As Old As Time: A Twisted Tale (Twisted Tale, A)

by Liz Braswell

  Belle couldn’t even begin to sort out her thoughts, or what she really wanted to say to Gaston. Her feelings ran from kill him to oh, why waste the effort, he’s hopeless.…

  And by the way the crowd was watching him babble on, it was obvious that the town was done with their favorite son.

  A speech from her about how burning down people’s stores—and books—was a terrible crime wouldn’t accomplish much at this point.

  So Belle very carefully turned away from him and addressed everyone else instead.

  “I will, obviously, not be marrying Gaston today—for many reasons. As he will no doubt understand when he thinks about it for a moment, less overwhelmed by recent events.”

  “Belle…” Gaston whispered, embarrassed.

  She ignored him.

  “And we will not be locking up the Beast,” she announced loudly, walking over and putting a hand on his arm. “He is the Prince—no, King—of a forgotten magical land through the forest, which some of you may start to remember now. He came here to free his people—and you—from a man who has committed many unspeakable atrocities. D’Arque has kidnapped innocent souls both from that kingdom and this village to perform hideous experiments on them.”

  Belle turned so she could look as many people in the eye as she could on one sweep of her gaze.

  She took a deep breath. “I recommend a thorough search of this house and property. Besides any lingering prisoners, there may be things family members wish to see…books in the library that list all of D’Arque’s victims…”

  She trailed off, unsure what else to say.

  Stunned and confused by the strange events of the night, the villagers chose to cling to her suggestion. It was at least a place to start to try and understand everything that had happened. The angry, sad, and curious went to explore the asylum. The families of patients who still lived found them and finally took them home.

  Some just stayed in groups, whispering and muttering about it all.

  Gaston looked on with an obvious lack of comprehension.

  “No, wait,” he said to no one in particular, leaping up. “D’Arque had to die. I had to kill him. Don’t you see? He was a sick man! A murderer! Someone had to do it….”

  “Someone, Gaston,” the butcher said. “A judge. A court of law. An executioner. Or maybe he would have been sentenced to rot in his own prison. Not you.”

  “He was an evil man,” Monsieur Sauveterre said with disgust. “But I will not be able to close my eyes for weeks without seeing him brutally murdered before me. I just thank God my children weren’t here to see it as well.”

  Gaston ran through the crowd, entreating other people, but everyone turned away and refused to listen.

  Belle slumped, leaning against the Beast. She felt a million years old, a million pains all over her body. It was not, strictly, a happy ending. Wasn’t it supposed to be? Why wasn’t it all neat and finished, with a “the end”?

  The Prince must have felt the same way; he stood there silently, just holding her.

  Rosalind approached them cautiously, her eyes on the Beast.

  “Nothing I can ever say can make up for what I did,” she began after a deep breath. “I thought I was saving what was left of a kingdom. I thought I was avenging all who had been hurt by your parents’ actions. And I was no better than that crazy man with the machete over there. Except that what I did had much vaster, more disastrous consequences.”

  The Beast looked at her for a long moment before speaking.

  “Thank you,” he finally said. Then his face broke into an ironic, sad smile. “I think…as my first official act…as king, I declare amnesty. Forgiveness for everyone.”

  “But not forgetting,” Maurice added quickly, with a shudder. “I never want to forget anything again. That was rash, Rosalind. That forget spell.”

  “I thought I was protecting les charmantes,” she said with a sad sigh. “Instead, it seems I have hastened our extinction. But listen…” She pulled herself together, and despite the prematurely white hair, the wear and tear her poor body had undergone, Belle saw a glimpse of the woman she once was: the powerful, indomitable Enchantress. She addressed the Prince. “You managed to stop yourself from becoming a full-fledged beast. Well done! Recovering your human soul and mind on your own, I mean.”

  The Beast blinked.

  “Permanently? I’m not going to…relapse? Go back to being a beast—I mean, in my head—again?”

