The silence became so long that I grew vexed. It was unspeakably rude for this creature to sit in the chamber watching me but refusing to acknowledge me. "I would appreciate the favor of an answer to my question," I said. I was surprised at the sharpness of my own voice, and relieved that the edge concealed a slight quaver.
From the corner came a deep rumbling that baffled me upon first hearing but, when I listened more closely, I realized it was a voice so roughened by bestial sounds it was nearly unintelligible.
"Why do you ask who I am? I would imagine you are capable of guessing," the voice said.
Any courage I may have mustered was quickly quelled by the sound of that strange voice, but I did my best to conceal this. "I suppose you think I should conjecture that you are the master of this castle, but I know that there must be servants, and I cannot be certain that you are not one of them."
Another silence followed this declaration and then the voice rose from the corner once again. "Indeed, there are servants in this castle, but you are incorrect that I could be one of them. They are mute, as you will discover for yourself when you see them."
"They are all of them mute?" I asked, astonished. Had the beast purposely chosen them as his servants because of this--or had he done something to ensure they could not speak?
"Aye," he said, and I noticed for the first time that he sounded…antiquated. There was something odd about his accent and the manner in which he phrased his speech.
"You have been living here without another soul with whom you could speak?" I was intrigued in spite of myself.
"By choice," was the succinct response.
"Then why am I here?" The question escaped my lips before I could stop it.
The tension in the chamber crackled to life once more and I took a faltering step backward, bumping into one of the ladders that were spaced throughout the chamber, allowing access to the upper shelves. My hand curled around the rail, and I found myself leaning against the ladder for support.
"You know why you are here," the voice replied, at last. There was a dangerous undercurrent in it, a low growl that had not been there before.
I could say nothing in response to this and, instead, turned to leave the library, but the voice stopped me.
"There are some things of which we will never speak," it said. "But we must learn to live and even to converse with one another, for there is not another soul in the castle with whom we might speak. Or do you believe yourself capable of enduring an eternity of silence?"
"No," I admitted, though I was loathe to answer the question.
I heard more rustling from the corner and imagined that the beast must have been moving about impatiently, though I had no wish to look and confirm my conjecture. I did not understand what was passing between us. When he spoke, he gave me the distinct impression that the sound of my voice pained him, but he was making the assertion that he and I needed to converse. The contradiction confounded me and, once again, my nervous tongue betrayed me.
"It seems apparent to me that you have no wish to speak, so why are you suggesting that we converse with one another?" I asked.
The beast growled and I tightened my hold on the ladder's rail. "What do you suggest? Do you suggest I return to my quarters and remain there forever without seeing or speaking to you?"
"I suggest you do whatever pleases you," I responded, an impatient edge to my voice. "I also ask that you have the courtesy to tell me what it is you have planned for me."
"Planned for you? You are a guest in this castle. You may do as you wish."
"A guest? I would have called myself a prisoner."
"You have not the slightest idea what it means to be a prisoner," he said. The words were spoken so softly and were so layered with bestial growls that I nearly did not understand them.
"You frighten me," I said, bluntly. I could not fathom how it was that I found the courage to be so honest with him. Perhaps it was simply because I had lived in such fear and gloom that I had not the tolerance for it any longer. Perhaps I merely wished to provoke the worst so that I might weather the storm and have done with it.
"You have not yet seen me," he said.
"No, I have not, but my father described you, and that description was enough to frighten me."
"I give my word that, though I may frighten you, I will not harm you."
"Why should I believe that?" I demanded. "You threatened harm enough to my father. Why should your behavior toward me be any different?"
"Your father stole from me," the beast snarled.
I flinched but refused to relent, even though my heart pounded so hard that I thought it might burst from sheer terror. "He did not mean to steal from you. He was simply looking for a gift for me, and he did not know the rose belong to anyone."
"That does not change the fact that he took something that was not his."
"And how was he to know that you did not wish him to take it? You offered him food and lodging freely enough."
"That is why he should not have dared to take more from me." It sounded as though the beast was exercising every bit of self-control he possessed not to begin shouting at me.
I was suddenly weary of this fight. I had to admit that the beast's words were not devoid of truth, though I felt his reaction had been unreasonable. Papa had made a simple error, and a decent soul would have been more understanding.
"Very well," I said. "I have no wish to quarrel with you. You do not know my father as I do, and it seems you will not be persuaded to believe anything different from what you have already decided to believe."
"What I find curious is that you defend the man who sent you here to live with me," the beast said, with a cruel edge to his voice.
"You think he sent me here?" I asked, amazed.
"Why else would you be here?"
"I came here of my own free will."
"Why?" the beast asked, sounding amazed in return.
"Why? Is it not obvious to you? I was afraid of what might happen to Papa should he return here, so I came in his place. I could not help but feel responsible. He brought the rose to me out of the goodness of his own heart, out of a desire to please me. I could not allow him to be punished for the kindness of his actions."
