Monster Among the Roses: A Beauty and the Beast Story (Fairy Tale Quartet Book 1)

by Linda Kage

  Regards, Shaw Hollander

  I felt stupid for leaving such a cheesy note, but I stopped myself three times from going back to fetch it or even revise it, no matter how corny “growing endeavors” and “regards” suddenly sounded to me.

  Lewis kept me busy most of the morning, doing some lifting, and carrying, and climbing for him before Constance came out to ask if I could help her move a statue she feared was leaving too big of an indent in the carpet.

  The bronze sculpture of an eagle was heavy, but together we got it shifted to the other side of the hall. Rich people, was the only thing I could think as I stood back and stared at the ugly, gaudy thing after it was in its new place. They definitely had strange tastes.

  Unable to help myself, I made my way back to the library to see if Isobel had seen her gift yet. She wasn’t there, but the packet of rose seeds along with the note I’d written were both gone.

  My heart jolted.

  I stared at the empty divan for the longest time, wondering what this meant. She’d taken the seeds, so it couldn’t be bad. Then again, she was still avoiding me after seeing them, so that couldn’t be good. It probably meant I was most definitely not forgiven. I bet she’d torn the note up and thrown the seeds away.

  That didn’t deter me, though. I wanted to see her again, make sure she was okay, and it had nothing to do with her father’s wish that I break up the monotony of her day. I hadn’t been able to fall asleep the last two nights because she’d reined over so many of my thoughts. And then she’d been the first thing to enter my brain when I’d woken. I’d been antsy when I’d dressed, more ready to return to Porter Hall than I’d been for anything in a long time.

  Her continued hiding frustrated me. I wandered around her empty library, hoping she might appear. She didn’t. So I read the titles of her books, pausing at the ones I could tell were her favorites. Their spines were worn and the pages not so crisp and new. I supposed it was possible she’d bought them already used and well read, but a rich girl like her? Probably not.

  I picked up one story, curious to know how many times she’d had to have read it to make it look this used. It wasn’t a novel I’d read before, so I made a mental note to stop by the public library on the way home and see if I could check out a copy.

  By the end of the day, after I hadn’t spotted her once, I tried to convince myself it was for the best. She just needed some time and space before she was ready to return to our sparring matches.

  Except Tuesday and Wednesday were a repeat of Monday. No sign of Isobel anywhere. I did finish Dragonflight, though, and had to check out the next book in the series because I enjoyed the first so much. She definitely had interesting taste in literature. When I returned to the public library for Dragonquest, I popped by their perpetual used book sale as I usually did to see if they had anything new. When I spotted an Anne McCaffrey book, not from the Pern series, I snagged it. It seemed old but was in pristine condition, not as if it had been read before, so I gave up two quarters to buy it.

  When I returned to Porter Hall on Thursday, I carried the book with me and headed straight to Isobel’s library. For once, I was actually happy to find she wasn’t there.

  Though there was no way to fit all her books onto her shelves, she had a decent organizational strategy going on. Authors and even similar genres were grouped together. So it didn’t take me long to peruse her shelves and the floor around them to discover which Anne McCaffrey books she had. Thrilled to learn she didn’t own the one I’d purchased—at least, not a physical copy—I left it on her sofa with another note.

  Thought you might like this one. –Shaw

  I felt tons better about that note, and yet still, it inspired nothing from its recipient. Isobel stayed hidden. The book disappeared from its spot on her sofa, however. When I returned to the library a couple hours later to find it gone, my frustration gave way to irritation.

  Why the hell was she staying away from me but accepting my gifts? I was trying to make friends with her. Even though Mr. Nash had told me that wasn’t what he wanted, it was what I wanted. I wanted her to like me, damn it. I had no idea why, but something about her captivated me, and I wanted to do the same for her. It sucked to know I didn’t affect her in the same way she affected me.

