Chapter Text
Over the course of her life, Bernadetta had had plenty of time to become accustomed to the feeling of being frightened to death. She’d become intimately familiar with the nausea, the feeling of her heartbeat drumming against the inside of her chest like a cornered little creature desperately searching for an escape, her mind going blank as it played and re-played the worst what-ifs her imagination could conjure. And yet…
Bernadetta made a frustrated sound and turned onto her side, burying her head deep in her pillow. And yet, she’d been so sure she was getting better.
Not good, of course, never good, she couldn’t remember a time where the simple act of being among other people, being perceived and judged by them didn’t make her break out in cold sweat. Still, she’d been convinced that there was improvement there, her friends had told her as much, and that was new too: Having friends, companions, people she could – and did – rely on. And sometimes she managed to believe them, too, when they told her that victory could not have been possible without her, that she would always have a home with them, and most importantly, that they’d never, ever harm her.
And yet, and yet...she couldn’t quell the panic that welled up in her like bile whenever she felt her companions’ gaze on her.
Well. That was a bit of a lie, or at least an obfuscation of the truth. She didn’t regress into her old self like this with Linhardt, with whom she sometimes even liked to spend time in silent companionship, him reading and her writing or sketching, in a quiet appreciation of each other’s companionship much like cats would. Even Hubert, tall, dark, intimidating Hubert barely frightened her into taking off to her room in a mad sprint anymore. And that was the crux of the matter, really: What an ungrateful friend she was, panicking at the mere sight of Dorothea and Petra, when they’d been her most ardent supporters all throughout the hellish toils of war.
Stupid Bernie! Useless, neurotic girl!
And it was mortifying, oh so mortifying, to be reduced to stammering her way through excusing herself to her room and having her friends coddle her, saying it’s fine and thank you for trying as if having a breakdown half an hour into a social event with important Almyran representatives present because Dorothea asked her to dance was anything to be thankful for. She’d run, because she always ended up running, because…because…
You remind me of prey.
The memory of a lilting, lightly accented voice immediately set her nerves aflame with adrenaline. The phrase echoed through Bernie’s mind as if it was bouncing off the walls of a large, empty cavern, and with every repetition she could feel her heart rate spike. And it was stupid, it was so stupid , she knew Petra was kind and considerate and loyal and would never ever hurt her, she knew it, but her heart wouldn’t accept it. She had proof, too, there’d been an awful, horrible day during the war – not that there was a day in the war that hadn’t been awful and horrible – where they’d been ambushed while scouting ahead of the army. Bernie hadn’t paid attention, hadn’t heeded Petra’s cry of warning, and there’d been a flash of steel and a searing pain and the tip of a lance had sliced a cut that was rapidly weeping red through her clothes all the way from her navel to her hip bone. After that, her memory went hazy, she remembers Petra first supporting her as her legs buckled under her, then dragging her through the snow and leaving a sickening red trail behind even as Bernie protested, begging her to just leave her behind. Because the thought of freezing to death on some forlorn mountain pass scared her to the point of tears, but the thought of slowing Petra down to die at the hands of another ambush party, or the countless animals that must have undoubtedly been attracted to the scent of her blood in search for an easy meal was infinitely worse, made her accept death with open arms. Yet Petra would hear none of it, she just dragged her onwards, shushing her pleas with a voice too warped by fear to be commanding. And so the wounded archer weakly struggled and kicked while the last of her strength was drained from her, until the world faded away into a whirling, blinding white.
She’d awoken three days later, and the ugly, gnarled scar on her abdomen and the dark circles under Manuela’s bloodshot eyes had told her that it had been close, far too close this time. And if Petra hadn’t insisted for whatever reason to carry her limp body back to camp like a fresh kill to drain, that would have been it for her.
You remind me of prey , her mind supplied, and Bernie clasped her hands over her ears and pushed until the only sound remaining was the rapid drumming of her pulse, but the echo persisted. You remind me of prey , it sang, and Dorothea’s teasing voice joined – because she was definitely teasing, she had to be teasing – purring I saved the last dance for you, Bernie and even in her memory she had to bite her lip to hide an embarrassing squeak.
