“I didn’t give that to you,” Belle said. “I’ve never even seen it before.”
“Ah, but you have. It’s your hair. It got snagged in my ring the night of the ball. Don’t you remember?”
Belle felt her blood run cold. “That makes two things.”
“Maurice?” said the countess.
Belle’s father stepped down from the gazebo and joined them.
“Papa,” Belle said, relief in her voice. He would know how to get out of here. He would save them both.
Maurice smiled at her. There was a little square of cloth tucked in his breast pocket. He pulled it out now and leaned forward to show it to her. Belle saw that it was stained and realized that it was the handkerchief she’d given him when he’d pricked his finger on a rose thorn.
“Number three,” he said.
“Papa, I—I don’t understand. Why?” Belle asked, her voice breaking. Had her own father betrayed her? The thought made her feel sick to her very soul.
But Maurice didn’t answer her. He was still leaning forward. He hadn’t moved. It seemed as if he were frozen. As Belle continue to plead with him, his hair suddenly slipped off his head and fell into the grass. She gasped.
The countess glared at him. “Mouchard!” she barked.
Mouchard hurried to her side, a brass key in his hands. It looked like the kind used to wind a mantel clock but much larger. He stuck the key into Maurice’s back and turned it.
Maurice straightened, and Belle saw that what she had thought was her father wasn’t at all.
“King Otto,” she said, with a shock of recognition. “The automaton from the Palais-Royal!”
As she watched, the creature tucked the handkerchief back into its pocket. Then it picked up the wig and patted it back on its head.
“This…this thing looks nothing like my father,” Belle said, aghast. “How could I have ever believed it was?”
“Appearances can be deceiving,” the countess said smugly. “Even more so if you enchant a marionette to look like a duke, or a vulture to resemble a butler, rather than conjuring them from scratch. Conserves magic, you see.”
“This—this is all an enchantment…an illusion?” Belle stammered.
“Indeed. Like all good books,” the countess said. “But you knew that, Belle.”
“But it seemed so real.”
“Because you wanted it to be. And now you’re part of the story, too. Nevermore has pulled you in. In fact, I’d say you can’t put it down.” She nodded at Belle’s hands.
Belle raised them. Words were printed on them in black, as if her skin was a page in a book. As she watched, more appeared.
“Make it stop,” she pleaded. “Please!”
“It’s too late. Nevermore’s writing the ending, Belle. Your ending.”
Belle’s entire body went cold. “Why?” she asked, looking at the countess. “Why did you do this?”
“Because I made a wager, and I hate to lose,” the countess replied.
Belle shook her head, stunned. “My life…it’s a game to you?”
“I tried to give you a sporting chance, Belle. I dropped so many clues,” the countess said. “The black dresses? The scythes on my coat of arms? Statues of Hades and Persephone? No? Ah, well. Humans are good at denial. Especially when it comes to me.”
“What was the wager?”
“That death would win over love.”
“Whom did you make the bet with?”
“Love herself. Be glad you didn’t tangle with her, my dear. She’s merciless. An utter savage.”
“More so than you?” asked Belle bitterly.
The countess tilted her head. She lifted the glass heart the Beast had given Belle, smiled, and let it drop again.
“You understand so little, child,” she said. “To love, to truly love another—that is not for the faint of heart. Why, I’ve seen a husband mop the brow of his plague-ridden wife, heedless of his own safety. I’ve seen a murderer’s mother weep at the gallows, and a starving boy give his last crust of bread to his sister. Love is so strong, so ferocious, that she frightens even me. Me, Belle. A woman who strolls through battlefields and sick houses. Who takes tea with executioners.”
Anger and defiance rose up in Belle, pushing her fear down. She thought of her father. Of Chip, Lumiere, Mrs. Potts. And the Beast.
“Love can still win,” she declared defiantly. “It will win. I’m going to get out of here.”
“Mmm, no. I don’t think so,” the countess said regretfully. “But I wouldn’t fret about it too much. It won’t take long. A day or two at most.”
