Beauty & The Clockwork Beast (The Clockwork Fairytales Book 1)

by A. B. Keuser

  Beauty & the Clockwork Beast

  A Clockwork Fairytale

  By A. B. Keuser

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Epilogue

  Thank you!

  About the Author

  Other Books By A. B. Keuser

  Copyright

  Dedication

  For Natalie

  Having you for a best friend is like living a fairytale.

  One

  Once Upon a time…

  Isabelle Marchant had been happy once.

  It was a fast fading memory that she clung to even as time shredded it to tatters. Not even the bustling market around her could keep her from cringing outwardly at the future that her aunt had orchestrated for her. In truth, memories were the only chance she had for happiness now.

  Memories and sixty gold coins that might buy her freedom. But no one would help her. She walked through the market, basket in hand, exchanged pleasantries and smiles with people she’d come to know. People she’d thought once to call friends.

  The only one she knew she could trust anymore was the woman whose arm was looped in hers. Heather walked with her head leaned on Isabelle’s arm and let out a sigh every time they passed another dress shop.

  “We could go in there,” she said as they passed the shop where their older sister had purchased her wedding dress two months earlier.

  It had only been two months after their father died, leaving them in a terrible mess. The shopkeepers and merchants here were kinder to them than those in the town where they lived. Partially because they hadn’t been swindled as thoroughly, and partially because those who called the seaside their home had never blamed the girls for their father’s faults before he’d died.

  The mess, as their aunt called it, was poverty—though Isabelle wouldn’t have gone that far—and it was her duty to find a quick way to tidy up the debacle. Isabelle wished the woman would butt out.

  The sixty coins were meant to purchase a wedding dress. Isabelle was meant to marry a huntsman—a rich huntsman, much to her aunt’s glee—who would take her far away and, as he claimed, lavish gifts on her.

  The only thing worse than having to marry Jaquel Gaston was that those people she’d thought were friends demanded she be happy about being purchased like a loaf of bread.

  He was handsome and rich. He would take care of her and she would have everything she wanted… according to them.

  But he would stifle her. He’d already started. When he agreed to her aunt’s price, he’d begun to act as if he owned her. He’d thrown three of her books into the fire because they weren’t fit subjects for a woman—as if there was anything untoward about astronomy or metanatural physics. Her new copies were safely hidden away in the bottom drawer of her dresser.

  She took a deep breath and steadied herself against the anger that simmered beneath her breastbone at the thought.

  “It looks like it’s going to rain,” Heather said with a breathy sigh from beside her.

  Glancing up at the gray clouds, Isabelle felt the prickling on her skin. She could always tell when lightning would accompany a downpour.

  “You should get home before it starts. I don’t want you getting soaked and dying on me.”

  Heather’s laughter turned into a cough and she stopped, swallowing gulps of air. Holding her upright, Isabelle tried to keep her from being jostled by the crowds.

  “Take the cart. I can walk home after I finish here.”

  “Are you sure?” Heather glanced at the sky once more.

  Nodding, Isabelle handed her the packages they’d retrieved for their aunt and nudged her toward where they had left the cart. “I’ll see you tonight.”

  When Heather was out of sight, Isabelle turned back toward the chemist’s shop and picked her way through the slowly thinning crowds.

  A stall, heavy laden with wicker and woven goods peeked out from the others, its awnings were hung with bright streamers and glittering metal wind chimes.

  Those chimes wavered in the breeze and sent a tinkling melody through the air.

  She paused to say hello, but the boy in front was new and he looked at her as though she might leap over the counter and bite him.

  But before she could turn away, a grumbling call from the back bade her stop.

  Tirina, the shop’s owner, bustled out from behind a curtain and pushed the boy out of the way. “I have something with your name on it.” Leaning over the counter between them, she smiled and nodded to a pair of scissors she held up.

  As Isabelle turned her attention to the blades, she could have sworn she saw a fluttering of gossamer behind the woman. But that was not something mentioned in polite company.

  Taking the scissors, Isabelle tensed. A frisson slid across her skin and left her mouth tingling. Enchanted items weren’t sold. Passed down through families for generations, they rarely changed hands. Taking a deep breath, she glanced around her. The market remained the same. No one but Tirina had witnessed her momentary madness.

  The scrollwork that ran along the exterior edges of the blades and up along the handles told a story in a language Isabelle would never be able to read. They were precious.

  They would cost too much.

  “They’re lovely,” she said handing them back. “I wish I could afford them.”

  The woman looked back to her, one eye moving more slowly than the other. “A woman on the verge of her wedding should be allowed three wishes. They can be yours for ten gold coins.”

  The price was high, but Isabelle could afford it. Something in the way the woman smiled—in the way she had still not reached for the scissors.

  It scared her enough that she had to swallow when her mouth went dry. Handing them back, she shook her head. “It’s too much.”

  “Six then.” Tirina looked to the gathering clouds. “You’re going to need them, and soon.”