  “Of course not,” Rosalind said impatiently. “As long as your love for Belle—and hers for you—lasts. The spell is broken, or mitigated, at least.”

  Belle and the Beast looked at each other, eyes wide.

  The Beast suddenly began to scratch the back of his neck in embarrassment. Belle blushed.

  And then she found herself almost overcome with giggles.

  “It’s pretty obvious,” Maurice pointed out with a smile.

  “Yes, another factor in my punishment,” Rosalind said grimly. “Magic always comes back on itself…of course it would be my daughter who would break the spell. I am an idiot. And now here you are, her future husband. A prince.”

  “King,” Maurice corrected mildly. “And really, is that such a bad thing?”

  “Yes, it is. But that’s beside the point. I only have the tiniest bit of magic left, children—but it’s just enough to turn you human again. Like you deserve.”

  The Beast’s eyes widened. His mouth opened and closed several times.

  Belle’s heart leapt—for the first time in years, it seemed. Happily ever after was going to happen! Just like in books! It really was!

  And then the Beast asked a single question.

  “What about my servants?”

  Belle immediately felt like an idiot. She had entirely forgotten them in the excitement.

  “It’s worse now,” the Beast told her. “They’re all…still. All not moving, not talking. Furniture. Dead.”

  “Oh, no…” Belle said, horrified. “Mrs. Potts…”

  “Can you turn them back, too?”

  Rosalind’s lips thinned as she thought.

  “No,” she finally said. “I only have enough magic left to undo part of the curse. If I release you from it, there will be nothing left to help them with.”

  The Beast looked deep into Belle’s eyes as he asked a second question.

  “If you don’t…turn me back, can you help them? All of them?”

  “Probably,” Rosalind answered promptly.

  Belle felt the icy, ancient fingers of cold reality settling on her shoulders.

  She nodded, almost imperceptibly. Only the Beast saw.

  “Then…that’s what I would rather you do.” The Beast put his giant paws on Belle’s shoulders and gripped her strongly. “Save my people. They were innocent when they were cursed, and still looked after the castle and me all these years. They deserve to be free.”

  And then he pulled Belle into his chest and hugged her as tightly as he dared. She let out one little, shuddering sob before relaxing into his embrace. Things were imperfect and terrible, but she felt safe. Somehow they would get through this.

  “Oh,” Rosalind said, a little surprised. “All right. If that’s what you want.”

  Despite the Beast’s desire to release the servants as soon as possible, the night was black and cold and treacherous and utterly unfit for travel, especially for Rosalind. The four made their way back to the village with everyone else and spent the night at their home—though they didn’t get to sleep until almost morning. Too many curious visitors wanted to visit the strangely human beast king, and too many others with slowly returning memories came to ask about things they thought they saw as children, or in the asylum…girls with hooves for feet, boys with dancing eyes and pointed ears.

  Finally Maurice bade the last guest farewell and bolted the door behind him, and the little family—plus one—slept soundly together for the first time in years. When Belle woke in the middle of the night, she could see into her p
arents’ room by the light of the moon and stars. Maurice and Rosalind were entwined around each other.

  She could hear the Beast snuffling in his sleep, curled up in front of the fire like a dog—but with a pillow under his head and an old blanket thrown over his wide shoulders. Before succumbing once again to sleep, Belle reveled, a little, in the coziness and completeness of her home.

  When the sun rose and it was warm enough, the four set off with Phillipe pulling a sleigh borrowed from someone in town.

  Rosalind sat bundled in as many coats and blankets as they could find but still shivered most of the way in her weakened state. Maurice sat by her and Belle rode the poor horse—who was occasionally given a break by the very strong beast, who pulled silently and with no complaint.

  The sun was high when they finally arrived, sparkling on the snow which was melting just a little bit in the warmest places. The castle was covered in drips and drops, both from icicles and the strange webs, the strands dissolving and disappearing like they had never been.

  “Huh. Not bad,” Rosalind said of her own handiwork.

  “Maman, I was trapped there,” Belle pointed out gently. “And so were all those poor people.”

