Beast Read online

  “I can’t bear to see the constant terror in her eyes,” he mutters. “Of course, I should send her home.”

  That’s not the only reason, as he ought to know.

  But — what if he doesn’t know? I am stunned by this new possibility: if he remembers nothing before waking up in the park in his beastly form, as he told me once, he may not even know about the spell that created him! He may not realize that this new life he has only just embraced might be taken from him just as quickly.

  But how can I tell him in this moment? I have never seen Beast so despondent, so dispirited, so resigned to misery. What would it do to him to think that he had some connection to the hateful Jean-Loup? I remember how Jean-Loup raged inside of Beast, at first, when we smashed the mirrors and he shut me up in that cupboard. Beast has found the strength to overcome him since then. But Beast’s grip on life may be fragile. What if the truth about his origin is too big a shock? What if Beast loses his hold, and Jean-Loup comes back?

  I don’t know the answer. But I do know the danger posed by Rose, even if she’s proven she can never care for Beast as he is — with my help, I remind myself guiltily. If only I can persuade Beast to send her home now, perhaps he’ll never have to know about Jean-Loup.

  Rose is very attached to her father, I tell Beast. It was very kind of you to forgive his debt, but perhaps she fears it will shame him if she leaves without your permission.

  Beast considers this. “Would you have endured so much for your father’s sake, Lucie?”

  As much and more. If only he were still here.

  And out of nowhere, I hear my father’s voice again, warm and humorous.

  “You are the light of the world, my Lucie,” he would tell me. “Open your heart to life.”

  I stop abruptly. What would my papa say to see me now?

  “You must have loved him very much,” murmurs Beast.

  Yes. I pause to get hold of my thoughts, sensing my opportunity. Beast, you must send Rose away. Send her home to her father.

  “Agreed.” Beast sighs again. “I will never be more than a monster in her eyes.”

  She simply doesn’t know how to see who you are, I protest. You have far more humanity than the chevalier ever had.

  This from some hidden generosity of spirit, so long untapped inside me. It must be the memory of my papa. Open your heart.

  But Beast frowns at the mention of Jean-Loup and turns his great head away. Then he musters the nerve to face me again. “It has haunted me every day, Lucie, what . . . was done to you here. I would give anything, do anything, to erase that moment of horror from your life. But I haven’t found any magic spell for that.”

  He shakes his head, his expression intent. “I should send you away from here too, Lucie, but I can’t manage it. I have tried every way I can think of to beg or bargain or bully the magic of this place to release you from your enchantment, to send you back to a life you deserve, but it all comes to nothing.”

  Release me? Have I ever sought release? Such an idea has never even occurred to me. Where would I go? I try to imagine myself in human form again, that dull, plain girl, friendless, ill-used, and abandoned. Had I fled with the other servants, I might have been welcomed down in Clairvallon for a day or two, perhaps a week. My tale of the chevalier’s hideous transformation should have ensured me companions for a time who might have purchased my story for a meal or a bed. But sooner or later, I would be alone again, with no living nor any prospects, to sell what little I possessed — my wretched body — or starve in the road. Perhaps both. No, I am far better off the way I am.

  The sudden trilling of Redbird downstairs startles us both and signals Rose’s return in the entry hall. Beast rises quickly.

  “I mustn’t let her see me,” he rumbles. And, with a last, poignant look at me, he turns and disappears down the stairs.

  Two more nights pass with Rose taking her meals in restless solitude. On the third night, Rose and I are once again in the dining salon before the warming fire, serenaded by unseen musicians. When eight chimes fail to produce Beast, Rose sets down her goblet next to me on the table and sighs.

  “Please, Sir Beast, do come back to me,” she addresses the air. “I shall die of loneliness.”

  The doors open slowly, and Beast stands in the entryway; I wonder, does he wait there each evening, hoping to be summoned? His fine gold-worked cloak sparkles in the firelight. His mane is groomed, and his paws are almost hidden by long, embroidered shirt cuffs. His bulk is arranged in a posture of humility, and his eyes are downcast. He does not enter the room.

