Birth of Venus - Book preview
Set in Edinburgh in 1988, "Two Hearts" follows six-year-old Lillian, an anthropomorphic badger, and her human mother Margaret during a quiet winter afternoon. Lillian has been hurt by a classmate who mocked her name as "fluffy" and "a cartoon name," calling her "just an animal" rather than a real girl.
Feeling isolated and different from her peers and her human parents, Lillian tells her mother she wants to change her name. Margaret responds with gentle wisdom, making cocoa and sitting with her daughter to work through these feelings. They discuss Lillian's birth, why she's "furry," and whether she'll meet other anthro children like herself. Through their conversation, Margaret helps Lillian understand that being different doesn't make her less valuable.
The story captures the particular cruelty of childhood prejudice, the early confusion of anthro children in a human-dominated world, and the fierce, quiet love of a mother helping her daughter claim her identity with pride.
"Two Hearts" is the first story in a short story collection, "Birth of Venus," that acts as prequel of my novel trilogy!
đź“– Book 0: Birth of Venus (1989-2002) - Coming 2026
đź“– Book 1: Venus in Furs (2003) - Preview here, full novel: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0GK2T315N
đź“– Book 2: For the Things We Believe In (2013) - Coming 2026
đź“– Book 3: The Weight of Quiet Things (2023) - Coming 2026
Silverburn, 1989.
The snow hadn’t yet stuck to the cobblestones of the mews, but it dusted the windowpanes like sugar. Lillian sat on a cushion by the radiator, a big hardback book of shapes in her lap, though she hadn’t turned a page in nearly twenty minutes. Her small, black-furred paws were folded in her lap, and her nose twitched every so often—half from the dry air, half from something harder to name for her six years-old cub mind. She was wearing a pink and light blue pajamas.
Her mother Margaret was humming in the kitchen, just something quiet and tuneless to fill the silence. She stirred two mugs on the stove—not in a rush, not for show. Just cocoa, the good kind. Her mother always smelled of something good: cinnamon, sugar, dough, lavender, lecorice, chocolate. Lillian could tell what she baked at work as soon as her mom got back home. Mom's smell was the smell of love.
“Darling?” Margaret said gently, glancing toward the sitting room. “You haven’t moved in a while.”
“I’m thinkin',” came Lillian’s small voice, unusually still.
Margaret wiped her hands and walked over. She was short but lean, her hair short black bob cut, and her smile was always framed by two cheek dimples. Her housecoat smelled of citrus and cardamom. “Big thoughts?”
Lillian nodded, badger nose twitching. “I wanna change my name.”
Margaret blinked but didn’t laugh. “Oh?”
“I don’t want it anymore,” she replied, looking at her mother.
Margaret sat beside her daughter on the floor. “Can I ask what brought this on?” asked, and looked her over. Lillian had thick black-and-white fur, a wide and thick short snout, and round blue plastic glasses she needed to wear to compensate for her shortsightedness that made her eyes look like two white saucers with large hazelnuts at their centre. Her stubby tail was curled beneath her legs like a question mark.
Lillian shrugged hard, looking back at her book. “It’s a silly name. Too *fluffy*," she added, moving a bang of her long black hair from her ear.
Margaret tilted her head. “I always thought it was a lovely name.”
“Becca says it’s a cartoon name.” Her lip wobbled. “She said I should be called... Socks. Or Muffin.”
“Those aren’t very good names for a person,” Margaret said.
“She said I’m not a real girl. Just an animal.” Lillian stood quiet for a second, her eyes far away beyond the book in her lap. “She laughed and laughed.”
The words hung in the silence of the room like frost on the sill.
Margaret kept silent for a second more, then sighed and moved closer to Lillian. When she spoke, her voice was soft, reminding Lillian of the warmth she always had when she tended at things: her precise movements when she folded clothes, the lemon-scented cleaner she used to keep their kitchen tidy, the lavender smell of her favourite duvet. “And what do you say?”
Lillian shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t look like many of the kids in school. Or like you. Or da.”
Margaret nodded and took her daughter’s chubby paws gently in her hands. “Come on, kettle’s done. We need cocoa.”
She led Lillian back into the kitchen. On the counter sat two mismatched mugs—one white with little red foxes, the other a chipped green enamel. Lillian pointed at the fox one, and Margaret gave it to her. She pressed both paws around it and sniffed the steam.
They sat together on the window bench, looking out at the soft flakes still trying to become snow.
