Chương 2: Strawberry House

The first few days at Strawberry House went poorly. My new body didn't help. There were the obvious downsides of not being able to walk, and the rushed updates that the handyman was installing to a building never intended to be handicap friendly didn't exactly fix those issues. Not that it was all bad. I rather enjoyed the experience of having everyone tower over me. Others may have envied my previous height, but being short was novel to me. Maybe I'd change my opinion after regaining the ability to walk.

For the time being, I found it more useful than not. Even the people that clearly didn't like me made no complaints about helping a fragile girl with her needs. I knew that if I looked like I did previously, that aid would be far less forthcoming. Physical issues aside, my real troubles came from other people. I had decided to make friends, and was prepared to put in the time and effort to search for the right people. That said, none of my early efforts worked.

I was older mentally, so I focused on the adults first. They seemed more cautious around me just for trying. Maybe that was my mistake for attempting a more honest approach, but adults were better suited to seeing through deception and I already had my hands full pretending to be British. Most of the ones who knew Lyra from before responded to me with barely disguised trepidation.

Those same adults were treating the other kids with plenty of kindness, and more than one expressed suspicion as my amnesia was described. Their reactions led me to suspect that Lyra had been a persistent troublemaker. I enjoyed a good prank, but this gave me the impression of someone who went a lot further—and a lot crueler—than what I'd consider without extenuating circumstances. Ms Parish was almost kind to me by comparison. Almost.

She treated all the kids with a cautious distance and only interacted with me during my daily physical therapy and showering; the latter of which I'd have to endure for at least two more weeks. Maybe I misjudged her. Her role in the House was two-fold. She handled the legal statuses of the House's charges, and functioned as the live-in nurse. With the adults keeping their distance, I decided there was little point in not trying my luck with the children.

As far as they went, Strawberry House had very few permanent charges. The idea was for it to be a temporary refuge for children on their way to foster care. Gathering accurate information proved difficult with so few willing to talk to me and no internet access. I was really starting to miss my technology, and the library here sucked. I was still bound to the chair—and barely able to wheel it without aid—meaning I was fairly isolated.

My interactions with the kids were limited to the few communal activities done on the first– the ground floor. Chief among those were recesses and meals. I chose to try during recess, as there was little else I could do in my current state. Since only the patio near the building was paved, my potential options were further limited. I decided to start with a group of younger girls playing with dolls. It wasn't my idea of fun, but they were the closest. Maybe it was a good chance to explore my own femininity?

Playing with dolls was a way to act out parts of who you were in an imaginative space. I was a girl now, so there shouldn't be judgement over such an act. It went horribly wrong as soon as I got near them. I was hoping that the novelty of someone in a wheelchair might spark their curiosity enough to start a conversation and allow me to find a place in their dynamic, but I had forgotten that not all kids had the tact—or even the willingness—to turn someone down gently.

One of the girls—their leader if I had to assign roles—immediately called me creepy for using a wheelchair. When I said I needed it to move around, she called me stupid for not knowing how to walk. One of the others chimed in, calling me ugly because 'I didn't already have a doll'. I hated kids. Their ability and willingness to take small things to such ridiculous extremes was never easy to navigate. I didn't have the level of social grace needed for this interaction. Really, I didn't like most people.

There was a reason I'd struggled to make friends. They girls weren't even that good with their insults. Messing with people was an art. It takes skill, effort, vision. An understanding of your own abilities and the mindset of your target for best results. Anyone could piss on a canvas and incite anger. It took an artist, it took intent, to craft something beautifully infuriating. I was really bored. Being unable to walk sucked in so many unexpected ways.

Not helped by a complete lack of modern timewasting activities. I fixated on the leader and decided I was going to have my revenge on this poor uneducated child… Eventually. Was I a paragon of morality? Absolutely. They eventually gathered their dolls and ran off with one last barb from the leader. about how no one would ever want to be friends with a freak. So much for exploring my identity. I should just stick to being a bookgirl. Books were good.

Having had such a negative reaction with a group of girls, I decided to focus on the exact opposite in my next attempt. There was an older overweight boy sitting alone and eating a snack. It went better, but I disengaged after he failed to recognize an obvious reference to The Lord of the Rings. After further questioning, he claimed to have never even heard of the series. We were in England for crying out loud. Some people just weren't worth befriending.

