A few days had passed. Outside the windows, snow still fell in thin, lazy flakes, covering the gardens in a delicate blanket. The palace walls creaked at night from the wind, and the fireplaces crackled with dry branches, unable to warm the stone chill. Beatrice still felt the echo of that fear in her chest, the one that had gripped her back in the greenhouse. But she couldn't talk about it. Not with Lynette. Not with Theodore. Not even with herself.
She chose another path: to fill her days to the brim. So there would be no room left for memories.
On one of those gray, sleepy days, she called for a lady-in-waiting.
– Find a tutor. Or at least a senior scribe who can tell me about the local customs. About myths. About religions.
The lady-in-waiting blinked, unable to hide her surprise, but quickly bowed.
And within an hour, a dried-up old man in a long robe entered her chambers, exuding the smell of parchment and old lavender.
The lessons were odd.
First, about religion.
Beatrice, politely propping her cheek with her hand, listened as the teacher reverently described complex rituals, in which peasants hung straw dolls on their gates "to ward off water spirits."
– So, – she asked thoughtfully, – if the spirits decide to attack, they'll be scared off by a sack of hay on a stick?
The teacher choked a little, but nodded seriously:
– Oh yes, Your Majesty. With hay, especially if it's tied with a red thread.
Beatrice glanced down at the carefully drawn diagram of a "proper doll" in her notebook. Her modern, logical mind was laughing out loud inside. But she only nodded with an inscrutable face.
Then came the old wars.
The teacher enthusiastically told the story of the great battle at Broken Pass, where "armies stood facing each other for three days, but settled the outcome with a dance and drums, so as not to spoil the land for spring sowing."
Beatrice nearly dropped her pen.
– Excuse me… did they really hold a dance… battle… a dance contest for the land?
The teacher coughed awkwardly:
– The dance competition had… a sacred meaning.
Beatrice only nodded in silence, imagining what a modern news report from such a battlefield would look like.
There were also myths.
About a lake, in which "the queen of dead fish lives at night," and where you mustn't whisper names, or else you'll be forgotten in life. About tiny guardian spirits said to hide in old chairs, protecting the house.
About the great beast Seraphont—a lion with raven's wings, who, legend has it, will appear again when the longest winter comes. Beatrice wrote it all down carefully. Not because she believed it, but because she understood: sometimes, myths rule people stronger than laws.
Sometimes, the ladies-in-waiting eavesdropped and stifled their laughter. Sometimes, Beatrice allowed herself a weightless, faint smile at the oddities of the world she now had to live in. Still… behind every smile was the thought: to win here, you have to understand this world completely.
And while for someone these lessons might be a trivial amusement, for her, it was a way to survive.
The day was drawing to evening.
Beatrice, tired of parchment, legends of dead fish, and complicated explanations of sacred dances, stepped out into the gallery leading to her chambers.
The old wooden boards creaked quietly under her feet.
From the tall, pointed windows, cold winter light fell, tinting the walls a dull amber. She walked slowly, her thoughts lost in endless efforts to remember everything she'd heard—yet her mind kept returning not to spirits, but to that day in the greenhouse.
To that fear. That touch. How much her hands had trembled.
When a shadow appeared around the corner, Beatrice tensed instinctively, out of habit. But the footsteps were familiar.
Steady. Firm. Warm.
Theodore.
He walked toward her, a little more relaxed than usual, the day clearly having been hard for him as well. Seeing her, he slowed his step.
His face wore none of the sternness that so often masked him before the Council. On the contrary, something gentle, almost involuntary, flickered in his gaze. Theodore stopped in front of her, bowing his head:
– Your Majesty.
Beatrice replied with an equally slight nod.
They stood across from each other, and the air between them quivered with something strange, unspoken. Theodore glanced at the scrolls and notes in her hands, raising an eyebrow.
– Are you waging war on legends and spirits?
Beatrice smiled at the corner of her lips.
– More like surrendering to them, – she answered calmly. – They're stronger than they seem.
Theodore smiled—not with mockery, but with gentle understanding.
– A world where dances settle wars and straw dolls ward off evil, – he remarked, – sometimes it's easier to accept than to change.
Beatrice nodded, running her fingers along the edge of one of her notes.
– I'll have to do more than just learn them, – she said quietly. – I'll have to speak their language.
For a second, their eyes met. She drew a small breath and, lowering her gaze, quietly added:
– Your Majesty… about what happened in the greenhouse…
Theodore straightened a little, not interrupting. Beatrice hesitated.
Words did not come easily. How do you explain what you can't say aloud? How do you admit that sometimes every touch feels less like a hand and more like a sword bringing death? She gently shook her head.
– I… – she exhaled. – I'm sorry. It was just a bad dream. A nightmare. You don't need to… trouble yourself over it.
She tried to smile, lightly, casually. But there was still a subtle uncertainty trembling in her eyes.
Theodore watched her for a long moment. His face stayed calm, almost distant. But in his eyes, something flickered that he would never have shown anyone else: a shadow of care. He nodded.
– As you wish, Your Majesty, – he said quietly.
And he didn't ask further. He didn't make her explain what she couldn't explain. He just accepted her words.
And only after that, when the tension had faded a little, Theodore allowed himself a gentle smile:
– Then I should fear for my throne if you now decide to conquer the spirits faster than me.
Beatrice met his eyes for a moment. And for the first time in a long while, she smiled wider, a smile that wasn't forced.
– Perhaps, – she agreed softly. – But first, I should learn how to tell a shrine from a straw scarecrow.
They both laughed. Not loudly. Not showily.