She wanted to stay in her room forever to never see the light of day again.
She wanted Dorothea and Petra to forget she ever existed.
She wanted to talk to her friends without having to fight the urge to bolt.
She wanted to be normal for once , and she wanted for once that her hands would not get clammy and her breathing would not grow shallow like a fish on dry land when she was in Petra’s and Dorothea’s presence.
She wanted to not make a fool of herself when she had their attention.
She wanted, she wanted, she wanted... Goddess , she wanted their attention.
Shaky hands gripped purple hair as she tried to force her thoughts towards less troublesome waters, but unbidden images flashed before her eyes no matter what she did, images of Dorothea’s lovely blush and Petra’s vibrant eyes and her muscles and Dorothea’s breasts heaving with laughter as she imagined Petra’s accent colouring soft words of praise and they made her heart beat with panic, but a good panic, an exhilarating rush and Goddess what was wrong with her?
She shouldn’t be enjoying thinking about her friends like this, bad Bernie !
And yet, and yet, and yet…
Goddess, did she want .
And it was alright, right? Although romance wasn’t her favourite of all genres, since she struggled writing it and much preferred the escapism of heroic tales of beast slayers and royal knights, she still knew how the stories went: A love unrequited, ill-fated, impossible, as an obstacle the hero must overcome. And really, if she buried these feelings deep down and never, ever, ever told a living soul, no harm could come from them, right? It’s not like she wasn’t prepared. Women like her didn’t have an easy time finding romance, or at least that was what Manuela had told her back when she handed shivering, terrified Bernie the first dose of medication that brought her somewhat closer towards the kind of body she desired to have. And that was only the tip of the iceberg of the neurotic, undesirable, unmarriageable mess she really was. So, in some way, she’d always been prepared to keep any romantic desires deep within herself, just like all her other weird proclivities and hobbies. She didn’t need to give people more reasons to hate her, really.
She could do it. She’d have to do it. Petra and Dorothea were her friends and they’d...miss her? Yes, they’d miss her if she just suddenly disappeared, they’d spent countless times reassuring her of this. She couldn’t just hide herself away like she used to, and she wouldn’t want to – she’d become reliant on their friendship, the friendship of all the Black Eagles, as much as socialising with them tended to exhaust her.
And so, she managed to drag herself out of bed. She was still tolerated in Enbarr, and as much as Edelgard reassured her that she was a trusted and needed advisor, Bernie suspected they were keeping her on out of pity because they knew what...who would be waiting for her back home. No matter how awkward and out of place she felt in the palace, she chose not to look that particular gift horse in the mouth. She would eventually wear out her welcome anyway. A cherished friend she may be, but everyone needed a break from Bernie every now and then.
There was never an obligation for her to have breakfast with the rest of her former classmates (nor was there for them, technically, but old habits died hard, she supposed), but every now and then she still liked to join them. Thankfully, by now even Caspar had learned not to draw attention to her arrival, he just grinned and knocked over his cup trying to make space on the table for her. She scanned the room – Petra and Dorothea were nowhere to be seen. It’s for the best , Bernie told herself, maybe, with enough distance, these feelings will just go away.
Her heart, however, did not listen to reason, and continued to sting with disappointment at their absence.
Edelgard had arranged a state-of-the-art greenhouse to be erected on the palace grounds, just for her. It was an explicit statement of love and appreciation and an implicit statement of please, don’t hide away in your room all day . And it was easier now, since barely anyone ever visited the greenhouse due to the pungent odour of the everlasting corpse flower recently imported from Brigid. It wasn’t so bad, really, if one could get used to the smell. Or, and that was the more likely option, maybe Bernie had just learned to associate it with safety far away from prying eyes and judgement for speaking to all her little plants as if they were her own children. She was prone to spend hours there, days, maybe, if her friends didn’t regularly come and collect her after sunset to ensure she’d get some proper sleep. Time passed in the greenhouse didn’t seem real. It didn’t seem real to feel safe in a place that wasn’t her room, a place that was erected basically for her sake. Maybe she expected the illusion to shatter one day, but until then it would be a shame to leave the greenhouse to fall into disuse.
