I thrust the blade into a nearby dummy, cursing his name, but the voice inside just grows even more vocal.
You'll have to hit harder than that. Raise your elbows, straighten your wrist-
Stop it.
Faster, Rosie. You'll never keep up at this rate-
I attack the creature, slashing away at the layers of cloth and leather.
You're not strong enough. Come on. Do some real damage.
My cuts get more and more wild. Sand pools onto the stone in tiny trickles.
Harder! I won't always be around to fight your battles, you know-
I let out a scream, raise the sword above my head, and swing it into the dummy's neck. The blade sticks fast. I lack the strength to remove it, so I kick it in its makeshift stomach instead, and keep kicking and punching until my hands ache and it starts to bend on its stand. It hands there, a mess of rags and straw and sand, the blade still protruding out of its neck.
“My, remind me never to anger you,” says a voice from the doorway.
I startle. The Beast is standing in the arch, his huge hind legs treading the threshold.
“Good morning,” he says cheerfully, and then casts his eyes towards the dummy. I wonder if he wants me to apologise for mutilating it. “Has the world outside changed so much that all young ladies are now schooled in sword fighting?”
Only the ones with older brothers to teach them, is the first thought that rises to my mind, but this would mean giving him something about me, and I don't want to give him anything right now. I don't want to give him anything ever.
“No,” I say shortly.
The Beast stares at me solidly for a few seconds, perhaps disappointed in my response, but quickly recovers. “Then you must be a rare maiden indeed to... decimate a dummy so.”
I cannot think of anything to say to this, so I remain mute. My stomach decides to fill the silence for me.
“You are hungry,” the Beast says regretfully. He steps away from the door, giving me a wide berth. “Allow me to offer you breakfast, at least.”
The at least hangs there for a little while, and I have the merest notion of the distress I am causing him in my bluntness. But I quickly quell it. I care nothing for his distress when my own presses against my every atom. Instead, I nod, desiring food above bitterness, and allow him to lead me to a grand dining room. Our entire cottage could have fitted neatly inside of it. The table is the length of our garden. It is impossibly, monstrously big. This room is better kept than some of the others. It is damp and dusty, but without the troves of cobwebs, and is decked in gold and white. There are only two place settings, but the rest of the table bulges with enough silver to suit a royal guest.
The Beast pulls out a chair clumsily and gestures for me to sit. Then he springs away, letting me push it in myself. He hovers by the side of the room.
“You'll find food readily available here, whenever you want it,” he explains. “I do not know quite how it works, but it keeps me alive, so...”
Cautiously, I lift the lid from my plate. A simple, glorious smell races up to greet me. A hearty porridge, filled with nuts and dates, fresh milk, a little pot of honey. Undoubtedly what Nanny has produced for everyone else this morning. The smell makes me want to cry. The taste is even worse. The flavour dissolves into paste as I struggle to swallow, my body craving sustenance over grief.
“You may go or do whatever you like here,” the Beast says. “The castle is your...”
He means to say “home” but he stops himself just in time, perhaps anticipating the venom he would receive from me if he dared make such a declaration.
“Yours to explore,” he continues. “That being said, the chamber at the end of western corridor. The one with the gold door. Please refrain from going in there.”
“Why?” I ask. “What's in there?”
There is the merest twitch of a smile in the corner of his jaw. He's got me; I asked a question.
“The bodies of my former brides,” he says matter-of-factly. He waits for me to startle, or laugh, but I do neither.
“Well, I can understand you wanting to keep that hidden,” I reply, just as calmly. I do not repeat the question. Limiting my prison by a single room makes little difference to me, whatever the reason.
“It's a... a personal request,” he adds. “I would keep it to myself.”
I force myself to swallow another mouthful to avoid looking at him, and avoid continuing the conversation.
“Your name,” the Beast says eventually. “What is it?”
I don't see how I can avoid giving him this. “Rose,” I say quietly. “De Villenueve.”
