by Liz Braswell
“A boy is dead because of his interest in a charmante girl and the anger of her warlock boyfriend,” the king pointed out. “And the unrest that followed, the attacks on our own soldiers, destroyed even more lives.”
“You’re allowing the complete subjugation of a people because two boys fought over a girl?” Rosalind demanded. “A woman is dead because of this insanity, this…prejudice! An innocent woman who never hurt anyone…who wasn’t even there when the fights broke out. What has a midwife ever done besides keep young mothers healthy and deliver babies into the world? Her death is on your hands!”
The king shrugged.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about. Such things do not concern us. We have other, more important affairs to attend do. The business of running a kingdom. Business of the state. The reemergence of what looks very much like the plague in countries far too close to us. We need to consider shutting down our borders.”
“So if one or two…of the more…odd…residents of the land disappear, and thus keep the others in line in this time of trouble and possible quarantine, c’est bon, n’est-ce pas?”
The queen made a little kissy noise at her son.
The princeling babbled incoherently back.
Rosalind regarded the scene with disgust, hate, and rage. She wanted to turn away, leaving with some juicy retort, like you will regret this, and become a golden ball of light and explode out of there.
But the way things appeared to be going, maybe it wouldn’t have been a good idea to make such a display.
So she turned and stalked out like a…
…like a human.
Like a failure.
Belle wept on the floor of the cell.
A surprisingly large part of her thought that maybe if she just closed her eyes and cried hard enough, it would all disappear. Everything was so unlikely anyway—the castle, the monster, her imprisonment…It could easily be a nightmare she was having after falling asleep reading one of those horror stories her father warned her about.
But the floor was ice-cold under her knees and wet from her tears.
There was no denying reality.
Any dream she had of escaping the boring little village she grew up in to go on adventures was gone forever; she would spend the rest of her days chained in a dark room, lost and forgotten. She wondered, briefly, if Gaston would look for her…if he would mount a search party even after the whole wedding business.
I’ll never see Papa again.
Belle leapt up and dashed to the one tiny window, pressing her face against the cold stone frame. In the courtyard below what looked very much like a dusty, wheel-less old carriage crept along on its axles like a giant bug. Belle gasped at the strange thing. Her father was inside, desperately trying to open the door; she could just see his anxious face. Then the gates swung open of their own accord and the carriage scuttled away, carrying its passenger into the woods.
Belle could feel rather than see the silent presence of the Beast. He was terrifying, to be sure, but far less immediate than the waves of despair engulfing her.
“You didn’t even let me say good-bye,” she sobbed, not looking away from the window. “I’ll never see him again.”
There was a strange whispering noise—as if the Beast was shuffling his feet.
“I’ll—” He paused, coughing. “I’ll show you to your room.”
Belle swallowed her tears in surprise. Did she hear him right?
“My room?” she asked, looking up. She glanced around the cell. “But I thought…”
“You want to stay in the tower?” the Beast growled impatiently.
“No, of course not, but—”
“Then follow me!”
With a movement that was graceful and powerful the Beast spun to leave, the candelabrum in one hand. Seamlessly he switched from two legs to four, then to two again, depending on what the terrain required: fitting through the door, gamboling down the stairs, holding the candles high to light the way. His movements were unnatural and strange, like a poodle walking on its hind legs.
Seeing no other choice and utterly exhausted, Belle followed. They walked in silence for a few moments, the only noise her own feet on the floor.
“I—” The Beast coughed again. “I hope you like it here.”
What?
He hoped she liked it here? Like a guest? What an odd thing to say to a prisoner. This monster was conversing with her almost like a human. A human that could be reasoned with. Hope began to rear its shining head.
“Excuse me?” she asked politely.
“The castle is your home now, so you can go anywhere. Except the West Wing.”
“What’s in the West Wing?”
But apparently she had grown too hopeful, too expectant, too quickly.
The Beast turned on her and bared his fangs in her face.
“IT IS FORBIDDEN!”
Belle shrank back against the wall. His hot breath engulfed her the way she imagined a lion’s would have right before it ate a Christian in ancient Rome. With a final, barely audible growl in the back of his throat, the Beast withdrew from her and continued down the stairs.
Belle reluctantly followed him. What choice did she have?
Mention of the West Wing ended all conversation on the long walk through the dark castle. She tried to look around, get her bearings, and pretend she wasn’t being led to what was essentially just a nicer prison cell—by a creature that could devour her in two gulps.
Eventually the Beast stopped in a long hall of apartments and opened a door, beckoning her to step in.
Belle was surprised at the grandeur of the room. In the center was a beautiful canopied bed that looked like it had just been made up that morning, not abandoned years ago. Thick velvet curtains hung in front of delicate oriel windows and enclosed a comfortable-looking tuffet for watching the world outside. A gilt wardrobe the size of her pantry back home stood at attention next to the bed. Fancy paint and plaster medallions graced the walls. The room was ringed by golden-mirrored sconces, which the Beast lit from his own candelabrum. Soon it was a merry and cozy place indeed.
The Beast swept out into the hall again silently and stood for a moment in the doorway as if unsure what to say.