She ducked into the entrance swiftly – there were always people about in and around the palace, and she couldn’t stand the thought of being recognized and having to come up with answers to a conversation she hadn’t practised beforehand. The gravel under her feet gave way to softer sand and the smell of decay that surrounded the everlasting corpse flower like a heavy, hot cloak filled her nostrils. She barely even had to retch anymore. She smiled at orchids that had clustered near the entrance. They were still looking a bit sickly, they didn’t much enjoy their transport and Bernie yet had to find the kind of soil that provided them with all the yummy nutrients they needed -
voices.
Bernie was glued to the spot as if her feet had sprouted roots. It was wrong, nobody should be here, this was her place and nobody should be here and oh, now her mind was running away with her. While a small voice in the back of her head tried to convince her that it was okay, the greenhouse wasn’t – and shouldn’t be – closed off to the public, that she could just come back another time, the fear had gripped her, sunk its teeth into her neck and was shaking her violently. They were waiting for her, hiding between the leaves, prowling for her like wolves -
laughter. Laughter?
She leaned forward on the balls of her feet, looking for an angle from which she could see who had snuck into her secret place. Between the leaves, she saw bright flash of colours, two figures standing in front of the corpse flower, huddled closely together.
“You are being silly, it takes just a little time to get used to the smell!”
The figures shuffled to the side a bit and Bernie got a real glimpse of them, but it wouldn’t have been necessary. The way Bernie’s body reacted to Petra’s voice was telltale.
Her heart rate picked up.
Her pulse pounded in her ears.
This had to be how a rabbit felt in the eyes of a hawk.
She saw Dorothea now, too, a velvet scarf pulled up all the way over her nose despite it being a late harp string moon morning.
“Hunters back home are using it to mask their smell. The prey can’t even smell them coming!”
Somewhere, distantly, a part of Bernie’s mind couldn’t wait to hear more, wanted to be the one Petra was excitedly sharing parts of her culture with. Dorothea mumbled a few words that were muffled by her scarf. Whatever it was, it seemed to amuse Petra to no end, the shorter woman beginning to bounce on the balls of her feet with excitement. She took a step forward, standing almost close enough to Dorothea for their noses to touch, and oh, Bernie knew she should leave. She was not wanted here. So why couldn’t she get her feet to move? Petra hooked her thumbs into Dorothea’s scarf, pulling it down quickly and -
They were kissing.
Petra pulled Dorothea’s face down to hers and Dorothea’s hands found her hips without a second of hesitation. As if they were practised. As if they’d done this before.
Bernie shouldn’t be watching this. She shouldn’t be watching this like a dirty, depraved pervert. She shouldn’t, she shouldn’t, she shouldn’t – she couldn’t look away. Her racing heartbeat reached a fever pitch, she was surely seconds away from passing out as she screamed at herself to just go, just leave. The way the couple seemed to sink into each other, she wished it was her, she wished she was there…
They broke apart, just gazing at each other for a beat, and it was so, so painfully intimate. Then Dorothea broke down in barely stifled giggles and buried her face into the crook of Petra’s neck.
“It smells so bad, darling!”
Bernie didn’t know why it was the pet name that made her break. But it was something about the way the word darling left Dorothea’s lips, her voice vibrating with laughter, that shattered Bernie’s resolve. She only knew the sound, a horrible strangled croak, had escaped her after she had already slapped her hands over her mouth. It was too late, of course. Both women had turned to the source of the sudden noise, staring at her blankly before recognition set in seconds later.
Bad Bernie! Stupid, useless, disgusting girl!
The voices in her head were unbearably loud, she flinched back from their scolding as if they were a physical thing. She saw Dorothea open her mouth, registered her saying something , but the words were lost in the vortex of horrible thoughts circling around her mind in an infinite, horrid loop, grasping hold of her, pulling her under. She stumbled backwards, realizing she’d fallen only when the back of her head hit the sand. They were rushing towards her now, and she was vaguely aware that she was still crawling away from them in a feeble attempt to leave this horrible situation. They were rushing towards her now, no, they were coming for her, coming to hurt her, she had to run run run run
She was hiding under the covers when she came to. A wave of shame immediately doused her - she hadn’t had to run like that in years, and to hide under her blankets like a scared child? Embarrassing! Mortifying! What a stupid, broken girl she was.