“I’ll leave Nevermore. I’ll find a way,” Belle vowed.
“You know, I did worry, just for a bit, that I might actually lose this little game,” the countess admitted. “After all, you’re a formidable player. You gave up your freedom so that your father might regain his. Which was very commendable. Courageous, even. But then again, it’s easy to love those who’ve done right by us, don’t you think? A bit harder to love those who’ve done us wrong.”
At that moment, a fearsome vulture with a cruel beak and black feathers swooped down. He landed on the gazebo’s railing, shook his wings, and squawked.
“Yes, Mouchard. I’m coming,” the countess said.
She dipped her head to Belle. “Goodbye, my dear. I’ve enjoyed this game, but my work awaits me. I must get back to my château and pack. I leave in the morning. There are wars to attend. Pestilence, famine, the usual.” She smiled coquettishly. “I am much in demand.”
Then she turned away and walked toward the orchard, Mouchard circling above her.
She looked back once. “Don’t be too angry with me,” she said. “After all, I gave you what you wanted—a way out of the Beast’s castle. You don’t have to go back. And you didn’t break your promise. I did it for you. I am the breaker of all promises, Belle. The ender of all vows.”
And then the gloom that hung between the trees, even on this bright summer day, closed around her.
BELLE’S CHEST STARTED TO HITCH. Her breath was coming in short little gasps. The fear was back, squeezing her lungs so hard she couldn’t get any air.
I’m going to die here, she thought. My father, the Beast, Lumiere, and all the others…they’ll never even know what happened to me.
You’ll definitely die here if you don’t stop acting like a ninny, said a voice in her head. Breathe, the voice soothed. In and out. Yes. Just like that.
Belle focused on her breathing until it had slowed.
Very good. You’ve got it. Now think, Belle. Think hard.
“I got myself into Nevermore. I can get myself out,” Belle said aloud. “But how?”
The way you got in, perhaps?
“Yes! Through the portal!” Belle shouted.
The meant getting herself back to the château, and this time there would be no carriage to take her. She’d have to walk, and it would be a long one, but she could manage; the beautiful gown she’d been wearing had turned back into her serviceable blue cotton dress, and the delicate silk shoes into her sturdy brown boots.
Having a plan calmed Belle and gave her courage. She looked around, trying to locate the graveled drive that led to the road.
She had been in such a state of shock that she hadn’t registered her surroundings. The gazebo, she now saw, was actually a ramshackle chicken coop. The summer house was an abandoned ruin. Broken shutters hung crookedly from the windows. Ivy covered its walls and balconies. Its terraces were cracked and overgrown by weeds.
The things that had been the countess’s guests—marionettes, dolls, and mannequins—wandered aimlessly. Some got caught in bushes and thrashed helplessly. One toppled into the stream. Another walked into a tree limb and knocked its head off. The head lay on the ground, eyes shifting from side to side, mouth a red O, while the body stumbled on.
Beyond the stream, in the distance, a line of twisted, broken tree trunks poked up like gnarled, blackened fingers along the far edge of the
grounds.
Something about them looked familiar to Belle. She bit her lip, trying to remember, and then the answer came to her.
“They were the chestnut trees I saw from the carriage’s window, the ones lining the drive. That’s the way out!” Belle said excitedly.
She set off walking toward the trees, then broke into a run. But as soon as she did, the marionettes, dolls, and mannequins all stopped wandering. Their heads swiveled. Their painted eyes found Belle. Clattering and clanking, they shambled toward her, cutting her off from the drive.
Belle tried to skirt around them, but there were too many. They’d surrounded her. Bit by bit, they pushed her back to the summer house.
“Let me go! Get out of my way!” she shouted angrily, shoving one to the ground. She pushed another away. And then another.
And then, from their midst, Henri stepped forward.
His eyes, once so warm and full of life, had become cold, hard glass.
“Henri, please…let me pass,” she said.
