Slowly, I get the hang of it.
I begin to get more adventurous, drifting away from the bank. I am loath to go too far out. If feels safer to be nearer the solid ground- probably a good rule for a long life. He, of course, is having a whale of a time. He's picked up a good rhythm and is smoothly gliding around, one foot at a time, hands behind his back. He looks back at me frequently (to check that I'm all right, I think) and then promptly performs some kind of trick.
Show-off.
I try to build up some momentum, kicking my skates quickly against the surface, and sail forward several feet. The wind rushes through me, sending a quiet, pleasant chill right down to my toes. I feel light, giddy, as if I've taken flight.
Naturally, I quickly lose my footing, tumbling to the ground uncomfortably. I sigh, rolling over onto my back with my hair splayed out behind me, like a frost-covered cape. I trace the lines in the ice with my fingers. I had forgotten the way ice could glitter. The water rolls across the other side of the surface, brushing the ice like clouds. For a second, I think I see a flash of something silver glimmer along the pebbles. A fish? No, there are no fish in this lake.
But there was something there, I am sure of it.
I sit up, scrubbing the ice with my sleeve. There it is again- a dark, grey shape, slithering under the ice. I tap the surface, trying to see if it responds- if it's alive or not.
I don't see it again. Instead, I feel a shudder, the awful feeling of something moving underneath me. Then, I hear a crack.
My breath stills in my throat, but my heart pummels against my chest. Sound is swiftly sucked away. I can feel the ice shifting. It is as if I am watching a spider crawl slowly up my body. I am paralysed, but I feel every trembling movement.
The cracks widen. I can't move, can't speak, can't scream-
“Rose!”
With one final, desperate look back at the Beast, I plunge into the ice.
Ice burns through my lungs, spreading to the tips of my fingers like wildfire. Cold iron grips my neck. Sharp pain ignites across my skin. I struggle, but my limbs are heavy. I want to fight. Fight against the dark and the cold, but pain in my chest is absolute. I am being torn apart.
There is something reaching for me. Someone reaching in the dark. Not to save me, to hurt me. Talons fasten around my ankles. I am being pulled down into the dark, the dark I can't see, can't know. The urge to scream rises but the water presses against me.
I see a terrible face, burning into the back of my eyelids. A pale, narrow, starved face, surrounded by masses of dark, swirling hair. It ought to be human, but for two long horns protruding from its skull. It is grinning at me, laughing manically.
No, no, no. You can't have me. I am not yours, not yours.
I kick against it. Lash out. Move. Struggle. Fight. Not giving up. Not yet...
Then I see something else. Something beautiful, white and gold, moving towards me. A hand reaches out. I hear words, like music, telling me to hold on.
Somebody is calling my name. I feel something grip my middle, and then blackness swallows me whole.
Chapter Six: Tales by Firelight
Wind whistles in the air. I hear breathing, hard, ragged breaths. I am jostled, up and down. There’s a light, yellow and red and warm. Then something is pulling off my clothes with gentle desperation.
“Help her, help her, please!”
Who is he talking to?
My head spins.
Something thick and heavy falls across my shoulders. Lights dance around my eyes, and somebody strokes my hair. Mama?
I dream I see her face, and then everyone’s. Everyone’s that I miss.
I see the Beast's face too, and then I see a stranger’s. A girl, buzzing with light. Green eyes, wild hair.
I want to cry, but there is a lump of iron where my throat used to be. “Who are you?” I whisper.
She glares at me from the mirror, her eyes daggers, her mouth open in a cruel, horrible sneer. Her teeth could be fangs. As I stare, she raises a hand towards the pane and drags a fingernail across it. The screech races down my spine.
I bolt upright in a bed of furs, screaming.
“A face, a face!” I blubber. “A horrible, monstrous face- it was here- in the mirror and-”
“It's all right Rose,” a calm, soothing voice says from behind me. “I won't hurt you.”