  Her mother’s face fell as she remembered the consequences of what she had done.

  When they stepped inside, it was like Belle’s first time: cold and black. But because she was expecting the little creatures to come forward and greet her, it seemed even bleaker and lonelier. When they got to the kitchen, Belle took one look at the sad little tableau of candelabrum, teapot, and clock and nearly burst into tears.

  “They seemed so lifelike before…” Maurice said in wonder.

  Rosalind was obviously quite exhausted from their journey and just beginning to warm up. She didn’t hesitate or protest, however; she just kept a look of grim determination on her face and began to chant.

  Belle watched her in wonder. Rosalind was complicated…not a particularly nice or compassionate person, but certainly brave and willing to do whatever needed to be done once she decided a particular route was correct. What did that make her? Not, exactly, a good person. Misguided? Uninformed? A power that should have been tempered?

  This is the mother that I found. Not the mother I imagined.

  A strange smell filled the air…fresh pine and spring; not the brittle needles of solstice or Christmas, but the soft and bright green twigs of March.

  Very much like something waking from a frozen hibernation, the clock on the table stretched and yawned and continued stretching. It continued filling out into a fat little man with a mustache who balanced awkwardly on the table. He was a little pale, but otherwise healthy and alive.

  “Good…good heavens!” Cogsworth said, looking at his hand and spreading his fingers. “I’m…me again! But the curse…?”

  He leapt off the table and saw the Beast and Belle, instantly divining that something wasn’t quite right.

  “It’s a long story,” Belle said. “We can tell it later.”

  “I await with eagerness,” Cogsworth said—perhaps a trifle dryly. As insouciant as the little butler ever got. The Beast managed a smile.

  Next was Lumière, who turned out to be a rather handsome if long-nosed fellow. He immediately swept into a bow the moment he was able, and kissed Belle on both cheeks.

  “Ma chérie…” he said with a grin. “I do not know exactly how this happy ending came about…but I knew you would be the one to bring it!” Then he caught a view of the Beast.

  He shrugged. “Eh, bien, nobody’s perfect.”

  Mrs. Potts was next and she was moving and twisting about before she had even finished becoming human.

  “Upon my word!” she exclaimed. “Where’s my son? Chip! Do Chip next!”

  Belle carefully opened the glass cabinet and brought out the little teacup and handed him to her. Within moments, Mrs. Potts had a squirmy, scrambling five-year-old in her arms who was almost too big to hold.

  “Chip!” the housekeeper cried, and clasped him to her bosom. Watching her in human form, Belle realized she wasn’t actually that old at all; it was merely her mannerisms and speech that made her seem so. “We’re ourselves again! Oh, Charles…”

  The Beast and Belle exchanged smiles. If he had harbored any remaining doubts about his decision, they were long, long gone.

  Rosalind’s magic held out through the very last servant…the obnoxious dustmaid, who turned out to be an equally obnoxious human maid. Any interest Lumière had in her was over, ever since her declaration against les charmantes.

  Belle was happy but shiftless, still exhausted but unable to rest. The sounds of champagne bottles being popped and laughter and music filled the castle halls as it hadn’t in a century. But she didn’t feel like joining in. It wasn’t her party. She was someone who had just bumbled into a bad situation and helped, sort of, to make it right. She went up to her old room and sat on the bed, wondering what to do next.

  “Hey, hon, come join us!”

  The woman previously known as “wardrobe,” who was now Ann, stuck her head in. She was a very tall woman, with a good-humored face and the cheekbones of someone who could very well have been a Joan of Arc or warrior princess in another age. Those cheeks were presently rosy with wine and she had golden goblet in her hand.

  “In a little while,” Belle said politely.

  “Better come soon. Won’t be anything left,” Ann said, toasting her before wandering off.

  Belle sighed and looked out the window at the snowy landscape below. There was one out-of-place gray smudge amongst the snow, in the rose garden. Just a few weeks ago she would have guessed it was a vagrant or someone else unfortunate, but now she recognized her mother. Rosalind sat hunched over, alone, looking pensive.