  “Sir Beast.” Rose gasps, and he draws a step back. “No, wait! Please . . . come in.”

  He comes as near as the doorway again. “Please accept my apologies for . . . my appearance the other night,” he rumbles. “I mistakenly thought you were in danger, that something had happened to you, or I should never have burst in like that. I would never frighten you for all the world, Rose.”

  Beast does not glance at me, but I feel another pang of shame.

  Rose draws a breath. “I behaved very badly myself,” she says. “It was all a terrible mistake, as you say. I am willing to forget it, if you are.”

  Beast does not know what to say at first. He does not actually sniff the air, but I see how alert he is.

  “Whatever you wish, of course,” he says at last, watching her. “But . . . you are not obliged to remain here.”

  “I know I am not,” says Rose. “It is very kind of you to forgive my father’s debt, but I will not betray his honor by running away like a child. I will stay until his honor is satisfied. And my own,” she adds, lifting her chin. “With your permission, Sir Beast.”

  I have underestimated her, this frail-seeming girl. She is learning that courtesy and kindness mean more to her fearsome host than an ocean of tears.

  Beast continues to peer at her. Now, I think, now is the moment to tell her she has acquitted herself with honor and send her home. But after only a moment of hesitation, Beast nods, disarmed.

  “You are welcome here for as long as you like, Rose.”

  “Thank you.” Then she favors him with one of her radiant smiles. “Oh, please, Sir Beast, do come in.”

  He steps tentatively into the room and reaches for his chair at the opposite end of the table. Rose makes a grand gesture and motions him two chairs nearer. Beast looks surprised but takes his place as directed.

  “I pray you are . . . content, here, Rose,” says Beast. “That it’s not too unpleasant.”

  “But it’s very pleasant to have everything one could ever want!” She smiles at him again. “All I lack of late is your company. I’ve . . . missed you.”

  This time, Beast does raise his perceptive nose to the air but apparently scents no deceit. The girl’s resolve must be strong indeed. “Have you?” Beast considers this. “In spite of . . . everything?”

  “You have ever been a most gracious and civil host,” she replies, choosing her words with great care, her dark blue eyes keen. “So long as you maintain that humor, you shall always be welcome at my table.”

  Her table? Who is she to order him around, demand civility? He is master here; he could split her eardrums with a single roar of his sovereignty! But he only gazes at her in quiet contemplation.

  “Then I shall endeavor to be civil, Rose . . . for your sake.”

  They chatter on in their civil manner, the two of them, saying nothing about nothing in words with no more weight than the down of a swan, floating in the air. Another hour passes before Beast senses Rose’s weariness and excuses himself.

  Beast and I have no opportunity for a private word, now that Rose is speaking to him again. Night after night, at the sound of eight chimes, she allows him to sit at the table while she joins him in conversation. I watch in mute anxiety as Rose allows herself to be charmed. Not by Beast himself — she is still too frightened of him physically — but by her own ability to charm him. And every now and then, she allows him to sit one chair clos
er.

  Beast never speaks to Rose about his passion for the natural world at these dinners, nor reveals to her the tenderness with which he has learned to care for his roses, nor confesses to her the fullness of heart that once drove him to attempt poetry. Perhaps he believes she would not care about these things, and I suppose she would not. Or perhaps they no longer mean as much to him. It angers me that Beast seems to have mislaid the parts of himself that felt those things — at least, he has when Rose is around. But it’s far more alarming that Beast does not try to send Rose home as he agreed he should. Instead, she seems to be warming to her place in this household.

  By day, Rose tours the rooms of the château again, with even more attention than before. If the afternoon is fine, she crosses the moat in back to wander in the park. The trees are in fresh green leaf, and every now and then, she spies a hind or a hare amid the trunks. But the black wood that stretches far beyond the park frightens her still, with its dense, gnarled trees that shut out the sun, its sinister animal noises, and its dark, surging river. She never goes there.

