"Tuesday's child is full of grace."

It was Frances Magdalene Pierce who had knocked on Beatrice's door that smoldering day, at exactly seven in the morning. 

She stood on the decrepit old porch, her face streaked with tears. Her eyes were wild, with some dark indescribable emotion, writhing, contorting, 

"They found Evelyn in the lake." 

Frances's pale fingers closed around Beatrice's wrist, nails angrily tearing into flesh. 

Her chest racked with dry heaving sobs. "Oh God, Jinx. They found her in the lake." 

Her voice was thin and tremulous. Though even through the laments of the girl clinging to her, Beatrice could hear an unmistakable trace of anger. 

"Why?" 

January. Winthrop's Hollow. 1933

The train lurched forward, through endlessly snowy hills and trees topped with dusty white. Beatrice pressed her cheek against the cold window, the warmth of her skin fogging up the view in an endless blur. 

The scenery gradually became stagnant as they slowed, pulling up to the station.

She opened the compartment door and stepped into the open platform, cold winter winds nipping at her skin, mixing with the faint scent of Arabian cigars.

It was oddly curious, the small train station that stood gateway to Winthrop's Hollow. Every feature on its stony façade seemed as similar to her now as they had three years ago, right down to the large rusty clock at the Northern entrance, ticking away four minutes slower than it should have. When she had stood on the platform with Johnny that fateful September, she had been full of an awful despair and some wild shred of hope that urged her to escape that summer, the town, in hopes of a new beginning. And now, three years later, it seemed almost unnatural that despite her return and the circumstances that allowed it, the station would remain unchanged, just as it had when Johnny was alive.  

The irony that perhaps it still was always the same- a shallow desperate escape from tragedy, was lost on her.

She clutched her shabby suitcase with her, heeled shoes clicking on the stone pavement. As she wrapped her heavy wool coat around herself, her eyes caught sight of a familiar figure standing just a few feet away from her, eyes glancing up into the windows of the first class compartments. Wisps of her autumn yellow bob peeked out from underneath the cloche hat as the tall, elegant woman pulled her luxurious mink coat tighter around herself. "Frances! It's me Beatrice," the words tumbled out of her mouth as the head of her childhood friend slowly turned.

France's sharp eyes widened as she took in the sight of Beatrice, dishevelled and vaguely bedraggled. "My God is that you, Jinx dear?"

Beatrice's lips pressed together at the mention of her childhood nickname. She had not been addressed as such in ages, and even the sound of the word brought back the dark memories that it had invariably become entangled with. Frances smirked, noticing the distress in her face. "I imagine that a mature, sophisticated city dweller like you would prefer Beatrice? Or Mrs. Downing surely?"

A sharp stab of pain wrenched into Beatrice's gut at his name. If it hadn't been that this was the first time she even contacted Frances in years, she would have thought the older girl was making a cruel remark to taunt Beatrice, something that had often marked their formative relationship. She glanced down, avoiding eye contact as tears burned painfully at the corners of her eyes. "Oh speaking of those matters, when I heard you had run off with Johnny I was more shocked than anyone. Never did I dare imagine that stiff little Jinx would do such a thing. Where's the mister now?"

"Johnny's dead," she replied flatly.

France's curious half smile was wiped off her face, replaced almost immediately with a frozen stoic mask. "I'm so sorry to hear."

Regaining her composure, Frances placed her gloved hand into Beatrice's. "If there's anything you want for, lodgings or money, telephone me. I'm in the phone book under Morgan."

"Morgan?" Beatrice cried incredulously, temporarily distracted from the dull sadness that had gnawed away inside her for the past week, "as in Scott Morgan?"