Henri’s head moved from side to side. His eyelids dropped, then snapped up again. Undeterred, Belle took a step toward him.
His arm shot out as if raised by invisible strings. Belle saw that he was holding a sword. The blade looked like wood that had been painted silver, but she couldn’t be sure.
“Henri,” she said, “Let. Me. Go.”
Henri lunged. The tip of his sword stopped only inches from Belle’s chest.
With a cry, she turned and ran inside the summer house.
As she crossed its threshold, the heavy doors slammed shut behind her with an ominous, deafening boom.
“Αἱ περιστάσεις εἰσὶν αἱ τοὺς ἄνδρας δεικνύουσαι…” the Beast read aloud, carefully examining the ancient piece of parchment.
“Difficulties are things…” he slowly translated. Then he dipped his quill into the pot of ink on his desk and wrote the words down on a fresh piece of foolscap—the oversized, none-too-fine writing paper he used for his transcriptions.
“Difficulties are things…” he began again. “Ah! I have it. Difficulties are things that show people what they are!”
“He must be told!” trumpeted a voice.
It startled the Beast so that he dropped his quill, causing the nib to leave blots all over the foolscap.
“Quite true. And you’re just the one to tell him.”
“Me? Why not you?”
The Beast’s gaze moved from the parchment to the open door of his study. Three shadows had fallen across the floor outside it.
“He said he wasn’t to be interrupted!”
“But this is important!”
“That’s quite right. He would want to know.”
“So tell him!”
“You!”
“No, you!”
“No, you!”
The Beast squeezed his eyes shut. He rubbed his temples. The philosopher Epictetus was not easy to translate in perfect peace and quiet, never mind when a noisy teapot, a loud candelabrum, and a blustering clock were all gathered outside your door.
“Shh! The master’s hard at work!” That was Cogsworth, speaking so loudly he might have been ordering twenty thousand cavalry into battle. “We must not disturb him!”
“It’s a bit late for that,” the Beast said, opening his eyes. “Do come in, Cogsworth. Mrs. Potts. Lumiere.”
The three servants trooped inside, all casting baleful looks at each other.
“What is the matter?” asked the Beast, blotting his paper.
“We don’t know,” said Mrs. Potts.
The Beast’s eyebrows shot up. “You don’t know?”
“It’s Belle,” said Lumiere. “She’s in the library….”
“Belle is always in the library,” said the Beast. “Why is that suddenly a cause for concern?”
“Because it appears that perhaps she is not,” Cogsworth replied.
And then all three started talking at once.
“We don’t know that,” said Lumiere.
“We don’t not know it, either!” said Cogsworth.
“But there were toasted cheese sandwiches!” said Mrs. Potts, inexplicably.
The Beast held up his paws. “One of you, please. Just one. Speak slowly, calmly, and above all, rationally.”
Mrs. Potts took a deep breath. “We haven’t seen her since breakfast, master, and it’s six o’clock now,” she said. “She didn’t come downstairs at noon to dine as she usually does.”
“Neither did I. Perhaps she is absorbed in her readings, as I am. Or was.”
“It’s most unlike her. She always comes down for the midday meal. Especially when Cuisinier makes toasted cheese sandwiches,” Mrs. Potts explained. “When she didn’t appear, I decided to take some sandwiches up to her. But when I got to the library, she wouldn’t answer the door no matter how loudly I called to her.”
“Perhaps she didn’t hear you. Perhaps you could try bringing the tray in to her.”
“But that’s just it, master. I did try opening the door. But I couldn’t, because it’s locked.”
“Why?” the Beast asked, puzzled. “The doors to the library are never locked anymore.”
“I don’t know, master. That’s why we’ve come. We’re worried. Belle hasn’t been herself lately.”
The Beast’s puzzlement turned to concern.
“It’s all that Shakespeare,” Cogsworth said darkly. “It’s made her swoon. I’ll wager she’s lying unconscious on the floor, a copy of Romeo and Juliet nearby.”
Mrs. Potts’s worry lines deepened.
