Beatriz

Beatriz feels as if she is floating in a dark sky, her body buoyant and tingly, her mind too soft for thoughts to find purchase. She imagines herself a star, the entire world spread out beneath her but too far away to see more than the barest shapes. If she is a star, she isn't alone—there are other stars all around her, twinkling and so bright they're nearly blinding. One of them, she knows in the deepest part of her soul, is Sophronia, and that thought alone manages to stick, filling Beatriz with warmth.

Is she dead? The idea flickers through her, but she can't summon any kind of shock or horror or even relief about it, and a second later the thought has disappeared, blown away like dandelion fluff in the wind.

Something pulls at her arm—do stars have arms?—but after a second she forgets about that, too, until it happens again. And again.

She comes to suddenly, bright white light flooding her vision, sea-tinged Cellarian air filling her lungs, the feeling of her cotton nightgown and linen bedsheets against her cool skin. Her life comes back to her in fragments, sixteen years filtering into her memory in a single second, dizzying her.

Gisella's hand is locked on her arm, the grip a vise. Beatriz stares at it a moment.

"If you don't remove your hand," she says, her voice coming out in a rasp, "I'll remove your head."

Gisella scoffs but does release Beatriz, taking a step back from the bed.

Beatriz's bed, she remembers. She took the potion Gisella gave her and barely managed to change into her nightgown before the drug pulled her under.

"We took the same dose," Gisella says, seemingly more to herself than Beatriz. "But perhaps you have a weaker constitution, since it affected you more."

The sound of her voice grates on Beatriz and she rolls away from Gisella, covering her ears with a pillow, which Gisella swiftly rips away from her. Perhaps, she wants to say but can't form the words, my constitution was already weakened from the sleeping draughts you gave me to get me from Bessemia to Cellaria.

"The wedding is beginning in an hour," Gisella says, tugging the quilt off Beatriz as well.

Beatriz would happily murder her—if she could summon enough strength into her body to do more than lift her arms.

More memories come to Beatriz—speaking to Daphne the night before, her sister wishing for Beatriz to have her magic back, the feel of that magic flooding through her. She can't feel it now, but then she can't feel much of anything now through the drugged haze that envelops her. She remembers insisting that Gisella swallow the same potion she gave Beatriz, watching Gisella closely as she mixed the ingredients the guards brought for her to ensure that Gisella didn't take the opportunity to kill Beatriz like the empress had instructed her to. After that, she remembers nothing atall.

"You're going to have to drag me down the aisle," Beatriz says when she manages to find words. She's in earnest—she doesn't think she can stand on her own, much less walk—but Gisella glares at her, apparently assuming she's intentionally being difficult. After a second, she seems to realize Beatriz is being serious and a brief flash of guilt crosses her face before it's gone, replaced by cool indifference.

"It should wear off in an hour's time," she says. "I'll send for extra maids to help you get out of bed."

She turns away from Beatriz, walking to the door that leads to the sitting room. As soon as she's gone, Beatriz turns her face to the window, where a scant few stars have already appeared in the purpling sky. She searches for the magic, summons it to the surface, but it feels like trying to summon wind in a crypt.

It isn't like before, she tells herself. She can feel the magic. But it's just out of reach. Her fingertips can graze it, but she can't quite grab hold.

The door opens again and Gisella returns, followed by no fewer than a dozen maids with matching cheerful expressions.

"I told them you indulged a bit too much last night," Gisella says with an affectionate shake of her head. "You certainly aren't the first bride to do so, but you'll need a bit of extra assistance getting ready tonight. Help her stand," she adds to the maids, and two of them step forward, gently taking hold of each of Beatriz's arms and pulling her to her feet. Even with their support, she sways and her knees threaten to buckle.

Gisella looks her over, lips pursed, before she addresses the maids again. "I'm afraid we only have an hour, but I trust you'll do your best to make her look like the future Queen of Cellaria she is," she says.

As the maids move her limbs like a doll to dress her in the layers of chemises and stays and petticoats and, finally, the frothy lace wedding dress that surely weighs more than Beatriz herself does, the fog of her mind begins to clear and she feels more and more like herself. There are no windows in the sitting room, so she can't feel the tug of her magic, but she suspects if she could, it would come to her willingly now.

The maids move on to styling her hair and painting her face—all while Gisella observes from the nearby sofa, glancing up from a book every so often to offer a suggestion or critique. Beatriz is barely aware of any of them. She's thinking about the geography of the palace, the long winding halls that will lead from her rooms to the chapel. Halls lined with windows that should offer a passing glimpse of the stars.

She could make a wish then, she thinks. It would have to be quick—picking out a star, concentrating on it, giving voice to her wish—but she could do it. Gisella would realize what she was up to, but she wouldn't be able to stop her.

Or.

Beatriz imagines herself entering the chapel, dressed in this ridiculous monstrosity of a wedding gown, the eyes of all the most influential people in Cellaria on her, watching her call upon the stars and break their most serious law, disappearing before their eyes.

If Daphne were here, she would tell her to be practical, but Daphne isn't here and Beatriz has always loved a spectacle.