Page 6 of Be-Djinn At The Beginning

“Boar,” said Beatrix.

“Whatever it is they’re called in Scotland.” Mrs. Ashwood waved her hand as she kept on, trying to remember what her sister had told her about Mr. Claybourn’s estate and carriage and habits.

Bea’s eyes were locked on the letter tree. Was he still there? Had he thought of her at all these eight years? She was a fool to wonder. She would always be a child to him, someone he had been amused by and nothing more, while she had seen him as a window to the mysterious and magical, as her dearest and only true friend.

“Did I tell you what your aunt told me that Mr. Claybourn told her?” Mrs. Ashwood asked, and Bea fought to keep her lips shut as she had, in fact, told everyone four times. “He said he did not mind a bit of extra ‘cushion’ on a lady since they’ll be wanting children anyway. Isn’t that generous of a gentleman?”

“Yes, entirely too generous,” Bea finally spoke up, tearing her eyes from the woods only for a moment. “To bestow such grace upon my sex that we might be allowed a few extra pounds while we grow another human creature—entirely without help, while they play cards and shoot birds.”

An itchy silence blanketed the room until her eldest sister’s husband muttered, “Not entirely without help.” He was promptly smacked on the arm by his wife while the other men chuckled.

“Mind your tongue. She will find out soon enough.”

Bea had no wish to find out. The men all danced around some subject they found very amusing but apparently dangerous. The women were no better, whispering about how easily a woman could be spoiled, ruined, destroyed—-and in the same breath, equating it with marriage vows. If marriage was so injurious to women, why was it insisted upon? And if it was so important and such a joy, why then did she feel no excitement at the thought of her own wedding?

A flutter of movement caught her eye—surely some animal or another dying leaf spinning to the ground, but it was enough to give her hope.

Also an excuse to leave the conversation.

“I’d like another walk on my own,” she said, sweeping out of the room with an abruptness her family was used to ignoring.

The cool air and the scent of brushfire and mulling spices from the kitchens soothed Bea the moment she stepped outside. This had always been her favorite time of year, and whether it was because of the festivals, bonfires, and the ghost stories, or that it was her time to write to Jack, she couldn’t say. All year, she’d long for these three days. Leaving again, this time as a wife, would change everything.

She saw it right away—a scrap of soot-stained white poking out of the hollow of their tree.

Breath catching, she snatched it up.

Her disappointment at seeing only one short line transformed into thrill the second she read it.

Come to me at tonight’s bonfire.

4

PRAY, GOOD MISSUS, A SOUL CAKE

Beatrix was dressed in black with adornments of sparkling gold, silk scarves painted with thin veins like wings tied at her shoulders and flowed down to fasten at each wrist, and two small twigs were woven into her hair for antennae. Most of the partygoers were trying to disguise themselves as the spirits and demons that walked among them, but Bea wanted to stand out this time. She was there for one person, and she needed him to recognize her.

The chill in the air was not why she shook so badly she could hardly stand. There were people on all sides of her, dancing around the great bonfire in the village center, many wearing face paint or masks of cloth or paper. Some took turns dunking their heads in barrels of water to catch an apple between their teeth; hopeful girls cast hazelnuts into the fire to see if it would burn when they uttered the name of the one they admired; sweethearts snuck off together into the cabbage field to do who knows what—though they returned telling their families that they found a perfect cabbage by moonlight that would bless their union.

All around were turnips carved into marvelously hideous faces, glowing with bits of tallow candle, giving the impression of shrunken floating heads sailing about the dance floor.

Bea searched each face for the only person she wanted to see, but how she would find him while everyone wore a disguise… And she had never seen his face to begin with, she couldn’t say.

“Bea? Little Bea Ashwood, is that you?”

Her feet nearly left the stone beneath as she whipped around to face the young man who called out to her. He seemed far too young to be her worldly, condescending friend.

“Jack?” She narrowed her eyes, trying to see past the burlap sack with the painted face he wore.

“Thomas,” he said, pulling the sack off his head to reveal a mess of blond hair and upturned nose. It was the grown version of a face she had often seen laughing at her when she was young. “Thomas Adams, you must remember me. I used to chase you ‘round the fountain.”

Bea scowled.

“I’m afraid you’ve rather a lot of competition for such a memory, Mr. Adams. That was by no means an original idea of yours.”

Thomas laughed, taking a step closer and reaching out to clasp a few of her fingers that Bea could not pull away in time.

“Well we could try it again now that we’re older and see if you like it when I catch you,” he said.