Chapter Nine: Batty
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It's no surprise that one of Batty's favorite books is Where the Wild Things Are. She's a wild thing herself, that little whirl of dark curls and quiet incandescence. The world frightens her, but she makes up for outward hesitancy with inward joy, the kind that resonates in every bone, organ, and cell of her body, beating like a tell-tale heart: yes, yes, yes.
She takes solace in nature, the wild place of rushing wind and fluttering leaves and vines that coil and twist around mossy branches. She dashes in the blooming vegetation, plowing her way through thickets of ferns and blue lilies. Mud paints itself on the bare canvas of her skin, blossoms settle on her shoulders, sunshine illumines streaks of honey and toffee in her hair. In the forest, she is fearless. She will go places she has never gone before—treetops and stream beds and heavily graffitied old bridges.
Rosalind likes to think, Skye likes to understand, and Jane likes to create, but Batty likes to feel. Her senses are invested in every action she takes.
Darting between trees in dizzying sunlight, she hums an infinite tune. And after a while, she achieves what she comes for. She finally tastes the forest's rough edges, breathes its myriad of scents, listens to its vibrant, orchestral roar.
It's quite something.
In the back of her mind, there is always a voice of reason reminding her of things she should be doing. Deadlines, responsibilities, tasks…absolutes that clash with her ethereal little realm.
But Batty is a wild thing.
So she quickens her pace and dives after a scampering rabbit, losing herself to the woodland blur.
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(A/N:) I love Batty Penderwick. That is all.
