Beauty and the Beast: The Only One Who Didn't Run Away

by Wendy Mass

  I watch as she peers closely at the painting, then reaches out with a finger. Her other arm hangs at her side, grasping what looks like a handful of wet flowers. She is tall for a girl, and dressed in a well-made cloak. Her brown hair is pulled back to reveal a regular sort of face, square-shaped, with cheeks flushed from the weather, or the fire, or fear. As she admires the painting, her features relax into something that one might call pretty.

  “She is called Beauty?” Alexander whispers. “Her name should be Plain.”

  “Shh!” I elbow him.

  “Ow! That was my head!”

  “Good!”

  The girl turns slowly in our direction, lowering the finger she had been running down the length of a painted tree. I straighten up and tug on my waistcoat. Her eyes grow wide. I get the feeling she is examining every inch of me, taking in the fur not quite hidden by my long sleeves, the nails I cannot believe I forgot to cover with my gloves, the hawk-like nose, the wide face, the lion’s mane of hair that Godfrey combed this morning until it gleamed. Now I feel foolish that I did not tie it back. I clear my throat. “Um, I am the beast. Welcome to my castle.” And then, as I practiced a hundred times this week, I add, “The name Beauty suits you.”

  Her lips move in a twisty sort of way, and I fear she is either going to scream or throw up her last meal. Instead, she looks me directly in the face and laughs.

  “Why are you laughing?” the beast asks, with what I think is a look of bewilderment, but I cannot be sure because of all the hair flopping in front of his face. He pushes it out of his eyes and asks again.

  What should I tell him? That I find it hilarious that Papa would think this man is actually a beast when his costume is such obvious trickery? Or that I have waited my entire life for someone to say my name suits me, and then when someone does, it is someone like him? Or perhaps I should blame my laughter on nerves, like Handsome does. Instead, I hold out the flowers. “These are for you.”

  His bushy eyebrows rise. “You brought me flowers?”

  I nod, then remember how possessive he is about his flowers. Papa picking that rose is what led to me being here. I hold my breath. Even a fake beast can be dangerous when angered.

  But all he says is “Thank you. You might want to put them on the table. I do not want to stab you with my nails.”

  I do as he says, noting that his nails are pointier than the apothecary’s sharpest knife. The large table is made from a single slab of dark oak, and I cannot help admire its smoothness. The stone floors beneath it gleam with firelight from carefully arranged sconces on the walls. All around me are plush couches and colorful lounge chairs and unique pieces of art. I certainly cannot fault him for his taste in decorating. Judging by what I can see, he is in no need of free labor. I force myself to look away from all the beauty around me and stare him full in the face. He is not exactly ugly. Rather, his features do not seem to go together well. Like he reached into a costume bag and pulled out the nearest items and stuck them on.

  “No one has ever brought me flowers before,” he says, his voice a low rumble.

  “Perhaps more people would,” I snap, “if you did not dress up like a beast and threaten people’s lives.”

  “Dress up?”

  “Forgive my rudeness, for I do not mean to insult you in your own home, er, castle, but this is a pretty poor costume. The wig is much too long, the nails are obviously stuck on with some kind of glue, and the fur, well, the fur simply looks ridiculous, all blotchy like that. And part of it is green.”

  I hear what sounds like muffled laughter behind me, but when I spin around I see no one. Papa had said the beast lived alone, so it must be the storm picking up again. I continue. “I have seen a man nearly your height before, but no one could be as wide as you. Clearly you have pillows under your clothes. And your nose! It must be made out of wood and poorly worked into shape. Why you would go to these lengths simply to frighten an old man into sending you his daughter as a servant I cannot imagine.”

  The beast stares at me, then squares his shoulders. “’Tis no costume, I assure you.”

  I know I should hold my tongue, but his lies are simply too much to bear. “You frightened my father nearly to his grave with your lies, and now you shower me with them as well? Shame on you.”

  His eyes fill with water. Could he be about to … cry? He blinks rapidly and looks around the room as though looking for some support in the shadows. Then he says, “Please, come see for yourself. I will not hurt you.” He steps closer and bends down. His hair is within arm’s reach now. “Pull,” he instructs.

