The Beast Queen

by Felicity Partington

  “Isabelle, stop.” The voice was kind, and she glanced up to find Charlotte and Thomas were the only two people remaining in the kitchen. It was Thomas’ hand on her arm. For a blinding second of terror, she wondered whether she had been too methodical about it, her father told her countless times never to let her guard down when it came to her unsavoury nature. Glancing up to their faces though, she saw no fear, no horror of some unseen evil which lurked within her, just shame. Isabelle softened her stance and placed the knife down on the table with a trembling hand.

  “Isabelle dear it was just a trick we play on the new arrivals; we haven’t had one in so long. You’ve done more than enough, I’ve not seen anybody gut a dear so effectively in years, let alone on their first try. Poor Maggie almost passed out when we did it to her. I think we all underestimated you a little.”

  Isabelle looked from the animal to herself for the first time since she had started, it was like she was stepping out from a trance, gristle and blood covered her hands and clothes. She wasn’t sure when everybody else had left, or how long she had been hacking at the animal. “Tommy, help her clean this up while I get dinner ready.” The young man nodded.

  “Come on, though there isn’t much point in hanging it up now.”

  “Hanging it?” Isabelle asked quietly, still thanking her luck that they had been impressed and not terrified by whatever had come over her back there.

  “That’s why he rips their throats, we hang it in the larder over a bucket, and it drains the blood.”

  “What?”

  “You don’t skin an animal until it’s bled. Life out here in the country can take a bit of getting used to. If it helps, I think you’ll be okay.” He was smiling at her warmly, Isabelle would feel better if she’d known exactly what had caused them to thaw towards her.

  “I lived in the country.” Isabelle protested weakly.

  “Where did you get your meat?” Thomas asked, genuinely curious.

  “The butcher.” She answered, lowering her eyes. He didn’t need to tell her; she’d just made his point for him. There were no butchers here, no markets, there was nothing except the woods. “Do they really do this to everybody? Did they do it to you?”

  “Me? No. I grew up here. By the time, I was old enough to use a knife, I was old enough to know, you don’t cut open a blood bag in the middle of the kitchen unless you want a big mess.”

  “I didn’t choose to come here.” She insisted with a grief that wasn’t entirely feigned, “as if being a prisoner wasn’t bad enough. Not I’m to worry about tricks and whether I’m the entertainment for the evening.”

  “We’re trying to make you feel welcome, one of us.”

  “Well, I don’t.” Isabelle snapped.

  “That’s more than obvious,” Thomas spoke as he heaved what was left of the stag over his shoulder and carried it through to the larder. When he came back, he had two mops, he handed one to Isabelle, “but we’re all you have now. You must try and fit in, we’re not that bad.”

  “Really?” She asked with a pointed look at her bloody skirt, legs and shoes.

  “It was just a joke,” he rationalised, and Isabelle frowned. Propping the mop up against the counter she pursed her lips.

  “I’m going to go and clean up. I’m just spreading more mess around.”

  “Don’t take long” he warned, “you’ll miss dinner.”

  “Strangely, I’m not very hungry.” And with that, she left the kitchen, leaving her bloody shoes at the door, and headed back to her rooms. Isabelle was frightfully confused, she’d gotten very used to manipulating people, her life was a series of carefully calculated reactions. She over analysed everything. She had tried to be friendly, agreeable and they had been cold towards her; but she had showed them a glimpse of herself, the real her and they seemed to soften. The resolute coldness which punctuated her life hadn’t caused them to flee.

  Could she be herself here? Genuinely herself? Were they immune to everything she had learnt about people so far? They certainly didn’t seem like any of the people she had met before. Even Thomas, a young man who had already confessed that she was pretty, seemed perfectly willing to keep her at arm’s length. His attraction to her wasn’t a lie, she watched his eyes slip from hers during their exchange, linger on her breasts.

  What was this place?