Now it is my turn to wait. I wait for him to say “that is a lovely name” or something else equally boring, but he does not. His eyes rise a little to my hair, perhaps noticing the red sheen to it, and he nods a little, as if to say it suits you. Instead, he says, a touch forlornly, “You may call be Beast, for that is what I am.”
We part ways, almost silently, after I have finished a few more mouthfuls. My gaoler, the Beast, my unwitting host -whatever he may be- hovers in my trail long after I have departed. I still see him lurking in the shadows once I ascend the main staircase. I know he must be thinking of following me, perhaps offering me a tour, but thinks the better of it. Good, he is learning. Learning that there is no point in trying to befriend me. Maybe he believes my resolve will soften over time, but he does not know me. There were days, weeks even, after Mama's death, where the only sounds I uttered were sobs. I spoke to no one. I can retreat into my grief like a shell, emerging only when I see it is safe to. When the way opens to go home.
I have no need of a friend. No need of anyone. I am perfectly fine by myself.
This is the mantra I repeat to myself as I explore the castle.
It is hard to put to words the precise state of the decay and desolation etched into the walls of this forgotten place. There is a pale, penetrating loneliness chiselled into every statue. A kind of loneliness made living. It haunts every rock and stone, every sinew of every room. A whispering, blistery loneliness. In a breath's moment, I swear I can hear voices, and at the exact same time, all I can hear is the deafening sound of utter nothingness.
The gardens are a desolate wasteland, a graveyard of trees and statues. A seasonless, flavourless, hollow place. Nothing but dust and dirt, the shrapnel of nature, coats the dry ground. The trees are as thin as bones. They hang like skeletons, and when I reach out to grab a low-hanging branch, it snaps in my hand and dissolves into shards of brittle bark. I have never seen a place outside of a picture book containing so many shades of grey and brown.
The base of the castle is home to several ruined outbuildings and follies, empty stables, a deserted couch house, a plethora of lifeless residences of stone and mortar. Any plant life I come across mimics death too, although when I examine one of the rose bushes and dig down to the wick, there is a slight flash of green. Not quite dead, then, sleeping, although I have never seen sleep so still before.
There are no birds here, no insects. No sounds at all except the scrunch of stone underfoot. It makes me miss the snow, and the sound of inane chatter. I have never been one for noise, vastly preferring the company of books to people, but crave noise now. I long for any kind of sound. Is this was what it feels to be a ghost, alone in some kind of half world?
A large stretch of water lies at the edge of the castle grounds, sheathed in mist. The water, what little of it I can see, is crystal clear, but it is a void, empty of life. The surface is taut, like the skin of a drum, but looks hard and shiny as glass. The bottom is robed with rocks and pebbles and dirt. Not even weeds will grow in this place. My foot catches on a stone as I try to turn away. I pick it up, thumb it gingerly, then hurl it into the waters. Ripples shatter the surface and glide outwards. I hear the sound of it sink to the floor, and a bubble breaks to the top. The sound is as blissful as it is haunting.
I wander as far as the endless meadow, and haunt the edge for some time, star
ing out at the rolling mists and knowing they shield nothing. It takes but perhaps some thirty minutes at a good pace from my door to the stream where I crossed into this place. How can that thirty minutes have turned into six months?
A few feet ahead of me, before the mist truly expands, a tiny spot of colour catches my eye. A little glint of red. For a second, I know I must be imaging it. There is no colour here. I close my eyes and wait for it to go away.
But it's still there.
Tentatively, I creep forward, certain that it will vanish before I reach it. It doesn't. The mist even appears to roll back, revealing the cause; my basket, half-filled with berries from the last hunt, and my single, solitary snowdrop.
I do not know what I intend to do with them, but I am glad to have the basket returned to me. It is of no particular value, sentimental or otherwise, but it is mine, and I have so little of that here, that I scoop up the basket and its contents eagerly, and head back the way I came.
