Chapter 037: The Past

When Beatrice Byrd and Lina Riley parted ways, the rain had stopped. Turning a corner, Beatrice spotted Lucille Everard standing at the doorway, staring at her. The look in Lucille's eyes sent a chill down Beatrice's spine.

She couldn't help snapping, "What are you doing, lurking around like a ghost?"

Beatrice's room was close to Lucille's to conveniently monitor the Crown Princess's health. Lucille ignored Beatrice's annoyance. As Beatrice passed by, Lucille reached out and grabbed her arm, her tone faintly disgruntled, "What were you two talking about?"

It felt as if sourness filled the air. Beatrice almost laughed. Despite the pain in her arm, she leaned closer and mocked with a grin that begged for a slap, "Oh my, are you jealous?"

Lucille's expression did not change, but the pressure of her grip suddenly intensified. Beatrice yelped at the pain and immediately surrendered, "I was wrong, I was wrong! Let go! My arm's going to break!"

A small lesson was enough. Lucille released her, though her face remained grim. Normally, she always looked like this, but Lina's presence had made her smile more often.

Beatrice grimaced, rubbing her sore arm and muttering, "You black-hearted fiend. After all the times I've saved you, you could show some courtesy."

Lucille snorted, "If not for that, do you think you could act so freely?"

That was true. Beatrice was already an exception. Calling Lucille "black-hearted" was less an insult than stating a fact.

Beatrice knew that if she didn't explain, Lucille would remain uneasy. As a doctor, she had to care about her patient's mental health. Instead of leaving, she stepped inside Lucille's room, returning to the spot she'd occupied before. Leisurely pouring herself some tea, and seeing Lucille seated opposite, Beatrice sensibly poured a cup for her too.

Lucille had no desire to drink tea. She felt irritated, yet this irritation seemed baseless. Beatrice found the tea growing tasteless as her anxiety rose. She set the cup down, raised her hands in a gesture of surrender, "Fine, fine, I'll talk, okay? We just discussed proper, serious matters. She's your young general—how would I dare covet her?"

Seeing that Beatrice wasn't lying, Lucille relaxed internally. More at ease now, she said, "You misunderstood. That's not what I meant."

"Ah yes, of course, Your Highness is always right," Beatrice replied, barely refraining from rolling her eyes. She wondered how such a decisive person could become so hesitant when it came to these matters.

Lucille could hear the sarcasm but didn't understand her own heart either. Sometimes she was afraid of these unknown feelings. By her usual logic, anything unknown and uncontrollable should be eliminated. Yet the mere thought of doing so caused her heart to hurt and tears to form inexplicably.

She sighed softly. She'd never encountered such a thorny issue. Suddenly, she felt very tired—an odd, new feeling.

Holding her forehead, her voice heavy, she said, "Stay and talk with me."

Beatrice had been smiling, but seeing Lucille like this, her laughter died, replaced by a hint of fear. She straightened her demeanor, speaking as she did with Lina, "What shall we talk about?"

Lucille rubbed her brow, unable to ease her worry. "I don't know. Say whatever you like, though I might not listen."

Beatrice found it amusing. Speaking without being heard—what was the point? Lucille sure knew how to tell a cold joke. Still, Beatrice had plenty to say.

Outside, it rained again, a fine slanting drizzle reminding Beatrice of unpleasant things. Her gaze darkened. She recalled meeting Lucille Everard in the rain, right after losing her dearest friend. Dazed and lost, she had stumbled upon a mortally wounded Lucille. Fate was strange. Ten years had passed since then.

Beatrice smiled. "Have you had any dreams lately?"

"No."

Lucille never dreamed. If she did, wouldn't she only dream of her enemies?

Beatrice noted her quick answer and sighed inwardly, "Do you remember your childhood?"

Lucille slowly raised her head. She rarely thought of such pointless matters. The past was just the past; she only needed to handle what lay ahead. Besides, her memory was excellent. Looking back risked stirring painful emotions she considered weakness.

The tea had gone cold, and Lucille gave no answer.

Beatrice was interested in talking about herself. Propping her chin with her hands, her smile gentle as she reminisced, "I remember my mother running a cloth shop. Business was decent, and she'd place me behind the counter. Back then, I was so small I couldn't even see past it."

