Ashes, Stew, and Secrets

"Clivilius never lets you celebrate a win for long—there’s always another fire smouldering under the stew."

As the sun sank towards the horizon, its light spilling in molten gold across the barren expanse, the settlement gathered like moths to the bonfire. The flames licked at the cool evening air, painting the settlers’ faces in shades of amber and shadow. Laughter flickered as readily as the sparks, the low murmur of conversation stitched together with the crackle of burning wood. The mingled scents of smoke and something hearty cooking—probably Paul’s latest attempt at “bush stew”—twined through the dusk.

Life here had inched, almost imperceptibly, towards comfort. Not luxury—Clivilius was never going to be luxurious—but something that no longer scraped quite so hard against the edges of survival. A third caravan now stood proudly in Bixbus, along with camping supplies and power generators that hummed with quiet promise.

I stood apart from the circle, letting the scene soak in. The settlers had no idea how many hours, back-and-forth negotiations, and quietly ruthless decisions had gone into making this happen. That was fine. They didn’t need to. The quiet pride was mine to savour.

Today’s wins were part careful planning, part improvisation, and part—if I was honest—sheer luck. The generators, for example, had been a rare stroke of fortune, one of those moments where Sophie—the woman who never hesitated, who always closed the deal—could glide in and claim them before anyone else had thought to look.

Now, though, Sophie was gone, her sharp-edged assertiveness folded neatly away. In her place stood just me—Beatrix—tired, dust-streaked, and content to simply watch. The shift was almost physical, as if I’d unclenched muscles I didn’t know I’d been holding.

A large pot of chilli was making its slow, deliberate circuit of the settlers, passed from hand to hand with the same care one might give to a newborn. It wasn’t just food—it was a gesture, a tangible reminder that in this place, survival was stitched together with acts of quiet generosity.

The stew was a robust, earthy affair: thick chunks of tender beef, plump beans swollen with flavour, and a smoky tomato gravy that clung to the spoon. It carried the kind of spice that unfurled gradually, warming from the inside out, lingering on the lips like a promise. A small basket of crusty bread followed in its wake, its golden edges catching the firelight. The settlers tore into it with hands still calloused from the day’s labours, steam curling up into the cool night air.

It was such a simple meal, and yet, here, it felt decadent. Something you could hold in your hands and actually believe—for a few minutes—that life could be comfortable.

The air buzzed with light chatter and the occasional gust of laughter—thin, bright ribbons cutting through the heavier fabric of the night. Yet under it all, there was that constant hum of vigilance, the unspoken understanding that the darkness beyond the fire’s reach wasn’t empty. Out there, anything might be watching.

I sat at the edge of the circle, half-absorbed by the rhythm of the voices. The stories wound their way around me, snippets of work done, plans for the morning, small jokes told for the sake of telling them. I didn’t need to join in. It was enough, for now, to listen, to let their words become the soundtrack to a rare moment of stillness.

My thoughts drifted ahead—to the inevitable problems waiting in the days to come, the strategies and stubbornness we’d need to keep moving forward. But for once, I didn’t let them take root. Tonight, I wasn’t Sophie the negotiator, or Beatrix the Guardian, or any other version of myself crafted to meet someone else’s needs.

Tonight, I was simply part of this circle, wrapped in the glow of the fire and the scent of chilli, savouring the rare luxury of feeling like I belonged.

---

As the meal drew to a natural close, the last traces of chilli disappeared into the contented stomachs of the settlers, leaving behind only the mingled scents of smoke, spice, and bread crust lingering in the air. The energy around the bonfire shifted—no longer the bustling hum of communal eating but a gentler, looser rhythm. People began to drift away, their bodies casting long, tapering shadows in the firelight.

Some retreated to the privacy of their newly acquired caravans and makeshift tents, seeking warmth and rest. Others lingered, reluctant to let the night end, sitting close to the fire as though proximity to the flames could shield them from more than just the cold. Their conversations dropped to low murmurs, private words wrapped in the protective crackle of burning wood.

