Beast Read online

  “You have a lovely rose garden, Sir Beast,” Rose volunteers that night at dinner after Beast has joined her at his place at the far end of the table.

  “I am so pleased you think so,” says Beast, trying to contain his eagerness that she has begun a conversation with him.

  “My father spoke very highly of it,” says Rose politely. “He also mentioned the splendid hospitality you had shown him.”

  Before Beast terrified the old man in the garden, I think to myself, but I doubt her father would have shared that part of the tale with his children. At least not the part that involved his attempted thievery.

  “It was my pleasure,” Beast replies. To make more conversation, he adds, “I hope he arrived home safely.”

  “Quite safely, thank you,” says Rose.

  Beast waits another moment and then gently prods, “Your family was glad to see him, I expect.”

  “Yes. Of course,” murmurs Rose, but says no more. Even from this distance, I can see Beast’s expression fall a little. Perhaps he thinks he ought not remind her of the loved ones she’s had to leave behind because of him. Or perhaps he was hoping for a more spirited response.

  Even Rose has now noticed how quiet Beast has become and casts about for a new topic to break the silence. “Sir Beast, I visited your library today,” she begins.

  Beast brightens on the instant. “Is it not lovely? I believe it belonged to the last Lady Beaumont. Please make use of it whenever you like.”

  “Thank you.” Rose smiles, lifts her chin with some resolve, and gestures Beast one chair nearer in the line of chairs between them. “Please, Sir Beast, do sit a little closer. I can scarcely hear you!”

  Beast, surprised, complies.

  When the meal ends, Beast rises to take his leave but pauses when he sees Rose scoop me up again, as is now her habit.

  “You needn’t trouble yourself,” he tells her, nodding at me. “The lights in this house will always shine for you, whenever you wish.”

  I begin to hope the girl will give me up at last. I would much rather spend my time in Beast’s company.

  But Rose, surprised, clutches me closer. “You are very kind, Sir Beast. But — I know it’s silly, but there are shadows in my chamber.” Indeed there are within the alcove where her bed and nightstand are placed. There are no sconces, and I provide the only light, although it embarrasses her to admit she is afraid of the dark. Then she looks at me, now gripped in both her hands, and warily back at Beast. “I . . . I hope you don’t mind.”

  Perhaps she fears to be accused of stealing if she does not surrender me. This must occur to Beast, too, from his hasty reassurance.

  “Of course not, dear Rose; you may do as you like. I only wish for you to feel at home here.”

  He backs toward the door, with a nod of farewell to Rose, who still clutches me in her hands. “And if you need anything, you have only to ask,” he murmurs, looking directly at me. “You know that.”

  I read the question in his dark eyes as he lingers in the doorway.

  “Thank you,” whispers Rose.

  I, too, flutter my flames a bit to show I appreciate him thinking of me, but I am resigned to bear the girl’s company a while longer. Only then does Beast bow his way out and leave the corridor unobstructed for Rose.

  Rose spends all the next morning in the library, bathed in the shifting sunlit colors pouring through the window, absorbed in her private world of books. I stand beside her, providing light, while I stew in my own thoughts. She chooses fairy tales and romances, I notice, slim volumes with beautiful engravings, easily digested. Stories for children: princesses locked in towers waiting for deliverance.

  By the time dusky twilight falls, Rose has returned to her room to refresh herself after the exertions of a day spent dreaming over her books. A new gown of silvery blue satin is draped over the painted screen beside her wardrobe, but for now she’s dressed only in her delicate lawn chemise, dabbing rose water from her basin onto her temples and wrists. These tasks completed, she goes to stretch out on her bed to nap before supper.

  But I am in turmoil over all the ways she seems to be settling in about the place; it’s been gnawing at me all day. It’s bad enough the way she disrupts everything, intrudes on our solitude. But ever since I learned that Rose has dreamed of Jean-Loup, I’ve been wrestling with something even more sinister: only a woman who agrees to marry Beast could ever restore Jean-Loup, according to Mère Sophie’s spell. It’s impossible to imagine that Rose would ever marry Beast; she is far too terrified of him. Nor would he ever think to ask her. But over time she might learn to pity him. And any softening of her feelings toward Beast is cause for alarm. She has no idea of the horror she might possibly unleash, all unawares, simply by staying on here.

