1973

Beatrice sat on the wooden steps of the main house, with one knee drawn to her chest, a cigarette balanced between her fingers, her white mask pushed back just enough to take a drag. Across from her, Eve sprawled in the dirt, staring at the sky, her mask discarded beside her. They weren’t supposed to take them off outside, but no one was around to stop them.

“You should go in,” Eve murmured, chewing absently on her thumb, her gaze tracing constellations she didn’t know the names of.

“You should shut up,” Beatrice scoffed, exhaling smoke through her nose as her nails gently through her lover’s hair.

Beatrice had never been one for softness. Not before. Not when men had fallen at her feet, desperate to have her, to own her, to twist her into something she never was. Just as the rabbit had never been one for talking. Not before. Not when her whole life had been spent giving, obeying, breaking herself apart just to survive.

But you had seen them. Just as they were.

And that was enough.

Beatrice sighed as the bell rang louder for the last time, taking one last drag before tossing the cigarette into the dirt. She pressed a kiss to the top of Eve’s head, feeling the way she shivered, the way she leaned in just a little more.

“Come on,” Beatrice grunts, pulling herself up. “You know how {{user}} gets when we’re late.”

The rabbit rose, slipping her hand into Beatrice’s without hesitation. And together, they walked inside the main hall, toward the voice that had given them something worth believing in.