The last person I approached was a girl sitting alone playing with chalk. She didn't say anything as I made attempts at conversation, or even acknowledge my presence. It wasn't until I'd left in frustration that it occurred to me she might be deaf, severely autistic, or dealing with some other issues. Strawberry House was a place for kids without a current home, and all the tragedy and trauma that implied.

I wasn't the only child around with an obvious physical condition, but I was the only one with serious mobility issues. It stuck out to me all the more how negatively the adults responded to Lyra in light of that. Definitely a troublemaker. I was considering rolling my way back to the last girl and trying again, when the 'leader' of the first group of girls approached with the playground supervisor for the day. I should probably make an effort to learn everyone's name.

People do like it when you care enough to remember them. In my defense, no one was introducing themselves or others to me, and I hadn't been around long enough yet to pick names up from eavesdropping. There were about twenty kids living here. I was told by Ms Parish that the number would shift as kids were adopted, fostered, 'found their way here,' or were otherwise moved around by the system. The volunteers and temporary workers were, if anything, even harder to keep track of.

I hadn't yet been here long enough to differentiate them from the few full-time workers who commuted. There were only three live-in employees. Those three were Mrs Elliot, an elderly woman who worked solely with the babies and toddlers; Ms Blackwall, the property owner who also handled staffing and accounting; and Ms Parish.

"It was her!" yelled the girl, pointing at me with a nasty snarl. I decided to name her 'Blonde Brat' in my head.

"Lyra," the lady said, "what did you do with the doll?" Excuse me?

"What doll, and why am I being accused?" I said it too defensively, but what else was I supposed to do?

"She did it! She was jealous of us earlier and tried to bully us!" BB shouted, face colored an angry red.

"I'm literally an invalid. I don't have the ability to take anything from anyone." I gestured to the girl and addressed the adult, "I can't stand up, or lift more than ten pou– kilos. Also, she was the one making fun of my chair."

"She's lying! It was her, I know it was!" The lady eyed me, then eyed BB.

"Sweetie, did you actually see her take your doll?" Ahh, so she was Sweetie— pronounced with gentle kindness, and I was Lyra— pronounced with a flat angry tone. The lady didn't even bother to think before accepting I was responsible.

"She did it!" BB wailed.

"How!? And what would I have even done with it? I can't leave the terrace." The lady turned to BB, and crouched down to her eye level.

"How about you show me where you last had your doll?" BB agreed and immediately ran off to the far end of the play area near some bushes and trees, a place where my wheelchair would never be able to operate. They eventually found the doll. It was stuck up in a tree. Not horrible as far as pranks went. Not very original, funny, or difficult to pull off, but no damage to the girl's property and only a mild inconvenience to a deserving target. A solid 6/10.

If I could identify the prankster maybe they'd be enjoyable to hang out with. Neither of the two bothered to apologize to me about the false accusation. After that debacle, I decided to keep my distance from the rest of the kids. Most of them weren't staying permanently, I reminded myself. I could still practice socializing at meal times— acting my age—but I wouldn't get invested in these relationships. Boarding school, where I wasn't thoroughly sabotaged by Lyra's past, would be the place to make the real effort.

Still, as negative as that whole experience was, nothing was as bad as the tutoring sessions with Father John. I wasn't religious. I did believe in a higher power. It was hard to justify not doing so, considering what happened to me. The institution of religion and the rituals they practiced were another matter. There was simply too much history of corruption, abuse, political maneuvering, and contradictions to provable evidence for my liking.

I wasn't going to put my faith in a random human reading from a two-thousand-year-old book and claiming to know more about the universe and its creator than all the greatest minds of science combined. I wasn't against people holding beliefs contradictory to mine. Different views often lead to the best discussions. My only real issue in the matter of faith was when someone tried to force their beliefs onto others. Father John was that kind of person.

He 'believed' so strongly, that he decided the normal coursework—approved by the British government to teach children in preparation for secondary school—had to be wrong whenever it went against his personal world views. Not that the old history book he was teaching out of was much better. We'd started with the British monarchy. More than once, the author seemed oddly fond of pushing wild conspiracy theories. Who in their right mind would believe one of the kings had a rabbit as an advisor?