  Yet how can I deny Beast the human companionship he so longs for? He asks for so little, and it means so much to him. But, I further argue with myself, doesn’t Beast deserve more than her pity? And under no circumstances can we let Jean-Loup come back.

  Because what then becomes of Beast?

  Rose must leave here now, of her own free will, as she arrived. And it must be a quick, clean break. Beast must bear his awful loneliness, but it’s for his own sake. Rose must not stay here. She must take her poisonous dreams and go.

  I stand on the bedside table, gazing down at her in her white chemise, with her long, pale blond hair spread beneath her. There can be no better time to catch her so completely off her guard.

  The sudden appearance of Beast, unbidden, in her private chamber, should be enough to convince Rose how foolish she was to come here. Of course, Beast would never harm her, but the fact that she might encounter him at any moment, not merely at their formal dinners together, might shock her to her senses.

  Before I can talk myself out of it, I focus my thoughts on Beast. I don’t know if I can reach him from such a distance, but I must try. For all our sakes. The sun sets outside, and violet darkness steals over the last of the day. It’s the uncanny hour, when all of nature holds its breath, awaiting the night.

  Beast, I think, Beast, you must come. Come to Rose’s chamber. Come at once. Rose needs you. Beast, come here now.

  The shadows deepen, and night falls, until I am the only light in the room. Rose sighs prettily and turns over in her sleep.

  Beast, now! Come now.

  Something crashes in the next room, and Rose starts in her sleep. The double doors to the bedchamber burst inward, and Beast looms there, panting.

  “Rose!” he bellows.

  She jolts awake and screams at the sight of him.

  Heat and agitation and a gamy, sickening odor roll off him in waves, thickening the air in the room, and Rose cries out again, cowering into her pillows.

  Beast staggers to the bedside into the pool of my light. He’s a gruesome sight, clad only in a torn-open shirt splashed with red animal blood that hangs askew on his massive frame. His mane tufts up in all directions, clotted with burrs and leaves, and blood drips from his whiskers and beard. His bloody paws are raised, claws outstretched, his powerful furred haunches and ragged rows of feathers exposed beneath his shirttails.

  Of course, he would be hunting at nightfall! How could I have forgotten? I was too intent on my own purpose. I only meant to give Rose a shock, not frighten her to death!

  Worst of all are Beast’s dark eyes, glinting gold in the light, grotesquely human and wild with fear.

  “Rose, what’s the matter?” he cries.

  But she’s gotten her legs under her and scrambles farther backward.

  “You are a horrible beast, that’s the matter!” she shrieks, dragging a pillow across her lap and clutching it like a shield. She’s a tiny, fragile thing cowering beneath his hugeness. “And you’re going to kill me!”

  Beast teeters on his hooves, still panting, bewildered. “No,” he gasps. “Rose, no, I would never . . .” He starts to raise one paw in supplication, and she jerks even farther away.

  “Then why are you here?�
�� she cries.

  “I — I thought there was something wrong,” he stammers. “That you . . . called for me —”

  “I would never call for you!” she cries, and he backs up a step. “Go away!” And he backs up another.

  “Rose, please, I . . .” The fear in his eyes is deepening into profound humiliation as he sees himself reflected in her terror. He glances down at himself, makes a feeble attempt to wipe one bloody paw on his filthy shirt.

  “Get out!” Rose shouts. “Out!” She’s up on her knees now. She can feel the power she has over him. It’s his turn to cower.

  Beast clutches his torn shirt closed over his chest, eyes full of confusion and apology and shame. Then his gaze falls on me, for an instant of awful realization.

  “Forgive me, Rose,” he murmurs, backing away. “Please, please forgive —”

  “Out!” she cries again.