  She paid her six coins. Tirina was unfortunately accurate when she made predictions. Tucking the scissors into her basket, she thanked the woman and left before she could make any other predictions or offer any other enchanted trinkets.

  The sky had darkened since she’d told Heather to leave, and she had one last stop to make before she could attempt to race home before the rain hit. She wouldn’t see the dressmaker today. If her soon-to-be husband wanted her in something other than the best her father had been able to provide while he lived, he could continue to want.

  Gray clouds gathered overhead, threatening to end Isabelle’s day with rain. She glared up at the dark and puffy harbingers of the coming storm. They would only add to the long list of disappointments the day had already offered.

  Trudging through the streets, she pulled her brocade pelisse more tightly around her and reminded herself that practicality was virtue in people and in clothing. She should have worn a thicker coat.

  “Good afternoon, Miss Marchant!” A woman called from another shop. “I saw your handsome fiancée a moment ago; don’t tell me you’ve lost him!”

  She laughed and Isabelle continued on without acknowledging her.

  If Monsieur Gaston was here, she needed to be careful about her path. The longer she could avoid him, the better. Her pace slowed as she kept an eye out for him, glancing over her shoulder every few minutes as she crossed each intersection with c
are.

  At the final crossing, she paused and glanced down the road. There was no sign of him on the road that lead to the docks, but when she turned toward the road that led toward the far end of town, she immediately took a step backward.

  He was there. His back was to her and he was arguing with….

  Confused by the seemingly one sided argument, Isabelle crept closer, using the shop’s stacked pots as cover. Heather’s petite frame had been hidden behind Gaston from the angle at which Isabelle had first seen him. They were arguing as though one had sold the other a lame horse at a stallion’s price.

  She’d long ago learned what Heather looked like when she wanted to scream but was forced to keep her voice low. Whatever had them at each other’s throats worried Gaston enough that he glanced at those around them yelling at a man who came too close.

  They broke apart a moment later and Heather slapped the horses with her reins, trundling away as Gaston turned to the nearest building and slammed his fist into its corner post.

  The last thing Isabelle wanted to deal with was her fiancé when he was angry, so she waited for him to turn back and look after Heather’s slowly departing cart and then she darted across the intersection and up the steps of the chemist’s shop.

  The apothecary door was old, its hinges squeaked and its windows were shadowed by dust and cobwebs. Inside, the room was dark and the air hung heavy with the musk of something dank and dead. The woman behind the counter was old, with straight white hair that hung over her shoulder and wrapped in and around her scraggly black beard in a complicated braid. The beard was shaved down to where it sprouted only from her chin and if it had not been entwined with her hair, it might have dragged on the ground.

  Like so many of those who had settled in Lonterra after the great dispersal, the chemist—as she demanded to be called though her name was Xingjuan—was a woman who’s olivine skin and delicately sloped eyes proved her too human to have any ulterior motives. Only those touched by fairies without the protection of their blood had been ostracized since the integration of kingdoms. All others had been accepted regardless of race, nation or creed.

  “More of my powders?” She asked, as she reached for the familiar jar.

  Heather’s lung ailment was getting worse. She couldn’t explain why, and neither could the few physicians she’d been able to afford. It was why she came here instead of trusting the medicines those charlatans pressed into her hands. Their so-called cures were as unappealing as the brown bottles they came in. What they needed was magic, but there was none of that for sale here.

  Xingjuan handed her the packets of powders, and she gave over a coin in turn, she thought of how she would hide these from their aunt. When it had become apparent that Heather’s recovery would cost more than her demise, their aunt had quietly stopped calling for doctors. Quietly shut Heather away. Quite by accident, Isabelle had seen the paperwork for a pauper’s headstone on the desk in the study. It was a miracle Isabelle hadn’t strangled her aunt then.

  She clenched her fist and the waxed-paper envelopes crinkled in her hand. The chemist gave her a wary look, but did not ask.

  “You’ll be leaving her alone, won’t you?”

  Nodding, Isabelle ran a finger along the label on a jar for belladonna. “It had to happen sometime.”

  “She’ll care for herself on her own. You worry too much to see that she’s stronger than she lets you know.” Xingjuan grimaced and looked back at the jar she hadn’t yet put away. “You still have two wishes.”

  Isabelle stood up straighter. “How did you. . . . ?”

  “This town is not so large that secrets remain so for long.” Xingjuan smiled and for half a moment, Isabelle thought the woman’s teeth were needles. She blinked and they were normal again. Maybe she was wrong about Xingjuan’s lack of fae touch.

  The chemist picked up the jar. “I’ll make up enough of this for a month’s supply and send it to your aunt’s house so that she won’t have to make these weekly trips when you’re gone.”

  Xingjuan grimaced, and nodded toward the door. “You’d better hurry if you don’t want to be caught in the storm.”

  Pulling her serviceable coat more tightly about her she adjusted the basket over her arm and bid Xingjuan farewell. She pushed the old door open and stepped out into the worst possible outcome.