Or that another old king of Scotland from a thousand years ago was eaten by a giant snake? If either of those things had any basis in fact, I surely would've come across the anecdotes on the internet back before I became Lyra. If John— the 'Father' honorific didn't fit him so I wasn't going to use it—If John had a teacher's license I'd eat my shoes. He probably only had the role of tutor since none of the others were willing to interact with me more than absolutely necessary, and Ms Parish was always busy.

He was a newer member of the children's home. He didn't know Lyra before the coma, and didn't share the same reluctance about me as the other adults. He still didn't want to teach me, but while the others could dodge tutoring by citing other important tasks, Father John only had two duties. First was to tend to a small detached building on the property that operated as a church. According to the other kids, he would dole out punishments to get them to clean it for him so he wouldn't need to do the work himself.

Second, was to help any kids with religious concerns. If anyone at Strawberry House had those concerns, they weren't approaching John about them. He was, without question, the most hated person at Strawberry House among the kids. It even felt like he was taking pleasure in that reputation. While also being unerringly polite with all the more senior employees. It was enough for me to ask around about why he worked here. Not like there was much money being spent on us.

Apparently, the answer was well known; he was dating the property owner. The only good thing about him was how frequently he was absent. He was one of the many adults who didn't live on campus, and he had another job or something that kept him away. Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road. At the end of the third day, I learned he wasn't going to let me apply to schools that didn't have a strong Protestant backing.

The kind with nuns and a reputation for corporal punishment. I didn't even know Protestant faiths had nuns, but apparently they did. It was enough to push me into taking action. I was willing to put up with a summer like this, but my hope for a good boarding school was the main thing keeping me going.

"Reformed Christianity is stupid. Predestination removes moral agency. If every outcome is predetermined, everything becomes meaningless," I started.

"God becomes a child playing with dolls. Punishing them for scenarios he orchestrated and acted out."

"Excuse me," he said, voice low and sharp. It wasn't the first time I had poked at him, and while he normally put forward a calm and collected attitude, openly insulting a religion was bound to get a rise out of a pretend priest.

"Fate as a concept is pointless without some way to know the future, and it is far more likely that someone telling you 'they hear the Word of God' is just trying to get idiots to pay them—which is consistent with the history of the 'movement'. Calvin lived in absolute luxury while demanding donations from the poor."

"You do not have the right to criticize the church, girl."

"Any institution that tells you 'they know more than you ever will, and that you should be satisfied with their words while teaching you to live in ignorance' deserves criticism."

"Watch your tongue girl." Calling me 'girl' all the time is such a great way to get me to take anything you say seriously.

"You are a useless child and know nothing of the world, let alone the Will of God." What a pointless thing to say. It's equivalent to 'I don't have a logical comeback, so shut up'. I didn't have high expectations, but he was already falling short of them.

"And you're qualified to speak for God? What happened to 'all people are of equal intrinsic value because they are made in God's image'?"

"A child is not equal. Not by any law. You need to earn humility before questioning scripture."

"My age doesn't negate my point, and we weren't arguing law. To God, aren't all of us his children?"

"Women were born from the rib of Adam to serve men. According to the bible, you are lesser." My thoughts ground to a halt. Of all the possible responses, I wasn't expecting him to take the conversation into blatant sexism. He hadn't said anything along those lines before. My already low opinion of him dropped further. It was particularly jarring to have the statement leveled at me.

I'd accepted that I was now a girl, but there was a difference between telling myself 'I accept something' and living the reality of it.

"Well, if this book says women aren't qualified to be anything other than a slave, I guess all this religion stuff is pointless to us." I reached out and pushed his Bible off the desk. I started to wheel my chair around and leave the room when he suddenly grabbed my arm. I was pulled out of the chair roughly and pushed against the desk. I tried to pull free, but he was huge. I don't think he even felt my attempts. Being overpowered so easily was terrifying.

The terror was quickly replaced by humiliation as he used a ruler to spank me. I hadn't expected this. Also it was painful. A younger body meant rawer nerve endings. Food was more flavorful, smells clearer, colors more vibrant (and not just since Lyra didn't need glasses). It had constantly been the best thing about the situation, but there was a downside to increased sensitivity. My eyes began to water at the mix of pain, shame, and visceral anger. It grew as I realized he was smiling.

