Beauty and the Beast: Lost in a Book

by Jennifer Donnelly

  “You miss him very much, don’t you?”

  “I do,” Belle said. “He was my world and I was his.”

  “Your mother felt the same way,” the countess said. “She loved him very much.”

  “What was she like, my mother?” Belle asked, hungry to learn about the woman she’d never known.

  “Kind. Smart. Beautiful. Just like you,” the countess said. “I liked her very much. And I know she would be distraught if she’d lived to see what’s happened to you.” She paused for a few seconds, her eyes seeking Belle’s, then said, “Which is why I did it.”

  Belle cocked her head, puzzled. “Why you did what, my lady?”

  “Why I sent you Nevermore.”

  “YOU SENT NEVERMORE?” Belle said, astonished. “I thought it was one of the Beast’s books.”

  “I had a servant steal into the Beast’s castle and place the book there. I hoped you would find it. I want to help you, Belle. I want to widen the scope of your story.”

  “How?”

  “By giving you a way out of your prison. By allowing you to see something of the world and its people. To visit the great cities and study at the great universities. Anything is possible here in Nevermore.”

  Belle stared at the countess, speechless. What she was offering…it was nothing less than a dream come true. To see not only Paris, but Padua and Prague and dozens other such places? To study at places like the Sorbonne or Oxford? These were opportunities Belle had longed for, but never, ever expected to have.

  As excited as she was, the same question she’d had when they’d first arrived at the Palais-Royal pushed at her again now. The countess was so kind to her, so generous. It was almost too much.

  “Why?” Belle asked. “Madame Comtesse, why are you doing so much for me?”

  The countess reached across the table and took Belle’s hands in hers. “In honor of your dear mother’s memory, Belle. Because I know that making you happy would make her happy. Would you like that? To see a bit of the world? Will you come traveling with me?”

  Belle flew from her chair and hugged the countess. “Nothing could stop me. Thank you, my lady. Thank you.”

  “You’re very welcome, child,” said the countess, patting Belle’s back. “But your happiness is all the thanks I need.”

  “How will you do it?” Belle asked, sitting down again. “How will you get us to all of these places?”

  The countess wagged a finger at Belle. “You must let the author keep her secrets, child.”

  As she was speaking, the hulking Mouchard appeared. He bent low to the countess and whispered something in her ear. Her smile slipped. Her eyes darkened.

  “What? But she has no business here!” she said. “Are you certain you saw her? Where?”

  Mouchard nodded at the café.

  “Is everything all right?” Belle asked, concerned.

  “It appears that a relative of mine is inside the café,” the countess explained, with a tight smile. “I must go and say hello. Will you excuse me for a moment?”

  “Of course,” said Belle.

  “I won’t be long,” the countess said, rising. “Finish the sweets, Belle. And think about our first destination!”

  Belle nodded eagerly. She was so happy, she was almost giddy. It was all she could to not jump out of her seat and dance around the café. Trying to calm herself, she reached for the plate of pastries.

  As she did, a large brown spider dropped out of the tree branches above and landed smack in the middle of it.

  LOVE WATCHED AS DEATH APPROACHED HER.

  “Good evening, comtesse,” she said, sarcasm dripping from her voice.

  She was seated at a table for two. Her silvery hair was piled high on her head. Ropes of white pearls hung from her neck. She wore a fitted jacket of white silk and a voluminous matching skirt.

  Death sat down across from her. “This is my realm, and I don’t recall extending you an invitation,” she said. “Why are you here?”

  “Because you’re cheating, dear sister. Again. And you need to stop.”

  Death affected a look of innocence. “Whatever gave you that idea?”

  Love ignored the question. “Nothing left up your sleeve, is there? You’ve played all your cards. A lavish ball. A handsome duke. The promise of travel, of an education. Why, you’ve even played the mother card. Have you no shame?”

  “All I’m doing is providing a harmless escape for the poor girl,” Death said airily. “Which is more than you can say. What a bore her life must be, shut up in that dreary castle day after day, with that awful Beast and all his talking bric-a-brac.”