There were scrapes on her hands and knees, probably from crawling through sand and gravel. Now that her panic was subseeding, the pain flared up. It was far from the worst thing she ever felt, but it was a constant reminder of how useless she was, how little progress she’d made, how she still wasn’t able to tell friend from foe. She was covered in dirt, too, and the Goddess knew how many people had seen her flee to her room.
There goes Bernie again , they’ll have thought, six years since our academy days and she still hasn’t matured .
She looked down at her scrapes miserably. They weren’t particularly deep, however some were bleeding slightly. Her friends would probably want her to seek out a healer to get the cuts cleaned to avoid infection, but Bernie wasn’t sure she deserved the care and resources. She probably didn’t deserve the worry of her friends either, not after all the abhorrent things she’d been thinking about them.
She should leave, yes, she was no longer safe to be around. Ignoring her aching wrists, she dragged herself to her desk, pulled out paper and a quill and got to writing her letter of resignation as an advisor. She had to start over multiple times, because she smeared blood on the left hand corner of her first draft, ruined the second and third with her useless shaky hands, and smudged the fourth with teardrops - she hadn’t even noticed that she’d started to cry. Well, if this was to be her final resignation, she might as well make a fool of herself one last time.
DearYour Highn Edelgard,
Regrettab
I am deeply sorry to announce that
due to my own incompe
I am no longer able to perform my duties as your advisor.
I’m sorry
I shall be leaving
and not bother you
first thing in the morning and hopefully, by the time you find this letter, I’ll be out of your reach.
I’m so sorry I’m sorry
Bernie
Bernadetta
She should probably hide that letter somewhere, so nobody would accidentally stumble upon it before she’d taken a horse and ridden as far as she could towards Varley territory. But what if she hid it too well and they never found it? Would they think Bernie had been kidnapped? Would they search for her for days on end, fearing the worst? Oh, she hated worrying her comrades, especially if she didn’t deserve it, but if she was discovered in her plans she ran the risk of having to explain herself -
“Bernie?”
Oh no. Oh no, they were here. Could they tell? What if they had seen her thoughts written all over her face like an open book, what if they’d come to tell her how disgusted they were, or worse, what if they’d come to let her down gently, pitying the poor, unmarriagable Bernie for her hopeless desires?
“Bernie? We brought some cake from the kitchens - we were having many worries after you left so quickly. May we come in or do you want us to be leaving it at your door?”
There they were again, being so kind to wretched Bernie, giving her the choice to let them in or not. Both options are valid, that’s why I gave you the choice , Dorothea liked to add, as if there was anything remotely okay about being so rude as to deny your friends entry when they were bringing you comfort food after you interrupted their date by making a fool of yourself.
She should send them away, where they were free from Bernie’s rotten influence. But she also missed them already, and she should probably say goodbye to them, or at least see them one last time…
Who was Bernie kidding? She was weak, and she was rotten to the core.
She shoved the letter under one of her books and scrambled to open the door. Petra and Dorothea were patiently waiting, clearly pleasantly surprised at Bernie’s decision to allow them in. The cake they’d brought - rhubarb and egg custard - smelled delicious, but there was another scent in the air, fresh and floral. Bernie’s heart skipped a beat when she realised that the two women had changed clothes, and their hair was damp.
Had they showered? Together?!
Then, another thought hit Bernie, even worse than those before: Oh Goddess, was she still smelling of corpse flower? Before she could excuse herself for her appearance, she heard the women gasp in unison.
“Oh, Bernie”, Dorothea sighed, and Bernie became painfully aware of what a mess she had to look like, face covered in tear tracks and fingers stained with ink. She stepped inside, touching Bernie’s shoulder gently, and, when she barely even flinched, cupped her cheek and wiped away her tears with her thumb. Bernie’s mouth felt suddenly very dry. Despite her unfortunate growth spurt shortly after leaving the academy, Dorothea was still a good bit taller than her, and now that she was so close it left her with no chance but to stare at her beautiful, red lips. She noted that her lipstick was smudged ever so slightly, and promptly prayed to stop noticing it as it was filling her head with all manner of thoughts.