It is now about midday. I tire of the gardens. There is still plenty to explore, but it does not interest me any more. Clutching my basket tightly, I head back up the castle via the kitchen entrance. The ruins of a once great herb garden front the doors. It reminds me longingly of my garden at home, although mine was no where near this size. Gardening was my second love, after literature. It pains me to see such devastation.
Hardly knowing why, I drop down on my knees, scrabble about in the dirt, and bury my little horde. There is no hope in me that they will grow, but perhaps I need to believe that something good can live in such a place.
Getting back to my room is difficult. I take several wrong turns through the winding corridors before finding my way to the entrance hall. I remember to turn right at the top of the stairs, but I have no idea which door is mine. I don't even know what mine means. What does it matter which room I go to? There's nothing of mine in there. but I want something that I have used before, if only for a few hours.
I fling back each door I come to, taking no note of the contents, searching into the gloom for right place. Finally, I find my door. My clothes have been brought back, and I immediately shed my gaudy trapping, shredding away the frills and layers with such force that it begins to tear.
I find a plate of bread and cheese, some dried fruit, and a pot of lukewarm tea waiting for me. Did the Beast bring it up, or... the castle? He said to go to the dining room for food, didn't he? Either way, I'm barely hungry. I pick at it a little and sip at the tea. I don't feel like doing any more exploring, so I try to find something in the room to occupy myself with. There are three books on the dresser; a sentimental book of poetry -the sort Mama would have liked- a book on fairy tales, and a well-thumbed adventure romance. I think I've read the last one before, and it offers me a little home comfort despite its tedious prose. There must be a better selection somewhere in this castle, but I lack the energy to search for it and don't want to ask the Beast. I wrap myself in a blanket, settle down by the fire, and lose a good three hours in it.
The clock ticks too loudly, and I am incredibly aware of how slow time is passing.
Hurry, I urge it. Please.
By the day's end, I have read half of my available material and am not keen to resort to the sentimental drivel. Neither do I want to leave the room. A great, claw-footed tub sits beside the fire. I draw myself a bath and get to work untangling my curls and scrubbing away the dirt, a task I make last as long as possible. Then I comb it out and sit beside the fire. There's a small sewing box to the left of the hearth. It feels out of place in such a grand room -would not the previous occupant have had servants to manage such tasks?- but it is a welcome find. I can set to work fixing the damage I did to the dress earlier.
One of the sleeves is hanging on by a thread, a seam is split, and some of the fabric has frayed as a result. I never much cared for puffy sleeves anyway, so I turn them into cap sleeves instead. I'd ripped several of the frilly layers in my haste too, so I decide to take those off entirely, slimming the dress down considerably.
I work for most of the night, unpicking needless embroidery, trimming layers, disposing of ribbons and gauze. My fingers start to ache, and I realise that the strange, fuzzy pain from the brambles has gone. I unwrap my hands.
There is not a blemish on them.
Chapter Three: Castle of Thorns
There is no routine to the next few days. The only consistency is that each hour is spent trying not to count the hours. I breakfast alone in my room. Sometimes I will sew for a few hours, attempting to make something comfortable from the gaudy gowns. I re-read the books, or borrow one from another of the bedrooms. Sometimes I wander the gardens, but I always seem to find myself in the gloomiest of places and this does nothing to improve my mood. Occasionally, I wander into the armoury. Target practise offers some release, but I get little enjoyment from sword play. I keep hearing Freedom's condescending voice in my ear and even though I want to use the blade to spite him, the mere memory makes me ill. I wouldn't be here if I'd listened to him and stayed on the path.
After the first few evenings, the castle shows signs of learning my habits. The fire is always made up when I want it, and a bath is prepared every evening. I eke out a little joy, experimenting with the little basket of potions and concoctions that sits beside it. One turns the water golden and makes my skin smell of honey. Another glitters like sky light. A third turns the bubbles into fresh flowers, that sadly only last until the water cools.
I think of Honour, with the last one, and the dress she had made for her wedding. How badly she wanted flowers for it. How badly I want to be there.