The beast said nothing, and I had the sense that he was finding it hard to believe what I had told him. This was both surprising and rather sad. Had he never loved another enough to wish to sacrifice his own comfort and happiness for the sake of the person he loved? A life without sound was punishment enough, but what of a life without love? What sort of punishment was that?
"How foolish," he finally said.
"Foolish? Do you call that foolish?" I asked. "Then I am sorry for you, sorry that you do not understand the reasons behind my actions."
When he spoke again, he sounded as if he was rather angry that he had spoken his last words aloud. "Are we to always be at odds then?"
"I should think so, if you continue to place yourself at opposition with me."
"Are you suggesting that I should alter my opinions to match yours?"
"Of course not. I am merely suggesting that you should not be so quick to judge and scorn my opinions. Now, if you will be so kind as to excuse me, I wish to return to my chamber. It grows late and I am tired."
I turned and walked toward the door, my heart in my throat. I was terrified that he would rise from the corner, that he would bound over to me and do me harm because I had dared argue with him. My only wish was to make a quick escape and to lock myself within whatever dubious sanctuary my chamber might offer.
Chapter 11
The Meeting
I sat for hours, waiting for her. Though I had allowed the lighting of a fire and a few candles, the library was filled with a deeply shadowed gloom that perfectly matched my own mood. What if all of my preparations had been for naught and she did not come? It had taken nearly every bit of waning energy I possessed to prepare myself for this evening and, if it did not go as planned, I did not know if I woul
d have the strength for a second attempt.
The thought of my plan failing vexed me. I was accustomed to things unfolding exactly as I wished them to unfold--with one glaring exception, of course. Perhaps that cursed enchantress had placed a spell on me not only to give me the appearance of a beast, but also to strip me of all control over my own life. The fact that I was still a beast was clear evidence of my powerlessness.
My mind was thus occupied when the door to the library opened and the maiden stepped into the chamber. Her fear was as clear to me as if she had openly expressed it, for I saw it in the lines of tension on her face and body, and could sense it in the air. She entered the chamber with just a cursory glance, and was nearly to a pool of light offered by one of the candles when her body suddenly stilled, and I knew she sensed my presence, just as I had intended. The silence that stretched between her awareness of my presence and when she finally spoke seemed almost eternal, but I refused to relinquish control. She would have to be the first to speak.
When she asked who I was, I was unable to answer. It was not that I wanted to toy with her, for I had every intention of answering her. Had I not orchestrated this whole meeting, after all? But I found that I was gripped by such a sense of dread that I was incapable of a response. I could do nothing more than stare at her, though she did not see, thanks to her refusal to turn toward me.
She was dressed in a demure but lovely gown of dark blue satin brocade embellished with ornate embroidery in silver thread. Her lovely brown hair had been pulled back from her face with an exquisite silver clip, and her curls tumbled down her slender back in a manner that was very becoming. As the light caught the strands, her hair appeared almost as if it were glowing with an inner light. Once again, I was struck by her beauty and by the fact that I found her so lovely. Would this make carrying out my plan harder or easier? I did not want to reflect on this thought, and she saved me from the necessity by speaking again.
All my practice was for naught, as my voice did not sound as I had wished it to sound, but there was nothing I could do. The mixture of tension and astonishment that I felt at her words rendered me incapable of concentrating on making my speech as clear as possible. It hardly mattered at any rate, for I felt certain that she would have spoken to me in the same manner whether I had been polite and chivalrous or nay.
I was most surprised by her behavior toward me. In truth, I had not known what to expect, but her honesty and forthrightness astounded me. They also made me angry. I wanted to have the upper hand in our encounter and, though she had admitted to being afraid of me, it was quite clear that she had no intention of allowing that fear to rule her conduct. Thus, I had not the hold over her that I wanted to have, much to my frustration. I could only retain power over her if her fear prevented her from standing her ground with me, and I quickly saw that this was not to be the case.
The conversation went badly, very badly indeed, for my mind was racing as to how best to communicate with her. I had no plan other than frightening her into submission. It made me angry that she was so willful in the face of her fear, but that anger was mercifully blunted by my astonishment. Had it not been so, I would most likely have done something very foolish indeed, something I would have had a great deal of cause to regret. It was extremely vexing to conclude I would have to devise a new plan for ruling over her.
As much as I wanted to be alone to brood, I knew I could not allow her to part on such terms. If she were to leave, she would most likely avoid me in the future, and then I would lose whatever slim chance I had ever possessed of breaking the spell.
Her hand was on the door as I spoke, and I watched her spine stiffen at the sound of my voice. "Do not go," I said, my voice now softer and lower, more in line with how I had wanted it to be all along.
"Pardon me?" she asked, without turning around. I knew from the strained tone of her voice that she was speaking to me through clenched teeth.
I felt a flash of anger, but quelled it and responded, "I am asking you to stay."
She paused, but her hand remained on the door handle. I wished I could see her face, but all I could see was the back of her head. Had I been able to see her expression, I might have been able to read her emotions and respond in an appropriate manner. As it was, I had simply to choose my words carefully in the hopes that they would have the desired effect.