  Disheartened, I helped Lewis outside for the rest of the day. I told myself not to check the library before I left. I wouldn’t find anything there, but an ember of hope inside me refused to listen. I’d always sucked at giving up, even when I probably should have.

  I stole into the library one last time for the day, bummed again.

  On Saturday morning, though, I struck gold. Something sat on the sofa in exactly the same place I’d left my two gifts for Isobel.

  Holding my breath, I drew closer to discover it was another dragon book: a mint-condition hardback copy of Eragon by Christopher Paolini. It had been popular when I’d been a teen, but I’d never read it.

  I stared at it for the longest time, tempted to flip open the first page and get started right then, even as I wondered why it was lying here. No note had been left with it, but I couldn’t help but think… Had Isobel perchance left it there for me to read? The assumption seemed reasonable, but I wasn’t sure. If I borrowed it and took it home, would she accuse me of stealing it and have her father fire me?

  It was also possible she’d been reading it herself and had just negligently left it there. But it sat in the exact same spot where I’d left my presents, and it shared the same genre as the book I’d left for her. Maybe she was just suggesting something for me to read. I could check it out from the library and not bother her copy. But what if she really did want me to take it, and I hurt her feelings if I didn’t.

  Damn, I swear I was stuck in a catch-22.

  A note would’ve been so nice right about now.

  Holding my breath, I picked up the story and took it with me. She didn’t track me down all day at work, so I took that to mean she wanted me to read the story.

  Not wanting to keep it too long, regardless, I was determined to finish it before Monday. Problem was it wasn’t a short novel. I stayed up late both Saturday and Sunday evenings to finish it, making my mom ask me continually what book was so interesting that I couldn’t pull my head from it. Thank goodness, it was easy and entertaining enough to take in, but I was dragging when I walked into work Monday morning, yet I was strangely energized too. My mind spun over all the different ways I could return the book. Should I lay it on the sofa where she’d left it? Wait until I saw her in person? Leave a review or a thank-you note?

  Would she come out of hiding today?

  I hoped so. I ached so.

  I had no idea what I’d say to her if she did, but I looked forward to the opportunity, anyway.

  The library was empty when I strolled in. My disappointment was profound, but I immediately saw that something else had been left on the couch. Heart kicking into gear as my blood raced with anticipation, I hurried forward, only to slow to a stop when I saw the novel I’d bought her from the public library’s book sale sitting there again.

  She had returned my gift. Thrown it right back in my face.

  Maybe I shouldn’t have taken Eragon after all if it had prompted her into giving this one back. Crestfallen, I began to reach for the paperback when I noticed a slip of paper tucked into the middle of the book and sticking out the top like a bookmark. Curious, I slipped it free, and my breath caught.

  She’d written me a note.

  I liked the Chronicles of Pern better.

  I’m not sure why that caused me to laugh, but I threw my head back and shouted with glee. It was just…the words sounded so much like her: negative, haughty, and straight to the point. Plus, it meant she’d actually read the book.

  In truth, it wouldn’t have mattered what she’d written in her note; the fact that she’d taken the time to read the book and then write anything at all was what made my day. Isobel was communicating with me again. And she’d treated the book as if I
’d lent it to her, which hadn’t been my intent, but knowing that felt better than her purposely returning what she thought was a gift from me.

  Feeling brighter and lighter, I took her note, crossed out her pessimistic words and decided I had to write something extra cheerful and positive, just to piss her off. So I flipped the sheet over and began to scribble:

  Thank you for the loan of Eragon. Your generosity is inspiring and makes me wish I could be more like you. The book was amazing, by the way. I am already enjoying the Inheritance Cycle more than the Chronicles of Pern, so much so that I gotta know what happens next. Most Gratefully–Shaw

  All that optimism would probably sour her mood like a tart lemon, which made mine even more buoyant. I hummed to myself as I left the library and found something to do. I managed to keep busy the rest of the morning, or rather Constance and Lewis kept me busy, and even Mrs. Pan had me opening jars for her or reaching up onto high shelves to fetch appliances. The staff seemed to appreciate my presence, even though anyone by the name of Nash, not so much. But that was okay; Isobel had written to me. Life was better than it’d been the day before.