Belle was unsure, too. Thank you didn’t seem appropriate. Not to her jailer.
“If, um, there’s anything you need…” the Beast growled uncomfortably, “my servants will attend you.”
Servants? What servants? Except for the Beast and Belle and her father, there was no sign of any other life in the castle. What if, on top of being monstrous, her captor was insane as well?
“YOU WILL JOIN ME FOR DINNER!” he suddenly roared. “This is not a request.”
And with that, he swooped out of the room and disappeared into the shadows, slamming the door behind him.
As much as she tried to resist, this sent Belle into another fit of weeping. Her confused, exhausted brain labored under the painfully strange duality of “little girl being punished in her room” and “terrified prisoner of a beast.”
In between her sobs she heard the faintest tap at the door.
It didn’t sound right. Too bony to be a normal human knuckle. Too small to be even the eldest, weakest hand. Almost fragile sounding. Delicate. A claw maybe?
What other horrors and mysteries did this night hold?
Belle took a deep breath and forced herself to rise.
“Who is it?”
“It’s Mrs. Potts, dear. The housekeeper.”
Ah, so there are other people here. Feeling another surge of hope, Belle patted down her hair and tried to make herself look presentable. She opened the door. Maybe she would find some solace in…
“I thought you might like a nice cup of tea.”
Belle’s heart nearly stopped.
The voice came from below, close to the floor.
A ceramic teapot, sugar bowl, creamer, and cup came hopping into the room like a tiny porcelain army, chiming tink tink tink. The
teapot kept its spout—nose?—pointed toward Belle as it—she?—spoke.
Belle backed away, into the wardrobe.
“You—but—you…” she stammered.
“Hey, be careful,” the wardrobe said, in a feminine voice that boomed.
Belle sprang away from the thing and landed on the bed.
She immediately leapt off the bed, terrified that it would begin to speak, too.
“This is all…impossible,” Belle whispered. She wondered if recent events were making her delusional. Somehow the Beast was easier to believe than talking furniture.
The teapot was very calmly pouring her insides into the cup. She spoke as she did so, sounding a little gurgly.
“Slowly now—don’t spill…”
The little teacup had a chip in it, Belle noted absently, as it hopped over to where she sat on the floor. It waited patiently, its—head?—tilted up toward her.
Dazed, Belle put out her hand and carefully lifted the teacup, one pinky extended like she had always practiced after reading a book on fancy etiquette. Where she touched the cup it was hard, smooth, warm from the tea, and utterly immobile. Solid porcelain. How did it move?
“Wanna see me do a trick?” the cup asked, shifting in her grasp.
Belle almost dropped it. The thing had no face at all but the voice sounded so real, so full of life. Like a little boy or girl. And the pottery still felt hard under her fingers; it wasn’t pliable at all.
The cup shivered. Bubbles began to come up through the tea. They nearly overran the rim.
“Chip!” the teapot chastised.
The teacup shivered again and Belle could have sworn she heard it giggle.
Feeling strange about it but not seeing that she had much of a choice, Belle took a little sip. It was excellent tea, black and fresh and strong, with just enough sugar. Very restorative.
“That was a very brave thing you did back there,” the teapot said confidentially. “Trading yourself for your father. We all think so.”
Belle blinked, trying to focus on what the teapot was saying rather than the fact that it spoke at all. The cup felt strange in her hand and hung there, still mostly full.
“Not that this isn’t amazing,” Belle said, holding it up and looking at it closely. Chip flinched and giggled again, making it hard to keep a grip. “This is like…I don’t know what this is like. The most incredible fairy tale I’ve ever read. Papa will be so—” She stopped, remembering that she wouldn’t be seeing him again. “But I’m stuck here forever.”
“Cheer up, child. It will all turn out all right in the end. You’ll see,” the teapot said sympathetically. Then she jumped, steam coming out of her spout. “Look at me jabbering on, when there’s supper to get on the table—for the first time in I don’t know how long!”
Belle tried to process the teapot’s cheery, if bland, words of comfort. They seemed completely out of place in a dark castle ruled by a beast.
Mrs. Potts hopped clumsily out the door and her little retinue followed. Belle sucked down the rest of her tea and set the cup at the end of the line. He hopped quickly to catch up with the others.
She felt strangely let down after the door closed behind them. Belle wished the teapot could have stayed a little longer and told the story of the castle, of whatever wizard had breathed life into their inanimate forms, of whatever the Beast had to do with any of this.
Because except for ordering the others around, Belle had seen no indication he could perform any magic himself. Definitely not a Prospero managing his little islands of conjured sprites. No, the Beast was more like a princely squatter, haunting the ruined and bespelled castle as it slowly wore itself down over the centuries.
Magic, Belle suddenly realized, must have a lot to do with why I’ve never heard of this place.
Magic.
Magic was real.
It was a thing not confined to German fantasies about the Black Forest or ancient stories involving giants and golems.
She was in a castle full of magic, completely hidden from the outside world.
And so close to the normal, boring little place where she had grown up!