  Isabelle was angry enough at being the butt of their joke that she would have been content to avoid them all forever. But did she really want to condemn herself to a life of isolation? Here, far from anywhere. Back home, she had been ostracised too, albeit for different reasons, but she’d always had the hope of escaping. The dream that one day, there would be more to life, more than carefully existing. In her dreams there would eventually be people who understood her. There would be men who didn’t merely want to possess her, ones who valued her opinion. Women who she could trust, who didn’t live in fear that she longed to seduce their fat, boring husbands.

  Her room had an en-suite, which Isabelle was thankful for. She dropped her ruined clothes in a pile in the corner of the room, the tiles were cold against her feet. She was relieved to find that they had running water, it wouldn’t have surprised her at all if they hadn’t, nothing in this ancient ruin seemed geared towards modern convenience. She turned the brass knobs on the bath and waited. The steam filled the room quicker than the water filled the tub, slowly the chill of the room abated.

  Easing herself into the water was the most blissful thing Isabelle had experienced since this entire nightmare had begun. She’d washed as much of the deer as she could off in the sink beforehand so that she could stay in longer without soaking in a bath of blood.

  Resting her head against the raised back of the porcelain tub, she revelled in the warmth which engulfed her. Here she could almost pretend she was back home, that this was all just a bad dream. She lost track of how long she sat there, letting her thoughts wander until she felt a strange sensation. A prickling of hairs told her that somebody was watching. Sitting up she glanced around the bathroom, the light was dwindling now and the water cooling.

  Nothing lurked in the shadows of the bathroom, but her discomfort wouldn’t abate.

  Turning on the hot water again, to warm the cooling bath, her eyes fell to the window and the glimmer of yellow in the distance which caught her attention. Eyes. Familiar, piercing eyes. Not someone then; something. Isabelle arched an eyebrow and glanced to see how far away her towel was. It was across the room, too far to reach for without leaving the bath. How long had the beast been watching her? Why was he watching her? Hadn’t he decided that she wasn’t pretty enough for him, wasn’t that what Thomas had said?

  Isabelle stared back for a long time, though he was far enough away that she couldn’t see much, wondering if he could feel her anger across the distance. His yellow eyes stood out against the shadowy mountain, the rest of him obscured by darkness. Isabelle leant forward and turned the water off. Then grabbed a sponge and some soap from the edge of the bath.

  She couldn’t know the beast’s intentions. But he had tried her, found her lacking, and now was watching her from the shadows. Some formidable beast. Perhaps their frightful monster was as much of a coward as the other men she knew. Was it really her beauty that had failed her? Or was he turned off that she wasn’t the perfect little woman, after all, she had brandished a weapon at him. Did he fear and equal? Perhaps he would be more comfortable with Maggie.

  But why was he here?

  Maybe she could make him regret it, make him long for her as badly as the rest of them so that she might eventually reject him and let him know how it feels. If her beastly voyeur wanted a show, she was more than happy to provide one.

  Running the soapy sponge over her pale skin, the scent of lavender filled the room, and she inhaled deeply. It was beautiful. She made sure to cover every part of herself in bubbles sensually, and rather enjoyed the tender application. She paused above her breasts, letting the bubbles drip over the taut skin, she dared a glance
up. There were no eyes, the beast was gone.

  A triumphant smile curled her lips, Isabelle pulled herself from the bath, the cold air chilling her damp skin as she sauntered to the window, ensuring her full body was on show to the darkness outside. Reaching the window, she leant forward slowly, an arm across her breasts in an inadequate show of modesty. With a final glance out to the mountains, she closed her eyes, shivering against the bitter draft before sweeping the curtains closed.

  His eyes burned in her mind, their shape and colour so familiar, so comforting somehow. She shook herself, she was ridiculous. Gathering up the towel, she looked down at her soft and supple form for once with a little sadness.

  Sometimes she wished she’d been born ugly, like Maggie. The girl was probably left to get on with her life, being of little interest to anybody.

  And where had beauty gotten Isabelle?