  “That is a lie. I know exactly what you’re up to.”

  Death gave her sister a smug smile. “Do you?”

  “As powerful as you are, you can’t take a life before its time,” Love said, “so you’re trying to bind Belle to Nevermore.”

  Death held out her hand and inspected her sharp red nails. “I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about.”

  “You’re playing by the Rule of Three,” said Love. “Named for the three Fates, the first of whom holds the spool upon which the thread of life is wound; the second, who pulls that thread; and the third, who snips it. If Belle eats three things in Nevermore, and leave three things, she’ll be bound to it.”

  Death lowered her hand. She met her sister’s gaze. “This is becoming tedious. If I admit to it, will you leave?” she asked.

  “I knew it,” Love said, shaking her head.

  “Can you blame me? It’s such an elegant rule, don’t you agree?” Death said. “Beginning, middle, and ending—all lives have them, and so do all stories. Though I must admit, I’m partial to the ending.”

  “Well, you won’t get one,” said Love briskly. “Belle hasn’t left anything in Nevermore.”

  “Are you certain?” Death purred.

  “Quite,” said Love. “She didn’t eat much at your ball, either. Despite your best efforts. My beetles saw to that.”

  “She did just now, though,” said Death.

  Love’s green eyes flashed with anger. “She won’t do it again. Not if I can help it!”

  Death shot forward in her chair. “But you can’t, Sister dear. This is my story. You don’t belong here. Leave. Now. Or I shall call my servant to throw you out.”

  Love glanced at Death’s henchman. He was lurking near the door. A shudder ran through her. “How do you stand having that horrible creature around?” she asked. “He stinks of the grave.”

  “That happens to be my favorite perfume,” Death said. “Mouchard! Come!”

  But Love was too quick for him. With a swirl of her white skirts, she’d crossed the café, slipped through the kitchen door, and disappeared.

  “Shall I follow her, madame?” Mouchard asked.

  “Yes, make sure she’s really gone,” Death said. “And keep her out from now on. Get the others to help you.”

  Mouchard dipped his head. “Very good, madame,” he said, starting for the door to the kitchen, his black eyes bright and beady.

  Death remained where she was for a moment, drumming her fingers on the table. It was worrisome that Love had discovered what she was up to. She would never heed the warning to stay away; on the contrary, she would try twice as hard to meddle. Mouchard and a dozen more vultures would make it hard for her, though.

  Nonetheless, Death knew she had to step up her efforts. And she would.

  “My sister is wrong. As usual,” she whispered. “I still have one card up my sleeve. The best card of all.”

  She gazed out of the window as she spoke. She couldn’t see Belle, but she knew she was there, sitting at her table, happily watching the world go by.

  “And I intend to play it.”

  BELLE GASPED. She pushed her chair back from the table. She wasn’t particularly afraid of large brown spiders, but she also wasn’t accustomed to them standing in her food.

  As she watched, the spider crawled over the pastries, her long
, spiky legs sinking into the icing. As she reached the edge of the platter, a glossy black beetle landed on the table. Belle realized that it was the same beetle that had appeared at the countess’s ball. She recognized his shimmering wings.

  A few of the café’s patrons noticed him and made faces, but kept right on eating. Belle glanced around for the countess, but she was still inside the café.

  “Would you…would you like a sweet?” she asked the beetle, picking one up off the platter and offering it to him.

  The beetle reared up on his hind legs and angrily smacked the pastry away with his fearsome horns.

  “You’re being fed lies, foolish girl!” he said, pointing a claw at her.

  Belle’s eyebrows shot up. “You can speak?” she asked, amazed.

  “Clearly,” he replied. “Stop eating things. It’s dangerous in Nevermore.”

  “Don’t be silly. How can little pink cakes be dangerous?” Belle asked.

  Her tone was scornful, but as the words were leaving her mouth, a chilly sense of uneasiness stole over her. This was the second time the beetle had tried to warn her away from food.

  The beetle didn’t answer. He looked around anxiously, picked up a custard tart, and threw it on the ground. The spider did the same with a cream puff.