  With a groan, Beast heels around and gallops out of the room. The fireplace opposite blazes with comforting light and warmth the instant he is gone, but Rose won’t be comforted. Tears she was too frightened to shed before now burst out; she throws herself across the bed, sobbing. She ought to be collecting her things, I think angrily, to shift my own thoughts away from this awful thing I’ve done. I promise I will make it up to Beast, somehow, if only she will leave.

  He will never imprison her; he told her so. But she won’t resolve herself to a sensible course of action. Instead she cries and cries. Finally, she sits up and hurls her pillow across the room; when it knocks a jar of something off her dressing table, causing a cascade of powder, she leaps up to grasp me and stumbles to the table, wielding me by the base to sweep off the other bottles and potions. She plunks me down before the looking glass and sinks into the chair, then buries her face in her folded arms and sobs some more.

  Can she not simply go? I am furious! Beast should have devoured her and gotten it over with! Besides, he’ll hear her; her weeping must be echoing throughout the château, rebuking Beast over and over for the way he has frightened her, disgusted her. What purpose does it serve to keep hurting him with her tears? Hasn’t he been hurt enough tonight? Did she not see his eyes?

  But perhaps she did not. That wounded look wasn’t meant for her, anyway. It was meant for me.

  There was no thought of supper last night. Rose finally sank into her bed, leaving me here on the dressing table, and this morning, she is still too wary to leave her room. She tenses at every creak of wood in the château and every whisper of the breeze outside. But Beast does not come back.

  This is not how I planned it at all! I thought she would be gone by now. What purpose does it serve for her to linger? The memory of last night will be a raw wound that Beast will never heal from as long as she is still here.

  Rose circles back to the dressing table, plops down on the chair, and peers at her own image with still-reddened eyes. “I’m sorry, Papa,” she whispers. “I’m trying so hard, I really am! But I’m so frightened!”

  Perhaps she fears that Beast will take revenge on the old man or the rest of her family if she leaves him.

  Overnight, the things she disrupted in her tearful blundering about have evaporated into thin air; there are new bottles and powders here on her dressing table and a new gown of pale violet silk draped over the screen. Bread and cheese and wine enough to sustain her appear on her bedside table, but she has no appetite. She washes and dresses herself in her new gown, but she does not seem to know what to do next.

  The sun has been up for hours when she finally dares to open her door and peep out. All is silent within the château, but Rose lets out a small gasp at something I can’t see. She opens the door wider, bends down, and carries something back into the room — a glass vase with a single red rose inside, which she places on the dressing table beside me. Her other hand grasps an elegant page of parchment, folded in half. She sits on the chair and unfolds the page. Her eyes scan whatever she sees there with a look of growing wonder, until at last she sets the parchment down beside me, her expression thoughtful.

  I read the single sentence, written carefully in ink:

  Your father’s debt to me is paid.

  The penmanship is far from elegant, but it can be read. How long it must have taken Beast to compose it.

  My spirits lift. Surely now, at last, she will go!

  Rose shifts her gaze back to the looking glass before her, slightly biting her lower lip in perplexity. “I don’t know what to do,” she whispers.

  A milky image begins to swirl in the glass. Rose catches her breath and blinks at it in surprise. Perhaps the magical forces here will respond to her plea. Two faces swim into focus, two women I have never seen before. But Rose has; she sits up in attention.

  “Blanche!” whispers Rose. “Violette!”

  The women are both older than Rose, yet they resemble her slightly, handsome ladies with determined chins. But their eyes are harder, their mouths more prim.

  “Our sister lacks the civility to send us word from the château,” harrumphs the younger-looking of the ladies. She shakes something in her hand, a piece of linen she is attempting to mend with very bad stitchery. “Fine thing for her to run off and leave us with all the work!”

  “Well, we couldn’t very well let Father go after her,” reasons the elder sister. “Then how should we live? Our brothers are content to play at farming, although their efforts yield up little enough. But as long as Father has livestock and furniture to sell, at least we shall always be clothed.”

  “In last year’s fashion!” The younger sister pouts.