It brought to mind the few interactions I'd had with my father. Reminding me of why I left my family, refused all contact, and moved to England for college. To be years away from all that, and ending up right back in a similar situation, felt worse than the simple spanking. John left shortly after. Pausing only long enough for a snide comment about me needing to think about what I'd done wrong to deserve a punishment, and to pick up his Bible. After I recovered, all I could feel was a blinding rage.

Whoever thought corporal punishment was a good idea was an idiot. I liked to think I was the sort of person who was fair in all my dealings, that I never initiated hostilities with others. That I was generally a good and ethical person. But I also knew I held grudges. Before, getting away from John was all I wanted. To use the time spent on these useless lessons a bit more productively. Now? Now I wanted nothing more than to ruin his life. These lessons were held in the evening to accommodate John's schedule.

So I packed up with slightly shaking hands, and readied for bed. There wasn't much to do on that front—this office was only really used for my lessons—and my temporary bedroom was right next door. I settled into bed and tried to come up with a realistic plan to both get out of this situation and get back at the useless priest. I needed something reasonably timely as well. Schools would start term on September 1st, but they'd finalize fall attendance at least a month beforehand. I need help. I realized.

I knew too little about an orphan's legal options in the UK, and I didn't have the time to study that without the internet or a willing—and free—attorney on my side. Even if I got one, governments moved slowly. Police aren't going to respond to a kid complaining about being spanked. Baiting John into a more disproportionate punishment could go very, very, wrong. Not to mention I'd already underestimated his reactions to being challenged.

I was too weak physically to live on the streets, and life as a homeless runaway was probably worse than temporarily living in a traditional school hundreds of years behind the modern world. If I could get some of the other adults to side with me, I'd be able to push back against him, but it'd take a long time considering my position. Also, his girlfriend literally owned the building. I might be able to submit school applications through Ms Parish—she was my primary legal guardian.

I'd try it, but I couldn't be sure it'd work; not while he was given authority as my primary tutor. Help from outside the children's home almost had potential. I was technically up for adoption, but ensuring that situation was better than Strawberry House was too much of a gamble. I'd also need someone willing to foster me on short notice. Everything sounded like a bad option. There were plenty of benefits to being a kid again. It was great not having adult responsibilities and worries.

But having no control over my life, no legal right to make decisions that would impact my future, no real ability to escape an unpleasant situation. It was a nightmare. My stressful thoughts eventually gave way to an uneasy sleep. v^v^V^v^v The next day came, and most of my concerns dissipated almost instantly.

Father John had spent the night with his girlfriend, and, during the night, one of the other kids had broken into his car and brought back some rather interesting 'news' in the form of various documents and intimate gifts piled into the classroom above my room. John had multiple girlfriends, and no one here—especially not Ms Blackwall—had known about it. I happily stayed away from the unfolding drama. Listening in my room as his now-ex shrieked at him out on the front lawn.

How he'd managed to hide such a thing was impressive, but that hardly helped his case. No one knew who'd broken into his car, or why they bothered to lock it back up afterward. I got more than just a few glances and whispers due to being the only kid with a room to themselves. Pointing out that I could barely move—let alone climb the stairs—only served to encourage the rumors. I was almost happy to serve as scapegoat in this case. Whoever was actually responsible saved me considerable trouble and stress.

The adults seemed to suspect me as well, but they were reasonable enough not to call a witch hunt on me. I spent the day hiding in the office area just in case. Out of sight, out of mind. In the end, no one was punished. There wasn't enough evidence against any individual and no one stepped forward as an eyewitness. Ms Parish reluctantly let me self-study after a bit of reasoned arguments and a short assessment test.

I finished my daily physical therapy, and rolled my way out of the meeting room feeling happier than I had since the care facility. Things were starting to look up. v^v^V^v^v Days passed, and days became weeks. My recovery continued ahead of schedule, and I was getting to the point where I could not only stand without issues, but move freely. It was liberating just to be able to walk places after a month chained to a chair.

