“I am sorry I ever called your father a thief,” the Beast said.
Lost in her thoughts, Belle was surprised by the Beast’s deep voice. She turned her face up to him. He was staring down at her, concern etched in his features. Wiping the tears from her eyes, Belle took one last look around the room. She had seen enough. She put the rattle in the pocket of her apron, not wanting to part with it.
Reaching out, she took the Beast’s hand. “Let’s go home,” she said. “To the castle.”
The Beast nodded, and together, they placed their hands once more on the pages of the enchanted book, closed their eyes…and pictured home.
GASTON WAS GROWING RESTLESS. He had spent the past few weeks doing what he normally did—hunting, participating in eating contests, taking one of the local girls out for dinner. But he was wondering when Belle would finally return.
Maurice was no doubt long gone. He wasn’t going to return to bother Gaston, and when Belle came back from wherever it was she had run off to, the path to their marriage would be clear. Yes, it was all going to work out just fine, Gaston thought as he made his way toward the tavern for his evening dose of adoration and grog. He just needed his future wife to hurry home.
And he needed LeFou to stop talking.
Gaston’s constant companion was, once again, babbling on about Maurice—which was making it rather difficult for Gaston to completely put the moment in his past. “Wow, this is some storm,” the smaller man was saying. “At least we’re not tied to a tree in the middle of nowhere, right? You know, it’s not too late. We could just go get him….”
Gaston didn’t respond.
LeFou pressed on. “It’s just, every time I close my eyes, I picture Maurice stranded out there. And then when I open them, he’s…”
His voice trailed off as Gaston swung open the doors to the tavern, revealing Maurice.
“Oh, that’s funny, I was going to say ‘dead,’” LeFou finished, his voice squeaking.
Maurice was surrounded by the usual tavern goers, including Jean the potter and Pere Robert. Other than a red nose, he seemed no worse for the wear, and it was clear from the daggers the villagers were shooting at Gaston that he had felt well enough after his ordeal to tell them all about what had happened.
“Gaston,” Jean said, his voice serious, “did you try to kill Maurice?”
Gaston knew he had only a few options. He could fight, which was his usual answer. He could run, but that option was weak and made his skin crawl. So after a quick glance around the room, he decided to go with another option: deny, deny, deny. Plastering a warm smile on his face, he walked quickly to Maurice, who had his arms crossed. “Oh, Maurice,” he began. “Thank heavens. I’ve spent the last five days trying to find you. Why did you run off into the forest in your condition?”
As his words bounced around the room, the villagers who had gathered shuffled, unsure of who to believe.
“What?” Maurice said in disbelief. Then he shook his head. “No! You tried to kill me! You left me for the wolves!”
Gaston put a hand to his chest as though Maurice’s words had hurt him. “Wolves? What are you talking about?” he asked. He looked at the villagers and rolled his eyes as if to say, Are we really going back down this road again? Are you really going to believe him over me? He tried not to smile smugly when the majority of them returned his eye roll.
“The wolves near the Beast’s castle,” Maurice answered, his voice rising and adding to his manic appearance.
“That’s right,” Gaston said condescendingly. “There’s a beast with a castle that somehow none of us have ever seen?”
Maurice hesitated. Looking around the room, he saw that everyone was waiting for his answer. “Well…yes,” he finally said.
Gaston had Maurice—and everyone else—just where he wanted him. Like when he cornered his prey on the hunt, he had Maurice on the defensive, as if Maurice knew his time was running out. Slowly, Gaston shook his head. “It’s one thing to rave about your delusions,” he said. “It’s another to accuse me of murder.”
To his surprise, it was Pere Robert, not Maurice, who spoke up. The priest stepped in front of Maurice defensively. Then he looked at the gathered crowd. “Listen to me, all of you,” he pleaded. “This is Maurice, our neighbor. Our friend. He is a good man.”
Gaston tried not to smile. He could not have set the situation up for the final blow better if he had tried. “Are you suggesting that I am not?” he said, sounding hurt. “Did I not save this village from the savagery of the Portuguese marauders? Am I not the only reason you people are gathered here this evening and not buried up on the hillside?”
