TFT 01 Beauty and the Beast

by K. M. Shea

  Severin grabbed a pitchfork and crept to the hayloft ladder. His ears flicked as he held the pitchfork like a javelin. After a few heartbeats he thrust it into the hay.

  Oliver leaped out from under a cover of hay, casting strands of dried grass everywhere. He lost his balance and tipped over the side of the loft. Severin caught him midair and deposited him on the ground, holding the stable boy by his coat collar.

  “Oliver? What were you doing up there?” Elle blinked.

  “Emele or Bernadine?” Severin growled.

  Oliver hung from his collar for a moment before making his eyes wide behind his mask and batting his eyelashes. He set one hand over his heart and girlishly fanned his face with his other hand.

  “Emele,” Severin said, releasing Oliver.

  Elle looked back and forth between Oliver and Severin. “What about Emele?”

  “She charged Oliver with spying on us,” Severin said. “That woman is nosey beyond her years. I am surprised she has not left my services to open up an intelligence agency.”

  “But that would mean she would have to leave Marc.”

  “It has not escaped my notice that you seem fixated on the interpersonal relationships of my staff,” Severin said as Oliver shifted his eyes between Severin and Elle.

  “It’s amusing. Emele bullies me into doing whatever she wants, but she goes helpless at the first sign of Marc,” Elle said.

  “Must all your sources of amusement involve pushing your nose into business that is not your own?”

  “Mostly, or it wouldn’t be half as fun.”

  “In any case,” Severin said, once again grasping Oliver by the scruff of his coat when the stable boy tried to slip off unnoticed. “The relationship between your ladies maid and my chief gardener is of no concern at this moment.”

  “What are you going to do to Oliver?”

  “I haven’t yet decided,” Severin said, looking down at topic of discussion.

  The groom uncomfortably swallowed.

  “Let him go,” Elle said. “No harm was done.”

  “That is hardly the point, nor is it at all satisfying.”

  “I don’t see the use in punishing Oliver when Emele is the real root of discontent,” Elle said.

  “Does Bernadine know you were sent to watch?” Severin asked the mute stable boy.

  Oliver shook his head.

  Severin’s lips pulled back in a toothy, frightening smile. “In that case you will inform her of the task Emele gave you.”

  Oliver gulped but bowed when Severin released him. He hung his head as he plodded to the stable door, slipping out into the howling wind.

  “Bernadine will be mad?” Elle asked.

  “Bernadine does not get mad, she gets cross. She will be cross that she hadn’t thought of the idea first, and then feel that it is her duty as the chateau dictator to lecture Emele for impeding on us,” Severin said.

  “All parties involved are thus punished, and Oliver will be unlikely to make himself available for future spying missions. An admirable job as usual, Your Highness.”

  “You are a quick study, Intruder,” Severin said with a fanged grin that was less toothy than the sly one he had given Oliver.

  Elle smiled as Severin returned to Fidele’s stall. It was funny how a title Severin previously used to draw a line of separation between Elle and everyone else was now almost a term of endearment.

  Chapter 8

  A Discussion of Princes

  Severin frowned in the gloom of his study as he read the latest missive from Lucien. His half brother mostly wrote of court antics and the newest laws their father had passed. Ranger reports were too delicate to discuss through courier. That intelligence had to be discussed in person.

  To Severin’s relief, Lucien had refrained from bringing up a pending war. His brother seemed taken with the idea of marching against Arcainia, which was troubling. Even though Arcainia was smaller with a less extensive army, it would not reflect well on Loire to attack an ally that had done nothing wrong.

  Severin’s thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the door. “Enter,” he said, gratefully pushing his paperwork aside. It was too late for it to be Elle—she had just left not an hour ago, intending to retire for the evening—but any distraction would be welcome.

  Duval shuffled into the study. He was smiling, but the gesture was wane and his movements were hesitant.

  “Good evening, Duval,” Severin said.