She had remembered Scott Morgan, barely however, as it had always been Evelyn or Frances who lingered around him. A tall, dark, handsome boy, it was no secret that half of Winthrop's Hollow was infatuated with his crooked smile and sculpted cheekbones. Frances's remark surprised her, for she had never imagined her settling down, least of all marrying. She had been irresistible, exotic perfume that had lured dozens of boys around her at all times, though Frances had never seemed the least interested in any one of them. She would toy with them for a few weeks of course, allowing herself to receive expensive trinkets and chaste kisses. But, as she had once confided to Beatrice, it had never went further. Aside from Frances's apathy, there remained the other matter with Scott Morgan that she thought should have barred any possibility of their courtship.

Frances's lips curled, amused. "There's a lot of things you missed in boring old New York City. Scottie and I are married now."

Four summers ago, Scott had moved down from Boston after graduating from Harvard with honors. In order, so it had been told many times, to keep the very elderly and very affluent Mrs. And Mr. Morgan, company in their large estate overlooking the Hollow. Of course, his actions puzzled the entire town, and in order to break the constant sleepiness that had settled within each of its residents, whispers began and rumours had started.

...

 "I swear," Beatrice had heard Evelyn say, "that the reason that boy's not in Chicago with the rest of his family is because something dreadful and scandalous must have happened! Surely no one in their right mind would leave that for such a monotonous town."

Frances nodded. "He was offered a position at J.P. Morgan and co. I hear the man's his great uncle or something of that sort. If you asked me, he must have killed a man down in Boston. Must be why he's run off to his grandparents all of a sudden."

"That's ridiculous," Beatrice quipped, "has it never occurred to you he could simply be visiting his grandparents? Or perhaps having a quiet summer before going back to some big city?"

"Of course no, that's preposterous. What a bore that would be. Stories are much better than reality. My theory is that he was involved in a torrid love affair with some girl and couldn't bear the thought of anyone knowing. She would have been a film star of course,"

Frances took a drag of her cigarette, blowing the puff of smoke off into the hazy daylight. "To be frank, I really don't give a damn why he's here. Mother's been awfully persistent lately about finding a husband for me and he does look like a dapper thing. I suppose I'll welcome him to town tomorrow,"

Evelyn laughed brightly. "I suppose you don't mind if I do as well?"

...

What surprised Beatrice far more than Frances's apparent disinterest in boys was the fact that Scott Morgan was utterly and desperately in love with Evelyn Young.

She had been in love with him too. It was something anyone- even Beatrice, who had so frequently pretended to be unaware of any of the boys Evelyn would flirt with, could tell. The way her glittering eyes lit up when she saw him and the corner of her eyes would crinkle as her lips curled into a coy little smile. She would lower her head, demurely, teasingly, eyes gazing up at him as daring for Scott to come closer.

They were the quintessential golden couple, what every single girl prayed for, sitting up in their bed at night.   

She could have sworn they would have ended up married. But they broke- violently and suddenly, at once, without a warning. Evelyn, not even to her closest friends, had ever divulged why. Annie swore up and left it was because she had found him with another girl.

In the later months to come, the policemen blamed her death on the heartbreak, why she had fallen- or jumped- into the lake in the first place.

"You look surprised," Frances commented, "I'm aware it's hard to believe that you would end up married before me."

"No it's not that-"Beatrice said quietly, mustering up the courage to sate her curiosity, "why him?"

For a flash of a second, she could have sworn Frances's face twitched, and the corners of her mouth tightened.

"His family is very well off," she said shortly, "He's handsome and certainly buys me anything I want. It was a marriage of convenience as much as love."

"But doesn't it bother you?"

"Doesn't what bother me?"

"That he was in love with the dead girl who was your best friend?"

Frances laughed, her voice dark honey. "Oh he was devastated about Evelyn, yes but so was I. She was like a sister to me and in the months after her death we took to comforting each other. It brought up closer together, I suppose. He got over it, we all did in the end, no matter how painful or shocking it had been. The past is in the past and it's hardly healthy to dwell on it still."

Frances's indifference continued to puzzle Beatrice. She had always been less affected by these things that Beatrice knew. But the thought that perhaps no one- no one except her simply allowed such matters to crush them down and drown them with guilt and terror, was nearly as frightening as the events themselves.