His words, like an arrow shot from his bow, struck home. The villagers mumbled to each other, their growing doubt in Maurice clear.
“Maurice,” Jean the potter said, turning to look at the old man, “do you have any proof of what you’re saying?”
“Ask Agathe!” he replied, frantically trying to keep the room with him. “She rescued me!” Turning, he pointed to the far dark corner of the tavern where the old beggar woman had been watching everything silently. Feeling everyone’s eyes on her, Agathe cowered and pulled her tattered hood tighter around her face.
Gaston raised an eyebrow. “You’d hang your accusation on the testimony of a filthy beggar woman?” he said.
Realizing that might not have been the best of moves, Maurice looked around. He needed to change tactics. Spotting Gaston’s ever-present companion, Maurice let out a cry. “Monsieur LeFou! He was there. He saw it all!”
“Me?” LeFou said, gulping as the attention turned to him.
“You’re right. Don’t take my word for it,” Gaston said, once again thrilled by how the whole scene was playing out in his favor. He walked over and put his arm around his friend. “LeFou, my dearest companion, did you and I, Le Duo”—he used the nickname, his voice oozing false sincerity—“find any beasts or haunted castles on our search?”
LeFou’s head swung back and forth. On his shoulder, Gaston’s grip tightened. It was clear what answer he wanted to hear. But looking at Maurice, LeFou remembered how bad he had felt as they drove away, leaving him in the cold and dark. Gaston’s grip tightened further. “It’s a complicated question on a number of accounts, but…no?” he finally answered.
“And did I, your oldest friend and most loyal compatriot,” Gaston continued, laying it on thick, “try to kill the father of the only woman I’ve ever loved?”
“Well…” LeFou hedged. “‘Kill’ is such a strong word. No. No, you didn’t.”
That was all the crowd needed to hear. Instantly, the tide of good feeling shifted from Maurice to Gaston. As the old man’s face fell, a smirk tugged at the corner of Gaston’s mouth. He had won. “Maurice, it pains me to say this,” he said insincerely, “but you’ve become a danger to yourself and others. You need help, sir. A place to heal your troubled mind.” He walked over and put a large hand on Maurice’s shoulder. Then he squeezed, hard. “Everything’s going to be fine.” But while his words were nice, his tone was as cold as ice.
Maurice gulped. He knew, without a doubt, that nothing was going to be fine. Nothing at all.
Inside the castle, the Beast was having similar thoughts. Time was running out and he was not even remotely sure that things would be all right. And clearly he wasn’t the only one. While he had hoped to get ready for that evening alone, an audience had gathered—an audience with an opinion.
“This is it, master,” Mrs. Potts said as she entered the West Wing. The Beast was in the large bathroom, immersed in a huge tub of soapy hot water. “Now or never.”
“The clock is ticking,” Cogsworth added.
“The rose has only four petals left,” Lumiere added. “Which means tonight…you must tell her how you feel.”
The Beast sighed. He knew that his staff was just trying to help. Nothing they were saying was a surprise. He knew time was running out. He knew that night was important. He knew Belle was his one chance�
�the castle’s one chance. Hearing it out loud did nothing to ease his growing anxiety. And he did not care to admit how especially nervous he was about the upcoming evening. He had made an offhanded comment to Belle about how beautiful the ballroom looked after all her hard work, and how they should celebrate it with a dance. He’d never thought she would say yes.
He signaled the others to give him a moment of privacy and finished his bath. A curtain had been drawn in front of the tub. He stood and shook himself dry. Finally, he spoke. “She will never love me,” he said.
“Do not be discouraged,” Lumiere said to the shadow of the Beast behind the curtain. “She is the one.”
“There is no one,” the Beast retorted. He pulled back the curtain and stepped into the light provided by Lumiere’s candles. “Look at me. She deserves so much more than a beast.”