  “Stop that!” Belle scolded, angered. “That’s rude, beetle!”

  “Lucanos,” said the beetle haughtily, shoving a candied chestnut off the table. “My name is Lucanos, not beetle. My friend here is Aranae.”

  “Why mustn’t I eat any food? Who sent you?” Belle demanded. She remembered that the countess had told her that a madwoman owned the bugs, and that sometime they escaped. Had they flown all the way from the countryside to Paris? Or had the madwoman brought them here herself? Was she nearby? Belle looked over her shoulder nervously.

  “The who part is not important,” the beetle said. “What is important is that you understand the Rule of Three. If you eat things, or leave things—” He abruptly stopped speaking. His eyes darted to the right.

  Belle followed his gaze, expecting to see a crazed person bearing down on her. Instead she saw the countess returning.

  “Hurry, Aranae!” Lucanos said.

  Working together, the beetle and the spider quickly pushed the entire plate of sweets off the table. It shattered loudly. Lucanos flew away. Aranae scuttled off.

  “My word!” the countess exclaimed. “What happened?”

  Belle told her.

  “Disgusting creatures! But at least they’re gone now. The madwoman didn’t approach you, did she?” she asked.

  “No,” Belle said.

  “Good. That’s a relief. She’s capable of anything, Belle. You don’t ever want to find yourself alone with her,” said the countess gravely.

  Belle nodded. “Did you find your relative?” she asked.

  The countess smiled. “I did. We had a lovely chat. I would have introduced you, but she was in a bit of a hurry.”

  She motioned a waiter over and paid their bill. “I must return home now,” she said. “It’s getting late, and I should get some rest. You should, too, Belle. After all, we have much planning to do! Rome is lovely this time of year. Or maybe Florence?”

  The countess kept talking, and Belle, carried away by her descriptions of Italy, was only too happy to listen. Her uneasiness about Lucanos and his strange warnings, and her bafflement over how they would get to places like Rome and Florence, evaporated as the countess rhapsodized over the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel or the shops along the Ponte Vecchio.

  Arm in arm, they strolled back toward the carriage. On the way, they stopped in the Palais’s courtyard, where they watched a troupe of acrobats from Shanghai, conjurers from Zanzibar, and a magician from Constantinople.

  “Oh, look!” the countess suddenly said, pointing to the center of the yard. “Monsieur Truqué is here. His creations are the best in Paris, Belle. You simply must see them!”

  She tugged on Belle’s arm, hurrying her to a striped marquee. Torches blazed at either side of it. Under it were three people. Each was perfectly still. The first, a gentleman, was seated at a harpsichord, his head bent. Another, a king with a crown on his head, was frozen in a bow. Across from him, a queen was executing a curtsy.

  Only as Belle drew closer did she realize that they were automatons. Their heads and hands were papier-mâché; their gracious smiles were painted on; their eyes were glass.

  Other spectators joined Belle and the countess. “That’s Truqué himself!” one whispered, pointing to the right of the marquee. A wiry bald man stood there, one hand folded over the other. Ruffles from his white shirt spilled out from his long gray coat. His eyes were sharp and watchful.

  After a moment, he gave a shrill, squawking cough, and a hush fell over the crowed. When they were perfectly quiet, he pulled a large brass key from the pocket of his coat.

  “The key to life!” he intoned, holding it high.

  Then he walked over to the harpsichord player, inserted the key in his back, and turned it. An awestruck “Oh!” rose from the crowd as the player’s hands moved over the keys and the notes of a minuet were heard.

  Monsieur Truqué then wound the queen. Her chest expanded just as if she were really drawing a breath. She rose from her curtsy, lifted her head, and smiled.

  It was the king’s turn next. He straightened slowly and offered the queen his hand. The two began to dance, their movements jerky and shuddering at first, then graceful.

  “I give you King Otto and Queen Matilda!” Monsieur Truqué shouted.

  The audience applauded.

  “They are remarkable, are they not?” the countess whispered to Belle.