I stayed where I was, the role of quiet observer suiting me. My gaze settled on two figures among the remaining group—Grant Ironbach, the revered Director of the Bonorong Wildlife Sanctuary back in Hobart, and his sister, Sarah. Even here, in the half-light of Clivilius, Grant had the same air about him: the steadiness of someone used to both authority and responsibility, paired with that subtle restlessness you see in people who can’t stand being idle for too long. Sarah, in contrast, seemed more open, her posture relaxed but her eyes alert, scanning the scene with quiet interest.

Their presence here was… odd. Not unwelcome, but undeniably puzzling. My interactions with them so far had been fleeting—brushstrokes rather than full portraits—but enough to leave an impression.

Luke had mentioned, almost casually, that a visit to Grant was planned, as though it were just another errand on his ever-growing list. But here they were already, settled among us in the dust and firelight. The reality of seeing Grant here, so far from the sanctuary he’d poured himself into, jarred against everything I knew of him. A man like Grant didn’t just walk away from his life’s work without a reason that could stand up to scrutiny.

And in my world, reasons like that usually came with sharp edges.

Spying the young wildlife enthusiasts on the outskirts of the group, animatedly trading stories with Paul, I approached with measured steps. The firelight painted their faces in warm tones, casting fleeting shadows that danced across expressions of genuine curiosity and admiration.

"Grant," I interjected, my voice carrying that careful balance between familiarity and intrigue, the kind reserved for someone whose presence was both welcome and unexpected. My hand extended toward the tall figure whose natural authority seemed to bend the circle of conversation around him. Grant stood solid and assured, the kind of man who didn’t need to raise his voice to command attention. His short, brown hair caught the flicker of the flames, a faint, coppery shimmer threading through the darker strands.

As I drew near, the group’s subtle shift was instinctive—conversations tapering off, bodies angling away—until a narrow corridor opened between us. Paul, perceptive to social undercurrents, gave a slight nod and stepped back, ceding the space without a word.

"Beatrix," Grant greeted, the timbre of his voice warm yet deliberate, every syllable infused with sincerity. His green eyes—bright, discerning, and quietly appraising—locked with mine, and in them I caught a flicker of something harder to place. Recognition, certainly, but layered with the faint curiosity of a man assessing not just an old acquaintance, but the changes time had etched into her.

Our handshake was firm, steady, a silent exchange of mutual respect that needed no flourish.

"It's been a while."

"Perhaps a little too long," I admitted, my words carrying the faint weight of years and events unspoken. They lingered in the air between us, like the drift of woodsmoke overhead—thin, tangible, but destined to dissipate.

"You’ve met my sister, Sarah, haven’t you?" Grant asked, his hand lifting in an easy, almost proprietorial gesture towards the woman at his side.

"I have," I replied, turning to her. The firelight caught the flowing fabric of her white sundress, lending it a golden sheen that softened its crispness. Against the rugged backdrop of dust, smoke, and canvas, she looked almost like she’d stepped out of a different world entirely. The hem swayed gently with the night breeze, echoing the quiet poise in the way she stood. Her sandals were simple but stylish, revealing toes painted in a cheerful array of colours—little splashes of personality peeking through the otherwise graceful exterior, a subtle reminder that refinement and whimsy were not mutually exclusive.

Sarah’s smile was as warm as it was genuine, the sort that drew you in without effort. "Thank you for having the wildlife sanctuary added to the list of supported charities," she said, her voice clear but soft, the gratitude in her eyes speaking more than her words.

I found myself hesitating, her thanks catching me off guard. My mind flicked through the catalogue of things I’d done, searching for the connection, before leaving me with only the faint awareness that she was referring to something I hadn’t thought about in a long while. I simply stared for a beat too long, the pause hanging between us like a bridge I hadn’t quite decided whether to cross.

"Charlie Claiborne’s charity event at MONA," Grant prompted, the words rolling from him with an easy familiarity. His elbow nudged mine, a friendly yet knowing touch that undercut the formality of our reunion. "I’m curious how you managed that one."

