Beatrice's Fear
Beatrice did not beg.
Mara would remember that later.
Not because it made her noble, but because it showed the shape of her pride. Even cornered, even exposed, Beatrice Morn stood as though the floor belonged to her.
"You want a villain," she said. "How comforting for all of you. One woman with a sharp tongue. One patron with imperfect accounts. Then the court can sleep tonight."
Rowan watched her.
"Speak carefully."
Beatrice laughed under her breath.
"I have spoken carefully my entire life. That was my mistake."
Her eyes moved across the nobles. Some of them had laughed at Mara. Some now arranged their faces into sorrow, as if sorrow could be worn quickly enough to hide what came before.
"When I came to court," Beatrice said, "I had one black gown and a name old enough to impress fools but poor enough to amuse them. These women invited me to tea so they could count my repairs. These men praised my discipline while guessing how long before my family sold its last house."
No one moved.
"I learned," she said. "I learned that pity is a leash. Charity is a ladder. Children with no advocates become steps."
Mara flinched.
Rowan's hand tightened at his side.
Beatrice looked at Mara then, truly looked, and for the first time her cruelty was not polished. It was raw. Tired. Rotten with fear.
"You were supposed to be dead," she said.
The hall recoiled.
Mara did not.
She had no strength left for recoiling.
"When I saw the freckles, I knew," Beatrice continued. "Do you understand what that meant? Years of work undone by a child in a gray dress. A child no one had missed properly."
Madame Clouet whispered, "Monster."
Beatrice's eyes flashed. "Do not pretend this room did not feed me. You signed my reports. You attended my benefits. You applauded when I paraded clean children before you and hid the sick ones behind chapel doors."
The minister gripped the back of a chair.
Beatrice turned back to Rowan.
"Yes. I kept her small. Yes. I took what her name would have taken from me. Yes. I wore the cloth because I wanted every mouth in this room to bless what should have buried me."
Silence followed.
Not dramatic silence.
A sick silence.
Mara stared at the red gown.
The fabric had been dyed so richly that no trace of its old life showed from the outside.
That was what Beatrice had tried to do with her.
Dye her.
Rename her.
Hang her in someone else's ceremony.
Rowan spoke into the silence.
"Understanding your fear does not reduce your guilt."
Beatrice's lips trembled once.
May you like
Then she made them still.
"No," she said. "I suppose it does not."
