“Someone is coming.”
Beast appears beside me at the window overlooking the rose garden. His shaggy ears prick up, and his nose quivers. I stare hard but can see nothing out in the garden; dusk is falling, and the shadows are long.
“There,” says Beast, pointing out past the roses and the gilded iron gate beyond.
I lower my flame to make the glass less reflective, and we see a cloaked figure making its way up the hill from the vineyards below the chateau.
It must be the merchant, drawing his cloak closer against the chill of evening as he presses on. He comes on foot this time and will not condemn his horse to share his fate. His movements are clumsy, furtive, and yet determined.
Already Beast is vaulting up the stairs to ready a suite of rooms, order a meal, and prepare himself for his guest. I’m left alone in the window to watch the visitor approach the far end of the stone bridge over the moat. Across the bridge he creeps, stopping once to admire the swans and again to stare up in awe at the riot of roses bursting over the top of the chateau wall. But when the gates swing open before him, he draws back in alarm, as if he has never beheld such a thing before.
This is not the old man.
The intruder is in the garden now, crunching up the drive under the archway of roses. At the top of the drive, the figure pauses to gaze up at Chateau Beaumont in all its grandeur. Even in the half-light of dusk, it must be an impressive sight with its rows and rows of mullioned windows and carved balconies, its domed turrets and skyscraping tower. For a long moment, the stranger is too much in awe to continue, possibly losing his nerve and ready to flee. In that unguarded moment, the cloak falls partly open, and I spy skirts underneath. A woman! A woman in Beast’s lair.
I see her straighten her shoulders, readjust her cloak, catch up her skirts, and begin her ascent. Only as she gains the porch do I realize that her eyes are on me, the only beam of warmth and light in this dark, forbidding place.
The grand double doors swing open, soundlessly this time, and the hall sconces light as she steps into the room. She turns around and around, taking it all in: the black-and-white marble tile floor, the brocaded walls, the golden sconces, the grand staircase with its ornate carvings. And as she turns, she pushes back her hood. She is young, with a heart-shaped face, large, liquid dark blue eyes, and long fair hair, artlessly drawn off her face with a single ribbon like a child’s.
She is beautiful.
Why is she here?
On her final rotation, her gaze snags again on me. Then an ominous rumbling calls her attention to the stairway; Beast emerges out of the shadows at the bend of the staircase as a chandelier suddenly flames to life. He gazes down at her, and she draws back where she stands. One delicate hand flies to her mouth, but she doesn’t utter the cry that must be in her throat. For another long moment, they stare at each other. Beast is resplendent in a fine white linen shirt massive enough to confine and conceal his feathered back and furry chest, and breeches — breeches!— that must have adjusted magically to his girth. His burgundy cloak lined in golden satin is thrown back over his huge shoulders, clasped across his chest with a strand of pearls. But he is Beast still, his great head maned and horned, his muzzle covered in downy fur, his paws savage, his hooves cloven beneath his breeches.
“Who seeks my hospitality?” he calls down.
Affrighted anew that the monster speaks, the girl loses her resolve and whirls about where she stands, only to see the double doors slam shut behind her. With a gasp, fingertips still at her mouth, she turns back to face her fate.
“Your name, girl,” says Beast more gently.
“R-Rose,” says she.
“So your father sent you in his place,” says Beast. “I had not thought him so cowardly.”
“My father is not a coward!” she cries. Then she thinks to lower her voice. “But he is old and worn down with his cares. It’s my fault that he offended you; I’m the one who asked for a rose. I could not let him come back here to be . . . to . . .” She does not know what, or can’t bring herself to say it. “So I slipped away before anyone could stop me,” she says. “I only hope you will accept me in his stead.”
Beast cocks his head to one side, regarding her. “You mean to say you are here of your own free will? No one has forced you to come here?”
“It is my choice.” She lifts her pointed chin with a pretty show of spirit. “Our family keeps its bargains.” And I see Beast’s expression warm ever so slightly.
“Then you are welcome. Rose.”
Beast makes a little bow and comes down two steps. I see the girl tense, but she makes no other move. Beast pauses, eyes fixed upon her face.
“May I take your cloak?” he offers.
It’s plain she fears him coming any closer, but she doesn’t want to repay his polite offer with rudeness. So she unlaces her cloak, lets it fall from her shoulders, and stands uncertainly, holding it over her arm. Invisible forces lift it gently into the air, and this time, she can’t suppress a little cry when Beast points one paw, and an ornate coatrack of polished wood suddenly appears at the foot of the stairs; the cloak flies through the air to hang itself on one of the hooks. Rose stands before Beast in a modest frock of blue homespun with a white apron pinned to her bodice and tied at the waist that sweeps nearly to the floor.
“Why, you are dressed like a servant,” says Beast.
She glances down at her clothing. “These are all I have,” she tells him. “We are poor now, and what few fine things we still possess belong to my sisters.”
“You will find fresh garments in your room upstairs and a supper laid whenever you wish it. At eight o’clock — if you will permit it — I will visit you again.”
She lifts her chin again and gazes frankly into Beast’s face.
“You are . . . very kind. Sir Beast.”
She favors him with a half smile, and he gazes back at her, his expression unreadable. Then he disappears into the shadows in a swirl of velvet and gold.
She looks after him in the gloom, then squares her shoulders and prepares to climb the stairs. But at the last minute, she comes back again to peer at me, although not with the same covetous look of her father. She does pluck me off my windowsill, however. Perhaps she doesn’t trust the magical sconces to stay alight long enough to find her way upstairs. Or perhaps she feels safer with an object in hand she can wield as a weapon.
The small white hand that curls around me does not feel much accustomed to battle, but there is resolution in her grip as she mounts the steps.
I light her way upstairs. What choice do I have?
The sconces upstairs direct her to a cozy bedchamber dominated by a grand canopied bed. Spread across the counterpane, she finds a magnificent gown as blue as the one the stained-glass princess wears in the tower window and trimmed in creamy lace. She gasps when she sees it.
“But this is too fine for me,” she breathes.
Who does she mean to impress with her modesty? There’s no one here but me.
She sets me on the nightstand, and while there are no servants to dress her, her own clothes obligingly fall away, even as her hands rush to her bodice to try to hold them on. She looks all around in fear, expecting to be pounced on, I suppose. But instead a fine chemise floats down over her head, the embroidered material exquisite. Petticoats of equal quality follow, and then the gown itself, the bodice lacing itself up her back. With each new layer, her wide eyes grow more eager. She takes a pinch of shimmering satin between her thumb and fingers, expecting it to melt away like fairy dust. But it’s as real as the roses in the garden that blossomed under Beast’s care.