Beast Read online

He gazes pensively at the food, human food fit for ladies and gentlemen; I know it cannot satisfy him.

  “I have . . . dined . . . already. But do please help yourself.”

  She shakes her head. “I’ve had my fill, thank you.”

  Beast frowns. “But you’ve scarcely touched a morsel. Perhaps you’d prefer something else? Soup? Potted sweetbreads? A ragout?” As he reels off these names, the dishes themselves appear on the table, doffing their shiny covers to the startled Rose, enveloping her end of the table in savory steam until at last, she’s fluttering her hands in the air like agitated moths.

  “Oh, please, Sir Beast! It’s all too much!”

  And with a wave of Beast’s paw, all the dishes vanish.

  “I’ve upset you,” he says anxiously.

  “No, not at all,” she replies hastily. “It’s just that . . . all this . . .” And she makes a small gesture with her hand that seems to include the beautifully dressed table, the music, and the fragrant air itself, where the dishes were just a moment ago. She shakes her head in wonder, and unexpectedly, a soft syllable of surprised laughter escapes her. Beast peers at her.

  “This will all take some getting used to,” she explains. And then she smiles at him.

  It’s the first time he has seen her full smile, and I note the surprised pleasure in Beast’s eyes. How eagerly he responds to even the barest hint of fellowship.

  And I revise my opinion of this Rose, this innocent beauty.

  She will break his heart.

  Beast took his leave of Rose last night with the invitation to enjoy herself at his château.

  “My garden, my grounds, all are at your disposal,” he told her. “Whatever you desire while under my roof, you have only to wish for.” He then asked her permission to visit her again tonight, at eight, and she cautiously agreed.

  Rose keeps me nearby like a child clings to a favorite toy, for the reassurance of something familiar, and Beast does not interfere, anxious to put her at ease. So I spent last night on a night table next to Rose’s canopied bed, illuminating nothing. And today, she and I are constant companions. Left on her own to explore the château, she needs my friendly light; spring rains have washed away the last of the snow, and the sun, when it shows its face, climbs higher every day, but there are gloomy corners in this place too ominous for her to venture into alone.

  Upstairs, Rose investigates the cavernous ballroom with its plain, bare walls and doesn’t know what to make of it, cannot imagine the rage and passion with which its fine mirrored panels were destroyed. She carries me down the grand central staircase, past the portraits of Beaumont ancestors, past the portraits of Rene and Christine LeNoir, Jean-Loup’s parents, without even a flicker of interest. But she stops cold at the wall directly above the landing, where Jean-Loup’s portrait hangs.

  The tucked jacket and smooth breeches he wears beneath his tossed-back cloak emphasize his broad chest, slim waist, and long, shapely legs. His russet hair is loose and haloed in gold; his eyes are dark and cold, glittering with slyness. I note again how Beast’s eyes are different, more thoughtful. More complex. But Rose sees only a splendid young knight of heart-stopping beauty. She stretches out her hand to touch the canvas, as if expecting to feel human warmth and life. She must wonder who this handsome knight is and what connection he has to this grand château. But of course, she could never imagine the answer.

  It disturbs me to see how dreamily she gazes at this cold painted image, responding to its handsome surface alone, while Beast, a warmhearted creature of flesh and blood who so longs for her company, inspires only her fear and suspicion. I would not deny Beast the novelty of having another living soul about the place, but I find I dread how Beast might be hurt should she reject his offer of friendship.

  It takes Rose a long time to tear herself away from the portrait and complete her descent into the great hall. There are receiving chambers and salons and sitting rooms and morning rooms of equal grandeur and anonymity in either direction; I have visited them all with Beast. I try to urge her instead toward the double doors. Perhaps if she sees again the outside world, she’ll come to her senses and try to escape. Beast will not pursue her, nor will he keep her caged against her will. She has only to fly, and this charade will end.

  I wish as hard as I might, and she does take a tentative step or two toward the doors, but she is less receptive to my thoughts than Beast. Abruptly, she stops and looks around in fear, perhaps afraid of Beast’s magical powers. I peer out through the window, hoping to spy Beast asleep under the roses, sprawled in the dirt like the animal he is; if she sees him as he is in nature, without his elegant clothing, it might drive her away. But I don’t see him anywhere; he’s taken great pains to hide himself from her view.