"It is obvious that we do not agree about your father. Perhaps I am wrong. But perhaps you are wrong."
For a moment, I thought I had said the wrong thing, for she moved as if to push the door open, but then she turned. I could see from the flash of her dark eyes that she felt she had been challenged and was determined to meet that challenge.
"I cannot see how that could be possible," she said, her mouth set in a firm line.
"And yet you fault me for my unbending opinions," I said, feeling a small and somewhat satisfying surge of triumph.
To my surprise, the tension left her body, and she moved over to one of the armchairs and sank into it. Her face was shadowed, but I could partially see it. The light that shone in her bright, warm eyes was especially striking.
"You have bested me," she admitted.
I smiled and was taken aback by the sensation. It had been some time since another person had caused me to smile. For some reason, this made me wish to make some sort of concession to her and so I answered, "You may take solace in the knowledge that it was not an easy battle."
She smiled as well, and looked every bit as astonished as I had felt when the expression had crossed my own face. "I suppose it might be nice to have someone with whom I could talk," she said, hesitantly. "The castle is very silent, and I am not accustomed to such solitude."
"One never grows fully accustomed to it," I mumbled.
"How long have you lived like this?" Though she seemed hesitant to ask such questions, I could see that her curiosity was destined to get the better of her.
"Longer than you can imagine."
She frowned, and I could see that my elusiveness displeased her. Her hand moved impatiently forward to return a stray curl to its place. I could see that I was losing her, and was dissatisfied that I would have to admit more to her than I would have liked.
"Understand that it is not my aim to be obtuse," I said. "There are simply some things of which I may not speak, and I ask you to accept and respect that."
"Very well," she said with a sigh.
"Thank you," I said stiffly, finding it hard to speak the words. I hurriedly moved to another topic. "What is your name?"
Even though her face was shadowed, I could clearly see the blush that stole over her cheeks. How odd that such a question caused her to blush.
"It is Mirabelle," she murmured, speaking so incoherently that even my sharp bestial ears had trouble catching her words.
"Mirabelle?"
"Yes." She looked down at her hands, which were folded in her lap.
"What is wrong with your name?"
"Just as you have things of which you will not speak, so have I," she said, forcefully. She leaned forward, bracing herself on the chair's arms, and I could clearly see her face again. Her hands gripped the chair very tightly, and her expression was a mixture of tension and embarrassment.
"Very well," I said, parroting her earlier words. I did not know what else to say, for I had not been expecting such a complex reaction to such a simple question.
She seemed conscious of her behavior, for she slowly let out a breath and eased her grip on the arms of the chair. "But everyone calls me Mira," she said, in a tone that made an attempt at evenness and failed.
"Mira it is then."
"And what is your name?"
I considered the question for a moment before responding. It was impossible to know how much or how little knowledge she might have of me and my reign all those hundreds of years ago; therefore, answering such a question was rather perilous. There would be serious consequences if I disclosed forbidden information. I was also certain that the same wrath would
be rained down upon me if I offered subtle clues to my identity and how I had become what I had, thereby aiding Mira in uncovering the truth for herself. I simply could not risk it. Until the spell was broken, I could not so much as hint at the truth for fear it would doom me to an eternity as a beast.
"I have no name," I said finally.
"No name?" Her astonishment was clear.
"Why would I have a name when I am surrounded only by servants who cannot speak?" I hoped that this explanation would be enough to satisfy her.
I knew from the pensive look on her face that she was thinking about what I had said to her. After a moment of contemplation, she spoke again. "I suppose that is reasonable. But what am I to call you?"
An interesting question indeed. I supposed I could instruct her to call me "beast" but, somehow, I could not force myself to say the word. I knew what my appearance was, what it had been for all these hundreds of years, but I could not stomach the idea of such an overt expression of it. Underneath all the fur and claws, I was still human, even if I and my mute servants were the only beings who knew it.
"Call me whatever you like," I said at last, feeling a strange weariness come over me.
There was a note of sympathy in her voice when she replied. "I shall think of something--if that is agreeable to you."
"Aye, it is agreeable to me." I studied her with new interest. Was she concerned she might offend me? And why should that matter to her?
"Could I…" she began, but her voice trailed off and I watched as she swallowed. It took a moment for her to gather her courage but, when she did, she made the request that I had been dreading the most. "Might I see you now?"
It occurred to me that I felt every bit as much dread at this prospect as she did, for the tone of her voice told me she was frightened. I wanted to refuse her, but I knew that would be foolish of me. I had committed to pursuing some sort of relationship with this maiden, and I certainly could not do it all from the shadowy corners of the castle. At some time or other, she would have to see me, and perhaps it was best that she saw me immediately. If the sight was too intolerable for her to bear, it was best I knew it now before I devoted any further time and energy to my attempts to woo her.
The Eye of the Beholder (2012) Page 8