  The prisoner of a ghastly monster.

  Chapter Nine

  Isabelle had slept well again, a deep, dreamless sleep which she was glad for. She didn’t think she could stand dreaming of freedom to only wake up back here. This time she awoke at dawn and attributed it to her early night. What else was there to do here but work and sleep? She dressed and made her way downstairs, she’d worried at first that she would have been the first awake, but when Isabelle arrived in the kitchen, she found everybody sitting around the table eating. All she could envision was the bloody stag from the day before, and though it had been cleaned away, it still unsettled her stomach.

  “Is there anywhere else we can eat?” She asked by way of greeting.

  “No.” Charlotte replied, “We saved you some breakfast.” Isabelle thanked her but was still genuinely unsure about the whole situation. She was trying to work out how hungry she was, could she afford to skip breakfast entirely? Would she be starving by lunchtime? The meal was porridge, which had never been her favourite anyway.

  “Where did you get that dress?” Maggie gasped, jumping up and running over to run her fingers over the fabric. This caused everybody else’s eyes to fall critically on Isabelle.

  “It was in my wardrobe,” Isabelle explained.

  “You liar. It must have cost a fortune. You got it from upstairs. From the balcony rooms.” For all her accusations, Maggie’s voice was excited as she turned Isabelle around and worked her fingers over the silk stitching and gemstones which embroidered the skirt.

  “No, I didn’t.” Isabelle protested though a part of her enjoyed having Maggie thrill over her gown.

  “Maggie,” Charlotte warned, “leave Isabelle be. It’s a beautiful dress, and anybody can see its brand new. That’s quite the fit also, for somebody who so recently turned up on our doorstep.” Charlotte’s words were kind, but her tone and the look she was giving Isabelle conveyed something darker. Isabelle finally understood these people were not confusing, they were her match. Not one of them was showing their real faces to her, they were all hiding something.

  “My wardrobe is filled, and since the beast told me it was my room, I assumed that everything in it was meant for me too.” She smiled, a smile dripping with sweetness. She could play them at their own game. “You’re welcome to come up and help yourself to anything you like, there’s more than I could possibly wear.”

  “Don’t worry, dear,” Charlotte interrupted deftly, seeing Maggie’s face light up, “the Master wouldn’t have left them if he didn’t mean for you to have them.”

  “So, I’m not in trouble?” Isabelle kept her eyes wide as if she was genuinely worried, internally she was marking Maggie as the weak link.

  “Of course not.” Charlotte insisted warmly. “But you’ll ruin that dress cleaning. I have some spare uniforms I will lend you.” There was no room for argument in her tone, “eat some breakfast, and we’ll have you wearing something more suitable.” Isabelle sat down gingerly on a stool and Charlotte ladled some porridge into a bowl before passing it to her. She stirred her food with her spoon, so as not to seem ungrateful, but she was far too preoccupied plotting, to have much of an appetite.

  If they were determined to play games, Isabelle was entirely sure she could win. All she had to do was expose whatever secret they were protecting, and it would all fall apart; she might even secure her freedom in the process. They expected what everybody did when they met her, a simple, pretty girl who was easily fooled. For once, Isabelle would be delighted to prove them wrong.

  After breakfast, Charlotte was as good as her word, and she pulled some freshly washed dresses and aprons from the cupboard. Isabelle excused herself to get changed and was surprised when Thomas insisted on walking with her to the stairs. A part of her wondered what he hoped to achieve, did he expect that she would change in a side room and that he might sneak a glimpse of what lay beneath the gown? Or was he simply ensuring that she was securely away from the kitchens, so the others could let their masks fall?

  Nevertheless, he was here, and Isabelle wasn’t going to waste the advantage, she paused on the stairs and touched his arm gently.

  “Does the Beast watch everybody?”

  “What do you mean?” He frowned, genuine confusion on his features.

