She fluffs out her skirt, adjusts her puffed sleeves, tosses back her hair, and turns to the dressing table across from the bed. Its mirror has been magically restored for her convenience. She peers into her reflection for a long moment. Then she smiles.
“Oh, sisters,” she whispers. “If you could see me now!”
The hall sconces light her way, yet Rose will not venture out of her room without me.
Another fire roars in the dining salon. As we enter, music played by ghostly hands on unseen instruments sweetens the air, a wistful duet for lute and bass viol. Rose’s eyes widen again at the extravagance of the feast laid out on the table before her. Then her face clouds over a bit.
“Surely he means to fatten me up and devour me,” she whispers, and sets me nervously on the table but well within reach.
She’s too frightened to indulge. She only picks at a fragrant, yeasty bread, nibbles at some sugared sweets, and scarcely sips the wine. The roast capon, jellied terrine, and poached fish swimming in lemon and tarragon all go untouched. From somewhere, chimes strike eight times — odd, for I’ve never heard a chiming clock here before — and Rose sets down her wineglass with a thump. When Beast’s huge frame suddenly fills the opposite doorway, she tries not to gasp.
“May I join you, Rose?” he asks her formally. When she cannot quite find her tongue, he remains where he stands. “My supper does not please you?” he inquires.
“I . . . I’m afraid I have little appetite, Sir Beast.”
“Because of me?” he murmurs, and withdraws back into the shadows.
She looks after him, alarmed. Should he be debating whether to devour her, she doesn’t want to insult him into the bargain.
“No . . . Sir Beast! I didn’t mean it that way. Please . . . come back.”
He reappears slowly in the doorway, his hairy face etched in the firelight. “You have nothing to fear from me, Rose. I swear it.” She glances up at him again, and he places a paw upon his breast. “On my honor, I swear it.”
Rose makes up her mind to relent and nods him to a seat at the table. Moving slowly so as not to frighten her any more, he seats himself at the far end of the table opposite her, arranging his fine cape and clothing with care. He glances at me, surprised, and perhaps pleased, to see that Rose has placed me nearby, next to her wine goblet.
“Will you not eat, Sir Beast?” she asks when he makes no motion toward the platters of food or the flagon of wine, which remain piled before Rose.
He gazes pensively at the food, human food fit for ladies and gentlemen; I know it cannot satisfy him.
“I have . . . dined . . . already. But do please help yourself.”
She shakes her head. “I’ve had my fill, thank you.”
Beast frowns. “But you’ve scarcely touched a morsel. Perhaps you’d prefer something else? Soup? Potted sweetbreads? A ragout?” As he reels off these names, the dishes themselves appear on the table, doffing their shiny covers to the startled Rose, enveloping her end of the table in savory steam until at last, she’s fluttering her hands in the air like agitated moths.
“Oh, please, Sir Beast! It’s all too much!”
And with a wave of Beast’s paw, all the dishes vanish.
“I’ve upset you,” he says anxiously.
“No, not at all,” she replies hastily. “It’s just that . . . all this . . .” And she makes a small gesture with her hand that seems to include the beautifully dressed table, the music, and the fragrant air itself, where the dishes were just a moment ago. She shakes her head in wonder, and unexpectedly, a soft syllable of surprised laughter escapes her. Beast peers at her.
“This will all take some getting used to,” she explains. And then she smiles at him.
It’s the first time he has seen her full smile, and I note the surprised pleasure in Beast’s eyes. How eagerly he responds to even the barest hint of fellowship.
And I revise my opinion of this Rose, this innocent beauty.
She will break his heart.
Beast took his leave of Rose last night with the invitation to enjoy herself at his chateau.
“My garden, my grounds, all are at your disposal,” he told her. “Whatever you desire while under my roof, you have only to wish for.” He then asked her permission to visit her again tonight, at eight, and she cautiously agreed.
Rose keeps me nearby like a child clings to a favorite toy, for the reassurance of something familiar, and Beast does not interfere, anxious to put her at ease. So I spent last night on a night table next to Rose’s canopied bed, illuminating nothing. And today, she and I are constant companions. Left on her own to explore the chateau, she needs my friendly light; spring rains have washed away the last of the snow, and the sun, when it shows its face, climbs higher every day, but there are gloomy corners in this place too ominous for her to venture into alone.
Upstairs, Rose investigates the cavernous ballroom with its plain, bare walls and doesn’t know what to make of it, cannot imagine the rage and passion with which its fine mirrored panels were destroyed. She carries me down the grand central staircase, past the portraits of Beaumont ancestors, past the portraits of Rene and Christine LeNoir, Jean-Loup’s parents, without even a flicker of interest. But she stops cold at the wall directly above the landing, where Jean-Loup’s portrait hangs.
The tucked jacket and smooth breeches he wears beneath his tossed-back cloak emphasize his broad chest, slim waist, and long, shapely legs. His russet hair is loose and haloed in gold; his eyes are dark and cold, glittering with slyness. I note again how Beast’s eyes are different, more thoughtful. More complex. But Rose sees only a splendid young knight of heart-stopping beauty. She stretches out her hand to touch the canvas, as if expecting to feel human warmth and life. She must wonder who this handsome knight is and what connection he has to this grand chateau. But of course, she could never imagine the answer.
It disturbs me to see how dreamily she gazes at this cold painted image, responding to its handsome surface alone, while Beast, a warmhearted creature of flesh and blood who so longs for her company, inspires only her fear and suspicion. I would not deny Beast the novelty of having another living soul about the place, but I find I dread how Beast might be hurt should she reject his offer of friendship.
It takes Rose a long time to tear herself away from the portrait and complete her descent into the great hall. There are receiving chambers and salons and sitting rooms and morning rooms of equal grandeur and anonymity in either direction; I have visited them all with Beast. I try to urge her instead toward the double doors. Perhaps if she sees again the outside world, she’ll come to her senses and try to escape. Beast will not pursue her, nor will he keep her caged against her will. She has only to fly, and this charade will end.
I wish as hard as I might, and she does take a tentative step or two toward the doors, but she is less receptive to my thoughts than Beast. Abruptly, she stops and looks around in fear, perhaps afraid of Beast’s magical powers. I peer out through the window, hoping to spy Beast asleep under the roses, sprawled in the dirt like the animal he is; if she sees him as he is in nature, without his elegant clothing, it might drive her away. But I don’t see him anywhere; he’s taken great pains to hide himself from her view.
At length, she sighs and turns around and carries me back into the hall.