  The rose garden is in more glorious bloom than ever. Each climbing branch supports dozens of blooms, heads lifted to the sky, their red velvety petals unfurling with lazy abandon, reveling in the spring sunshine. This morning, Rose has brought me into the garden as a place for Redbird to perch and sing to her.

  “It’s like heaven here!” she exults as she carries us down the drive under the archway, a fragrant tunnel of lush red blooms. At the bottom of the drive, Redbird hops up to a crossbar on the gilded gate and warbles his merry song.

  “You were right to encourage me to stay,” she agrees. I suppose she views Redbird and myself the same way, a chorus of support for any random idea that enters into her head. She steps to the gate and gazes out past the moat and down the steep slope of green hill to the valley. Far, far beyond the orchards and vineyards, the tiny stone buildings of Clairvallon huddle together under their red-tile roofs. A brave church spire rises from its hill at the far end of the town.

  I wonder how the townsfolk are faring since the night of the witchcraft. There is every appearance of industry and husbandry continuing on as usual — fields are being cleared of their winter debris, planting has begun, church bells toll. Without the lord of Beaumont to collect their quarter rents and call in their debts, they must relish the freedom to work their plots of land and pursue their commercial ventures in some prosperity. The gentlemen of his suite and his companions-at-arms must have dispersed back to their own estates. All of their lives go on.

  The town nestles in a fertile basin dwarfed by vast green and gold wheat fields trimmed in evergreen. Deeper green patches farther in the distance conceal even tinier villages dotting the broad, gilded fields that stretch away to the blue horizon. It all seems so far away from up here.

  Rose turns her back to the gates and looks up at the riot of roses growing so much higher than the wall. “It’s even more beautiful up close,” she exclaims.

  Her words strike me like a slap. Of course! Beast’s roses are visible for miles and miles up on this hillside; tales must be rife in the villages about their strange magnificence. Rose must have known her father would have to come here when she asked for her gift; where else could he find a rose in the depth of winter?

  The splendor of Château Beaumont and the wealth of its masters, the LeNoirs, has been legendary for generations. Whatever tales the fleeing servants spread about the town after that night may be forgotten or disbelieved by now. But the chevalier is gone; that much is clear. Soon enough, someone might wonder what’s become of all that splendor and wealth. Someone used to fine things who suddenly finds his — or her — fortunes reversed.

  I reconsider Rose, with her backswept golden hair and guileless blue eyes. And I wonder: Who is the puppet master here? Who is the predator?

  She climbs thoughtfully back up the drive, Redbird perched on my silver arm, singing his cheerful tune.

  “It’s not so gloomy here, is it?” Rose wonders aloud. “He would never hurt me. He’s far too . . . gentlemanlike.” Redbird pipes a few more agreeable notes. “I’d have only to bear his company from a safe distance,” Rose goes on softly to herself, “and Papa need never want for anything again.”

  Rose carries me up the front steps and into the château, eager to see what new gown awaits her upstairs and prepare herself for the evening meal. But my thoughts churn with dread. Since Beast is so gentlemanlike, as she says, she must believe some portion of his splendid wealth might be spared to care for the father she adores. She knows by now that Beast will deny her nothing.

  But she can never care for him in any way that matters. She will never appreciate Beast for himself: warm, reflective, caring. Noble in fact, not only in station. So worthy of the companionship he so desperately craves. She can’t know the beast that once lived here, with his angel’s face and form and his evil nature or the agony he inflicted so carelessly on others.

  She sees only the poor, tragic Beast: So hideous. So melancholy. So romantic. Foolish girl — foolish maiden — who knows nothing of life but what she finds in books. She sees Beast as a task in a fairy story and believes the reward will be worth her sacrifice to this courtly monster. But she can’t know the horror she might set in motion, should her ambition bear fruit — if she positions herself to become mistress of this place.

