rose. “I am too! I am!”

“Then let’s get you back to bed, dearest, shall we?” Turning sideways a touch, he gave Beatrice an apologetic glance.

“Very well,” huffed the child as Beatrice, still queasy, tried not to laugh. Such authority!

“But I shall need another story first.” Victoria hefted the book up into Charles’ face, and his brows furrowed together in bemusement even as Beatrice gasped.

“That’s my journal,” she squeaked, hands flying up to hesitate in the air, for she couldn’t quite bring herself to snatch it from the child’s grasp.

Charles frowned down at his daughter, shifting her weight to one arm as he relieved her of the journal and returned it to its flustered owner.

“Victoria, why did you have that?”

The little girl looked confused.

“It was in mama’s rooms. I’ve always borrowed books from mama’s rooms. It’s allowed as long as I put them back after.” Her lip trembled.

“Dearest, those are Lady Beatrice’s rooms now. You must not enter without her permission.”

Tears welled in Victoria’s eyes.

“But I—”

“It’s alright,” said Beatrice, stepping forward. “You may still come and go in all the rooms of the suite save my bedchamber. I prefer you’d knock if you’d like to enter that one.”

“And don’t go in at all when she isn’t there,” added Charles, almost stern.

The little girl sniffed. “B-but may Papa still read me a story from your book? The pictures are so pretty, and all the others I’ve heard a thousand billion times already,”

Now Beatrice was the one flushing.

“Oh, it’s, well—it’s not really a story,” she hedged, untrue though it was. The journal’s contents were nothing less than her fondest hopes and dreams and most secrets thoughts—and she’d woven each and every one of them into the narrative of her own personal fairy tale. Beatrice gnawed her lip.

“At least, it’s not an ordinary story, meant for just anyone at all to read,” she amended, and Victoria’s watery eyes grew hopeful. “It’s a special story, meant for a special few. And it’s still unfolding as we speak. Only I can read it to you, and only you and D’artanien can hear it.” Leaning in, she put a hand up to one side of her lips.“It’s not for papas,” she whispered conspiratorially. Victoria giggled.

“But you have to promise not to mind that the story isn’t finished yet,” she added. The girl nodded solemnly. Charles studied Beatrice’s face, his own expression indecipherable.

“I promise,” said Victoria, raising a crooked pinkie finger. Smiling a bit tremulously, Beatrice hooked it in her own. Thusly, the matter was settled. Charles escorted them as far as Victoria’s bedroom door on the opposite wing of the same floor, then turned to Beatrice to take her hand in his.

A look of significance passed between them. There were things left unsaid, questions left unasked and unanswered. But they would wait.

“I shall leave you to it then, and attend other matters,” he said, squeezing her hand before adding, in a near silent whisper, “thank you.” He hesitated and then was off, leaving Beatrice alone with her new bond-daughter for the first time.

“Come on,” said Victoria, tugging at her hand. “Before I stop growing!”

With D’artanien trundling along in her wake, Beatrice followed—eyes going wide as she took it all in. If she’d had any doubts before that this was a child much-indulged, she hadn’t any longer. The chamber was a spectacle of violet curtains and comforters and cushions, glittering toys, and gold-framed paintings of fantastical animals in jewel-bright colors.

Hopping into her bed and burrowing under the covers, Victoria watched her with wide, expectant eyes. And so, taking a seat at the edge of the girl’s downy bed, Beatrice opened the journal to her latest entry. Haltingly at first, and then with more confidence, she began to read. Victoria listened with rapt and increasing attention. But the exiled princess had only just reached a dark and mysterious castle when the door of the bedroom creaked open and Jemison leaned in.

“I heard someone was having trouble sleep—”

A throw pillow bounced off his face.

“Not for papas!” shouted Victoria, leveling another silken projectile. At his post to the side of the door, D’artanien made a creaky, dusty sort of sound that Beatrice recognized a moment later as laughter.

“Oh,” said Jemison, peering from one to the other of them with a questioning expression that received no answer. “My apologies. I shall away with my blasphemous presence.”

“Thank you!” called Victoria after him as, shaking his head, the Tiger shifter backed out and shut the door once more. Then the child turned her attention again to Beatrice with a look of long suffering.

“I hope you finish the story before another papa comes in,” she said. “If it’s Papa Demitri next time, it won’t be so easy.”

Beatrice’s breath caught in her throat.

“P-Papa Demitri?”

Victoria’s head bobbed on its pillow.

“Mhm.”

“Who is that, Victoria?”

The little girl scrunched her nose.

“My blood-papa. He visits sometimes using the mirror door.”

Beatrice let the journal fall into her lap as a cool stream of fear trickled down her spine.

“Through the mirror door? And where is that?”

Victoria sighed, as though much burdened by having to answer the many inane questions of grown-ups.

“It’s where he puts it,” she replied. “Could you finish reading the story now, please?”