It was an even larger relief to finally take a bath without an adult woman there touching my naked body. That might be a fantasy of some, but I mostly just found the experience stressful and awkward given the circumstances. A new priest named Father Russel Rubens was hired. The kids were predictably reluctant around him, especially since he took a much more active role than John ever had.

One of his first actions was to organize a community game day on Sundays, setting up simple and cheap events like scavenger hunts or sports games. He won me over after the first one, when he realized I couldn't participate and brought out a chess board. He sat and played with me while watching the others. Since then he brought other board games as well for the less active kids. It was especially nice to be treated like a normal human being.

All the more as I overhead him appealing to the other adults, trying to include me more with the other kids. If I had heard, in my old life, that being treated like a normal ten year old would be something I'd look forward to… I shook my head. I was starting to notice that my emotions were off. I used to be a lot colder. More controlled. Now, I was a lot more prone to what I'd consider childish desires and extremes. I wasn't sure how to take that.

It did sound logical that a child's body and a child's brain would impact me, but I wasn't sure how to take the change. I wanted to live this life, and feeling more was a definite plus. I may be more erratic, but I was also able to feel jolts of happiness over smaller things. On the other hand, regressing was literally the opposite of moving forward. I didn't want to lose all of who I used to be. My memories of the future were the biggest advantage I had, and I wasn't content with mediocrity.

Was I becoming someone else? If I let myself sink into complacency would I forget all that I'd learned? Becoming someone normal filled me with dread. Rubens's efforts to mend my reputation with the adults were in vain. As expected with a group of troubled kids, small incidents and pranks kept happening. Whenever one of those events benefited me or harmed someone who recently annoyed me, the looks would return. … Now that I was mobile, I could even earn some of those looks.

BB really should learn to keep better track of her dolls. The poor care providers here definitely weren't paid enough; the ones who got paid at all, anyways. At least I was making progress with Ms Parish. She'd stopped narrowing her eyes at me every time I said something too American, or slipped up in my accent. It wasn't like my word choices were harming people, and without a reasonable explanation for the change in accent—besides potential brain damage from the coma—there was little else to do besides accept it.

She even almost smiled when I did a cowboy (cowgirl?) impression. I was starting to think intentionally adopting a British accent and their words wasn't worth the effort. A slip-up stood out more than unexplained consistency, and the more I juggled minor details, the less time and energy I had for more important things. Who cared if I called it a bathroom instead of the loo, or a trashcan instead of a bin? I could use the words that came naturally and translate the words others spoke as I heard them.

If the people who knew Lyra before the coma hadn't started screaming about pod-people, then anyone I met from now on wasn't likely to be concerned. Also, it was fun to tease things like cell phones or laptops and watch others either grow confused or outright dismissive of 'a child's imagination'. Maybe not the most secure way to keep a secret, but so long as I didn't flat out claim to have come from the future, I highly doubted anyone would call me on it. People can just assume I'm eccentric.

I did actively decide to use a few Britishisms like 'mum' instead of 'mom', because it amused me. Improving morale was a valuable use of mental resources. v^v^V^v^v On the seventh of July, I received an unexpected surprise. It was Lyra's birthday. Birthdays were treated as a minor holiday at Strawberry House. The focus was more on all of the kids having fun instead of an individual, but I did end up with a few cheap presents. I forced a genuine-looking smile onto my face as I opened a second-hand dress.

This was the second birthday celebrated in the House since I arrived, and the boy before me also received a wardrobe upgrade. Losing the wheelchair meant I was now expected to wear more than just the most comfortable, loose-fitting things I had access to. The dress was a lot nicer and more blatantly feminine than the old hand-me-downs I wore. Which was fine. I wanted to embrace this life, and that meant accepting I was a girl now.

There was still something about fully presenting myself as a girl that felt slightly taboo; enticing, but also wrong. Perverted. I couldn't stop thinking about how this body wasn't originally mine. The feeling was fading as I went about daily necessities, but I kept having moments where my mentality recoiled from the disconnect. It was probably better just to stick to an androgynous look. The dress does look… pretty. It matches the hat from the last present… and the shoes from before that.