  The barber-physician bowed and handed his slate to Severin. I have just come from Mademoiselle Elle’s room. Her leg is healing wonderfully.

  Severin nodded. “And?”

  Duval took back his slate, wiped it clean, and thought for a moment before writing. In two to three weeks she will be able to try walking without her crutches.

  Severin blinked. “She will be healed enough to survive a carriage ride home without additional injury?”

  Yes.

  “Does she know?”

  No.

  “I see. Thank you, Duval.” Severin slouched in his chair, deep in thought.

  Duval bowed and took his leave, turning around to watch Severin as he closed the study door.

  Severin frowned at the leafy green twigs shoved in a vase that Elle had brought him that day. She had run out of flowers, and instead resorted to clipping branches from bushes. Severin could see the flattened leaves the maddening girl had no doubt rubbed. Severin heaved his shoulders up before returning his attention to his work.

  It would do no good to think about Elle leaving yet.

  “Why do we always meet on the most wretched days of the month?” Lucien complained, glaring at the wall of the abandoned lodge.

  “Winter is coming. Every day is the most wretched day,” Severin said, delicately leafing through papers.

  Lucien sunk his head into his shoulders. “I feel a draft and my fingers are cold.”

  Severin lifted his eyes. “You expect me to do something to remedy that?”

  “No,” Lucien sulked.

  “Then may I suggest that you curb your tongue.”

  Lucien sighed and drummed his gloved fingers on the table.

  Severin again raised his gaze from the Ranger intelligence report he was reading. “If you are unable to occupy yourself go through this,” Severin said, passing his expenditures and supplies requests to his brother.

  Lucien swiped the reports and carelessly glanced through them. “Why bother? It is not in your nature to ever buy something out of the ordinary—a pony?”

  “Hm?”

  “You are requesting the purchase of a mild mannered but stocky pony. One that is used to dogs,” Lucien said, setting the papers on the table and pointing to the request.

  “Yes.”

  “Why do you need a pony?”

  Severin hesitated. “It is for Elle.”

  “The intruder?”

  “Yes.”

  “So you’re sending her home soon?”

  “I’m not certain,” Severin confessed.

  Lucien cocked his head. “What do you mean?”

  “Duval tells me she will be able to safely travel in a few weeks,” Severin said.

  “I see,” Lucien said, looking at Severin’s supply list. “Well, then, I’ll have one of my men get a pony.”

  “Thank you,” Severin said.

  “My pleasure.” Lucien hesitated. “So, how does this girl act around you?”

  “She is not falling in love with me.”

  Lucien scowled and looked away. “It’s the least she could do after you’ve housed her for so long,” he grumbled. “Have you even tried to encourage such affections in her?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  Severin sighed and pushed the reports aside. “Because it’s not going to work. It didn’t work the last three times, and I have no desire to repeat those embarrassing and crushing experiences.”

  Lucien stared at Severin. “You want to stay a beast, don’t you?”

  “I don�
��t want to. I—,”

  “But you plan on it,” Lucien said. “Because then you never need to worry that someone will think you’ll make a better King than me, and you’ll never have offspring who might feel like they are more worthy than my heirs.”

  Severin was silent.

  Lucien slammed his fist on the table. “Severin, I’ve told you before, if people think you’re better than me so be it. You are my brother. I will not stand for you giving yourself a shadow of a life because you won’t forgive yourself for being illegitimate.”

  “Your affection for me does not change the fact that I am the greatest threat to your reign,” Severin said.

  “But you’re not!” Lucien exploded, standing up so fast he sent his chair clattering to the ground. “Perhaps if you weren’t so blasted honorable and if we hated each other it would be true, but you are my closest companion. Severin, in case you haven’t realized it I can’t rule without you. Everyone knows that except for you!”

  “You are a perfectly capable leader, all you need is the occasional bit of guidance,” Severin said as a servant scrambled to right Lucien’s chair.

  The crown prince sighed and sank into his seat, slinging an arm across his eyes in an appropriately dramatic pose. “You are as thick headed as a rock.”

