Rose finds her way to the kitchen. Perhaps she means to find some honest work for her idle hands, to earn the splendor of Beast’s hospitality. Or perhaps she only wishes to relieve the boredom. But the kitchen hums along in perfect order, pots and pans sparkling in their racks, cook fire crackling low in the grate, kettle warming on the hob. There’s nary a crumb to be swept off the floor nor a stain of any kind to be scrubbed on the huge oak table. It’s not at all like the chaotic days when messy human servants inhabited the place; magic manages everything so much more tidily.
After wandering from kitchen to scullery to formal salons, she takes a seat at last in one of my old chambers, weary from the explorations of the morning. It’s midday, and a sturdy dinner of stew and bread and grapes and wine presents itself on the side table next to her. She eats more heartily this time and smiles to see the dinner things vanish when she is done.
At last, finding nothing anywhere that needs doing, nor any other amusement, she wanders out again into the entry hall. She’s drawn to the sideboard against the wall, where Beast keeps his bowl of dried rose petals. The mound is higher than it was, with a few soft, still-red petals sprinkled over the dry brown ones. The fragrance is so delicious that Rose dares to dip into the bowl, crushing a few petals between her fingers and trailing her fingertips gently along the base of her throat.
A few more steps lead her into the vestibule behind the staircase that overlooks the back of the estate. The doors are open, giving onto the smaller stone bridge that crosses the back of the moat and leads to the green park beyond. Beast has been at work here, for the bramble that threatened to swallow all not so long ago has now been banished deep into the woods. The pale sun has struggled free of the clouds for the moment and beams on the green, glistening trees and turquoise water.
Unable to resist, Rose is drawn out into the open air.
I’ve been clutched in her hand all the while, for the vestibule is full of shadows. But now, outside, she places me on the flat stone railing that caps the low bridge wall. I try to focus my thoughts, to urge her all the way across the bridge, into the park and the wood beyond.
But she dares only a hesitant step or two away, when she spies one of the swans fluffing up his feathers out in the moat. She trots another few steps down the bridge as the swan paddles away toward the far corner of the chateau.
“Wait!” she cries. “Oh, please, wait!”
Perhaps she hopes the swan, like Beast, can speak to her. But the swan isn’t enchanted and won’t obey, gliding on around the corner and disappearing from her view. With a great sigh, she flops down onto the stone railing beside me, shivering a bit as the sun, too, begins to disappear. Then she sits up straighter and lifts her chin.
“I am here for Papa’s sake, and I will not be sorry about it,” she reminds herself. “But — if only there were someone to talk to. Someone else, I mean,” she adds softly, with a wary glance back at the chateau. “It’s so lonely here.”
And with a charming melody of musical notes, a small red bird flies out of the park and over the moat toward us. He lands first on a window ledge on the third floor, then hops to a stone balcony above the bridge. He sings again and cocks his head; his bright black eye seems to look right at us. Then he flutters down to perch on one of my outstretched silver arms and gazes attentively at Rose. I would shoo him off if I could, but Rose claps her hands with delight.
“Oh, pretty bird! Do you understand me?”
He chirps again with a quick little nod.
“Can you speak?”
He sings another rhapsody of beautiful notes; every creature speaks, if we have the wit to hear them. But she’s expecting human language, and her face falls a little. Still, the bird looks at her so keenly, she can’t help but smile back.
“Do you live here, Redbird?” And her voice lowers and softens. “Am I right to be afraid?”
The bird answers with a cascade of pretty notes like reassuring laughter. And I realize where I’ve seen this creature before: in the rose garden, serenading Beast. I wonder if Beast has sent this bird to Rose, to help calm her fears.
“It is a beautiful place,” Rose confesses, brightening a little, gazing up again at the towering chateau. “And . . . he did say I have nothing to fear from him.”
The bird chirps merrily again, as if laughing off her qualms.
“I was being silly, I know,” Rose agrees. She gets to her feet and smiles at the bird. “It won’t be so much to bear.”
She has a new gown to wear at supper, pale periwinkle blue, trimmed in tiny pearls. She marches into the dining salon with more assurance and samples more of the food; it delights her to send the platters and gravy boats flying with a wave of her hand. Indeed, she is bearing up wonderfully well.
At eight chimes, Beast appears again in the doorway, clothed and caped and groomed. Yet she can’t quite stifle another little gasp at the sight of him. I should be glad to see her making such a fool of Jean-Loup, increasing his humiliation, but it irritates me that Beast must bear with her foolishness.
Rose recovers herself and graciously nods him to the table. Beast glances at me, surprised to find me still in Rose’s company, standing by her plate. He then takes his place at the foot of the table, with several places between them at their opposite ends.
“Have you everything you require?” he asks Rose.
“You are very kind, Sir Beast.”
“Have you visited my park?” he continues eagerly. “My rose garden?”
“I . . . I didn’t know if it would be allowed.” Her eyelids flutter down, and Beast draws back as if rebuked.
“But, Rose,” he protests gently. “I have no wish to imprison you in this house. Please, go out of doors and enjoy the sunshine. I would be honored if you would visit my garden, as I understand you are fond of roses. And there are many handsome walks in my park. Please feel free to make use of them.”
She raises her eyes again, as blue as an ocean. “I was afraid I would anger you,” she confesses. “I didn’t want to repay your hospitality with disobedience.”
“But I do not ask you to obey me,” says Beast. “I only wish for you to enjoy what I have to offer.”
She nods and takes another small sip of wine.
“I would be very happy,” he continues eagerly, “to escort you around my rose garden. Tomorrow, if you like.”
Rose sets her glass down with a nervous thud and glances away to conceal the fear in her eyes from Beast — but not from me. It’s clear she dreads the thought of Beast any nearer than a table-length away.
“But . . . Sir Beast, I’m afraid you would find me poor company.”
A deft parry. She is more cunning than I gave her credit for, or else she is learning it out of necessity.
Beast scents the air between them and frowns very slightly. I know how sharp his senses are. He detects her true feelings, however hard she tries to conceal them.
“But I could wish for none better,” says Beast. “It would make me the happiest of . . . of . . .”
He cannot say “of men,” as the usual compliment goes, and her fragile composure wavers.
“Oh, forgive me, kind Sir Beast, but I . . . I . . .”
He rises so suddenly that she jumps in her seat, but he only means to back away from the table and make her a courtly bow.
“It is too soon. I know,” he rumbles. “We scarcely know each other, and I have no desire to upset you, my dear Rose.” His voice is pitched low and soft with concern. “I will leave you now. But, please, I beg of you, do not forbid me to come dine with you again tomorrow evening.”
I dislike that Beast must beg for her approval. But Rose gathers her resolve and nods.
“You may come.”
“Until tomorrow, then,” he murmurs. “Eight o’clock.” And with one last glance at me, he backs away into the shadows.