Most mornings she wakes up second.
When Chise has not snuck in one of her less-pleasant-smelling foods, she greets her with a cheerful, if tired, voice.
This morning it was:
"Guuz movvinn Tzeeza."
The Japanese girl turns to her with a nod.
"Ohayo," she replies.
Beatrice pulls her sheets to one side and sits up slowly in bed. Her cheeks are red, and her expression conveys a mixture of frustration and embarrassment. Chise notices but says nothing, out of a sense of politeness.
The clockwork girl stands up, floor cold against bare feet. She pads her way over to her section of the room. Chise returns to her morning ritual. Prayer? Meditation? Beatrice wasn't ever quite sure what to call it.
Desk. Books. Lamp. A small mirror. To one side a bookcase, a chest-of-drawers to the other. She wished for a private room, but she'd have to wait until she became a senior for that. She sits down in her chair, and opens the top right drawer of her desk.
Pliers. Screwdriver. Snippers. Spool of silver-colored wire. Oil can.
She takes a deep breath.
"Brimzess."
She winces. Mechanical. Buzzing. This happens. At least today it happens now, in the morning. Breakfast is not for another hour. Princess did not hear her. Ange and Dorothy did not hear her. Chise will say nothing. She will leave her be for this task.
She lightly touches her neck, fingertips grazing over the flesh where it touches the metal. She resists the urge to scratch. With a smooth motion she flips open the cover of her mechanical larynx. There is a brief moment when the inside of her throat feels cold. Exposed. It's not a real sensation. The device is far too cleverly constructed for that. But Beatrice feels it every time.
She picks up the oil can. It is a small hemispheric tin with a long, narrow snout. She shudders. It's a necessity, but far from a pleasant one. She places the snout into the hole, guiding it by experience. She holds her breath.
She gives the tin a gentle squeeze, and feels the tingling cold globs of liquid spread out. She has to wait what seems an eternity for the tingling to stop before she can breathe again. If the oil gets into her lungs she'll get light headed, and cough for hours. Finally, she gasps in air and clears her throat.
"Princess."
Still mechanical. Still a faint buzzing. Out of the corner of her eye she sees Chise stand. She sets the oil can down and picks up the pliers. She blinks and takes a deep breath, before guiding them in. There's a metallic tickling in her throat where the pliers touch the mechanism. It used to make her skin crawl. She tries not to think about it now.
She gently adjusts a gear. She takes her time. She doesn't cry. Princess is not here to witness this. Breakfast will not start for at least another 45 minutes. This is not an act of desperation.
Chise has changed into her uniform. Now she sits on her bed, reading something. Trying not to interfere. Trying not to look like she is bothered. Beatrice can't see what the book is from this angle, not out of the corner of her eye. It's a Western book. Chise's Japanese books are all the wrong way around.
Beatrice puts the pliers down.
"Princess."
Next is the screwdriver. It doesn't tickle like the pliers. She leans in close to her mirror. She can see the clockwork in her throat this way. Unlike when she uses the pliers. Those she has to guide in, and around, by feel. She prefers using the screwdriver.
She toggles a tiny switch, tightens a miniature screw. She pulls the screwdriver out.
"Princess."
Almost perfect. She guides the screwdriver back inside to tighten a screw.
The sensation is as being choked from the inside. Her throat tightens and pain courses through her. She only manages to hold the screwdriver still, and avoid damaging the interior mechanisms of her clockwork larynx, by virtue of having gotten used to this.
Chise is at her side at the first sound. The first site of Beatrice's face turning blue. Of her eyes tearing up. She watches, eyes wide in helpless fear. What could she do, even if she knew how to do it?
Beatrice hurriedly re-adjusts the screw. She gasps in air. After a few moments, she wipes her eyes and cheeks. She throws the screwdriver to the floor in frustration. She clears her throat and swallows. The taste of ozone and copper will eventually clear themselves out of her mouth.
Chise, reluctantly, leaves Beatrice's side, and returns to her book. Beatrice notices that the Japanese girl doesn't really read now. She is watching her instead.
Beatrice clears her throat.
"Princess."
She sighs again. It isn't perfect. It will do for now. She is hungry, and desperately needs some strong tea. She closes the cover of her clockwork voice box, stands, and walks over to her wardrobe.
"I will see you at breakfast," Chise says quietly, as she opens the door.
"See you there," Beatrice replies with a forced smile.
Beatrice waits a moment after Chise has left.
"Hime-sama."
It is what Chise calls the Princess, sometimes. It sounds nice. Well, it sounds nice when Chise says it. It sounds weird in Beatrice's voice.
She adjusts a dial on the outer surface of her voice box.
"Hime-sama."
Chise's voice. It still sounds ... wrong. Somehow.
She adjusts the dial again.
"I love you, Beato."
Princess' voice. She shivers, her cheeks turning pink.
Another adjustment.
"I love you too. My princess. My queen."
She takes a deep breath, before finishing getting dressed. Then she opens the door, and heads out to start her day.
Author's Note:
So there's more than one image of Beatrice's mechanical voice-box being used, as it were, in a sexual manner. I've no issue with that really, but thinking about the implications made me realize that it would almost certainly not be a very pleasurable experience for Beatrice. That musing led to this fic.
Of course, the finale may reveal that she's entirely clockwork, but so be it. I honestly hope that Beatrice gets at least a little more development (a last name, maybe?)