“I’ll tell you something,” Margaret said, her gaze lost somewhere beyong the snowflakes. “When you were born, your da and I didn’t have a name ready. We thought we would, but when we saw you—well, we realized none of the ones we’d planned quite fit. You weren’t a Fiona. Or a Maisie. And certainly not a Beth—or Becca. We had to guess it.”
“Did you guess Lillian?”
“We did," she replied, with a satisfied nod. "After your Gran’s middle name. She was a brave lady.”
Lillian sipped, then asked softly, “Was I furry when I came out?”
Margaret sipped her cocoa. “You were soft like a velvet glove. Bit squeaky. Not scary.”
“Did I look like a person?” Lillian asked, her voice so low it sounded more like a whisper. She wasn't looking at her mother.
“You looked like *our* person.”
That quieted them both for a moment.
Lillian pulled her knees up. “Why did I come out like this?” she asked, the words coming out slowly from her mouth.
Margaret sipped her cocoa. “Because the world’s still figuring itself out. And sometimes, it makes something brand new.”
“I don’t like bein’ brand new,” Lillian mumbled.
Margaret looked over. “Too lonely?”
Lillian nodded.
“Well,” Margaret said, “you're not the only one. You'll find out. More are being born every day. And even if you were the only one—you’re ours. That’s not lonely.”
Lillian was quiet. Her mother gave her a small smile and clapped her hands. “So. What name would you like instead?”
That made Lillian blink. Her cocoa steamed gently in her lap. “I was thinking,” Lillian said, “maybe... Helen?”
“Mh. Sounds like someone who reads lots of books.”
“I... like books?” Lillian offered, but didn’t look sure.
“What else?”
“...Emma?”
“Very good name. That one’s hard to spell, though. Two M’s. Think you could handle that?”
Lillian giggled.
They tried a few more. Zoe. Jenny. Minnie. Lillian wrinkled her nose at all of them.
Margaret leaned closer. “Still want to change it?” she asked in a cospiratorial tone.
Lillian looked down into her mug. “No... I like my name. It’s just... people laugh.” She whispered, “Do you think I’ll meet other furry kids like me?”
Margaret reached out and smoothed a tuft behind her daughter’s ear. “The world is catching up. Slowly, but it is. So, yes, you'll do. Who knows, maybe you'll make good friends with them.”
“Why did it make me like this?”
She tapped Lillian’s chest gently. “I don’t know, my love. But I think whatever made you knew the world needed a Lillian who looked like you. Who could walk into a room and make people stop and think."
Lillian didn’t answer, but she leaned against her mother’s side and let the silence stretch.
After a while, Margaret asked, “Still want to change your name?”
Lillian thought hard. “No.”
“No?”
“But I don’t want to be just... normal Lillian. Can I... be... the shiny kind of Lillian?”
Margaret smiled. “The shiny kind?”
“Like, gold. Big. Strong.”
“Oh, sweetheart,” Margaret said, raising her mug, “you already are.”
They clinked their mugs. Outside, the snow finally started to stay.
Silverburn, 1989.
The snow hadn’t yet stuck to the cobblestones of the mews, but it dusted the windowpanes like sugar. Lillian sat on a cushion by the radiator, a big hardback book of shapes in her lap, though she hadn’t turned a page in nearly twenty minutes. Her small, black-furred paws were folded in her lap, and her nose twitched every so often—half from the dry air, half from something harder to name for her six years-old cub mind. She was wearing a pink and light blue pajamas.
Her mother Margaret was humming in the kitchen, just something quiet and tuneless to fill the silence. She stirred two mugs on the stove—not in a rush, not for show. Just cocoa, the good kind. Her mother always smelled of something good: cinnamon, sugar, dough, lavender, lecorice, chocolate. Lillian could tell what she baked at work as soon as her mom got back home. Mom's smell was the smell of love.
“Darling?” Margaret said gently, glancing toward the sitting room. “You haven’t moved in a while.”
“I’m thinkin',” came Lillian’s small voice, unusually still.
Margaret wiped her hands and walked over. She was short but lean, her hair short black bob cut, and her smile was always framed by two cheek dimples. Her housecoat smelled of citrus and cardamom. “Big thoughts?”
Lillian nodded, badger nose twitching. “I wanna change my name.”
Margaret blinked but didn’t laugh. “Oh?”
“I don’t want it anymore,” she replied, looking at her mother.
Margaret sat beside her daughter on the floor. “Can I ask what brought this on?” asked, and looked her over. Lillian had thick black-and-white fur, a wide and thick short snout, and round blue plastic glasses she needed to wear to compensate for her shortsightedness that made her eyes look like two white saucers with large hazelnuts at their centre. Her stubby tail was curled beneath her legs like a question mark.
