“Yes,” she said. “I suppose it does.”
Beatrice's gaze drifted once more over the pale ridges of scar tissue. “Is it still painful?”
“Sometimes. Certain places sting when the weather changes. And some of it feels tight, particularly when I stretch.” Persephone touched her shoulder absently. “But most of it is simply… numb. Rather odd, really. To know one ought to feel something and not.”
Beatrice nodded as she reached for the borrowed shirt.
Stinging. Tight. Numb.
Yes. She knew something of that.
Not where anyone could see. But she knew what it was to have pain live quietly inside the body. To have it go silent for days, even weeks, until some careless thing reached in and woke it.
And she knew, too, what it was to be told—by a mother, no less—that the wound had somehow been earned.
Her fingers stilled for only a moment before she eased the shirt over Persephone’s injured arm with greater care.
“Yes,” she said softly. “I think I understand.”
Beatrice tugged the sleeves into place, grateful for something practical to do. “Now the other arm. Yes—like that.”
There was a moment of quiet as Persephone obeyed, her movements careful, surprisingly graceful.
The linen settled over her shoulders. She looked down at herself, almost startled.
“Calliope says she’s nervous about the lessons,” she admitted.
“She needn’t be. Are you?”
“Not at all.” Persephone smoothed one hand over the shirtfront, her mouth curving faintly. “I am…” She glanced up, and there was something brighter in her expression than Beatrice had seen before. “I think I’m excited.”
Beatrice paused. “Are you?”
“Mmm. Have you ever read Mary Wollstonecraft?”
Beatrice paused with the breeches in hand. “I've heard of her. My mother never permitted her books in the house.”
Persephone stepped into the breeches, one hand resting lightly on Beatrice’s shoulder for balance. “She argues that women are made to feel weak intentionally. Taught helplessness, even praised for it.” She lifted her other foot to step in. “And then? They are blamed when helplessness fails to protect them.”
“Blamed for their helplessness?” Beatrice drew the breeches up around Persephone’s waist, only to discover nearly a hand’s length of extra fabric. “We need to cinch these.”
Persephone clutched the waist, keeping the breeches from falling while Beatrice located a scarf.
“Yes. Blamed! A lady is told to be trusting, obedient, ignorant of danger. Then, if danger finds her, everyone asks why she did not know better. Why she went there. Why she spoke to him. Why she did not stop it.”
Beatrice said nothing as she wound the scarf over the falls and secured a knot.
“It has been years since I read her book,” Persephone said quietly. “But what you said at the meeting made me remember it. The idea that women are not helpless by nature. That we are only made to believe we are.”
Her mouth twisted faintly.
“I suppose I had forgotten how angry that made me.”
Beatrice’s fingers slowed on the fabric.
“That we are taught to doubt ourselves,” Persephone said. “It’s criminal, really. Ouch—that’s a little tight.”
“Sorry.” Beatrice loosened the scarf and tied it again with greater care.