  At length, she sighs and turns around and carries me back into the hall.

  Rose finds her way to the kitchen. Perhaps she means to find some honest work for her idle hands, to earn the splendor of Beast’s hospitality. Or perhaps she only wishes to relieve the boredom. But the kitchen hums along in perfect order, pots and pans sparkling in their racks, cook fire crackling low in the grate, kettle warming on the hob. There’s nary a crumb to be swept off the floor nor a stain of any kind to be scrubbed on the huge oak table. It’s not at all like the chaotic days when messy human servants inhabited the place; magic manages everything so much more tidily.

  After wandering from kitchen to scullery to formal salons, she takes a seat at last in one of my old chambers, weary from the explorations of the morning. It’s midday, and a sturdy dinner of stew and bread and grapes and wine presents itself on the side table next to her. She eats more heartily this time and smiles to see the dinner things vanish when she is done.

  At last, finding nothing anywhere that needs doing, nor any other amusement, she wanders out again into the entry hall. She’s drawn to the sideboard against the wall, where Beast keeps his bowl of dried rose petals. The mound is higher than it was, with a few soft, still-red petals sprinkled over the dry brown ones. The fragrance is so delicious that Rose dares to dip into the bowl, crushing a few petals between her fingers and trailing her fingertips gently along the base of her throat.

  A few more steps lead her into the vestibule behind the staircase that overlooks the back of the estate. The doors are open, giving onto the smaller stone bridge that crosses the back of the moat and leads to the green park beyond. Beast has been at work here, for the bramble that threatened to swallow all not so long ago has now been banished deep into the woods. The pale sun has struggled free of the clouds for the moment and beams on the green, glistening trees and turquoise water.

  Unable to resist, Rose is drawn out into the open air.

  I’ve been clutched in her hand all the while, for the vestibule is full of shadows. But now, outside, she places me on the flat stone railing that caps the low bridge wall. I try to focus my thoughts, to urge her all the way across the bridge, into the park and the wood beyond.

  But she dares only a hesitant step or two away, when she spies one of the swans fluffing up his feathers out in the moat. She trots another few steps down the bridge as the swan paddles away toward the far corner of the château.

  “Wait!” she cries. “Oh, please, wait!”

  Perhaps she hopes the swan, like Beast, can speak to her. But the swan isn’t enchanted and won’t obey, gliding on around the corner and disappearing from her view. With a great sigh, she flops down onto the stone railing beside me, shivering a bit as the sun, too, begins to disappear. Then she sits up straighter and lifts her chin.

  “I am here for Papa’s sake, and I will not be sorry about it,” she reminds herself. “But — if only there were someone to talk to. Someone else, I mean,” she adds softly, with a wary glance back at the château. “It’s so lonely here.”

  And with a charming melody of musical notes, a small red bird flies out of the park and over the moat toward us. He lands first on a window ledge on the third floor, then hops to a stone balcony above the bri
dge. He sings again and cocks his head; his bright black eye seems to look right at us. Then he flutters down to perch on one of my outstretched silver arms and gazes attentively at Rose. I would shoo him off if I could, but Rose claps her hands with delight.

  “Oh, pretty bird! Do you understand me?”

  He chirps again with a quick little nod.

  “Can you speak?”

  He sings another rhapsody of beautiful notes; every creature speaks, if we have the wit to hear them. But she’s expecting human language, and her face falls a little. Still, the bird looks at her so keenly, she can’t help but smile back.

  “Do you live here, Redbird?” And her voice lowers and softens. “Am I right to be afraid?”

  The bird answers with a cascade of pretty notes like reassuring laughter. And I realize where I’ve seen this creature before: in the rose garden, serenading Beast. I wonder if Beast has sent this bird to Rose, to help calm her fears.

  “It is a beautiful place,” Rose confesses, brightening a little, gazing up again at the towering château. “And . . . he did say I have nothing to fear from him.”