“Do you want to talk about what happened?” Dorothea asked gently.
She really, really didn’t, so she just silently shook her head.
“Have heart, Bernie”, Petra chimed in. “We are all having fears of silly things.”
Bernie bit her tongue to avoid saying yeah, right . She knew Petra, she’d seen her in battle, the natural ease with which she approached wyverns, raining death from above…
Her doubts must have been written all over her face, because Petra insisted: “It is true! The first time I saw snowing in Fódlan, I ran outside in my sleep clothes! It was like ash falling from the sky to me, I thought the mountains were spewing fire.”
Despite herself, Bernie smiled. She could imagine a young Petra flinching from the cold, catching a large snowflake in her open palm and watching it melt with equal parts apprehension and wonder.
“I- I’m sorry”, Bernie finally croaked, voice hoarse from crying, “for being such a mess as of late.”
“None of that now”, Dorothea said, and, for reasons Bernie couldn’t even begin to understand, she added: “Do you want me to brush your hair?”
“Huh?”
“It’s comforting”, Dorothea explained, “Petra used to brush mine during the…when I was having trouble sleeping years ago.”
“Dorothea has talent, too!”, Petra interjected, “I never had such relaxation as when she was braiding mine.”
Still, Bernadetta hesitated. She had never experienced the process of getting her hair done up to be particularly pleasurable. The feeling of rough hands holding her head steady while pulling on her hair harshly to excise it of any knots came to mind and made her scalp burn at the very memory.
“I don’t know”, she said, “Besides, it’s not like there’s much to brush, anyways. My hair isn’t luscious like yours.”
Dorothea rolled her eyes playfully. “It’s about the sensations, silly! Tell you what, why don’t we give it a try, and if you don’t like it, we’ll stop and just eat cake instead.”
Bernie clenched her hands into the hem of her uniform. She kept thinking back to the letter hidden safely under the book on her desk - did letting them comfort her and pretending everything was normal count as leading them on? But the way they described it, it did sound nice, just relaxing and being spoiled…
“Okay”, Bernie agreed, wiping her palms on her skirt - they’d suddenly become very sweaty. She stumbled backwards to let her friends in. She was painfully aware of how much of a mess her room was, but it’s not like they hadn’t been in here before, so her inability to keep her space orderly couldn’t be a dealbreaker for them. Petra ushered her into a chair and fixed her little desk mirror so Bernie was staring right at her reflection. Bernie cringed. She intensely disliked spending much time studying her reflection, because the longer she did the more obvious her flaws became to her. Instead, she busied herself with nibbling on her slice of cake. It really was heavenly.
“Ready?”, Dorothea asked, removing the accessories from Bernie’s hair with nimble fingers.
“Y-yes”, Bernie lied.
“Remember, you can always say no”, Dorothea reminded her. Bernie nodded, gritted her teeth and braced herself for the uncomfortable tugging of the comb getting caught on wayward strands…it never came. Instead, she felt a pressure, the slightest scratching of the brush on her scalp. It was an altogether alien feeling, but not a bad one. Actually, if she closed her eyes and just focused on the sensations like Dorothea told her to, it was indeed very relaxing, like the songstress was softly combing the tension out of her body with every stroke of her brush. Maybe this was how the cats in Garreg Mach had felt like when she scratched their little fuzzy heads between the ears? She certainly felt like she could start purring at any moment. And Dorothea was being so gentle with her, stopping at the slightest hint of resistance, never hurting her even once.
“I told you, it is a feeling quite pleasurable”, Petra chimed in, and Bernie could almost hear the smug smile in her voice. She hummed in agreement, feeling far too boneless to think up a verbal reply.
“That is reminding me, Bernie, I have a question: Why did you change your hair? Back when we joined Edelgard, that is. I was thinking the way your hair had…” Petra trailed off, obviously searching for a word. She opened one eye to regard the princess, who was currently sitting on her bed, hovering her hands over her own hair, clearly miming volume.
“It was fluffy?” Dorothea supplied.