  I hesitate, then my anger rises up again. I grab a handful of the coarse hair and give a soft tug. Then a harder one. Then a full-out yank.

  “Ouch,” he says, backing away.

  I stare in surprise. Not a single hair came out in my hand. The beast leans over the back of the couch and neatly slashes a pillow with just one fingernail. I swear I hear a gasp from across the room, but we are still alone. He quickly turns the pillow over and pats it once, almost like he’s apologizing to it.

  “All real,” he says, wagging his fingers in the air. “Trust me, I would not have them if I had a choice. They make even the simplest chore quite difficult. Forget trying to wash my face or even lace up my boots. I have run out of ointment for my gashes.”

  I back up until I bump against the side of a large chair. My mind is a whirl. Could he possibly be telling the truth? Is he half a man and half an animal, or a talking animal? Or a mixture of many different animals? If such a thing is possible, then are all the other things possible, too? Was Veronica right to believe in unseen forces after all? And trust him? How am I supposed to trust such a creature as this?

  “Do you need to lie down, Beauty?” he asks, with a note of genuine concern. “I am indeed a beast, but I will not hurt you. Someone once told me my bark is worse than my bite.”

  I study him from across the room. He is large, but I am fast. I could probably run out the door and be gone before he could lumber after me. But as he awaits my answer with an expression both hopeful and hopeless, I realize I cannot run away. I am not a quitter and I made a promise. “Were you … were you born this way?”

  He shakes his head, then pushes the hair from his eyes again with a bit of annoyance. He should just tie it back. “I was the victim of a curse. But more than that I cannot say.”

  “So magic is real, then?” I ask, holding my breath.

  He nods. “It would appear so.”

  I sink down into the chair. “Witches and goblins and fairies? Princesses that sleep a hundred years?”

  “I cannot speak to all of those,” he says. “Only to the witch.”

  “Was she … horrible?”

  He grimaces with the memory, then says, “Not at first.”

  I feel a tiny door in my heart open up for the beast. Yes, he frightened Papa and basically kidnapped me, but something truly terrible has befallen him. Unless perhaps he did something truly terrible first! “Why did the witch curse you?” I ask, narrowing my eyes at him. “A punishment for an evil deed? Did you cheat or lie or rob an old woman of her last penny?”

  “What? No! Why would you think that?”

  Now it is my turn to shrug. “In the stories, witches do not simply go around cursing people. The person usually does something to bring it upon himself.”

  He begins to pace, his huge feet thumping against the floor. “Well, your stories must be wrong, then, for I did nothing to bring it upon myself.” Then he pauses. “Or nothing that I know of, anyway.”

  “You do not sound certain of that.”

  He scowls. “Can we talk about something else, please?”

  For some reason that makes me laugh. “What do you have in mind, the weather? It is early for a winter squall, is it not? Is that what you prefer we speak of?”

  Another chuckle behind me, but again, it belongs to no one. Perhaps all this talk of magic and curses is muddling my thoughts and making me hear things. “I think I w
ould like to lie down after all.”

  He nods. “I shall show you to your room.”

  I half expect Clarissa to be right, that my room would be the dungeon below the ground. But the beast leads me to a room upstairs, where a window seat overlooks the back lawn and gardens. The gardens are nearly upstaged by the pinkness of the room itself. Pink flowers, pink canopy over pink blanket, pink pillows, even a pink ceramic bathtub. And frilly! So much lace everywhere. Out of politeness, I suppress a shudder. Clarissa would think she died and went to Heaven.

  “Are you in need of anything?” the beast asks, hanging back in the hallway.

  I shake my head. A glance around the room reveals that my belongings have been not only brought up to the room but unpacked. The comb that Clarissa snuck into my bag rests on the dresser next to a washing basin and a towel. I suppose if I am to believe in witches and beasts, I may as well believe that my belongings unpacked themselves.

  “I shall leave you, then, to recover from your journey. And, um, everything else.”