The thick silence between them, interrupted sporadically by roaring engines and an exhale of Frances's cigarette, made Beatrice uncomfortable. It was long since she had seen Frances and any semblance of a happy reunion was ruined by her questions- which she admitted came across as rather interrogative and judging. The doors of the first class compartments had been pushed opened, and Frances, eager for a diversion, swept her cool eyes towards the little girl teetering on the steps, her plump hand in that of her nurse's.

"Fay darling is that you?"

"My precious child I haven't seen you in ages," she said, picking up the toddler in her arms, "you've grown plumper."

Beatrice stared at the scene before her, the full weight of her years of absence finally crashing down upon her. She had been gone and despite the eerily identical train station, there were things that had become so completely and utterly different, whether or not she was present. Frances presumably had a family now, when it seemed like yesterday she had still been the hopelessly single girl, much to her mother's chagrin. Evelyn was- well she was dead. Beatrice made a mental note to visit Annie. "Is that your daughter?" she asked, arms folded.

Frances regarded her once again. "Fay's two now I suppose," she said indifferently, handing the child back to her nurse.

The blonde woman studied her child, almost as if, Beatrice thought, she had forgotten its appearance.

"We sent her over to some relatives down in New York for the holidays. You know how awfully busy it gets with all the parties and planning- and well I simply couldn't have to mind a child in the middle of all that could I?"

Beatrice looked uneasy. She would have never imagined Frances's carelessness extending to her own child, though she clearly didn't give the girl a second glance.

"She's quite pretty," Beatrice commented, trying the focus the mother's attention.

"Why of course she would be!" Frances joked lightly, "she's got my hair and mouth and everything. She has Scott's eyes though."

"Any who," Frances continued, beckoning for the nurse to follow, "the driver is here and I must be going. Scottie and I would be thrilled to have you over for dinner. Friday, perhaps?"

Beatrice grinned. "I would be delighted. I have a lot of catching up to do, don't I?"

Frances smirked.

...

Beatrice found the house bordering on the edge of the woods, like she ought to, and by then the sun had nearly set, casting a burning glow in the cooling twilight. The brambles near the shack tore against her stockings as she approached the porch and knocked. As the hollow sound faded, no reply came and Beatrice pried the door open with a low rusty groan.

"Goodness, you're back," came a creaky voice. "I thought you would never come back."

Great Aunt Edith sat in her rocking chair, staring quite pensively into the small crackling fireplace. Her eyes were more sunken than ever, and her skin was thin wrinkly paper, barely clinging on to her bones. She grinned, revealing a set of toothless gums. "Very well Beatrice, since you're back I'd like a cup of tea," she said dismissively, as if her charge hadn't just disappeared for three years.

 "Of course Aunt Edith."

She didn't know what she had been expecting when she seeked out the house. It seemed natural to gravitate there, of course. It was where she had grown up and certainly the place she associated with home in Winthrop's Hollow. But the fact remained that she hadn't seen her elderly aunt in years and had felt the crushing guilt through many sleepless nights in New York at the thought of abandoning the old lady all of a sudden, the only person she had called family since the age of seven. "I'm so sorry I left like that," she said quietly, stoking the hearth.

"No matter now, dear," Aunt Edith croaked, "I barely even noticed you were gone until sweet Annie came in hysterics asking for you."

That didn't come off as particularly surprising to Beatrice, who had been well aware of her aunt's slip into senility for years. "Annie? How is she now?"

"Oh just lovely," Aunt Edith replied, rocking back and forth against the creaking floorboards. "She's married now and has a daughter- though whether or not that was the other one I'm not sure."

"No matter. Your room's how you left it," she said before promptly falling asleep in front of the fire.

That night Beatrice fell asleep to the recurring nightmares that clung to her like twisted ivy, wrapping and entangling around her until she begged for breath.