“Yes! That is the word!”
Bernie could feel the blood rush to her cheeks. How was she supposed to explain to Petra that back then, she usually couldn’t even muster up the energy to brush and straighten it?
“It had much cuteness”, Petra added, and Bernie’s pulse quickened to a worrying degree.
“I could change it back if you’d like!” The answer came before Bernie had authorised her mouth to verbalise the thought. Idiot!
Petra just shook her head. “It is your hair! I have no saying over it.”
“Bernie? I think your hair is about done. Do you like it?” Dorothea said before Bernie could open her mouth and let something even more stupid escape.
Hesitantly, Bernie turned to study the mirror. The girl looking back at her was barely recognisable, her hair perfectly framing her cheeks. She looked petite, adorable even.
“It looks good - great!” Bernie squeaked, her voice warbling when Dorothea rested her chin on Bernie’s shoulder from behind. The sudden contact caught her by surprise, a wonderful, terrible surprise that sent shivers down her spine. She cleared her throat and barely managed to mutter a thank you .
“You’re very welcome, Bernie-Bear ”, Dorothea purred, leaned forward and -
Kissed.
Her.
On.
The.
Cheek.
The kiss lasted a second at most, and yet it seemed to stretch out for hours, leaving Bernie hyperaware of every single detail, Dorothea’s warm breath against her face, the way her lips were slightly sticky from her lipstick, the way it left a faint red mark on her pale skin…
She couldn’t help it. She buried her face in her hands and squealed.
“You…you can’t just do that!”, she blurted out, her voice muffled. She peeked out from between her fingers and saw Dorothea’s face in the mirror, looking taken aback and…ashamed, almost.
“I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable”, she said, voice subdued.
Oh, Bernie, you’ve really done it now. Made her think she made you uncomfortable when you’re the one who’s been creeping on her and her girlfriend!
“N-No! Please don’t think that!” she hastily exclaimed, gesturing wildly, desperately, to make Dorothea believe that Bernie was the one that should be ashamed of herself, accidentally sweeping her books and pens and art supplies from her desk and sending them crashing to the ground.
“Stupid, clumsy, useless Bernie!” she chastised herself, and now she couldn’t even remember to keep these thoughts inside because they always made everyone around her uncomfortable.
“Bernie, hey, it’s okay!” Dorothea said, taking her wrists to check if she’d hurt herself while Petra began picking up the things she’d scattered across the floor. Dorothea gasped when she saw the scraped skin of her palms, previously hidden by Bernie’s long sleeves. Thankfully, the cuts were closed by now, but before Bernie could say as such, tell her not to worry, she already felt the comforting warmth of Dorothea’s healing magic creep through her veins.
“Really, Bernie, you have to take better care of yourself”, she sighed, and Bernadetta felt like a horrible, wretched thing. She’d prefer to be admonished, really, she’d prefer being chastised over all this kindness she didn’t know what to do with. She opened her mouth to apologise, but Dorothea shushed her.
“Don’t worry about that, I’ve got you now.”
And for a few blissful moments, Bernie simply basked in the sensation of the burning of her scrapes subsiding, leaving nothing but a pleasant numbness. Of course, it all came crashing down soon enough.
“Bernadetta?”
Her eyes shot open at the mere sound of Petra’s voice, confused, uncharacteristically small. When Bernie saw her holding a piece of paper aloft, tearstained, ink smudged, her stomach gave such a mighty lurch she feared she might vomit. This was wrong, this was all wrong, they weren’t supposed to find her letter!
“You are…planning on leaving us?” Petra asked, and Dorothea’s hand covered her mouth in shock, only managing a weak “What?”.
There was a lump in Bernie’s throat so large she would surely soon suffocate, her eyes burning with unshed tears. Don’t cry, stupid girl, you don’t deserve to cry, don’t you dare .
“But…why?” Dorothea breathed, looking so hurt, not understanding at all, and the dam broke.
“Because I’m horrible!” Bernie blubbered, ugly tears spilling forth no matter how hard she tried to fight against them.