  The silence when the door closes is complete. I untie my boots and lie down on the softest bed I have ever felt. It must be made from a cloud! I stare up at the pink canopy and pull Veronica’s necklace out from under my collar. The stone warms my hands and makes me miss everyone that much more. No doubt they are worried about me, and I wish I could tell them I am not locked in a dungeon. Unless dungeons come in pink. By now they are surely in a comfortable home back in town. That thought brings me a bit of comfort.

  The sound of a church bell startles me. The bell chimes a few more times until I realize it is not a church bell at all, but a clock signaling a new hour. I never knew anyone who could afford a real clock. But, of course, the beast must be wealthy beyond measure. I wonder how he came to possess this castle. Even though he seemed sincere before, I far from trust him.

  The last rest stop I had was hours ago, and my bladder is becoming harder to ignore. I wait a little longer, staring out at what truly is a magnificent garden, until I can wait no more. Halfway down the hall, I realize I forgot to put my boots back on.

  I creep as quietly as possible toward the door at the end of the hall, which I figure is most likely to be the one I need. But when I open it, instead of finding the dung chute, I am greeted with a narrow stairwell and a sign with the words Enter at Your Own Risk. I suppose it makes sense in a house this large to separate the dung chute from the living quarters. I begin to climb. The door at the other end is open a crack, so I push it the rest of the way, expecting to find the toilet.

  Instead, I find a young boy. Singing. And dancing. With a green monkey. In what looks like a laboratory, even larger and better stocked than the apothecary shop.

  I blink, but the boy and the monkey are still there, whirling around a boiling cauldron.

  I should clarify that only the boy is singing. The monkey remains silent.

  I am fairly certain now that madness has overcome me.

  “I like her!” Father says, slapping me heartily on the back. “She is quite the spitfire.”

  I sit down on the couch, which groans under my weight. A handful of soggy flowers are deposited on my lap.

  “No one has ever given me flowers!” Alexander teases. “So very romantic. I apologize for laughing, but her tugging on your hair is one memory I shall never forget.”

  “Nor I,” I reply.

  “Are you all right, Riley?” Mother asks, putting her hand on my shoulder. “She is quite a girl, is she not? Alexander chose well.”

  Before I can answer her, Alexander says, “Not exactly the beauty I had expected.” Followed closely by, “Ouch! Mother! Must you keep pinching me? I am practically an adult!”

  “Then you must behave like one, Alexander. She is a lovely girl.”

  Alexander mutters something under his breath.

  “I am not certain how I feel,” I admit.

  “I believe you are blushing,” Father says, sitting down next to me.

  “I am not!” I exclaim, as though he is accusing me of stealing the last plum pie. I put my hands to my ample cheeks. They do feel warm. “What does that mean?”

  “It means you like her,” Father says. “And why would you not? She is truly quite extraordinary. Taken away from all she has known to live with a beast, and she did not run away in fright.”

  “Not yet,” I admit. “But she is hiding in her room. She may never come out.”

  “Let her adjust,” Mother says. “It might take a few weeks.”

  “I don’t have much more than that left.”

  “I know,” Mother says. “But we must try to be patient.”

  I admit, my heart has never stirred like this before. Like Father said, she is indeed a spitfire. Bold and strong, and the melted snowflakes made her hair glitter in the most interesting way. I shake my head to clear it. Why am I noticing her hair? I am not supposed to fall in love with her, only she with me. Right?

  “Prince Riley! Prince Alexander! Your Majesties!” Freddy shouts, pounding down the stairs. “Come quick! You need to see this!”

  I jump up from the couch, smacking my head on the ceiling in the process. Rubbing my head, I ask, “What is the matter? Is Beauty all right? Did she jump to freedom from her second-story window?” I could not blame her if she had.

  He shakes his head. “Nothing like that. Come!”

  So we follow after him, looking like one very odd parade — one skinny page, one huge beast, and three invisible members of the royal family. Freddy leads us upstairs to my laboratory, of all places. “You didn’t blow anything up, did you?” I ask as we climb. “We just got that wall fixed.”

  “I did not,” he replies, and gestures for me to enter first. I step into the doorway while my invisible family squeezes around me. The first thing I see is Godfrey, standing by the window looking a bit embarrassed. And is that a … monkey sitting on a stool by the counter?