  “Oh, hsst! Father still meddles in business affairs; one of his ventures may yet pay off.” The elder sister adjusts her fine headdress, slightly worn about the edges. “Besides, what use was Rose to us?”

  “No use at all, and now she lives in a château, while we live here like peasants!”

  “A château ruled by a monster! Whereas we may marry princes one day, if we but bide our time.”

  This remark has a comforting effect on the younger sister, who smiles and smooths out her skirts as if in anticipation.

  “Rose may be devoured by now, for all we know,” her sister continues. Her careless shrug implies it’s a matter of little importance to her. “And even if she is not, she must live in seclusion with a horrible monster. Either way, she is out of our hair for good, while we have Father here, alive and well. As long as he lives to mend his fortunes, we shall have prospects.” The older sister arches a brow. “And we shan’t have to share our dowries with Rose. We’ve made the better bargain by far.”

  Rose is now sitting up very straight as the scene begins to fade. She lifts her own chin.

  “I have made a bargain as well. And I will keep it,” she vows. “I shall not tarnish Papa’s honor.”

  The image of Rose’s sisters appears to have strengthened her spine. By suppertime, she opens her door and ventures out.

  Eight chimes sound in the dining salon, but Beast does not come. Nor the next night. How humiliated he must still be, how shaken to the core. Has he run off to the wood, unable to face her, never to be seen again? Rose must certainly leave now out of sheer boredom.

  Then an even more sinister thought occurs to me: Has something happened to Beast? Has he thrown himself off the upper tower in shame? It makes a horrible kind of sense; he’s taken his leave of Rose and absolved her father of his debt. I try to focus my thoughts, direct them to wherever he is, but there is no sign that he has heard them. I try to blame Rose, her frantic outburst, her endless tears. But I know it’s not true. Rose has more spirit than I ever imagined. She has not run off.

  No one here has hurt Beast but me.

  Rose begins visiting Beast’s beautiful garden again; she takes me with her as a perch for Redbird to keep her company. Everywhere we go, I search fearfully from my position in her raised hand for any sign of a large, shaggy body drowned in the moat or crumpled on the ground beneath the balconies, but there is never any sign of Beast, living or dead.
Rose still visits the library now and then, but she wearies more easily of the silly romances that once diverted her.

  This morning, Redbird’s happy notes sang in the stairwell, luring Rose out of the library and down into the garden, while I am abandoned on a shelf, forgotten. I am idly watching the progress of the stained-glass figures across the carpet when I hear a solid tread on the stairs, and a familiar horned head rises up out of the stairwell.

  Beast! The thought explodes within me, I’m so relieved.

  He pauses at the top of the stairs, one paw on the railing, ears pricked. He turns his head to the corner where I stand, eyeing me cautiously.

  “Lucie.”

  It’s the first private word he has addressed to me since the day Rose came.

  “I thought no one would be here,” he says.

  Rose has left me behind.

  Beast nods. “As she soon will me.” He says this without any particular malice, yet I experience a pang of shame. I would not blame him for stalking off, but he hesitates only another moment before stepping all the way up into the room. He perches his great bulk on the seat of the armchair with exaggerated care, patting his clean white shirt into place above his breeches. He looks calm enough, but it’s plain he is still smarting from the fury of Rose’s outburst. My shame intensifies for my part in it.

  I’m sorry, Beast. I didn’t think she would carry on so. And I certainly didn’t expect her to hurt you so willfully.

  Beast peers at me, his expression weary. “And what did you think she would do?”

  I thought she would leave! Go home to her family, where she belongs! I try to put my thoughts in better order. You know she must not stay here —

  “I know!” he barks. He turns away, shaking his head ruefully. “I know it,” he says more quietly. “I was foolish to think she might ever be . . . content here.” He sighs. “I suppose I could not expect her affection, but I thought she might learn to regard me with something other than fear, than obedience. I dared hope for an occasional honest smile, shared laughter, another voice to answer mine, if only . . .” His voice trails off. His warm, gold-dusted eyes lower in defeat.