A girl who grows up in a sleepy village with her head in a book should be glad of the opportunity for adventure, but although the castle is expansive, I feel its walls shrinking against me. No matter how far I can wander, I know the place is still a cage. I can't deny that my curiosity heightens with each passing day, however. I do want to know the history of this prison, how it became one.
The Beast remains a stranger to me during this time. Sometimes I see him, lurking in the shadows nearby, or glancing at me from an upstairs window. I pay him no heed, hoping that he'll vanish altogether if I ignore him for long enough.
I explore a few rooms of the castle each day. I take my time in this, for once I have seen all the rooms I will know the true limits of my cage. Every morning, I open a door, and examine the contents inch by inch, like a prisoner stroking the bars of his cell. I am methodical in my approach, picking one floor, one corridor. Once inside, I run my fingers over each surface, disturbing dust inches thick. Years of dirt are scraped away. Many of the rooms house nicer objects than mine; mine is too gaudy, the furniture large and clunky. These venerable places are sparsely but beautifully decorated; dressers as slim as silver birch branches, curtains as finely-woven as spider's silk, paintings that look as if a fairy's breath was captured on a canvas. Everything is delicate and dainty and as perishable as a cloud. And yet, somehow, has endured the ages.
When I am feeling a little more daring, or searching for some amusement, I raid the rooms for books, trinkets, and items of clothing. I am richly rewarded, finding beautiful dresses, soft slippers, tomes of lore, fur coats. I feel a little like a pirate, taking my spoils back to my chamber and ferreting them away.
One morning, I come across a little bedroom not far from the kitchens. A servant's room. It is just as prettily decorated as some of the finer rooms beside mine. Like all of them, it is covered in cobwebs, but it lacks the neatness of the others. There is a book half-open on the bedside table, an empty cup and saucer, papers over the desk, a half-worn candle. The bed is not pristinely made, the covers are crumbled, and the hairbrush on the dresser still has several fine, white-gold hairs clinging to the bristles. This is a room that was used and loved, and then, quite suddenly, abandoned.
I admire some of the fine, floaty gowns in the wardrobe. The material is so light it is almost insubstantial. But, for some reason, I do not want to take any of them. There is still
a feeling that they belong to someone.
A little glint of sunlight twinkles in the corner of the mirror. I glance up, but it has already disappeared. There is no sunlight here, I remind myself. I was probably only a reflection.
A week after my arrival, when I have explored all the ground floor rooms to the left side of the castle's entrance, the turn comes to enter the grand doors to right. My breath immediately rises out of my chest and explodes into the vast space before me.
It is a ball room, ancient and otherworldly. Even in its abandoned state, its grace and elegance persevere. It is white, shimmering, ethereal place. Great cascades of ivy pool into the room from the shattered crystal ceiling, and twist up from the balcony, meeting somewhere in the middle to spill onto the marble floor.
At the end of the room, in a melted heap, sits what looks like the remains of a seat. No, not a seat; a throne. This is a throne room. This fits, for I feel like I have stumbled upon an archaic celestial home of some great forgotten god.
Behind the seat is large portrait, but it is scorched beyond recognition. I can make out little but the graceful sweeping robes of a woman, and the figure of a broad-shouldered man. She is touching the back of his hand, lightly, a touch that should be reserved but somehow conveys the impression of warmth.
It is staring up at this ruin that curiosity finally overcomes me.
“What happened here?” I ask aloud.
It takes him a while to respond, peering out from behind the pillar. “I'm sorry, are you talking to me?”
“Is there anyone else here for me to talk to?” I ask pointedly.
He hangs his head. “No,” he says quietly. “I suppose not.”
“You suppose?”
“The magic that sustains this place... what little there is left of it... it was alive once. I do not believe it is, any more.”
I think of the twinkle in the mirror, and my wish-fulfilling room, and wonder if it's as dead as he believes it to be. I repeat my original question.
The Rose and the Thorn Page 3