Lillian shrugged hard, looking back at her book. “It’s a silly name. Too *fluffy*," she added, moving a bang of her long black hair from her ear.
Margaret tilted her head. “I always thought it was a lovely name.”
“Becca says it’s a cartoon name.” Her lip wobbled. “She said I should be called... Socks. Or Muffin.”
“Those aren’t very good names for a person,” Margaret said.
“She said I’m not a real girl. Just an animal.” Lillian stood quiet for a second, her eyes far away beyond the book in her lap. “She laughed and laughed.”
The words hung in the silence of the room like frost on the sill.
Margaret kept silent for a second more, then sighed and moved closer to Lillian. When she spoke, her voice was soft, reminding Lillian of the warmth she always had when she tended at things: her precise movements when she folded clothes, the lemon-scented cleaner she used to keep their kitchen tidy, the lavender smell of her favourite duvet. “And what do you say?”
Lillian shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t look like many of the kids in school. Or like you. Or da.”
Margaret nodded and took her daughter’s chubby paws gently in her hands. “Come on, kettle’s done. We need cocoa.”
She led Lillian back into the kitchen. On the counter sat two mismatched mugs—one white with little red foxes, the other a chipped green enamel. Lillian pointed at the fox one, and Margaret gave it to her. She pressed both paws around it and sniffed the steam.
They sat together on the window bench, looking out at the soft flakes still trying to become snow.
“I’ll tell you something,” Margaret said, her gaze lost somewhere beyong the snowflakes. “When you were born, your da and I didn’t have a name ready. We thought we would, but when we saw you—well, we realized none of the ones we’d planned quite fit. You weren’t a Fiona. Or a Maisie. And certainly not a Beth—or Becca. We had to guess it.”
“Did you guess Lillian?”
“We did," she replied, with a satisfied nod. "After your Gran’s middle name. She was a brave lady.”
Lillian sipped, then asked softly, “Was I furry when I came out?”
Margaret sipped her cocoa. “You were soft like a velvet glove. Bit squeaky. Not scary.”
“Did I look like a person?” Lillian asked, her voice so low it sounded more like a whisper. She wasn't looking at her mother.
“You looked like *our* person.”
That quieted them both for a moment.
Lillian pulled her knees up. “Why did I come out like this?” she asked, the words coming out slowly from her mouth.
Margaret sipped her cocoa. “Because the world’s still figuring itself out. And sometimes, it makes something brand new.”
“I don’t like bein’ brand new,” Lillian mumbled.
Margaret looked over. “Too lonely?”
Lillian nodded.
“Well,” Margaret said, “you're not the only one. You'll find out. More are being born every day. And even if you were the only one—you’re ours. That’s not lonely.”
Lillian was quiet. Her mother gave her a small smile and clapped her hands. “So. What name would you like instead?”
That made Lillian blink. Her cocoa steamed gently in her lap. “I was thinking,” Lillian said, “maybe... Helen?”
“Mh. Sounds like someone who reads lots of books.”
“I... like books?” Lillian offered, but didn’t look sure.
“What else?”
“...Emma?”
“Very good name. That one’s hard to spell, though. Two M’s. Think you could handle that?”
Lillian giggled.
They tried a few more. Zoe. Jenny. Minnie. Lillian wrinkled her nose at all of them.
Margaret leaned closer. “Still want to change it?” she asked in a cospiratorial tone.
Lillian looked down into her mug. “No... I like my name. It’s just... people laugh.” She whispered, “Do you think I’ll meet other furry kids like me?”
Margaret reached out and smoothed a tuft behind her daughter’s ear. “The world is catching up. Slowly, but it is. So, yes, you'll do. Who knows, maybe you'll make good friends with them.”
“Why did it make me like this?”
She tapped Lillian’s chest gently. “I don’t know, my love. But I think whatever made you knew the world needed a Lillian who looked like you. Who could walk into a room and make people stop and think."
Lillian didn’t answer, but she leaned against her mother’s side and let the silence stretch.
After a while, Margaret asked, “Still want to change your name?”
Lillian thought hard. “No.”
“No?”
“But I don’t want to be just... normal Lillian. Can I... be... the shiny kind of Lillian?”
Margaret smiled. “The shiny kind?”
“Like, gold. Big. Strong.”
“Oh, sweetheart,” Margaret said, raising her mug, “you already are.”
They clinked their mugs. Outside, the snow finally started to stay.