DUE
1926
Finn hovered over her. Beatrice clutched the walker tightly, her arms trembling under her weight. It was her first time out of bed since the incident.
The nurse was trying to encourage her off the mattress altogether. "There you are." She kept a guiding hand on Beatrice's back. "You're standing."
Beatrice breathed shakily through her nose. She was standing. She was standing.
"Can you try straightening your spine?"
The doctor was mindful to pose his order as a request, well aware at this point that any considerable discomfort would bring Beatrice to tears, and that her tears would bring swift retribution from her guardians. Mostly Arthur.
Seeing her in tears always made her eldest brother uncomfortable, and anything that made Arthur uncomfortable usually just made him angry.
Very slowly, Beatrice uncurled from the hunched over position she folded herself into. She could feel the air bubbles pop between the joints of her spine, one by one like an old lady. The sensation was disconcerting.
Even worse, the ever-present ache in her belly was sharpening by degrees at the newfound stretch. The bullet that got her in the stomach had ripped apart inside her, tearing into things that should never be torn. Except maybe in a cesarean operation.
The doctors said Beatrice was extremely lucky that everything was still in tact.
She didn't feel very lucky.
Without the walker, she didn't think she would even be able to stay on her feet. It was her first time standing since Christmas. Over two weeks.
The inertia had settled deep in her bones and left her shaking like a leaf. Beatrice wasn't prepared for the sudden numbness in her unused limbs. She found it immensely difficult to keep herself upright at all.
"There you are," the nurse said gently, following along the ridges of Beatrice's spine. "There you are. Up, straight. There. Doing very well, Miss Shelby. Just a little more."
Just a little more. Beatrice wanted to lie down again and just die. "I can't," she said, struggling. She actually started to lower herself back into the bed. Her brother must have felt it, because the arm around her shoulder tightened.
"Birdie." Finn spurred her on. "Come on."
Beatrice shook her head. "I can't. I don't want to." It was too difficult.
"Come on," her brother pressed. "You want to tell Aunt Poll you didn't want to?"
Beatrice didn't want to do anything. "Aunt Poll can try getting shot," she grumbled, "then she can—"
"Then I can what?"
Polly was standing in the doorway, an eyebrow arched at Beatrice. The men guarding her room lingered behind, always fidgety in her aunt's presence nowadays. Polly had grown considerably less tolerant of horseshit since Michael took four bullets.