A matching outfit—definitely bought together. One person got all the gifts and labeled them separately. I set the dress aside, and began unwrapping the last present, expecting to be disappointed, but not letting it show. It was a fox plushie. Specifically, an arctic fox. I looked around until I found Ms Parish. Just last week—before I knew Lyra's birthday was coming—she had asked me what my favorite animal was, and I had, of course, answered with 'a fox'. She kept her harsh expression, but quickly looked away.

I was a little touched, and the stuffed animal was kind of cute. I put it with the clothing and went to join the line for cake. It was a cheap store-bought mix-cake. Still, cake was cake. I wasn't going to complain about the staff being frugal with the House's very limited funds. Father Rubens entered the cafeteria trailed by a tall older woman I didn't recognize. Maybe a volunteer that hadn't been around for a while, or a donor? Someone looking to adopt? Strangers weren't uncommon here.

There was something familiar about her that caught and held my attention for a moment. She had a natural, severe-looking expression. Maybe twice as old as Ms Parish, with black hair combed back into a tight bun, and square, horned-rimmed glasses. Her clothes were subtly off, and didn't quite suit her.

"Lyra! Happy birthday again—you received a letter," Father Rubens said; handing it over. I perked up immediately. I'd been applying to prestigious Public Schools—the kind that charged tuition. So far, I received two letters of acceptance, but neither of those were my first choice, and both had only offered limited financial aid. There might be something to be said for having more free-time at a State School, but standing out academically at the British version of a private school was more impressive.

It'd ultimately save considerable money when it came to college. I was running out of time to finalize things. Either this letter was about scholarships or would provide a third option to review. Rubens didn't stick around. Instead he waved Ms Parish over to the new woman, and after an apparent introduction—where the two left together—he ambled over to talk to the House's newest charge. I paused, noticing a familiar seal on the letter.

A golden, four-section shield with a lion, snake, badger, and eagle backed by their respective red, green, yellow, and blue all surrounding a large letter H. A Hogwarts letter. Someone was trying to prank me! I was a bit flattered, One of the core differences that separated a prank from something nastier was intent. This could be meant as a way to embarrass me, but held very little potential to get me in trouble. It was a step up from being used as a scapegoat. It was high quality too. Parchment instead of paper.

Was this genuine animal skin paper, or just a synthetic reproduction? The Hogwarts' crest was very finely done as well. Little details not mentioned in the book that made it feel more magical. How to respond to it though? Should I lean into it? Try to get the sender to reveal themselves and prank them back? The prospective entertainment of such a distraction was exciting.

Not only was the internet in a useless state, but TV sucked in the 90s—at least the overtly kid-friendly educational programs we were allowed to watch did—and I wasn't much of an outdoors/sports person. There was only so much reading and studying I could do before banging my head against a wall. Even more so since I was essentially stuck in review. Movement from the side caught my attention in time to see BB running away from where I'd set my presents. A small, white fox in her hands.

Irritation overwhelmed me for a moment. I didn't trust that she'd keep from damaging my stuff like I'd avoided with hers. Before I could act, her legs locked up mid-run and she fell with a startled yelp. The plushie flew out of her arms, hit a wall, bounced off a table leg, and landed beside my foot. My mind froze for a moment.

I might've dismissed the incident as just unlikely happenstance, but with the letter in my hand and so recently thinking about Harry Potter, another, far more ridiculous possibility presented itself. BB wasn't hurt from the fall and was now being chided for running around indoors. No one had been paying enough attention to notice the movements of the fox toy, and I didn't get the suspicious looks this time. I glanced back at the letter. A rising tension forming in my chest. It did fit.

Underage, undirected magic causing odd occurrences when I was distressed. Harry had similar things happen—from accidental teleportation and vanishing glass, to minor things like hair growth and styling. Wait. It was 1992 currently. The first book wasn't released until the late 90s. How would anyone know about Harry Potter? I'm not seriously considering this, am I? It makes no sense, there's no logical way for a person to get pulled into a fictional universe. But…

it wasn't the first impossible thing I'd encountered, was it? My existence as Lyra was impossible; magic wasn't so far fetched if I took that into account. Magic. An explanation perhaps for how I ended up here? The woman who arrived with the letter came to mind. She wasn't Maggie Smith, but the similarities were there. Professor McGonagall. She was here, and talking to Ms Parish. Lyra was a witch. I was a witch. This was happening. I need proof. I told myself. Magic was real.