Chapter Text
Beatrice was looking out the parlor window again, a habit she had picked up in the past few days. Much to her relief, none of the members of her large family commented on this new pastime she indulged in, because they were all too busy rediscovering life back in their original bodies. She too was enjoying the perks of having fingers, toes, and pale pink skin dotted with freckles- freckles she had almost forgotten about when blue feathers were covering her. But mostly, since using the witch’s scissors to transform herself and her family human again, Beatrice simply wanted to stare out the window.
“Wishing you were a bird again?” The voice that surprised Beatrice, causing her to jump up slightly from the chair she sat in, was being facetious. It was a well-known fact to everyone that this was not true. No one missed eating worms and dirt. Well, maybe her youngest brother did, but he wasn’t the voice of the majority.
Beatrice ignored her mother’s tease and continued staring at the scenery just outside the windowpanes. It was inevitable that this would happen sooner or later. Someone would finally mention her long periods of gazing, but why did it have to be now? She wasn’t ready to admit anything to anyone. With a sliver of hope pushing against her heart, Beatrice imagined her mother walking away. Maybe if she wished hard enough, it would happen.
Please, please leave me alone.
“Is it that boy? The one from the tree?” Her question was more pointed this time and conveyed a mother’s intuition.
“No,” Beatrice grouchily replied, even though it was a lie.
She hadn’t told her mother, or anyone for that matter, about Wirt and Gregory … about what the three of them had gone through together. But as birds, her family had briefly met the eldest brother she'd traveled with and eventually befriended. It was assumed she was the one who had brought him- that boy- to their tree during a snowstorm, although there had never been any outright admission from her over this assumption. Beatrice never answered them when they asked, choosing to keep quiet about Wirt and Greg. Loss weighed heavily on her, and she anticipated that talking about them would only make her grief swell until it became unbearable. Truthfully, it already felt as if it was.
Her mother came to stand beside her then, but that stubborn streak Beatrice displayed so well as a child, had only grown stronger in her adolescence, and she refused to turn away from the window. She wouldn't give her mother the satisfaction. Nor would she let her see the truth that was so clearly written on her face. The truth she tried to hide from everyone ... even herself. That she missed them. She missed him.
A gentle hand came to rest upon Beatrice’s shoulder, and she did her best to ignore the childish urge to shrug away. “If you ever feel the need to tell me what it is you are thinking of when you stare outside like this, then I’ll-”
“I know, I know,” Beatrice rudely cut her off. “You’ll be there to listen.” She waved her hand flippantly, still refusing to even spare her a glance.
From the corner of her eye, she glimpsed her mother nodding and then slowly turning to leave, but before she could take a step in the opposite direction, guilt- that stupid emotion she'd developed after meeting Wirt- began to take hold. She wasn’t treating her mother very kindly and that little awakening she'd experienced while with the two brothers- realizing how cruel she could be to others- was rearing its ugly head. How annoying it was to feel things. She'd rather feel nothing at all. But she did now, and part of the process of being a better person meant learning from your mistakes. She couldn't be like the old Beatrice. The one who had thrown a rock at a bird simply because she was frustrated with her life. It had been such a mean-spirited thing to do. Certainly, awful enough that a witch transformed her into a bird as punishment. Swallowing her pride, Beatrice grasped her mother’s arm to keep her from leaving. “I’m-I’m sorry, but I’m not ready to talk about … that boy yet or his brother.”
“Oh, that's right. He did have a brother. Did he ever find him?” her mother inquired with renewed interest.
Beatrice's brow furrowed and a retort telling her mother to stop prying nearly made it past her lips before she swallowed it back down like thick gruel. "If only I’d had more time with them. I miss him. I miss them both,” Beatrice sighed.
“I assume, since we haven’t seen him since that day, he must have gone away. Why don’t you try and write to him?” her mother suggested.
“It’s not that easy,” Beatrice mumbled. Yeah, having him disappear over the wall into a place she couldn’t follow definitely meant there was no way to send letters.
“Well, if you don't want to write to him, then why don’t you write to yourself?”
Beatrice skeptically raised an eyebrow. “What does that even mean?”
“You can write how you’re feeling in a letter and not send it. Keep the letter. Maybe it will help you feel better if you transfer your emotions onto paper instead of keeping them locked up inside.”
What her mother said made sense, but that didn’t stop Beatrice from replying sarcastically, “Okay.”
There was a gentle squeeze on her shoulder from her mother as she replied, “It was only a suggestion.”
“Yeah, go write your beau. I’m sure he wants to hear from you. He must miss you soooooo much.” The voice that had intruded on Beatrice’s very private conversation with her mother belonged to her brother. She had five, and sometimes it was difficult figuring out whose voice belonged to who. It forced her to twist in her seat to see the culprit, who was wearing a smirk on his stupid freckled face. Of course, it was Andrew, her nemesis.
“Shut up, you idiot!” She raised one of her hands and curled it into a fist, threatening her teasing sibling, but he only made kissing noises in response, causing Beatrice to jump from her chair to enact revenge.
Later when she was in her room- sent there as punishment for the bloody nose she had given her brother- Beatrice stared at the piece of paper she had pulled out and laid on her desk. In her hand was a pencil. Her fingers kept bringing the writing tool closer to the paper and then pulling it away at the last second. “What am I so nervous about?” She rolled her eyes at her dithering and then finally managed to write something.
Dear Wirt,
So, how is your dumb face?
Beatrice quickly crossed out the sentence and crumpled the paper into a ball. Sarcasm didn’t always translate well into written words, and even if she wasn’t actually writing Wirt, Beatrice thought she should be kind and also honest, something she hadn’t always been with him. After a few more false starts, Beatrice finally decided to begin her letter by being as honest as possible.
Dear Wirt,
I miss you.