  Severin returned his attention to his papers.

  Lucien lowered his arm and grumbled as he flipped his hunting knife out of his belt. He stabbed it into the table and started carving out shavings, occasionally glancing at Severin. “One of my Rangers intercepted an intelligencer from Arcainia,” he said.

  Severin set his papers down. “What.”

  Lucien’s handsome face twisted into a wince. “Ranger Forty Five was conducting a survey of Lord Le Masile’s lands—Father suspects he’s cheating on his taxes. While Ranger Forty Five was there he intercepted an Arcainia agent.”

  “Where are you holding the spy?”

  “Nowhere. Ranger Forty Five intercepted him, he didn’t catch him. He crossed paths with the spy some odd miles from the Arcainia border. He thought the fellow looked too competent to be a traveling farmer—the spy’s guise—and rifled through the spy’s belongings when he had the chance. He found coded messages, nothing he could understand. The Arcainia spy realized Ranger Forty Five was on to him and fled.”

  “Ranger Forty Five did not chase him?”

  “Ranger Forty Five is an intelligencer, not a Ranger combat operative. Pursuit is beyond his abilities.”

  “I see,” Severin said.

  “So now we have a reason for invading Arcainia,” Lucien said.

  “No, we do not. Neighboring countries all spy on one another, it is not anything worth marching to war for.”

  Lucien folded his arms across his chest. “Who cares, it’s a small country. We can surely take them.”

  “Arcainia might be small, but the country’s princes bother me.”

  “They are cursed annoying. All of them are obsessed with their passions, and they’re about as interesting to talk to as dead mice.”

  “No, they remind me of myself,” Severin said. “Which does not sit well with me.”

  “You’re overestimating them. They’re not very bright.”

  “And yet their agent outmaneuvered ours.”

  “That is hardly a reflection on their shared competence. And Ranger Forty Five did not completely fail. The message was coded, but the spy had maps with him.”

  “In case you haven’t realized this, Lucien, carrying maps is not illegal.”

  “Yes, but in this case the maps were enlightening. They were all of Noyers, the palace, and the land around Chanceux Chateau,” Lucien said.

  “Noyers and the palace are not unexpected, but my Chateau?” Severin said.

  “Ranger Forty Five swears he saw at least two maps detailing its location.”

  Severin rubbed his whiskers. “We need more information. Call back Ranger Seventy Eight from whatever asinine investigation you have him on and send him to Arcainia. He’s the best we have at castle infiltration.”

  “I can’t. Ranger Seventy Eight is still indisposed,” Lucien sighed. “Another few weeks, though, and that mission should be over. I’ll have Farand begin prepping the assignment.”

  Severin glared at his half brother, who gave him his best portrait smile. Severin sighed. “Are we finished here?”

  “Yes. But Severin, be careful,” Lucien said. “The princes of Arcainia are stupid, but there may be real danger if they decide you are the real threat.”

  “You mean my position as an illegitimate prince places me in a dicey situation as the Royal family cannot be nearly as offended if Arcainia was to off me as opposed to you,” Severin dryly said.

  “No, I mean that any one of our enemies with half a brain know that killing you will neutralize Loire’s army. Be careful,” Lucien said, reaching up to a place a hand on Severin’s broad shoulder.

  Severin shrugged. “If you say so. Take care, Lucien.”

  “You too,” Lucien said, drawing his cloak around him. “Stay safe.”

  “I will try.”

  A man clothed in black left Elle’s room shortly before midnight. Elle watched him leave, disappearing into the velvet night, before she stood to close the window he departed through.

  Jock slept on her bed, creating a soft symphony of snores as Elle stared at the silver moon. Her leg was getting stronger. She was finally able to switch her focus from healing to muscle recovery.

  She had lost muscle in her time of inactivity, but the last few nights she was slowly able to start pushing herself, performing exercises in her rooms after Emele retired.