  For a few magical moments, Belle almost believed the figures were human. But then they began to slow. The musician’s sleeve slid back slightly as he played, revealing the metal joints of his wrists. His head drooped. His hands froze. The music stopped. The queen’s legs stiffened. Her smile hardened.

  The king, who’d been the last to be wound, danced alone for a few seconds, and then he, too, began to slow. The cogs and gears that animated him juddered to a halt. His legs stopped. His shoulders sagged. In the instant before his eyes closed, they met Belle’s. The look in them was so full of longing, the Belle’s heart hurt for him. He thrust a hand out, reaching for her, then slumped over, his head hanging.

  “Oh!” Belle cried. “Poor King Otto!”

  The countess turned to her. “What’s the matter, child?” she asked.

  “He looked so sad, my lady. As if he wanted so much to be alive.”

  “He did, yes,” the countess said thoughtfully.

  A small boy moved among the crowd, cap in hand, collecting money for Truqué. Seeing him, the countess reached into a small silk purse she was carrying and drew out a silver coin.

  Belle had been so moved by the performance that she wanted to contribute, too.

  The night she’d left Villeneuve in search of her father, she’d quickly grabbed a few sous as she’d run out of her house in case she needed any money. The small copper coins were not worth much, but they were all she’d had. She’d kept them in the pocket of her blue work dress, together with her linen handkerchief, as small, touchable reminders of home. Nevermore had transformed that dress into a beautiful gown. Would the coins still be in the pocket?

  She searched the skirts of the gown to see if they contained any pockets. Finding one, she dipped her hand inside it. Her fingers closed on her small copper coins. Her handkerchief was there, too.

  Drawing two coins out, she waited for the boy to approach.

  “That’s so kind of you, Belle,” the countess said approvingly.

  “I only wish it was more,” said Belle.

  “Nonsense. Whatever you give will be much appreciated. Here’s the young fellow now. Go ahead…” the countess urged.

  The boy came up to them, smiling. The countess dropped her coin in his cap. Belle was just about to do the same when, out of nowhere, a woman thrust her
self between Belle and the little boy. She pushed Belle away, snatched the cap out of the child’s hands, and ran off with it.

  It happened so fast, Belle didn’t have time even to gasp. The woman was wearing a hat with a veil. Belle saw nothing of her face. All she caught was a swirl of white skirts, and then the woman was gone.

  “Stop, thief!” Truqué yelled.

  “Catch her!” bellowed a man in the crowd.

  “Hurry, she’s getting away!” shouted a woman.

  But it was too late. The woman was already on the far side of the courtyard. She ducked through a doorway and disappeared.

  “Did she…did she just steal the little boy’s cap?” Belle asked, outraged. Her hands were shaking. She put her coins back in her pocket, certain she would drop them if she didn’t.

  “I believe she did,” the countess said. She was still staring after the thief. Her eyes were smoldering with anger.

  “Where did she come from?” Belle asked.

  “She was lurking in the shadows, most likely, waiting for her chance,” the countess said.

  That made no sense to Belle. Wasn’t Nevermore the countess’s book?

  “But Madame Comtesse, you are writing this story,” Belle said. “How can such a person push her way into it if you don’t wish it?”

  “Ah, Belle. That is every writer’s lament,” the countess replied, sighing. “These troublesome characters! They do as they wish, and we authors have little to say about it.” Taking Belle’s arm again, she added, “Poor child! You’re trembling. Come, we must find Mouchard and the carriage. I believe we’ve had enough excitement for one night.”

  She led Belle away from Truqué, his marquee, and the milling crowd.

  Distracted by a man at the edge of the courtyard, who was juggling a hatchet, a small dog, and a pineapple, Belle didn’t notice as the countess’s gaze slid back to Monsieur Truqué.

  She didn’t see Truqué nod at the countess.

  And pat the lifeless king.

  And smile.

  CLOUDS MOVED IN ACROSS THE SKY, obscuring the moon and stars.

  The night air was cool and felt as soft as velvet on Belle’s face as the carriage ferried her and the countess out of the city and back to the countryside.