  The bird chirps merrily again, as if laughing off her qualms.

  “I was being silly, I know,” Rose agrees. She gets to her feet and smiles at the bird. “It won’t be so much to bear.”

  She has a new gown to wear at supper, pale periwinkle blue, trimmed in tiny pearls. She marches into the dining salon with more assurance and samples more of the food; it delights her to send the platters and gravy boats flying with a wave of her hand. Indeed, she is bearing up wonderfully well.

  At eight chimes, Beast appears again in the doorway, clothed and caped and groomed. Yet she can’t quite stifle another little gasp at the sight of him. I should be glad to see her making such a fool of Jean-Loup, increasing his humiliation, but it irritates me that Beast must bear with her foolishness.

  Rose recovers herself and graciously nods him to the table. Beast glances at me, surprised to find me still in Rose’s company, standing by her plate. He then takes his place at the foot of the table, with several places between them at their opposite ends.

  “Have you everything you require?” he asks Rose.

  “You are very kind, Sir Beast.”

  “Have you visited my park?” he continues eagerly. “My rose garden?”

  “I . . . I didn’t know if it would be allowed.” Her eyelids flutter down, and Beast draws back as if rebuked.

  “But, Rose,” he protests gently. “I have no wish to imprison you in this house. Please, go out of doors and enjoy the sunshine. I would be honored if you would visit my garden, as I understand you are fond of roses. And there are many handsome walks in my park. Please feel free to make use of them.”

  She raises her eyes again, as blue as an ocean. “I was afraid I would anger you,” she confesses. “I didn’t want to repay your hospitality with disobedience.”

  “But I do not ask you to obey me,” says Beast. “I only wish for you to enjoy what I have to offer.”

  She nods and takes another small sip of wine.

  “I would be very happy,” he continues eagerly, “to escort you around my rose garden. Tomorrow, if you like.”

  Rose sets her glass down with a nervous thud and glances away to conceal the fear in her eyes from Beast — but not from me. It’s clear she dreads the thought of Beast any nearer than a table-length away.

  “But . . . Sir Beast, I’m afraid you would find me poor company.”

  A deft parry. She is more cunning than I gave her credit for, or else she is learning it out of necessity.

  Beast scents the air between them and frowns very slightly. I know how sharp his senses are. He detects her true feelings, however hard she tries to conceal them.

  “But I could wish for none better,” says Beast. “It would make me the happiest of . . . of . . .”

  He cannot say “of men,” as the usual compliment goes, and her fragile composure wavers.

  “Oh, forgive me, kind Sir Beast, but I . . . I . . .”

  He rises so suddenly that she jumps in her seat, but he only means to back away from the table and make her a courtly bow.

  “It is too soon. I know,” he rumbles. “We scarcely know each other, and I have no desire to upset you, my dear Rose.” His voice is pitched low and soft with concern. “I will leave you now. But, please, I beg of you, do not forbid me to come dine with you again tomorrow evening.”

  I dislike that Beast must beg for her approval. But Rose gathers her resolve and nods.

  “You may come.”

  “Until tomorrow, then,” he murmurs. “Eight o’clock.” And with one last glance at me, he backs away into the shadows.

  Rose’s mood is surprisingly sunny when she rises in the morning. She hums a little tune as she bathes at her washstand and allows more fine clothing to arrange itself on her person. She carries me into the dining salon, sets me beside the chocolate pot on her table, cracks open her egg in its china cup, and devours a sweet, rich pastry. She smiles up at the portrait of Jean-Loup as we descend the stairs.

  Today, she dares to go through the grand front doors and down the drive under the arch of roses. She is now so accustomed to having me nearby that she takes me along. I’m useful to have in hand when she’s thinking out loud: “Shall we go in here?” or “Let us see where this leads.” Beast is nowhere to be seen; he forgoes the pleasure of his beloved garden during the daylight hours in deference to her. Neither is there any sign of Redbird.

  At the end of the drive, Rose is drawn to the wide stone arches of the carriage house, where she has not yet been. I have never been here, either; it lay outside the scope of my duties when I was a servant, and for all our rambling about the château, Beast never brought me here.