  I returned to the library later in the afternoon, only to find book two of the Inheritance series waiting on me in what had become our spot. No note sat with it, but a smile spread across my face, anyway. It wasn’t an official sign of forgiveness, but she was interacting with me. My bones loosened at the joints, and I finally relaxed.

  I whistled as I strolled home that evening.

  It took me until Wednesday evening to finish Eldest. After I returned it to our spot Thursday morning, book three was waiting for me by the time I left work. But this one—this one!—had a note with it.

  I think this was supposed to be the last book, but the author split the story in two (and then he’s supposed to write a fifth, I believe). I was happy when he made this one into two. I didn’t want the series to end yet.

  Blinking, I read and re-read the words over and over again, unable to believe my eyes. But…but…Isobel had been…she’d been so positive. A sudden smile lit my face. Did this mean she’d forgiven me, was ready to talk to me again?

  That night, I read until almost dawn. But I couldn’t get all the way through Brisingr. When I hurried into work on Friday, Isobel still wasn’t in the library, or anywhere else, but that was okay. Our couch communication was turning out to be the highlight of my day. I think it was just as thrilling to receive something from her in our spot as it would’ve been to talk face-to-face to her. So I jotted out a quick note:

  I’m on page 458. I hope Murtagh is good. I like him.

  When I returned at noon, a new piece of paper was waiting for me.

  Want me to tell you?

  I grinned and wrote out my answer directly under hers.

  Good God, NO!

  When I checked the library at the end of the day, she’d answered.

  LOL. Okay, then. My lips are sealed.

  A laugh. Holy shit. I’d gotten her to laugh. On paper, but still. I felt like I was the king of the world. I strolled out of the library with what felt like a manly strut and was almost all the way home before I realized I hadn’t written anything back to her!

  Oh, shit.

  My step faltered and smile dropped. The urge to turn right back around and walk another hour back to her house to answer her mounted, but I’d be back in the morning. That would be soon enough, and besides, it’d give me all evening to think up the perfect reply.

  I planned to go straight to the library on Saturday, except Mr. Nash was waiting for me in the salon when I entered through the back door. I was surprised to see him. I hadn’t seen him since that first day. But then, he probably worked at his office in town most of the time, and since it was Saturday, he was probably off work.

  “Can I have a word with you?” he clipped out, not sounding very pleased.

  Startled by his tone, I nodded immediately. “Of course.”

  I followed him to his office, feeling like a scolded schoolboy being sent to the principal and not even sure why.

  He stood at the door, holding it open as I passed him to enter his office. Then he calmly closed it before turning to me and hissing, “What the hell is going on, Hollander? I swear she’s become more of a hermit than she was before.”

  I blinked at him, stunned. But how the hell had he known she’d been avoiding me?

  He lifted an eyebrow. “Constance says she stays out of sight while you’re here.”

  Constance? That rat!

  I’d had no idea someone would be giving him progress reports.

  Cornered and attacked, I shook my head and stuttered, “I…I…are you sure it’s me she’s avoiding?”

  He narrowed his eyes. “When was the last time you talked to her?”

  It took me a second to answer. Would our notes be considered talking? They were definitely a form a communication, but they were a private correspondence, just between us. I didn’t want her dad to know about them—it would ruin what they’d come to mean to me.

  So I mumbled, “The first day I worked here,” since that was the last time I’d actually seen her face and heard her voice. Then I winced a split second before he exploded because I knew how bad that sounded.

  “The first day? It’s been two full weeks since then. That is not acceptable, not acceptable at all. What did you do to her?”