“I’m horrible, and disgusting, and I keep wanting things, things I know I have no right to want, and it’s not like you’d ever like me back, especially since you’re so happy together, but I just can’t stop wanting!” she sobbed. Maybe getting it all out there would make it easier, having them tell her they wanted nothing more to do with her would certainly give her a reason to leave. With some queasiness Bernie remembered the story Dorothea once told her about how she broke a man’s arms for trying to hurt her - would she hurt Bernie too? She was well within her rights to do so, after the abhorrent things Bernie had been thinking about her and Petra. She tensed in anticipation of shouting, a slap, anything…
She was prepared for many things, but not the feeling of a warm, soft hand enveloping hers. Dorothea was holding her hand? Petra was stepping forth too, taking her other hand in hers? The world had stopped making sense, and Bernie was frozen in place, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
“Oh Bern…I promise you, you’re not horrible!” Dorothea said. “In truth, we’ve been purposefully teasing you - not like that!” she hastily added when she noticed Bernie’s look of betrayal, “Not to be mean . I just…like you a lot, Bernie. We both do.”
Bernie was vaguely aware that her mouth had to be hanging open. This was a dream, it had to be! She moved to surreptitiously pinch herself and immediately flinched in pain - no dream. Had she lost her mind, then? And by the looks of it, she wasn’t going to be afforded a break any time soon, as she turned to Petra just to get an indication that this was a joke, that they were playing a cruel prank on poor old Bernie, only to be met with fierce sincerity.
“I was speaking the truth when I said you were having much cuteness. I would be liking…, that is, I would like to keep you.”
“That’s allowed?” Bernie blurted out. It was a childish thing to say, but she just needed to be sure.
“It is common in Brigid”, Petra explained, “to marry whomever your heart is wishing for, be that one or two or more partners. It helps with raising children, too, it has benefits to be learning from the experiences of many people.”
“Oh”, Bernie said, because what else was there left to say? She felt lightheaded, feverish. This didn’t seem real; she’d always hated books in which the heroine was sought after by two suitors at the same time, she had a hard enough time picturing being desired by even one person.
“You’re taking this exceptionally well”, Dorothea said without a hint of irony. “I know this must be overwhelming to you. If you want to, we’ll take it really slow - woo you like you deserve.”
Bernie was glad the two women were holding onto her, because she was sure her knees would give out any second. She’d never once entertained the notion that she was someone to be courted , she’d expected to be married off in a monetarily advantageous match, or, in her more hopeful dreams, imagined herself to be living alone forever, surrounded by plants and books and art and occasionally visiting friends. To be wooed…would Dorothea bring her flowers? Serenade her? Would Petra take her on romantic boat rides or outings in the woods? Would they steal kisses, fool around in the palace on the rare occasion that there were no guards or servants in sight? The thought alone made heat rise to her cheeks. Still, she had to be certain.
“You’re - you’re not making fun of me?”
“Never in a million years.” Dorothea seemed to bristle in indignation at the very idea. “Do you think I just brush anyone’s hair? I won’t be doing Ferdie’s, for example, no matter how long it gets.”
“This is how chivalrous knights from your stories are courting, is it not?” Petra asked, bringing Bernie’s hand up to her lips and barely ghosting a kiss over her knuckles.
“Mhm!” Bernie managed, “Yeah - yes. I…I’d really like that. A lot.”
“If that is so”, Dorothea purred, joy blatant in her voice despite her teasing tone, “then it’s hardly proper for us to be in the same room as you without a chaperone. Anything could happen, after all.”
Bernie didn’t manage to stop the embarrassing whine that tumbled from her lips in time, but it only seemed to delight the two women further. The insinuation was exhilarating, but at the same time, it was probably for the best. She was still feeling lightheaded, after all, and altogether unsure whether she would manage not to faint whether the anything Dorothea alluded to were to take place.
They left her stunned, touching her cheek where Dorothea had placed a second mark as a goodbye-kiss, and with Petra’s promise of “I’ll be seeing you soon, Bernie-Bear ” that left her embarrassed and exhilarated in the best way.
She ripped her letter up into miniscule shreds that even Hubert wouldn’t be able to reconstruct, buried her face into her teddy bear and screamed into his chest.