  A breezeway under the arches connects a series of barnlike rooms. In the first one, I see the battered cart Beast filled with vessels of water for his roses. But a far more magnificent carriage draws Rose’s attention, made of polished, exotic wood and trimmed in gold. The driver’s bench is elevated to a disdainful height, the wrought iron back wheels are enormous, and a wine-colored curtain is drawn across the window of the covered cab. The Beaumont device is painted on the door, the Beast Rampant above a field of spearheads. The carriage has grown dusty since the servants ran away, but here and there the wood and gilt still catch the gleam of my light.

  Rose decides to investigate the other rooms, mostly work and storage areas, that lead back to the château, thrusting me forward to light the way. In one, the shadows reveal an old ironmonger’s forge covered over in cobwebs. Rose pokes me timidly into the gloom and utters a little cry when my skittering light picks out a shape in the far corner, not quite a figure but something more than a shadow sprawling amid a mound of straw bales.

  It’s an old suit of armor, dark and rusty, partially hidden among the bales. Some of the joints have separated so that it lies in pieces, broken rivets scattered here and there, a steel gauntlet like a severed hand lolling in the straw. A helmet with a pointed visor has rolled carelessly to the straw-covered floor, but the breastplate remains intact, propped up on one of the bales. It bears the Beaumont device, and although it’s chipped and worn with age, I know where I’ve seen this armor before — in the portrait of Rene Auguste LeNoir, Jean-Loup’s father.

  But now it’s tossed aside like an old rag in this forgotten corner. It’s the only object of any value I’ve yet seen at Château Beaumont that is not pampered and revered. Given the reverence with which Jean-Loup always spoke of his father, I would expect to see it polished and glittering in the entry hall or the grand stairway, for all to see. And yet here it lies.

  But Rose no longer shares my curiosity, hurrying through the last few rooms, where items not currently in use in the château are kept in chests. Rose steals a peek beneath a lid here and there; the daughter of a merchant, she must know the value of beautiful things. Outside, we cross the horse track that separates the carriage house from the main building and return to
the château. When we are back in the entry hall, Rose makes her way to the foot of the stairs and gazes up again at the portrait of Jean-Loup.

  “Chevalier,” she whispers, “I hope I may dream of you again!”

  I’m so shocked, I nearly jolt myself right out of her hand. How dare she come prancing in here, into Beast’s domain, and start dreaming of Jean-Loup? He is gone, Jean-Loup, and I am sworn to see to it that no trace of him remains anywhere, not even in dreams.

  A small musical peep interrupts us, and Rose looks up. Redbird is perched on the rail of the second-floor landing, peering down at us with his lively eyes. How did he get in the house? There must be a window open in the attic.

  “Redbird!” she cries happily. “Have you come to visit me?” He gives a chirp of assent. But before she can say any more, Redbird suddenly flies up into the shadows of the stairwell, leaving only a cascade of tinkling notes behind.

  “Wait, pretty bird!” she cries. “Don’t go!”

  His birdsong wafts down from above, and Rose climbs after him, following his song, until we come out into the gloomy attic. Rose hesitates, clutching me close, but Redbird chirrups again from the back corner. The little door in the turret stands open, and he’s perched on its arched top. Then he flies into the dark passage within, and Rose makes up her mind to follow; she climbs the little carved staircase into the library.

  It’s eerie for me to be up here again. The last time was the night of the storm when I told Beast about Jean-Loup. The glass vase still stands on the writing table, but its water has dried up. A brittle stalk and a few crumpled petals littering the desktop are all that remain of the last rose. Beast can’t have been back here. Perhaps he finds the memory of the last evening we spent here together too upsetting.

  But Rose knows nothing of that. Sunlight pours in through the colored glass, and the image of the castle and its princess enchants her. While Redbird warbles his melody, she sets me on an open space on one shelf and inspects the books, peering at the spines, drawing out this one or that to riffle through the pages. When her father the merchant was prosperous, she must have had the advantage of a genteel education — music, embroidery, books. At last, she carries a few books over to the chair. She places me on the end table at her side and burrows into the cushions with her first volume.