To Lumiere’s credit, he didn’t cringe on seeing the Beast, who, at that particular moment, was looking rather, well, silly. His hair was sticking out in every direction from his shaking himself dry, and the towel he had wrapped around his waist only made his large shoulders seem wider and hairier. Lumiere cleared his throat and pressed on. “You care for her, don’t you?”
The Beast nodded. He did care for Belle, more than he ever would have thought possible. The past few days and their trip to Paris had only solidified those feelings. But he was no fool. While he might have come to care for her, and she might have learned to be around him without cringing, that did not mean she loved him in return. He was a beast, after all. No matter how many baths he took, no matter the clothes he wore or if he managed to eat his soup with a spoon, that wasn’t going to change—unless she did somehow love him as he was. But that was unlikely.
Lumiere saw the doubt and fear in his master’s eyes but forged ahead, propelled by his nod. “Well then, woo her with beautiful music and romantic candlelight….”
“Yes,” Plumette added, “and when the moment’s just right…”
The Beast cocked his head. “How will I know?”
Cogsworth, who until that point had been purposely keeping himself out of the conversation, cleared his throat. “In my experience,” he said, “you will feel slightly nauseous.”
Lumiere shot him a look, silencing the clock. “Don’t worry, master,” he said, turning back to the Beast. “You’ll do fine. The problem has been that until now, the girl could not see the real you.”
“No,” Mrs. Potts said, disagreeing. “The problem was…she could.”
Instantly, the room grew silent. Tension filled the air as the staff turned and looked at the teapot. Some, like Lumiere, hoped to see a glint of humor in her eye. Others, like Cogsworth, were unsurprised by her sudden announcement. Either way, everyone’s attention finally turned to the Beast, whom they watched, with eyes wide, as Mrs. Potts went on.
“For years,” she said, “we have hoped against hope that this curse would make you a better man. But you have remained angry and selfish and cruel, and we are all running out of time. And there is one more thing your servants have been too afraid to tell you.”
“What?” the Beast asked. He was surprised to discover that he feared her answer. Was she going to tell him exactly how hated he was? Was she going to tell him how miserable they had been and for how long? Was it possible she was going to find a way to make him feel even worse than he already did?
“We love you,” Mrs. Potts said.
The Beast nearly staggered back with the weight of her words. Of all the things he had imagined she might say…
Mrs. Potts went on. “Until now, we have loved you in spite of how you were. But since that girl arrived, we love you because of it.” Around her, the servants nodded in agreement. “So stop being a coward and tell Belle how you feel. And if you don’t, I promise you’ll be drinking cold tea for the rest of your life.”
“In the dark,” Lumiere added.
“Covered in dust,” Plumette chimed in.
In silence, the staff looked up at the Beast and waited for his response.
And then the Beast smiled. Slowly at first, it spread across his face until it took over. And it wasn’t the scary smile he had first flashed at Belle. It was a warm smile. It was a genuine smile. It was the smile of a beast who no longer felt alone. It was the smile of a man who finally felt hope.
As Belle stood in her room letting Garderobe primp and pamper her, she was struck again by a case of nerves. Ever since she’d agreed to celebrate the restoration of the ballroom with a dance, butterflies had been firmly lodged in her belly. Now, as the moment to go downstairs grew closer, the feeling grew stronger.
Ever since they had returned from Paris, Belle had felt another serious shift in her relationship with the Beast. He had seen her at her most vulnerable and he had been a source of strength for her. Their conversations now went far beyond books. Their walks in the gardens were longer, neither wanting them to end. Belle found herself anticipating dinner, no longer just for the scrumptious food but for the company. If she’d had a friend to talk to, she probably would have admitted that her feelings for the Beast, as unlikely as it seemed, had become deeper than she had ever thought possible.
And now she was about to go spend an evening with him, dancing in the ballroom. She sighed. How had she gotten here?
Garderobe gave Belle’s dress one last adjustment and then turned her around so she was facing the full-length mirror.
Belle gasped. After her first day in the castle, she had been slightly hesitant to let the wardrobe dress her. They had talked about Belle’s preference for clothes without frills, for outfits that had practical elements, like hemlines that didn’t drag on the floor and pockets—much to Garderobe’s chagrin.