In the corner of the room, about as far away from me as he could get, the Beast sits.
His words catch me by surprise. “Of course you won't,” I say. Then my own words circle back to me. Shame spreads across my cheeks. “Oh, oh no, I didn't mean-”
He raises to his feet, turning towards the door. “It's all right, I understand-”
“No, you don't. I'm not talking about you. I saw something in the mirror, and... and in the lake. A person, or the face of one...”
The Beast freezes. “You've gone through a shock,” he says shortly. “And the isolation plays tricks with us all. You must have imagined it. There is no one else here but us.”
I want to argue. It seemed so real. But then I remember a hunting trip a few years ago, when Freedom got caught in the rain for several hours, without shelter. It was freezing. By the time he returned to us, he was delirious with cold. Nanny stripped of his clothes immediately, bundled him in blankets, and sat him beside the fire. He returned to normal after a good long sleep.
And yet... “Are you sure
“I wish I wasn't.”
I swallow painfully. My head hurts. The drowsiness is overwhelming. I urge to lie back down again, but before my cheek hits the pillow, an arm circles round my back and a teacup is pressed to my lips.
“Drink this,” he instructs.
It is warm and minty. The tightness in my chest loosens.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
“'Tis only a drink.”
“I meant for saving me.”
“Oh. Well, entirely selfish of me, I assure you. Wasn't quite ready to give up the pleasure of your company.”
“Pleasure? I've been beastly to you,” I say. Then add swiftly, “If you'll pardon the pun.”
He chuckles. “You've been lovely these past couple of days, and I cannot blame you for any initial frostiness.”
“I'm sorry you thought I was talking about your face.”
“It's all right. I'm used to it by now.”
“That makes it worse!”
“Does it?”
“Yes!” I insist. “No one should have to get used to people being cruel to them.”
He drops his head slightly. “Perhaps I felt I deserved it.”
“Did you? Deserve it?”
“Are you asking... if I committed some sort of crime to be left here, guarding this place?”
I nod my head solemnly.
“None that comes to mind. No, being here is not my punishment.”
There is something in the way he says this that confuses me, but I cannot quite put my finger on what.
“Then why would you think you deserved it?”
He swallows audibly, and for a moment, I think he is done with any explanation. Then I realise he his staring down at his hands. “For being like this,” he sighs. “A monster.”
The pain in his voice is palpable, and it slices me to my core. Gingerly, I reach out and slip my hands into one of his. They do not seem as large as they did a few days ago, although they dwarf mine.
“I see no monster here,” I say softly. “But then you did just save my life, so I may be riding that thought for a couple of days at least.”
There is a twitch of a smile in his whiskery cheeks.
“Perhaps I'll ask you again then when you've fully recovered.”
“Perhaps.”
I lie myself back down in the furs, and turn my face towards the firelight. “The other people that came here before me. Were they... what were they like?”
“They were... apprehensive, at first. You can hardly blame them. Some... some were very afraid. One girl barely came
out of her room the entire time she was here. Some were very cruel. But some were kind. One or two, I would have called friends by the time they left. None...” His voice goes very quiet.
“None what?”
He shakes his head. “It doesn't matter,” he says.
I think he means to say, none were like you, but I'm glad he doesn't. I wouldn't know what to do with that.
“Tell me a story,” I ask instead.
At first, he looks a little taken aback, as if I am the first person to request such a thing. “What... what would you like to hear?”
“Something true and something magical.” It is the first time I have ever been able to ask for such a thing.
“Very well,” he clears his throat. “Long ago, the world of men was rampant with magic. Fairies of every kind use to roam the land, as common as cats. While a few were kind and benevolent, many misused their power, until most were as cruel as they were beautiful. Stories were spread about evil deeds, of bad deals, stolen children, curses... as if fairies were the only creatures capable of misdeeds. There was a great war, and both sides suffered terrible losses. The Queen of the fairies decided that it was best for everyone if they withdrew from the world. She forged a new realm, one where the fairies could live in peace. But she did not wish to deny mankind their gifts altogether, and so a precious few were allowed to roam the world, only a few times a year. This arrangement seemed to suit; fairies were encouraged to be good, hoping to one day gain passage to Earth, and magic was only ever used for good purposes.