If it were a “haunted” castle of the more prosaic, actually unhaunted type usually found in the woods, no one in the village would have been able to stop talking about it. Teenagers would have dared each other to spend the night within its walls; people like Gaston would have marched in and shot everything that looked even remotely interesting. The place would have been looted of all its mirrors, sconces, and statues years ago. And no doubt British tourists would be thronging through on a weekly basis, begging to be taken to the romantic abandoned castle to paint pictures, smoke opium, and write terrible poetry about their experience.
No, this castle had camouflaged itself well. She wondered how her father and Phillipe had managed to find it the first time. Clever old Phillipe…
Belle bit her lip, feeling another surge of loneliness. What was so important that the teapot couldn’t have stayed another moment to talk with her? And just how did a teapot cook dinner? She had introduced herself as the housekeeper, so maybe she merely ordered other servants around. Were they real? Or other living objects? Or beasts? Or…
The wardrobe cleared her throat.
“Well, now, what shall we dress you in for dinner?”
I’m dreaming, Belle told herself again, a little hopefully.
The wardrobe threw open her doors. Inside were a few interesting things—one of the largest, clearest mirrors Belle had ever seen, some moths, and an extremely pretty collection of gowns that would have made the blond triplets, Paulette, Claudette, and Laurette, swoon.
Belle examined the dresses skeptically. Of course, if things went the way they did in fairy tales, they would all fit her perfectly. The question was, was this a “Bluebeard’s Wives” situation? Or something else?
The tired girl turned and walked over to the bed. So far it, at least, seemed to be inanimate.
“I’m not going to dinner.”
“Oh!” the wardrobe said, shocked. “But you must!”
“No. I’m a prisoner, that’s fine. But he can’t make me do something I don’t want to.”
Well, maybe he could. Belle really had no idea. She would find out just what the limits of his powers—and anger—were. More clues to help her escape.
“But…you can’t decline a royal invitation!” the wardrobe sputtered.
“Royal?” Belle asked quickly, sitting up. “That…beast…is a member of royalty?”
The wardrobe somehow managed to look guilty.
“I-I mean…” she stuttered. “We can’t really talk about these things.”
“Is it forbidden? Like, by a curse or a spell?” Belle pressed, eager for any information.
“No, it’s…déclassé.”
Belle raised an eyebrow.
The wardrobe shrugged.
“Help is supposed to be seen, not heard,” she said apologetically. “Anything the master wants you to know, he will tell you himself.”
“Who is he? Really?”
“Anything,” the wardrobe repeated patiently, “the master wants you to know, he will tell you himself.”
“Well, what can you talk about? Yourself, maybe? What kind of wood are you made from?”
“Honey, if I knew about wood, I’d be an enchanted ax,” the wardrobe said with a sigh. “I know from corsets and ribbons and hand-spandable waists and what shoes to wear to what sort of occasion and how to tie a thousand different girdle knots and which hat to wear to what sort of outdoor entertainment.”
Belle’s quick mind reviewed what she had just heard.
“You know, I’ve never known much about fashion, living in the country and all,” she said innocently. “What sort of hat would a lady like myself wear to an afternoon tea outside, in the garden, with other ladies? Assuming I’m ever invited, of course.”
“Oh, that’s easy…a lovely straw number, with a wide brim, en grecque curls if you’re dining amon
gst the ruins, or piles of flowers and feathers, and tipped, just so…”
Belle allowed herself a little smile.
“No one has worn hats like that, even in this remote part of the world, for at least ten years. Not even Madame Bussard has pulled one out of her own wardrobe recently. And she is very thrifty with her accessories. So whatever happened here must have happened at least a decade ago.”
The wardrobe shifted nervously.
“You’re a clever girl,” she said with some grudging admiration. “I like that. But I think…maybe…I’d better hold my drawers with you for a while. Unless, of course, you’d actually like to get ready for dinner?” she added hopefully.
“Nope,” Belle said with a firm shake of her head. “My father and I both wound up here by accident and it is incredibly uncivilized, even evil, to hold us accountable for such a simple mistake. I gave my word about not leaving, but that is all. I will starve to death before I consent to having dinner with such a monster.”
And with that she lay back down on the bed, head turned away from the wardrobe, lest she see the traitorous tear leaking down Belle’s otherwise brave face.
The wardrobe didn’t say anything. In fact, when she was quiet there was no way to tell she wasn’t just a piece of furniture and Belle wasn’t just making up conversations in her head like a madwoman.
Her eyes shot open.
Just because the bed didn’t talk didn’t mean it couldn’t. And what about the windows, the rugs, the very stones in the walls? Anything could come alive in this strange place and address her. Or just watch her…
She closed her eyes tightly shut again and clutched the pillow. I just won’t look, then.
Beyond that, Belle was out of ideas. She didn’t have any real plans aside from a hunger strike.
Eventually the door creaked open. A new voice, high and nasal, announced officiously: “Dinner is served.”
Another servant. Possibly a butler. She was curious what he would turn out to be—a brush, a hanger, a serving plate, maybe?—but decided to stay firm in her resolution to sulk and ignore any communication from the master of the castle who kept her prisoner.
