Bunnymund was not amused.
He had just spent the last few hours trying to unclog the drain at the end of one of his colourful rivers. The offending blockage, an enormous matted tangle of hair, was sitting on the bank, oozing colour all over the grass. He really regretted leaving the back door…or burrow…open for five minutes earlier.
But the hair wasn't ordinary hair. It looked more like fur. Bunnymund had a pretty good idea where it had come from.
"Where are ya, ya bloody yobbo…" he grumbled, boomerang raised as he stalked towards the main chamber.
Unfortunately for Bunnymund, the intruder had come and gone already…leaving hundreds of colourful paw prints everywhere; the ground, the walls, the ceiling, you name it. It was possible to hear his cursing five miles away.
Unfortunately for Beatrice, the moon did not grant her wish. Now, three days later, it was no longer even in the sky. It had been replaced by the sun, which she could feel beating down on her face through the thin chiffon under-curtains. In fact, she could see it resting on her face from her position sat in front of the mirror on her dressing table.
One of the maids, Eliza Greenfield, was absorbed in the task of twisting Beatrice's long, mahogany hair into a presentable style in preparation for dinner with Mr. Ward. She had already laid out a flowing gown (which was overdoing things, in Beatrice's opinion) for Beatrice to wear to dinner with Mr. Ward. The house had been swept until it was spotless for dinner with Mr. Ward. The silverware had been polished until it shone for dinner with Mr. Ward.
Mr. Ward had become somewhat of verbal tic in the Miller household. Everything was either about Mr. Ward or for Mr. Ward. What Beatrice felt most aggrieved about was that she was included on this list of 'things to be sorted';
"Make sure that the floors have been properly scrubbed before Mr Ward arrives, Greenfield, and do not forget to ensure that Beatrice is presentable before he gets here!"
She hated being viewed as merchandise as much as she hated her parents wilfully ignoring her own opinion, but there wasn't much she could do about it.
Although she had no desire to go to dinner with Mr. Ward, she had calmed down a little from the ball three nights ago; Mr. Ward was no longer the single most disagreeable man on the Earth. She supposed her dislike had been somewhat irrational, after all, wasn't it only natural that a man should want to dance with a woman he found desirable?
Beatrice wasn't really sure what to think. It was a recurring flaw of hers (which she was unfortunately completely unaware of) that she forgave far too easily. Very possibly, this had developed in response to her parent's antics and the injustices of society. If she had not developed the habit of forgiving, she would've spent all of her days in a perpetual state of resentment and misery; and if there was one thing Beatrice prized, it was her own happiness.
She smiled to herself as she remembered the time she had 'borrowed' her father's horse to go for a ride about the countryside, near one of the forests in her home state of Oklahoma. She had gotten such a scolding for that, but it had all been worth it to ride free, the wind blowing through her hair.
That was, perhaps, one of her most precious memories, and what she strove to keep in mind as she descended the stairs to dine with Mr. Ward. The memory comforted her slightly. After all, it was just a dinner; it could hardly last all evening!
Mr Ward was waiting on her in the drawing room, dressed in his best suit. Beatrice resolved to be as civil and well-mannered as possible, but this proved to be impossible the moment they had completed the customary bow-and-curtsey. He was moving around so stiffly! She supposed he was trying to show off his good posture, but he just looked like he had a wooden plank shoved down the back of his shirt.
Of course, once she had unwittingly made such an observation, Beatrice felt the overwhelming urge to burst out laughing. That would be social suicide, but try as she might, she couldn't quite supress a few giggles.
And then she saw it again; that subtle hardening of his eyes. Oh, his overall expression didn't change, but the impression of intolerance was as clear to Beatrice as if he had ripped the nearby tapestry off the wall and started beating her about the head with it.
She allowed him to lead her to the dining room, and took her seat with an enhanced sense of caution. Her mother had seated her directly opposite Mr. Ward. Beatrice would much rather have sat next to him; at least that way he couldn't stare into her eyes like a suspicious bird, which was what he was doing now.
For Beatrice, the atmosphere was unbelievably tense, but her parents seemed, as usual, totally oblivious. Her mother was, once again, winking sporadically at her from her seat next to Mr. Ward ( the only seat at the table where he would be unable to see how foolish she looked) and her father sat almost threateningly next to her, like an Egyptian sphinx guarding a tomb. Or the Royal Guards guarding Buckingham Palace. Or a pitbull guarding a small child.
"So that your father may discuss business with Mr. Ward" her arse.
The scene was set, and the dinner proceeded to go just as badly as Beatrice hoped it wouldn't. Mr. Ward and Mr. Miller spoke of bringing their assets together, Mrs. Miller waffled about how she wanted nothing more than to see her daughter do well, Mr. Ward bemoaned his lack of a wife and Beatrice said nothing much of anything.
It was impossible to get a word in edgeways! She was not presented with an opportunity to speak until she was instructed to see Mr. Ward out of the door, and then the second she opened her mouth to speak, Mr. Ward interjected.
"It has been an honour and a pleasure seeing you again, Miss. Miller. I should like very much to continue to see you."
A quiet cough from behind the sitting room door alerted her to the fact that her parents were eavesdropping. In such circumstances, Beatrice felt that the only answer she could get away with was
"You may take your statement for my own opinion, Mr. Ward."
And that was that. Mr. Ward climbed into his fine carriage and drove away into the night. Beatrice was left standing on the doorstep, casting her eyes over the skies once more, hoping that one of the celestial bodies would hear her plea for freedom.
Then her mother kicked up a fuss about letting all the cold air in and, disheartened, Beatrice was forced to retire to her bedroom, her wish once more unfulfilled.