  “Last night, I was in the bath,” she paused to see whether the idea of her wet and naked would fluster him, he averted his gaze but didn’t flinch, she continued. “I could have sworn he was out on the mountains, watching me.”

  “I don’t think so, it was probably just some shadows.”

  “Do you think so? It was terribly frightening.” She lied, remembering the rush of adrenaline she’d felt, exposing herself to the monster.

  “I do, but if you’re concerned, you could always draw your curtains.” He added carefully. Isabelle dropped her gaze, feigning embarrassment.

  “You’re right. I’m not used to people being around. I guess I should get used to closing curtains.” She lifted her eyes up, watching him suggestively through her lashes. “And doors.” He gulped. Isabelle suppressed the desire to smile triumphantly. “I best go and get changed.”

  “For what it’s worth,” he added, an anxious blush creeping onto his cheeks, “I think you look incredible in that dress, wherever it came from.”

  “It’s worth a lot.” Isabelle smiled softly. Thomas was young and though he might have a better poker face than Maggie, he certainly didn’t seem used to flirtation. Isabelle suspected it wouldn’t be too hard to seduce information from him.

  If only he were her type, he might make a life of imprisonment seem more exciting. She thrived off intelligence, people who wanted to learn and understand. She didn’t want a boy. It was unfortunate that if he’d proven more of a challenge, she might have risen to it.

  It didn’t take her long to change, though to go from the expensive satin and beautiful leather corset, to a dull grey, button-down dress, was disheartening. The wardrobe the beast had provided made her look like a queen; the uniform Charlotte had thrust upon her made her look like what she was; a servant.

  Isabelle scrutinised her reflection in the mirror as she tied her apron. She let her hair free, brown locks falling in beautiful loose curls around her shoulders. She should probably tie it back, but she didn’t want to. Let them try their blatant attempts to dull her beauty. With a heavy sigh, she left her rooms once more and headed downstairs to see what menial tasks she had to suffer through in the name of ingratiation.

  It turned out to be beating the curtains, which, although boring, was at least spending the day with Thomas. The conversation was dull, but he was happy to fall over himself to help her, which made her day easier, though still gruelling. Her arms ached from having to pull down and beat the heavy fabric, then rehang it. The curtains were all bigger than she was, made of thick velvet and lined with heavy linen to keep out the chill from outside. Room after room. Curtain after curtain.

  Days passed, lost in the monotony of cleaning and sleeping. By the end of the week, every part of her ached. Isabelle was trusted to do her jobs alone more and more, and she found could sometimes go f
or an entire day barely seeing another living soul. Mealtimes were becoming something of a social lifeline. Picking at the food on her plate, head resting on her hand, elbow on the table, Isabelle listened to the maids and stableboys chuntering on.

  She had hit a brick wall with information, Thomas might blush now whenever she smiled at him, but he was painfully careful to direct the conversations and if she closed in on anything pertaining to their master or the castle’s history he’d find an excuse to flee. Maggie was popular and difficult to get alone, besides, she didn’t even truly believe the best existed so was of little use. Isabelle suspected that the only person with real answers was Charlotte, but she remained calculatedly aloof.

  Isabelle was frustrated that the Beast hasn’t shown up again. Had he been so disgusted by her little show in the bath that he couldn’t bear to see her again? That didn’t seem likely considering the lengths he’d gone to just to peer through her bathroom window in the dead of night. She left her curtains open every time she bathed, which she did more often than she had need, but those yellow eyes never reappeared. The monster had vanished entirely.

  “Natalie did you really see him last night?” Maggie whispered to Natalie after Mr and Mrs Hands had retired. Natalie’s eyes shot to Laura who shrugged apologetically. The young maids gossiped constantly, it seemed there was never a day where one of them wasn’t annoyed with another for sharing secrets and betrayals. For the most part Isabelle ignored it, keeping herself removed from any such drama. Today, however, they had her attention. There was only one ‘he’ that required hushed voices and the Hands’ to be out of earshot to discuss.