  The sky broke open as the door shut behind her and if the now black clouds overhead were any sign, the storm wouldn’t let up soon.

  The market street’s crowd thinned, shops closed up as quickly as possible to save their wares from damage. Her long trudge home would take a full hour and a half. She might die of exposure. She chuckled at the thought. It was certainly one way to avoid marriage.

  Thunder cracked overhead and she considered waiting. But a night in town would mean two things, one good, one bad. The first was that Jaquel Gaston might hold her aunt’s archaic beliefs and imagine her ruined. She would no longer be eligible for his suit. Unfortunately, she had a feeling Gaston was the best she could hope for if her husband was chosen for her. Any man her aunt deemed worthy would be revolting in some way or another.

  The second was that her aunt would throw her out. The prospect in and of itself wasn’t such a horrid thought, but it would mean leaving Heather behind. She still didn’t know how quickly Lucinda wanted to be rid of her… or the measures she might take.

  She had learned early on that if she wanted an acceptable suitor, she would have to find him on her own.

  Unlike her older sisters, Isabelle did not think being rid of Lucinda was worth settling for her prospective husband.

  Taking a fortifying breath, she ducked into the rain and hurried through the muddy streets heedless of the fact her shoes would soon be ruined. Better her shoes than her health. She could find a way to afford new shoes. She couldn’t find a way to help her sister if she was unable to come within twenty feet of her.

  Traveling down the rutted market road, she tried to keep her thoughts from what awaited her at home, but failed. In the downpour, not even the pretty white blossoms that sprang up amid the high grass to either side could distract her. Each soggy step brought her closer to defeat, each turn in the road nearer to the fate she had to escape.

  The road from the seaside market to her aunt’s home in Indigo Valley skirted the edges of an ancient estate whose name had long since been forgotten. The cracked cobbles wove around a broken wall near to bursting from the tangled forest inside. Those boughs reached over the crumbling stones, but were held back from crossing over the road by the enchanted markers that kept it safe from malicious magic. Those restricted branches did nothing to provide shelter from the storm.

  The heavy sounds of a cart echoed through the forest behind her and she looked back to see a familiar face. The baker from Indigo Valley sat atop his cart smiled at her exposing the wide gap in his front teeth and shouted a greeting against the wind. Nodding, Isabelle stepped aside as the cart, heavy laden with wares from the port market, rumbled past. The ox lowed softly as it pulled its load, and the baker tipped his ochre tricorn hat. The movement displaced the water that had collected there, and with a wince and an apology, he continued on, leaving her behind.

  Alone on the road, no one would offer to transport her. Even the baker she saw every day in Indigo Valley was wary.

  The forests lining each side of the road were things of legend and shadow. Their every branch and leaf saturated with enchantments.

  A woman alone could be precisely what she appeared to be—a traveler soaking to the bone with a long journey ahead of her. Unfortunately, offering her aid brought the risk of inviting a fairy to your side. Every child old enough to hear the stories knew fairies only sought to trick the unwary and devour the souls of anyone foolish enough to entertain them.

  It was a blessing. No traveler would risk their own misfortune by attempting to bring such to her.

  She walked on for miles, her feet beginning to ache as the lacings of her right boot loosened. Shivering, s
he considered stopping to tie it, but a desire to get out of the rain overruled the awkwardness of her footwear.

  The rain turned to sharp prickles and stung at her face, at her eyes. Stumbling as she tried to wipe the water from her face, she tripped over something wooden and fell….

  Into a patch of warm, dry grass.

  She froze, even as she lay on the ground, the contents of her basket strewn on the forest floor around her.

  Birds chattered in the canopy and leaves rustled as though a gentle breeze brushed through them. A terrible thought stuck in her throat.

  Standing, she kept her eyes on the ground where no enchantment would trick her. She gathered up the items that had fallen around her and put them back in their places, securing the basket lid against the rain. She turned back to the path she’d tripped from and swallowed. A curtain of water fell—as though she’d stepped behind a waterfall, not out of a storm. The broken and crumbling stones of the wall she’d followed were half hidden by trees and vines that masked the circular opening through which she’d fallen.

  If the path she was on held no enchantment, the weather had decided to go mad. She knew which made more sense.

  She had to go back into the rain. She had to return to safety….

  A glimmer of light pulled her attention to the dry path behind her. A flickering beam of sunlight shone down on a single purple rose. Its petals bled from lavender at their edges down to a deep indigo. She hadn’t seen one in the years since her mother had died and the rose bush she’d cared for so tenderly wilted and died with her.

  She’d never thought to see one again. As much as she wanted it for herself, she couldn’t make herself move. But Heather would love it, and her sister was short on cheeriness these days.

  She fished the scissors from her basket and, carefully taking hold of the stem, she snipped the bloom. Determined to tuck it safely away in her basket and return to her sister, she glimpsed a second, further down the path and in the hazy shimmer of a shadow.

  She swallowed her trepidation. A hint of her father’s greed pulled at the back of her mind. She wanted it.