My cheeks betrayed me instantly, the heat blooming before I could will it away. The memory of that night came rushing back in an uninvited tide—half glittering sophistication, half awkward manoeuvring that I had hoped was already buried. "It was nothing," I murmured, forcing a casualness into my tone that I didn’t feel, while internally wishing I could edit my own past like a badly written paragraph.

I was eager to steer the conversation away from past endeavours and towards the present, peculiar circumstances that had brought us together. "So, what brings the two of you to this barren place?" I asked, my tone laced with an almost careless curiosity that didn’t quite mask the deliberate sharpness of the question. It was the kind of query that could be passed off as casual conversation, but both of us knew it was a probe.

Paul’s glance was swift and cutting—a silent reprimand that sliced deeper than if he’d chastised me aloud. I caught it, held it for the briefest moment, and then gave a small shrug, one that was meant to be conciliatory but probably just looked faintly defiant. My question still hung between us, stubborn and unsoftened, the kind of conversational barb that refused to dissolve politely into the night air.

"Work," Sarah replied. Just one word, clean and precise, her voice calm yet weighted. It was an answer that didn’t diminish the question so much as it hinted at a far more complex truth, as though the single syllable had been wrapped around something much bigger, something not yet ready to be unwrapped.

"Oh?" The sound escaped me without thought, a reflexive vocal twitch betraying my surprise at the brevity of her response.

Grant, either sensing my appetite for more or simply unwilling to leave the moment suspended, took it upon himself to elaborate. "In short, we’ve agreed to do an initial assessment of the place and provide recommendations on how a wildlife sanctuary can be established here." His words fell easily, as if he’d already rehearsed them for someone else—or perhaps for himself—painting a picture that was both ambitious and faintly absurd given our surroundings.

"You have?" The words slipped out, a blend of intrigue and a creeping unease that I didn’t bother to hide. The idea rolled around in my mind, awkward and unwieldy. A wildlife sanctuary… here. In a land where the horizon was more dust than life, where every shadow hinted at a predator. It was either inspired optimism or spectacular folly—though, in Clivilius, those two things often travelled hand in hand.

"We’re only here for a week or two," Sarah said, giving Karen a brief greeting wave as she approached, her smile polite but not lingering.

Sarah’s acknowledgment of Karen’s arrival barely grazed my attention. My focus was still locked on the words she’d just spoken, heavy as stones in my mind. "And after that?" The question left me before I could sand down its edges, slipping out sharp and unvarnished—a clean cut straight to the root of my unease.

Grant answered before the silence could grow teeth. "Bonorong won’t manage itself forever," he said, the statement so plain it almost disguised its gravity. Almost.

The words landed with force, like a sudden drop in pressure before a storm. They knocked the air out of my composure, leaving me momentarily unmoored. My brow furrowed, my thoughts spiralling as I tried to reconcile the idea of him walking away from all of this—this fragile, fledgling settlement—just as quickly as he had appeared.

I turned instinctively toward Paul, searching his face for some anchor, some unspoken reassurance that this wasn’t about to turn into yet another one of Clivilius’s endless disruptions. But Paul wasn’t my anchor tonight—he looked more like someone who had accidentally stepped into the wrong play and was waiting for a cue that would never come. His chuckle was light but frayed at the edges, a staccato rhythm that did little to disguise his unease. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his stance awkward, almost defensive.

"Shit." The word escaped me in a whisper, part exhale, part admission, carrying with it the weight of what I had just realised—though realisation only seemed to deepen the questions. The puzzle pieces that had just clicked into place didn’t form a clear picture. They only revealed how many more pieces were missing.

As Grant’s voice folded neatly into the chatter between Sarah and Karen, I felt Paul’s hand on my elbow—firm but not unkind—steering me away from the firelight. The warmth of the flames gave way to the cool bite of night air as we moved toward the fringes of the camp, where shadows pooled thick and the voices of the others faded into a muffled backdrop. Out here, the air seemed thinner, carrying only the muted rustle of canvas and the occasional snap of a dying ember.

Paul stopped, turning to face me, his expression sharpened by the dim glow of the bonfire behind us. "Beatrix," he began, his voice pitched low enough to keep the words between us. There was weight in his tone—each syllable deliberate, like he was placing stones one by one into my hands. "I have another mission for you."