“I’ve also heard of certain persons being deathly allergic to the inks used for printing,” said Cogsworth. “She may be gasping her last at this very moment.”
Mrs. Potts paled.
“Not helpful, Cogsworth, old boy,” said Lumiere, nodding at the fretful teapot.
But Cogsworth didn’t hear him. “Then again, it’s quite possible that a bookcase has fallen over and squashed her flat,” he said.
At which Mrs. Potts promptly started to sob.
“Something has happened! Something terrible! I’m sure of it!” she wailed. “Belle never turns down a toasted cheese sandwich.”
“So much for Epictetus,” the Beast sighed.
He was quite certain his servants were overreacting. He was also sure that no further work would be accomplished by anyone in the castle until Mrs. Potts, Lumiere, and Cogsworth had all laid eyes on Belle.
“She’s very likely curled up in a comfortable chair by the fire, asleep with a book in her lap,” said the Beast. “If there’s one place in the castle we don’t have to worry about Belle, it’s the library.” He stepped out from behind his desk. “Come along,” he ordered, striding out of his study.
A few minutes later, the Beast and his servants were standing in front of the library’s doors. Chip, Froufrou, and Plumette, having heard their agitated voices, had joined them.
The Beast tried the door handle. It was, indeed, locked.
“Belle?” he called out, knocking on the door.
Belle made no response.
The Beast’s hackles rose. What if his servants were right after all? Belle had looked so pale and listless at breakfast. What if she’d become ill?
“Belle?” he bellowed, hammering on the door. “Belle, are you all right?”
But he got no answer.
No answer at all.
ON THE SECOND FLOOR of the abandoned summer house, in a crumbling room, Belle sat on a half-rotted window seat, hugging her knees.
She was safe from the marionettes, dolls, and automatons up there. The creatures had managed to get the summer house’s doors open, but they’d had difficulty with the staircase. They couldn’t get the stepping motion right. Some had made it halfway up only to lose their balance and pitch over the banister. Others had tumbled noisily down the steps, collapsing in a heap at the bottom.
They hadn’t given up, though. At the sound of a particularly noisy crash,
Belle lifted her head and glanced nervously at the door. She’d defiantly told the countess that she was going to get out of Nevermore, but how? She couldn’t even get out of the summer house.
Despondent, she looked out the broken window.
Nevermore was fading.
The illusion the countess had spun was dissipating. The once lush-looking hills and dales of her estate were nothing more than a painted backdrop; the stream, a dry ditch.
Belle herself was fading.
The vivid blue of her dress now looked dull. Her brown boots looked colorless.
One thing was growing stronger and more vivid, though—the black print on her skin. It was no longer only on her hands, but was creeping up her forearms. The words of Nevermore were multiplying rapidly as they finished her story.
“The countess was right. I’m going to die here,” she whispered.
A fly flew into the room and circled around Belle. Its buzzing drove her mad. She swatted at it, then abruptly stopped.
A bit of light came back into her eyes. She sat up straighter. The buzzing insect had given her an idea.
“Lucanos?” she said, in an uncertain voice.
The beetle had tried to help her before. Twice. She hadn’t listened to him either time, but if he gave her a third chance, she would.
“Lucanos! Are you there?” she called out, loudly this time.
But the beetle didn’t answer.
“I’m sorry, Lucanos! I should have followed your advice. I want to get out of here. I don’t want Death to win. Can you help me? Please?”
Belle looked out of the window as she called to the beetle, craning her neck this way and that way, but she saw no sign of him.
“It’s no use,” she said dejectedly.
But then she heard something—a buzzing. It got louder and louder, and a few seconds later, a giant stag beetle flew in through the broken window and landed next to her.
“Lucanos!” she said joyfully.
“Indeed,” the beetle replied, brushing dust off his wings.
He folded them neatly, and as he did, Aranae crawled over the sill. Both creatures looked around the room.
Beauty and the Beast: Lost in a Book Page 15