  Freddy tugs on my sleeve and points to the center of the room. I force myself to turn away from the monkey (who seems to be partly green) to find Beauty standing beside the boiling cauldron, stirring it with one of my glass rods.

  “Oh, hello,” Beauty says. “I hope you don’t mind my interruption.”

  As I stare, she adds two more ingredients to the mixture. A splash of vinegar and a pinch of some yellow powder, which I do not even recognize. “No,” I finally say. “Of course not.”

  “Good,” she says, dipping a ladle into the cauldron. She pours the mixture into a small beaker, not spilling a drop. Then she heads to the sink where she dips the beaker into a pot of water, no doubt to cool it off. I watch her lower it with fascination. How is it this girl knows her way around a laboratory? What is she doing? Making a slow poison, perhaps? I instinctively clamp my mouth shut.

  She walks over to me, holds out the beaker, and says, “Here. This should rid you of the green on your fur. My sister had a similar problem. I mean, not with fur. Obviously.”

  I take it, ashamed that I suspected her of anything underhanded. “Truly?”

  She nods.

  “Thank you,” I say, lifting the murky orange liquid to my lips.

  “Wait!” she says, reaching up. “You do not drink it. You rub it on.”

  “Oh,” I say, then begin to laugh. “That is good, for it does not look too appetizing.”

  “Here,” she says, taking it from me. “Let me help you.”

  She leads me over to the sink, and orders me to hold my arm over it. She pours the liquid on the offending greenness, and rubs it in. She runs cool water over it, then scrubs some more. After a few minutes, the green color runs off into the sink.

  “There,” she says, patting it dry with a rag. “Now you look like a normal beast again.”

  Every time Beauty pats my arm, my heart beats a little faster. “I can do that,” I tell her, snatching the rag perhaps a bit too quickly. She takes a step back.

  “Wait, I am sorry. No one, well, no one outside this room, has shown me any kindness in a long time.”


  She nods. “Freddy here does seem to like you. And Godfrey. The monkey did not give his opinion.”

  I turn to Freddy. “Would you care to explain the monkey?”

  He shakes his head. “Not really. Merely an experiment gone amiss.”

  “And is Godfrey’s hair slightly … green?”

  “I shall tend to them,” Beauty says, heading back to the pot for more of her secret mixture. I watch as she patiently de-greens both the monkey and Godfrey. Mother takes this time to whisper in my ear, “I know you cannot see, but I am dabbing my eyes with my skirt.”

  I roll my eyes. But I would be lying if I didn’t have a tear or two in my own. This girl brings out my tender side. I didn’t even know I had one.

  Godfrey leads me down to breakfast, and I am so tired I nearly trip every other step. When I met his friends (and the green monkey), the anger I felt toward the beast started to slip away. By the time I had de-greened him, it was gone entirely. In its place was curiosity and sympathy.

  We had stayed up until very nearly sunrise. I told him about what I learned at the apothecary shop, and he told me of his experiments in the laboratory. We spoke of a mutual love of books and reading. He told me he can tell the exact date by studying the stars. I told him of our fire, and of losing everything we owned. Perhaps I should not have shared so much, but he is easy to talk to. He reminds me of Handsome, in that way. I cannot imagine what Handsome would think of all this, of me being here, of me choosing to come in Papa’s place. He would likely march down here and demand my return. Not that I know where here is, exactly.

  As forthcoming as he was with everything else, the beast shied away from anything personal — he spoke nothing of his life before the curse, nothing about how he befriended Freddy or Godfrey. The two of them were similarly tight-lipped when first I had stumbled across them in the lab.

  I have yet to figure out what I’m actually doing here. The beast clearly does not seem to want me as a servant, since he has been the one to ask after my needs, not the reverse. Perhaps he simply wants a friend. I truly do not know. All night he kept asking me if he was boring me, and I kept assuring him he was not. He is actually the most interesting person I have ever met. I have never stared up at the stars before, nor questioned the milky cloud that spans the heavens. But for him it is an unending source of mystery and fascination. Under all that fur he has a very big heart. I choose to ignore the fact that he could slice a regular-size person in half with one swipe of his claws.