“But then a fairy with a dark heart grew jealous, and few things spoil the soul faster than festering jealously. She thought the Queen unfair for denying them the pleasures of the Earth, and thought mankind foolish and undeserving of such a beautiful, ever-changing land. For the price of paradise is boredom. And so, a second war began, and this time there was to be no victor. The evil fairy destroyed the Queen, but destroyed herself in the process. Slowly, eventually, the land of fairies faded into nothingness, until all that remained of their deeds -good and bad- was a few simple stories.”
I sigh. “Mama used to tell me a story just like that, almost word-for-word.”
“You must miss her.”
My head nods by its own accord. “She died when I was nine, giving birth to my little brother.”
“I'm sorry to hear that.” He refills my cup and encourages me to drink. “Tell... tell me about your family.”
“Why?”
“Because you must miss them, and talking about them might keep them close.”
So I tell him. I tell him about Nanny, our cook, caretaker and grandmother-substitute, and her battles with the dogs and the mischief they got in to. I tell him about my father. Wise, quiet and careful, who spends most of the day reading or gazing into the fire, Azor at his feet. I talk of my siblings, of Freedom, who constantly irks me, who spends all of his time hunting but secretly paints in his “tool shed”. I tell him of Honour, beautiful, dependable, calm and loving Honour, my closest confident, the best older sister anyone could ask for. Hope is more of a recluse than her, serious and quiet, far smarter than any of the rest of us, although not as wise as she would like to be. Yet.
I tell him about Beau. I might be closest to Honour, but I have a soft spot in my heart for my little brother. We all do. He is brave and good-hearted and just wants everyone to be happy. He has a delicious, infectious laugh. The first time I smiled after Mama's death was when he smiled at me.
I pause here in my story, because thinking of Beau in such a way makes me ache. I miss his chattering, his little face, the way he would creep into my bed during thunderstorms to 'protect' me. I wonder if he had climbed into Honour's bed now, or Hope's.
I wonder if Honour is going through with the wedding.
“Rose?” the Beast's voice is as soft as ember. He crouches down by my side. His eyes look like diamonds, bright and gleaming. “Rose, you will see your family again, I promise.”
“I know,” I say, and manage to bite down the rest of my words. But I will miss things. I will miss Honour’s wedding, I will miss my father’s practical tales, Freedom’s silly escapades. I will miss putting Beau to bed, miss his laugh. I will miss Hope crawling into bed with me to read in silence. I will miss all of their everythings.
I bite down on the words, but I still choke on the tears. They come fast and furiously and unstoppably. The Beast hands me a handkerchief, but it does little to stem the flood. It is not enough, not by half. I seize the next white thing I see through the flurry of tears; his shirt. I bury my face in his chest and vibrate with grief. Slowly, gingerly, his arms circle around me with incredible gentleness. He says nothing but holds me while I sob and cry for home.
Eventually, the tears start to subside. Sleep tugs instead, first at my eyelids, and then at my whole body. I lower myself back into my pillow.
“Will you stay?” I whisper, as the darkness folds inwards.
They is a little moment before he replies. “For as long as you want me.”
For the first time, I do not want to be alone.
No dreams disturb my slumber, and I awake to faintest sunlight streaming across my cheek. My chest is still tight, a cold spreads through my face, but I feel lighter than the night before.
The Beast is slumped by the side of the room, but the minute my gaze settles on him, he leaps upright as if my gaze burns him.
“You're awake,” he states numbly.
“You're still here.”
“I'm sorry, do you wish me to go-”
“No, I just thought-”
“You asked me to stay-”
“I know, I just... have you been there all night?”