It wasn’t the words themselves that set my pulse quickening, but the way he said them: no room for misunderstanding, no space to breathe before the next demand would come.

My answer hissed out before I could rein it in, all sharp edges and hot air. "What, besides keeping from Grant and Sarah the fact that they won’t be going back to Bonorong!?" The sentence cracked like a whip in the quiet, my anger threading through the disbelief in my voice.

A thought flared—brief, hopeful, and entirely foolish. "Or can they?" I asked, almost afraid of the answer even as I sought it.

Paul’s response was wordless but devastating. A small shake of the head, slow and final, followed by a subdued "No." The sound of it was heavier than it should have been, a single syllable anchoring itself in my chest.

It was confirmation, yes, but it was also a sentence—a sealing of fates, theirs and ours alike. Shit, I cursed inwardly, the echo of my earlier expletive returning now with a deeper, more foreboding resonance. This wasn’t just another problem to juggle; it was a truth we’d have to carry like contraband.

"My dog, Charlie, is currently in Broken Hill with my wife and kids. I miss her dearly and I know she’d love it here," Paul said. His voice carried a faint softness I wasn’t used to hearing from him, the kind that came from picturing something—or someone—beloved.

My heart tugged despite myself, but my mind recoiled almost instantly. The image of Duke’s still form from yesterday—fur dulled, eyes closed forever—was still raw, stitched unsteadily into my memory. The thought of another animal here, so soon, in this unforgiving place, scraped against something in me.

"Hang on a second," I said, the words sharp, like glass catching the light. A mix of incredulity and concern bled into my tone before I could temper it.

"We’ve only just dealt with Duke’s death yesterday, and you already want to bring another dog to this godforsaken place?"

Paul hesitated, as if weighing how much to push me. His eventual reply, "She’ll make a great early warning system," was practical on the surface but underpinned with a stubborn longing. That mix—security plan and personal comfort—made the whole thing sit uneasily in my gut.

"You’re unbelievable," I shot back, my frustration rising to the surface like steam from boiling water. "Not only do you want to bring another animal here, but you want me to dognap her!"

"I know it sounds crazy, but—"

"Yeah, you’re right!" I cut him off before he could build momentum. "It is crazy!"

He didn’t flinch. "Please, Beatrix," he said, and the way he used my name was almost enough to soften me—almost. "Claire isn’t very good with pets."

That was his angle then. Not just about bringing Charlie here, but about removing her from someone he clearly didn’t trust to care for her properly. And now the idea, however absurd, had wormed its way past my initial outrage and was sitting there in my mind, daring me to entertain it.

As my gaze unintentionally caught Grant and Sarah’s figures entering my peripheral vision, the sight tugged at the edges of my thoughts. Their quiet confidence, the calm way they carried themselves even in this raw, unsettled place, stirred a fleeting notion—perhaps with their expertise and compassion, Charlie might stand a chance here. She wouldn’t just be a functional “early warning system”; she could be part of something cared for, nurtured.

But the idea sat uneasily in my chest. That glimmer of reassurance did nothing to silence the moral tangle tightening around me. I was torn between my loyalty to Paul—this odd, often infuriating alliance we’d built—my genuine concern for Charlie’s wellbeing, and the undeniable truth that this plan reeked of risk.

Paul’s eyes held that mix of stubbornness and hope I had come to recognise all too well, and it pressed at me, relentless. And now, with Grant and Sarah here—unexpected allies, though neither of them knew it yet—the balance tipped ever so slightly. The unspoken promise of their presence, their steady hands in a world so precarious, nudged me toward the side I’d sworn I wouldn’t take.

A long, reluctant breath escaped me, my chest tightening with the decision. “Fine,” I huffed, the word landing with the finality of a signature scrawled on a contract I’d never intended to sign.

And in that moment, I felt it—more than just the shadow of Duke’s loss or the uncertainty of Charlie’s impending arrival. This was another line crossed in the shifting sand of Bixbus. Each decision here wasn’t simply a choice—it was a wager in a game none of us fully understood, where the stakes were hidden until it was too late to turn back.