Beatrice had been lazy since childhood, preferring to listen rather than speak, often misunderstood. She had endured countless medical exams and acupuncture needles without crying or fussing. Seeking numerous doctors gradually sparked her interest in medicine. At first, it was just a hobby, but she advanced quickly, and her mother sent her to study at a nearby clinic.

In that clinic was another girl—mischievous, fishing, climbing trees, stealing bird nests. Beatrice disliked her, always wearing a cold face. One day, that girl rushed over with an injured bird, anxiously begging, "Beatrice, save it!"

Noticing her bruised arm, Beatrice tried to check her wounds first, but was refused. Forced to focus on the bird, Beatrice found it simply overheated and easily revived it.

"You're amazing, Beatrice! You'll be a great doctor someday, saving so many people. My mother says that's a heavenly gift—you might become like a saint," the girl exclaimed.

Beatrice, more mature than other children, remained cold. "Your mother lied. Just because I'm interested doesn't mean I'll follow this path."

The girl's eyes widened with regret. "That's a shame. You're not happy?"

Beatrice stayed aloof. "No, I'm too lazy to be happy, too lazy to smile."

Normally, that would silence someone, but this tiny girl only widened her eyes, raising her voice, "You're so lazy yet willing to talk to me so much—I'm so happy!"

Beatrice had never been so speechless. To prevent further excitement, she said nothing afterward. But the girl, previously indifferent, now followed her everywhere—drying herbs, gathering plants—tedious chores the girl found entertaining.

As they spent time together, the girl's mother asked Beatrice to look after her. It seemed troublesome, but Beatrice couldn't refuse. Over time, it changed: when the girl climbed trees, Beatrice called her down. She discovered the girl was kindhearted—releasing caught fish back into the river, feeding insects to birds, defending weaker children. Yet the girl's health wasn't good. Unable to fight well, she often got beaten up, dragging Beatrice into injuries too.

But this odd girl always shielded Beatrice whenever there was a fight.

"Ow, that hurts! Beatrice, be gentle," the girl would plead as Beatrice treated her wounds. Beatrice, also injured, looked displeased. "You never learn."

The girl still grinned. With a secretive smile, she pulled out a pendant shaped like a green bird. Beatrice paused, her hands stilling. The girl grinned foolishly through her bruises, "I saved up for a long time. Doesn't this suit your name?"

Beatrice didn't accept it immediately. She continued treating the wounds, but more gently now. "Why are you so good to me?"

The girl stood and hung the pendant around Beatrice's neck, smiling softly. "Because you're kind and clever. You'll save many people."

Beatrice lowered her gaze. "Fool."

Used to being called that, the girl tried to scratch her head, only to wince, then endured it. "My mother says there are too few fools in this world. I'm precious."

"Beatrice, if you ever meet another fool like me, take good care of them."

Beatrice said nothing, just sighed, "Alright."

Time passed—neither long nor short. Beatrice grew accustomed to these days and the girl's chatter. She watched the girl grow up, marry, thrive, and bear children. Then she watched her die, exhausting every method but failing to save her life.

In a torrential downpour, Beatrice carried the woman's child through the streets. Life was so fragile. She had studied so long, yet it was useless. Hearing the child's cries, Beatrice couldn't hold back her tears.

Lucille was hearing this story for the first time. She remembered that day, ten years ago, when severely wounded herself, she saw Beatrice wandering in a daze, cradling a child. Lucille had threatened Beatrice to treat her. Beatrice panicked, shaking her head, insisting "I can't," born from her helplessness at failing her friend.

It had been so long. Beatrice telling this now wasn't simply to explain the past. After a silence, Lucille asked, "What's your point?"

Beatrice smiled bitterly, "Life is short. Be honest with your heart."

She didn't add the rest: before the girl died, she had asked if she was Beatrice's best friend, but Beatrice couldn't say it aloud. She had always regretted not voicing it, regretted her lack of skill to save her. Although she didn't know Lucille's thoughts, she considered Lucille a friend and didn't want her friend to walk a wrong path.