  Belle rose and ran downstairs, stopping only to throw a cloak over her shoulders and grab one for her mother as well.

  Spring was a long way off, but the bright sun had given them a hint of warmer days; everything was slick and there was a very faint sound of drips and trickles. Belle stepped carefully and noticed her shoes were cracked and worn and past ready to be mended and resoled. Or maybe the Prince could have a new pair made for her.

  That was a strange thought. It gave Belle the shivers.

  Kings and beasts and enchantresses for mothers and the thing that really seems to bother me is the idea of a boy buying me a new pair of shoes.

  She smiled to herself, but lost the expression as soon as she came close to her mother, who was sitting dolefully, regarding nothing at all.

  As if they exchanged feelings, the woman brightened, however, upon seeing her daughter.

  “Belle! Come sit by me,” she said excitedly, moving over on the damp bench. Despite the condition of her clothes, Rosalind didn’t seem to mind. Belle gingerly joined her and draped the cloak over her mother’s shoulders. “We have so much catching up to do! I want to hear everything.”

  “What were you thinking about just now? You looked so sad,” Belle asked instead.

  “Oh.” Rosalind shrugged—though the movement seemed to pain her. “I was thinking about what Frédéric…D’Arque…said. What if, in his own twisted way, he was right? What if les charmantes think differently, act differently than humans who don’t have magic? What if we behave instinctually in ways that are basically anathema to normal society?”

  Belle sighed. “What if you, Rosalind, my mother, act differently from humans—and everyone else? The villagers, the servants, the government? What if you personally hold yourself above the law—as a vigilante? What if it’s just you? You’re doing the same thing D’Arque did…applying the actions of one to a whole people. That’s ridiculous. Whether you’re Huguenot or Catholic or Jewish or gypsy or short or have dark skin—or blue skin. Everyone is different. Each person has his or her own soul and is master of his or her own destiny.”

  Rosalind gave her a sly look. “That’s very wise, and clever. You’re still an avid reader.”

  “Not so much in the last few da
ys,” Belle said with a smile.

  “Everyone in the village still treat you as an oddball?”

  “Yep.” Belle stretched her legs, looked at her toes. “Until yesterday, at least. I don’t know what they think of me now.”

  “I’m so glad Lévi agreed to be your godfather. You two really are a perfect fit.”

  “I wish I had known he was my godfather. I wish I had known…a lot of things.”

  “Wishes,” Rosalind sighed. “I wish I had reined in my temper more. I wish I never cursed the Prince. I wish I had pitied the king and queen instead of seeking to punish them. I was full of power and empty of wisdom. And now it’s the reverse…I am empty of power and am just beginning to have the faintest traces of wisdom.”

  Belle didn’t know what to say. She and her mother were talking like…adults. Not like a mother to a child who wants to learn how to make pastry, or is crying over a bloody knee, or needs a story read to her. Not what she ever imagined about reuniting with her maman.

  There was the sound of boots crunching against the gravelly path. Belle looked up and saw as strange a sight as any she had seen in the last month: her father and the Beast, walking side by side, heads bent toward each other, engaged in conversation. Between the Beast’s appearance and her father’s serious look of concentration, it was hard to make the image work in her head for a moment.

  “Hello, ladies,” Maurice said, face breaking into a giant grin. “We saw you come out here…avoiding the crowds?”

  “It’s a little overwhelming for me,” Rosalind admitted. “I am not used to them. How are your subjects, King?”

  “Overindulging,” the Beast said with the faintest smile. Were those lines of weariness around his eyes? Did beasts get those? “They deserve it.”

  “I’ve been thinking about your…situation,” the Enchantress continued. The phrasing irked Belle a little. “The strongest charms, spells, and curse reversals can be achieved by greater numbers. Like the charm at Belle’s christening that failed—because we were short a few. I am fairly certain the curse can be broken with an adequate gathering.”