  “They haven’t told me that my leg is better,” Elle said. “Duval insists I’m still in danger, even though I should be able to begin walking without the crutches. Am I a collared dog they mean to keep as a pet?”

  The moon did not reply, but a few flakes of glittering snow trailed through the air, tossed on gusting winds.

  Elle watched for a moment before she twitched the curtains shut. “It will be an early winter this year,” she said before retreating to her bed, pushing Jock out of the way so she could stretch out.

  The Papillon twitched his paws and ran in place as Elle slipped under the covers.

  “Everything was much easier before I broke my leg,” she grumbled.

  Chapter 9

  A Beastly Curse

  “Today I want to go down the stairs,” Elle announced to Emele over her breakfast toast.

  I will summon the footmen to bring your chair, Emele wrote after she finished wiping white Jock hairs off a couch pillow.

  “You misinterpreted the meaning of my words. I want to walk down the stairs. I don’t want to be carried.”

  Emele held a hand to her throat before she scribbled away on her slate. Her penmanship was messy and scrawling. You can’t, you can’t use crutches and go down steps. It would be too dangerous.

  “I won’t need crutches. I can hold onto the railing.”

  You cannot move without crutches.

  “I believe that I can,” Elle firmly said.

  Emele pursed her lips.

  “Talk to Duval if you must, but my leg is better, I am sure of it. I just need to get my strength back.”

  Emele’s lower lip trembled. Do you want to leave us that badly?

  Elle reached for Emele’s hand. “You are willfully misunderstanding me today. That’s not it at all. I enjoy it here, but I will have to leave eventually. I’m not totally healed yet, Emele. Today I will merely go down a flight of stairs, I won’t go up.”

  Emele brushed a teardrop from her eyelashes and bravely nodded.

  Elle finished her breakfast as Emele fluttered around the room, anxiously straightening cushions and inspecting Elle’s wardrobe.

  The ladies maid helped Elle into one of her new dresses—the blue-gray dress that set off her eyes just right. The castle was cold enough that Elle took a white shawl to wrap around her shoulders.

  “I want my h
air down today, it’s too cold to pin it up,” Elle said when Emele held a handful of hairpins and patted a chair in invitation.

  Emele nodded and retrieved a brush, carefully brushing Elle’s inky black hair until it gleamed.

  When she finished Emele wrote, I am going to get a manservant to come with us as you descend the stairs.

  When Elle arched an eyebrow the ladies maid added, Just in case.

  Elle sighed. “Very well. Go get one, I will meet you at the closest staircase,” she said, reaching for her crutches. She barely had time to stand before Emele exited the room, cramming her wide skirts through the bedroom door.

  Elle propped her crutches under her arms and made her way to the door. When she left her room and started down the hallway she moved slowly, taking the time to carefully set her mending foot on the ground.

  When she reached the staircase Emele was already waiting there with the selected manservant.

  “Hello, Burke,” Elle greeted, glancing at Emele in surprise.

  When Emele said manservant Elle thought she meant one of the tall, muscled footmen. Burke was about as muscled as a flashy colored duck and would be roughly as useful as one.

  Burke smiled brightly before he bowed, the vibrant ruby fabric of his waistcoat blinding Elle. When he straightened up he gestured to the stairs behind himself and clapped.

  Elle sidled up to the stair railing. She exhaled and handed her crutches to Emele before placing a hand on the railing. She took a moment to flex her ankles before she stepped down, moving her good leg first. When she was safely situated she turned to grin at Emele and Burke.

  Burke clasped his hands and pumped them above his head, and Emele clapped encouragingly.

  Elle carefully descended the stairs, going one step at a time. The effort exhausted her, but she gritted her teeth and pushed on. “I won’t recover if I don’t push myself,” Elle muttered, carefully climbing down another step. She was five steps from the bottom of the stairs when her leg abruptly gave out.

  Elle clung to the rail to keep herself from crashing headfirst down the stairs, but she would have slammed into the stairs if Severin hadn’t caught her by the waist with one arm.