Cameron To Candy

Beatrix Whippletree and Candy Elwood parted ways. Following the events of the day, namely her making a new friend and the passing of the CCS class, Candy was emboldened and now had the ambition to check off a certain item she’d been avoiding on her ministry list. On top of that, she wanted to look at the next Literary Society book and prepare for seeing Greg again, who was coming over the next day to help Marcus with shed repair. She loved seeing Greg, her oldest friend, but it was a double-edged sword, having to pretend to be Candy.

Beatrix, conversely, had little to do other than go to the inn that her father had arranged for her. She made it three streets before she realized she was lost. Not dramatically lost, or panic lost. Women in Paddlewick were always just a compliance crystal tap away from officials rushing to their aid. But it was the quiet, creeping realization that none of the rune-posts were familiar anymore and that the hedges had started repeating themselves in ways that felt unfamiliar.

It was nearing dusk, the sky deepening into that bluish-purple Paddlewick favored, lanterns beginning to hum awake along the avenues. This would have rattled most women, but Paddlewick was strange that way. Women walked at night without fear (so long as they had written permission from their male guardians). Crime against them was nearly unheard of. Foreigners followed the rules because Paddlewick punished violations with disturbing enthusiasm, and local men were drilled from childhood on a simple doctrine:

Women may be corrected. Women must be protected.

Also, it didn’t hurt that the lovely young Beatrix also happened to be built like a friendly siege engine. She had attended mandatory self-defense classes since she was seven, as all girls did, per the law. Further, her father, General Thimblewhip, had personally refined her training. She could disarm a man in three moves, throw a shuriken with surprising accuracy, and carried a concealed set beneath her skirt at all times, accessible through a small slit in her pocket. Sure, she’d slip on a banana, get stuck in a coat closet or choke on her own saliva, but she’d also leave an attacker disabled in painful and humiliating ways.

Pity anyone who tried to hurt Beatrix.

Also, pity anyone who tried to help her.

She turned another corner, squinted at a street marker that definitely had not been there five minutes ago, and sighed.

“Okay,” she told herself. “This is fine.”

That was when she heard footsteps.

“Hello there, miss.”

Beatrix turned to see a uniformed officer walking his patrol, lantern staff resting against his shoulder.

“It’s getting a bit late,” he said politely. “You should be heading back to your dwelling before curfew.”

Her face lit up.

“Oh, thank Viridicus!” she cried. “Officer, you are a miracle. I was trying, but I got turned around. Really, your timing couldn't be better. Could you possibly escort me, good sir?”

“Of course, ma’am,” the officer said, beaming at the mild compliment. “That’s what I’m here for. Where are you staying?” She gave him the name of the inn, Ben Wa Palace. “Oh,” he said. “You’re not far at all. Three blocks, maybe four. This way. I’ll take you.”

She clasped her hands together. “Thank you so much. Truly. I don’t know what I would’ve done without you.”

The officer felt himself color faintly.

“All in a day’s work, ma’am,” he replied as they set off together.

As they walked, the officer performed the discreet visual assessment every single Paddlewick man learned by instinct: tall, long legs, healthy build, good posture, even when wandering. Her hair caught the lanternlight nicely. Attractive, though taller than his usual preference.

Still, strong blood line, his mind supplied helpfully. If they had a son together, the lad would likely grow taller than he was. He could be a real bruiser. The thought tantalized the man.

He cleared his throat. “Forgive me if I’m walking slowly. We had extended conditioning drills today. Four sets of weighted shield carries. Twelve stone per lift.”

“Oh,” Beatrix said brightly. “I could tell you worked out. You look very strong.”

He smiled despite himself.

“I’m Officer Swatburg, and you, miss?”

“Beatrix, sir. You know, my father used to train arms in very specific ways,” she added, thinking aloud. “Grip rotation, shoulder raises in slow, steady form, tendon conditioning.”

He glanced at her. “Your father’s military?”

She nodded. “A general, actually.”

His eyebrows rose. “Oh?”

“General Thimblewhip. An Arms Master.”

He nearly missed a step.

“Thee General Thimblewhip? Lord Thimblewhip??”

“Yes, sir. You’ve heard of him?”

He let out a small breath. “He’s a living legend.”

“Yes,” Beatrix said. “He’s been on leave recently.”

She did not mention why. The officer nodded respectfully, his previous thoughts reasserting themselves. Attractive. Strong lineage. Daughter of a general. He checked her hand. No wedding ring.

Interesting.

She could give him a strong son and he’d inherit a title to boot, assuming she had no brothers…

They slowed near a crossing where the lanterns pooled light onto polished stone. Beatrix tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear and looked up at him (just slightly, they were nearly eye to eye).

“Thank you again,” she said warmly, with a slight flutter of her eyelids. “You really were a lifesaver. Is there any way I can repay you?”

This was it, he thought. Maybe just a walk sometime. A tea. Something proper.

He opened his mouth. At that exact moment, Beatrix turned her head sharply.

“Oh! Was that a cat?”

She stepped backward to look, caught the edge of an uneven paving stone, and promptly lost the argument with gravity.

She went down sideways. The officer reacted instantly, grabbing her around the shoulders and hauling her upright with a sharp grunt. She landed safely, but he did not. Something in his shoulder made a deeply concerning sound, and below, something in his leg snapped.

“Oh!” Beatrix said. “Oh wow. You are very strong, sir. Thank you for lifting me.”

He stood rigid, breathing carefully.

“No problem,” he rasped through clenched teeth. “Just… doing my duty.”

“Are you okay?” she asked, genuinely concerned.

“Yes. Yes. Fine. Maybe a minor dislocation.”

“That does not sound fine.”

“It’s fine.”

She frowned. “My dad always said shoulders are important.”

He swallowed, and suddenly he remembered. Right, the general’s daughter; the reports, accidents, the broken fixtures. The correction fines that had quietly become legendary. She was a walking disaster. He gently released her and stepped back.

“Well,” he said briskly, pointing down the lane, “your inn is just ahead. I’m very glad I could assist you, miss. Have a good evening.”

He gave a polite nod and made a treat as fast as was dignified, which rapidly became a subtle limp. Beatrix watched him go and sighed.

“…Aw, shoot,” she said softly.

Then she shrugged, turned, squared her shoulders, and headed toward the inn. Somewhere behind her, a patrol officer decided that looks and pedigree were not everything.

And moments later, Beatrix Whippletree checked in on time.