Chapter Text
Jillian runs out of the villa’s gates almost the same moment Beatrice presses the call button.
No one had called her. She sat anxious and waiting for any news and Beatrice thought the death of her son was news Jillian should receive in person, not over the phone. She never gets the words out though, because Jillian sees her alone, covered in blood, and the absolute wreck of devastation written over Beatrice. She knows immediately.
She chokes on a sob, once, twice, then collapses to her knees, right there on the beautiful paving stones as all of her breaks apart inch by inch. Beatrice falls into it with her, wrapping her arms around trembling shoulders and burying her face into the safe space of her shoulder. Her own ruination is much quieter, much more subtle; and she mourns what was, what is, and all the possibilities that will never become real.
They help each other inside.
The villa feels empty now with all the OCS members making their way back to the Cat’s Cradle and all the life drained from the only two people sitting inside of it. Jillian makes tea and sets it down on a patio table. They sit, side by side, with the tea between them and neither of them reaching for it. They gaze out over the vast lawns of the private land, quiet in company.
“What now?” Jillian asks. “The halo is gone. No more warrior nuns to lead the OCS.”
What next indeed. Beatrice, for her part, hasn’t thought that far ahead. All she can think about, all she knows, is Ava’s face holding back tears as she says ‘I love you’.
“Ava said I should go live my life. I think I’ll go do that.”
She tugs her habit down to lay like a hood and it should be a little more stunning to her. The idea hadn’t occurred to her before this moment and it would have appalled her days ago, the idea of leaving. It would have had her on her knees, begging and praying for help and guidance. But she looks out over the grass and feels no inner conflict. If God wants her endless devotion, they wouldn’t have lost the one thing she had come to believe in with every inch of herself. No. This is the path before her.
“Just like that? Leaving?”
Out of the corner of her eye, she can see Jillian stare at her incredulously. She supposes it is rather shocking of her to say, of all people. Unwavering faith has always been her thing.
“Yes. I think so,” she says with finality.
“Do you have any money?”
If she thinks hard, she could probably recall the small stash of cash from Switzerland or the bank account her parents made for her as a girl, or even the stipend accounts the church held for specific occasions such as this, but her mind is blank when she shrugs.
“Haven’t thought about it,” she says honestly.
Jillian makes a hum of acknowledgement and together they sit there until the sun has long gone down. The chill starts to set in and yet neither of them move.
“Here.” Jillian’s sudden movement startles her. Sitting on the tea cup saucer she hadn’t touched is a sleek black credit card, Jillian’s name in gold along the edge. She starts to refuse and the card is only pushed closer. “You came to me personally to tell me about–to tell me. Consider it a thank you and good luck on the next part of your life.”
Beatrice skates her fingers over the card. She tucks it into her belt.
“Thank you.”
Jillian smiles sadly. “Hardly equal to all the damage I’ve helped cause you. But, I hope while you’re out there, you find something good to believe in.”
Beatrice nods.
The van that dropped her off hasn’t moved and Father Vincent has stayed dutifully in his seat. He doesn’t say anything when she closes the door and clicks her seatbelt and she doesn’t say anything as he pushes the van into gear.
No one bothers her at the Cat’s Cradle. They smile softly, pass her food, and leave the room without a word. They all mean well.
She is still confident in her decision the next morning to walk out the front doors.
Her first thought is to get as far away from everything as she physically can.
It’s not really a conscious choice that gets her a seat on a one way flight to Kyoto. The time between leaving the Cat’s Cradle and waking up in the middle of a 19 hour flight, is only a blur. Proof time existed, but nothing concrete to call real evidence. She was there and now she’s here.
She tries to think, tries to remember sitting on the flight, handing the woman at the gate her ticket, waiting for her flight to be called, arriving at the airport, or even packing at the Cat’s Cradle and there’s only static.
The business man beside her snuffles in his sleep.
Of course it makes her think of Ava who can’t stay still even when she’s asleep. Ava who smiles at everything. Ava who touches her back as she’s squeezing through the space behind her. Ava whose voice–
Beatrice stops. Frowns. Squeezes her eyes shut and thinks, thinks back to Ava’s voice, desperately trying to recall the cadence as she says, “things change when you realize not everything is about you,” and a cold fear seizes her heart when she can’t.
Is this how it goes? Will she forget and forget until Ava is gone? Her hands grip the armrests until her knuckles go white.
“Please, no,” she mumbles to herself.
This is too soon.
“What?” The man next to her stares at her with confusion and Beatrice has to blink back at him.
“Pardon?”
“You spoke,” he says, almost sounding offended.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.”
He sniffs and slips a sleep mask over his eyes.
Has she forgotten her face?
She squeezes her eyes again and sighs, remembering Ava glowing in the golden light of the cross on the dead end wall. The apples of her cheeks, the softness of her eyes, and the jut of her chin are all exactly as they should be, entombed in her mind with the solidity of The Pietà.
It’s there, but she’s suddenly afraid it won’t be. That she’ll lose parts and pieces and crumbs until it’s all gone, until Ava is all gone.
And Beatrice will love what’s left, because devotion is all she knows.