  Would she ever spare a thought for my Beast if he were poor?

  Rose’s happy mood from the garden continues into supper. The tune of the invisible musicians is livelier than usual, bending to her pleasure, and she brings a flourish to all her movements, whether buttering her bread or raising her goblet. Beast joins her at eight chimes. Her gaiety amuses him as much as it terrifies me, for, of course, I am there at her place on the table.

  “Rose,” he asks after she has supped her fill, “do you dance?”

  “I was counted a fine dancer once,” she says, “before Father lost his fortune. We’ve had little in the way of balls or amusements since then.”

  “But I’ve an entire ballroom at your disposal!” Beast declares. “You shall have whatever music you like!”

  The ghostly music all around us subtly rises in tempo, and Rose can’t help tapping her foot.

  “It would please me very much to escort you there,” says Beast.

  She smiles, decision made, gets to her feet, and takes me up out of habit, although the sconces are already lighting the way to the ballroom. Beast rises, too, and hopefully offers her an elbow, but she balks. With an inward sigh, he bows and sweeps an arm out the door into the passage. Rose gathers up her skirts and glides past Beast to follow the lights.

  The golden chandeliers are all ablaze, and the unseen orchestra plays an irresistible tune, the music filling the cavernous white hall as if it were wafting down from the angels. Rose is swaying to the music even as we arrive, setting me on a little side table by the door. She takes up her skirts in one hand and begins to whirl herself around the room. She’s a comical little figure in frosty blue, swirling around and around in the vast, empty room. Beast follows us in, his eyes on Rose, and gives a single wordless nod.

  Panel after panel of gold-veined mirrors suddenly appear on the white wall behind him, racing to cover its entire length. When they reach the corner, more panels appear to cover the side wall, and still more proceed along the distant wall at the opposite end of the hall and back up the other side. Rose is too absorbed in her dancing to see it happen. She only knows that as she whirls around, she’s suddenly facing her own image in the gilt glass, her hair and gown shimmering in the light, her cheeks aglow. It surprises a laugh of pleasure out of her to see her reflection, all of her reflections, as she dances around the room to beautiful, unearthly music.

  As she comes rotating back toward Beast, he takes a step forward into her orbit, one paw aloft, the other fisted at his waist. He makes an extravagant bow, and while her first instinct is to swirl a bit farther away, she turns back and smiles and nods. He enters into t
he rhythm of her dance, stepping his hooves with care. For a moment, her free hand lights upon his outstretched paw, and they swirl around together — until she catches sight of the two of them reflected in the glass, his hulking frame towering above her, his horns glinting in the light, her delicate fingers touching his huge, furry paw.

  She jumps away from him with a gasp, shaking her hand as if her fingers have been burned. Beast staggers back as if from a blow, stunned, humiliated yet again. The music coughs and sputters to an uneasy halt, and Rose continues to back away from Beast, wringing her hands. She’s sensible of the wound she’s given him, perhaps shamed by it, but she can’t take back what she’s done.

  “Sir Beast . . . I . . .” she begins. “I — I’m sorry, I didn’t mean —” But there’s nothing more to say. Unable to repair the damage, she turns and flees out of the room. The sconces outside obligingly light her to her chamber.

  Beast is left standing in his blazing hall of mirrors, his own image reflected back at him in every panel, slumped and dejected, horrible in his finery. There’s something far beyond rage or sadness in his eyes now: a desolation so profound, it would crack my heart if I still had one. What would she do if she saw it? Would she even notice?

  He turns back toward me on the table near the door where she has forgotten me for once. “I’ve seen enough,” he murmurs. The chandeliers dim behind him, throwing the mirrored ballroom into shadows, and he takes me out into the passage again and back to the dining salon. The wine decanter, ever full, still sits on the table, and he grasps it in his other paw and carries us both upstairs. I cannot bear to nag him in this moment about sending the girl home. Even he must realize it by now.