  “I…I don’t know, sir,” I lied, knowing exactly what I’d done to make her retreat. “I’m trying. I go everywhere you said she should be, and she’s never there.” I hung my head in shame and tried to brace myself against the possibility I was about to be let go. Strangely enough, my first thought was not about how my mother would cope, but that I might never see Isobel again.

  She couldn’t just blow into my life one day, stir everything around, and then never be heard from again. That wasn’t right.

  I risked a glance at Mr. Nash, only to find him as frustrated and upset as I was, for completely different reasons. “Well, something’s got to be done about it,” he huffed.

  When he glanced at me, I knew that this “something” he spoke of had to be done by me. Except I didn’t know what. I had thought the books and note exchanges had been progress, but since I refused to tell him about those, I had nothing.

  Short of storming her bedroom and dragging her out by the hair, I had no control over where she might be at any given time. Maybe I could plant myself on her sofa in the library and wait there all day. I knew I could keep myself occupied with the rest of Brisingr. I could just wait until she snuck in since it was obvious she visited the room while I was working. I just had to be there at the right time. But would Mr. Nash be okay with me reading on the job, or would any of his staff mind such laziness?

  There had to be something I could do inside the library to keep myself busy.

  When an idea struck, I blurted, “Bookshelves.”

  Mr. Nash glanced curiously at his own shelves. “What about them?”

  “No, in the library,” I said, growing eager. “There’s not enough shelf space for all the books in there. So what if I made more? I’d have to consult with her on designs, and wood types, and just…” With not much knowledge about the topic, I lamely added, “Just every step of the process. Right?”

  The idea appealed to him. His eyes lit with hope and he nodded slowly before squinting. “You know how to build bookshelves?”

  I knew how to cut wood and then nail it back together. The rest I could learn, after another trip to the public library. So I gave a vague nod, mumbling, “Mmm, hmm.”

  That was good enough for Mr. Nash. He clapped his hands together, his grin blooming. “Perfect. You head to her library now and get started. I’ll make sure Izzy knows she has to see you if she wants any say in how her library’s renovated.”

  I nodded. “Sounds good.”

  And so it was decided; I would build bookshelves. Except…

  Fuck me, what the hell had I just gotten myself into? I didn’t have a clue how to real
ly build bookshelves.

  chapter

  SEVEN

  Back in the library, paper and a pencil in hand, I began to draft.

  I was scribbling my idea for the third wall when I heard her.

  “Let me guess. You’ve never built a bookshelf in your life, have you?”

  My heart gave a crazy, massive ka-pow before I could even lift my head. Then my breath caught in my throat. She wore her hair down, one half covering her scars, as well as long sleeves and thin black gloves. It was impossible to tell she’d ever been wounded. But not being able to see her scars wasn’t why she looked so beautiful to me.

  The fire was back inside her. She was ready to spar again. It made her sizzle with a sparkling vitality.

  Sending her a crazy grin, because holy shit, there she was, in person, I chuckled. “What gave me away?”

  She sighed heavily and wandered closer. “What exactly have you done to inspire my father to hire you as our handyman?”

  “I have mastered the art of begging,” I answered, lifting my nose as if supremely proud of my ability.

  Isobel quirked an eyebrow and slowed to a stop about five feet from the study table where I sat. “Pray tell, what does that mean?”

  I stopped preening and sent her a rueful grin. “It means my mom owed him a debt…a very large debt. So I begged and pleaded until he agreed to let me try to work it off for her.”

  Rolling her eyes as if finding that news typical of her father, she sighed. “I always knew his kind, generous heart would get him into trouble.”

  Refusing to take her insult personally, I merely kept grinning. “Bet you won’t be saying that once I make you the most amazing bookshelves ever.”

  She lifted an eyebrow, letting me know she highly doubted my abilities, but all she murmured was, “Hmm.”

  I laughed and waved her forward. “Take a seat. Listen to my ideas. Then tell me what you really want.”