But slowly, Garderobe had begun to create ensembles that fit Belle to a tee. And that night, she had outdone herself. Belle didn’t even recognize the girl staring back at her with wide brown eyes. Her hair had been pulled back halfway, accenting her cheeks, which had been ever so lightly dusted with blush. And the dress. The dress was something out of Belle’s wildest fantasies. It floated around her like a golden halo. With every movement she made, it shone, catching the light and casting it back into the room. Garderobe stretched out one of her drawers, and suddenly, a layer of gold dust magically fell from the ceiling, coating the dress and making it, if possible, still more beautiful. Plus, it was easy to move in, light as a feather.
Pleased with her work, Garderobe pushed Belle out the door.
Belle stood still for a long moment. Her heart pounded. It is just a night, she thought. Stop dilly-dallying and get down those stairs.
Taking a deep breath, Belle began the long walk down the hall toward the staircase. Reaching the top, she looked across to the top of the West Wing’s stairs. To her surprise, the Beast was standing there—clad in his best formal wear, looking as nervous as she felt. Their eyes met. They walked toward each other, meeting on the center landing. Then he bowed his head and extended his arm, inviting her, without words, to join him. She didn’t hesitate to take it.
Together, they descended the staircase. With each step, Belle’s anxiety faded. It felt normal to be walking with the Beast. And when he started to lead her into the dining room, it was her decision to turn to the ballroom instead.
She sensed his hesitation as she led him to the middle of the dance floor. But as quickly as that hesitation had appeared, it disappeared as music magically began to play. The room had been scrubbed clean and lit with hundreds of candles so that everything glowed like the golden dress Belle wore. The stage was set.
And then they began to dance. They waltzed in perfect time, Belle’s feet following the Beast’s automatically. They moved in a series of steps and delicate spins, each partner in tune with the other. It was as though they had been dancing together for years, not minutes, and once again, Belle was struck by how comfortable she felt around the Beast. As Cadenza reached a crescendo in the music, the Beast lifted Belle so she floated at his side, and then swept her into a thrilling dip.
When the music finally came to an end and the ballroom fell into silence, Belle felt a strange tug of sadness that it was over.
As if sensing this, the Beast did not release her hand. Instead, he led her out to the large terrace that circled the ballroom. A companionable silence fell over the pair as they both stared up at the starry sky. The air was crisp, as it always was around the enchanted castle, but not uncomfortable. Belle felt as though the Beast’s arms were still wrapped around her, the warmth from the ballroom somehow finding its way outside.
“I haven’t danced in years,” the Beast said, breaking the silence. “I’d almost forgotten the feeling.” He dragged his eyes from the stars and looked down at Belle. His gaze was full of warmth—and something else. He shifted nervously on his feet as though not sure whether to go on. Belle waited, trying to encourage him silently. Then he spoke again. “It’s foolish, I suppose, for a creature like me to hope that one day he might earn your affection.”
Belle hesitated. It wasn’t foolish. At least, moments earlier it hadn’t seemed foolish. “I don’t know…” she said softly.
Hope flared in the Beast’s eyes. “Really?” he asked. “You think you could be happy here?”
“Can anybody be happy if they aren’t free?” Belle asked softly.
The Beast blinked guiltily, knowing she was right.
An image of Maurice flashed through Belle’s mind. “My father taught me to dance. Our house was always filled with music.”
“You must miss him,” the Beast said, the tone of her voice not lost on him.
Belle nodded. “Very much.”
Seeing the tears rise in Belle’s eyes, the Beast felt his heart tighten. He hated to see her in pain, especially when he knew there was a way he could ease it. “Come with me,” he said, taking her hand.
Silently, he led her off the terrace and back through the ballroom. He didn’t answer when she asked where they were going and didn’t explain when he brought her into his room and lifted a small hand mirror up to her. All he said was “Show me Maurice.” Then he handed the mirror to Belle and waited.
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