Before they took off, Beatrice contemplated his words. “Bill, that isn’t wisdom! They’re the<span style="font-style: italic">stoopid</span>ones for thinking saying what they say to us is<span style="font-style: italic">gentlemanly</span>just ‘cause they think we don’t understand them. You’re heaps better than that, dummy.” A smile could be felt on his shoulder before she rose back upright. Bill could be just as harsh on himself mentally as Beatrice could onto him physically, although the latter came with much more innocent intentions. It seemed that most slaves and peasant children were self depreciating. It was just easier. It gave us an answer. It was the only way us kids could understand why we were treated this way. But Beatrice refused to believe that they were the problem. Not like this, anyway.<br/><br/>It was without a doubt that the girl was to instantly swat a hand at him, like the swift swiping of an agile cat’s paw, the moment he brought up pretty dresses and boys. Her face quickly flushed as she pursed a smile, watching him spin away while muttering; “y’know, I<span style="font-weight: bold">would</span>look pretty in one,” before she willed the conversation to press on forward. Beatrice absolutely adored the fashion that rich people got to wear. It was why she took up sewing as one of her servant skills; she got to help fix noble children’s gowns and things, coming closer each day with the faint hope that she could learn how to weave similar seams. As for the whole marriage and ‘meeting handsome boys' ordeal, Beatrice reckoned that a man wouldn’t want someone as unladylike as her anyway, growing less and less interested in ‘gentlemen’ the more she worked as a reaper. Before she died, she had entertained the idea, though. What a life she could live if somehow an extremely handsome, rich, nice, intelligent boy fancied her attractive, married her into wealth, picked her off of the streets! That way she’d have a family, she wouldn’t be so alone, people would look after her for once, and she could be the beautiful heroine of the story that she had always wanted. A girl could dream…<br/><br/>But it’s hard to dream when you’re already dead.<br/><br/>Beatrice rolled her eyes as the dodo looked as though it were also going to die with its dramatically puffed up feathers. “Oh, please, get o’er yourself, dodo,” she snorted, “but yeah sure, you can look after him. He might make a nice pillow.” With teasing eyes, she looked down to stare at the creature, who gave a confused, startled cluck. And with a light tug on Bill’s sleeve, the three of them sought after the darkness.<br/><br/>She felt Bill’s hand grip after her arm as they walked down the steep staircase. She quickly turned around to find her friend had cut his finger. “Ah, did the cobblestone cut ye deep? I’ve a tiny handkerchief if you’d want it,” she offered (but more so stated), reaching into her dress pocket and tucking a small rectangle of linen into his palm before he even had the chance to respond. She often overreacted to things that were probably very minor, but Bill had become like family to her. They were part of an odd, immortal, dark magic, creepy underworld family, but that link made them familiars all the same. Due to this, she felt the need to protect him, no matter what. She didn’t want to ever lose sight of family again.<br/><br/>Eventually they reached the girl’s rooms, a torch lighting the double doors that held captive the young hearts of the tormented, tainted or misjudged. She patted away some of the dust and dirt from her dress that evidenced their venture outside before trotting over to the entrance. Looking over at Bill and the bird, she waved them off before carefully peeling open the large wooden frame and slipping into the narrow crack. A small, high pitched whisper of ‘nice work tonight!’ echoed over and accompanied Bill towards the boy’s quarters that lied further down the corridor.<br/><br/>Beatrice walked slowly to her specific room, which held four other roommates younger than her sleeping soundly in their mattresses; two beds on either side of a cramped space shared between them. Perhaps it was why they never seemed to question her too much when she left for reaping; they simply summed it up as extra duties for older children. She scratched the back of her head and sighed, wondering how many hours of sleep she’d get before someone in the castle needed her bleedin’ help again. Blindly and clumsily fumbling to her side of the bed, she changed into her sleeping gown as quickly as possible and sunk into her pillow.<br/><br/>It wasn’t to last long. Dragons were terrible at singing lullabies.