“I’m fairly certain, Captain,” she said, “that the more you discover about me, the more you will dislike me. Therefore, let’s cut to the chase and acknowledge that we don’t like each other. Then we won’t have to bother with the in-between part.”She was so bloody frank and practical about the whole thing that Christopher couldn’t help but be amused.“I’m afraid I can’t oblige you.”“Why not?”“Because when you said that just now, I found myself starting to like you.”“You’ll recover,” she said.Her decisive tone made him want to smile. “It’s getting worse, actually,” he told her. “Now I’m absolutely convinced that I like you.”Beatrix gave him a patently skeptical stare. “What about my hedgehog? Do you like her, too?”Christopher considered that. “Affection for rodents can’t be rushed.”“Medusa isn’t a rodent. She’s an erinaceid.”

“I’m fairly certain, Captain, that the more you discover about me, the more you will dislike me. Therefore, let’s cut to the chase and acknowledge that we don’t like each other. Then we won’t have to bother with the in-between part.”She was so bloody frank and practical about the whole thing that Christopher couldn’t help but be amused. “I’m afraid I can’t oblige you.”“Why not?”“Because when you said that just now, I found myself starting to like you.”“You’ll recover,” she said.”

“Captain Phelan and I dislike each other,” Beatrix told her. “In fact, we’re sworn enemies.”Christopher glanced at her quickly. “When did we become sworn enemies?”Ignoring him, Beatrix said to her sister, "Regardless, he’s staying for tea.”“Wonderful,” Amelia said equably. “Why are you enemies, dear?”“I met him yesterday while I was out walking,” Beatrix explained. “And he called Medusa a ‘garden pest,’ and faulted me for bringing her to a picnic.”Amelia smiled at Christopher. “Medusa has been called many worse things around here, including ‘diseased pincushion,’ and ‘perambulating cactus.”

“Dear Son, I would call you by name, but I’m waiting for your mother to decide. I only hope she is joking when she calls you Albert Dalbert. For weeks now I have watched your mother zealously gather her tokens for this box. She’s so afraid of you not knowing anything about her, and it bothers me greatly that you’ll never know her strength firsthand. I’m sure by the time you read this, you’ll know everything I do about her. But you’ll never know her for yourself and that pains me most of all. I wish you could see the look on her face whenever she talks to you. The sadness she tries so hard to hide. Every time I see it, it cuts through me. She love you so much. You’re all she talks about. I have so many orders from her for you. I’m not allowed to make you crazy the way I do your Uncle Chris. I’m not allowed to call the doctors every time you sneeze and you are to be allowed to tussle with your friends without me having a conniption that someone might bruise you. Nor am I to bully you about getting married or having kids. Ever. Most of all, you are allowed to pick your own car at sixteen. I’m not supposed to put you in a tank. We’ll see about that one. I refuse to promise her this last item until I know more about you. Not to mention, I’ve seen how other people drive on the roads. So if you have a tank, sorry. There’s only so much changing man my age can do. I don’t know what our futures will hold. I only hope that when all is said and done, you are more like your mother than you are like me. She’s a good woman. A kind woman. Full of love and compassion even though her life has been hard and full of grief. She bears her scars with a grace, dignity, and humor that I lack. Most of all, she has courage the likes of which I haven’t witnessed in centuries. I hope with every part of me that you inherit all her best traits and none of my bad ones. I don’t really know what more to say. I just thought you should have something of me in here too. Love, Your father (Wulf)”

“She set her hands neatly in her lap. “But you just said he liked you.” “No, I said he enjoys my company. That is, he enjoys hating me. Or pretending to hate me. I don’t know which. But I’m finding it difficult to completely dislike someone who gets pleasure from having me around. ...“So he likes being mean to you,” she said. “And you like that he likes being mean to you.” “And I like being mean to him, too, don’t forget.” “Of course not. Pleasure from meanness. There’s a name for it: sadomasochism.”

“And because I’m so out of control, I can’t help myself. I’m not even mine anymore, I’m yours, and what if you decide that you don’t want me? How could you want me like I want you?”