“Oh, don't worry,” he gushes. “I was perfectly comfortable.”
“On the floor?”
He looks down at his feet. “I usually sleep on the floor.”
He is ashamed of this, of anything, I realise, that suggests he is more animal than man. He is neither to me, and perhaps that is why it bothers him- the sense being betwixt and between, belonging no where.
“You should eat something,” he announces, before I can think of something to say in response. He brings over a tray of soup and bread. I take up the bowl, my fingers shaking slightly. I hadn't realised how hungry I was.
“Eat up!” he urges.
I stuff my face with broth-soaked bread and chew. “You sound like Honour.”
“Eat first, then talk.”
“Well excuse me, Mr Manners...” I swallow, warmth immediately spreading through my body. Not for the first time, I wonder if there's a magic in the food, and not just in its ability to appear out of thin air. I take a few more mouthfuls greedily, partly hoping he will realise he doesn't have to stand on ceremony whenever we eat together.
Satisfied at my efforts, he asks, “Honour is... your older sister, yes? Hope is your younger?”
“Correct,” I say, gulping down tea.
“So Freedom, Honour, Hope and Beau? I'm noticing somewhat of a theme.”
I groan. “Mother's virtuous names. It's a family thing, apparently. I think Freedom got the worst of it.”
“Well, I wasn't going to say.”
I giggle. “Mama thought she was having a girl, and she had her heart set on Liberty, because the war had just come to a close, but then Freedom was a boy, and so... sometimes I joke that she knew he was going to be a beast and was punishing him in advance.”
“What about Rose?”
“Story goes that on the day I was born, my father brought my mother a bouquet of roses. He said they were his favourite flower, and they were beauty personified. He was trying to give her a hint. She was previously going to call me Beauty.”
He smiles. “It would have suited you.”
I pull a face. “It's a ridiculous name and you know it.”
My spoon falls to the bowl with a clatter. Wordlessly, my tray is cleared away. He fiddles about with stacking the crockery neatly, as if reluctant to return to my side.
“What... what happened to your family?” I ask.
He pauses for a moment, stiffens ever-so-slightly. He takes a careful breath. “My father died before I was born,” he tells me slowly. “My mother... I remember her. Vividly. But more... in the way one remembers a painting.”
“What happened to her?”
“She was... she left this world, when I was still very small.”
He is an orphan then, all alone in the world. Not a day goes by I don't miss Mama, but to have no one, no one at all...
“What's your real name?”
“I'm sorry?”
“Your real name. You told me to call you Beast, but your mother couldn't have called you that.”
“No,” he replied. “She did not. But it has been so long now I can barely remember it.”
It seems unlikely that he has forgotten his own name, but I sense I will not discover it. Perhaps it's very long or embarrassing. Perhaps it doesn't suit him at all. What name does, I wonder? My eyes wander over his dark, prickly body, searching for inspiration, but it it the painting of roses over his shoulder that offers it.
“Thorn,” I say suddenly.
“Come again?”
“I am going to call you Thorn.”
“Because... I'm a thorn in your side?” he asks skeptically.
I laugh. “No! It's because... you're a little prickly, but accompany every rose.”
He tilts his head, regarding me closely with some intense expression I can't quite read. “I'd like that,” he says eventually, very softly. “Thorn.”
I remain in bed for the next two days, heaped under blankets and nursing a heavy cold. Thorn barely leaves my side the entire time. He entertains me by reading. He is the most animated speaker, doing accents and impressions. His company, I know, has been limited. Where did he learn how to speak like that? He breathes life into every word he reads. Worlds unfurl on his tongue.
When I'm in want of silence, he brings me my sewing and watches in amazement as I transform my bed into a dresser's shop, sniping and snitching dresses to my liking. I do insist he returns to his own room for the night, but he is back again at every sunrise with a new book for the day.
The Rose and the Thorn Page 6
