But Rose, surprised, clutches me closer. “You are very kind, Sir Beast. But — I know it’s silly, but there are shadows in my chamber.” Indeed there are within the alcove where her bed and nightstand are placed. There are no sconces, and I provide the only light, although it embarrasses her to admit she is afraid of the dark. Then she looks at me, now gripped in both her hands, and warily back at Beast. “I . . . I hope you don’t mind.”
Perhaps she fears to be accused of stealing if she does not surrender me. This must occur to Beast, too, from his hasty reassurance.
“Of course not, dear Rose; you may do as you like. I only wish for you to feel at home here.”
He backs toward the door, with a nod of farewell to Rose, who still clutches me in her hands. “And if you need anything, you have only to ask,” he murmurs, looking directly at me. “You know that.”
I read the question in his dark eyes as he lingers in the doorway.
“Thank you,” whispers Rose.
I, too, flutter my flames a bit to show I appreciate him thinking of me, but I am resigned to bear the girl’s company a while longer. Only then does Beast bow his way out and leave the corridor unobstructed for Rose.
Rose spends all the next morning in the library, bathed in the shifting sunlit colors pouring through the window, absorbed in her private world of books. I stand beside her, providing light, while I stew in my own thoughts. She chooses fairy tales and romances, I notice, slim volumes with beautiful engravings, easily digested. Stories for children: princesses locked in towers waiting for deliverance.
By the time dusky twilight falls, Rose has returned to her room to refresh herself after the exertions of a day spent dreaming over her books. A new gown of silvery blue satin is draped over the painted screen beside her wardrobe, but for now she’s dressed only in her delicate lawn chemise, dabbing rose water from her basin onto her temples and wrists. These tasks completed, she goes to stretch out on her bed to nap before supper.
But I am in turmoil over all the ways she seems to be settling in about the place; it’s been gnawing at me all day. It’s bad enough the way she disrupts everything, intrudes on our solitude. But ever since I learned that Rose has dreamed of Jean-Loup, I’ve been wrestling with something even more sinister: only a woman who agrees to marry Beast could ever restore Jean-Loup, according to Mère Sophie’s spell. It’s impossible to imagine that Rose would ever marry Beast; she is far too terrified of him. Nor would he ever think to ask her. But over time she might learn to pity him. And any softening of her feelings toward Beast is cause for alarm. She has no idea of the horror she might possibly unleash, all unawares, simply by staying on here.
Yet how can I deny Beast the human companionship he so longs for? He asks for so little, and it means so much to him. But, I further argue with myself, doesn’t Beast deserve more than her pity? And under no circumstances can we let Jean-Loup come back.
Because what then becomes of Beast?
Rose must leave here now, of her own free will, as she arrived. And it must be a quick, clean break. Beast must bear his awful loneliness, but it’s for his own sake. Rose must not stay here. She must take her poisonous dreams and go.
I stand on the bedside table, gazing down at her in her white chemise, with her long, pale blond hair spread beneath her. There can be no better time to catch her so completely off her guard.
The sudden appearance of Beast, unbidden, in her private chamber, should be enough to convince Rose how foolish she was to come here. Of course, Beast would never harm her, but the fact that she might encounter him at any moment, not merely at their formal dinners together, might shock her to her senses.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I focus my thoughts on Beast. I don’t know if I can reach him from such a distance, but I must try. For all our sakes. The sun sets outside, and violet darkness steals over the last of the day. It’s the uncanny hour, when all of nature holds its breath, awaiting the night.
Beast, I think, Beast, you must come. Come to Rose’s chamber. Come at once. Rose needs you. Beast, come here now.
The shadows deepen, and night falls, until I am the only light in the room. Rose sighs prettily and turns over in her sleep.
Beast, now! Come now.
Something crashes in the next room, and Rose starts in her sleep. The double doors to the bedchamber burst inward, and Beast looms there, panting.
“Rose!” he bellows.
She jolts awake and screams at the sight of him.
Heat and agitation and a gamy, sickening odor roll off him in waves, thickening the air in the room, and Rose cries out again, cowering into her pillows.
Beast staggers to the bedside into the pool of my light. He’s a gruesome sight, clad only in a torn-open shirt splashed with red animal blood that hangs askew on his massive frame. His mane tufts up in all directions, clotted with burrs and leaves, and blood drips from his whiskers and beard. His bloody paws are raised, claws outstretched, his powerful furred haunches and ragged rows of feathers exposed beneath his shirttails.
Of course, he would be hunting at nightfall! How could I have forgotten? I was too intent on my own purpose. I only meant to give Rose a shock, not frighten her to death!
Worst of all are Beast’s dark eyes, glinting gold in the light, grotesquely human and wild with fear.
“Rose, what’s the matter?” he cries.
But she’s gotten her legs under her and scrambles farther backward.
“You are a horrible beast, that’s the matter!” she shrieks, dragging a pillow across her lap and clutching it like a shield. She’s a tiny, fragile thing cowering beneath his hugeness. “And you’re going to kill me!”
Beast teeters on his hooves, still panting, bewildered. “No,” he gasps. “Rose, no, I would never . . .” He starts to raise one paw in supplication, and she jerks even farther away.
“Then why are you here?” she cries.
“I — I thought there was something wrong,” he stammers. “That you . . . called for me —”
“I would never call for you!” she cries, and he backs up a step. “Go away!” And he backs up another.
“Rose, please, I . . .” The fear in his eyes is deepening into profound humiliation as he sees himself reflected in her terror. He glances down at himself, makes a feeble attempt to wipe one bloody paw on his filthy shirt.
“Get out!” Rose shouts. “Out!” She’s up on her knees now. She can feel the power she has over him. It’s his turn to cower.
Beast clutches his torn shirt closed over his chest, eyes full of confusion and apology and shame. Then his gaze falls on me, for an instant of awful realization.
“Forgive me, Rose,” he murmurs, backing away. “Please, please forgive —”
“Out!” she cries again.
With a groan, Beast heels around and gallops out of the room. The fireplace opposite blazes with comforting light and warmth the instant he is gone, but Rose won’t be comforted. Tears she was too frightened to shed before now burst out; she throws herself across the bed, sobbing. She ought to be collecting her things, I think angrily, to shift my own thoughts away from this awful thing I’ve done. I promise I will make it up to Beast, somehow, if only she will leave.
He will never imprison her; he told her so. But she won’t resolve herself to a sensible course of action. Instead she cries and cries. Finally, she sits up and hurls her pillow across the room; when it knocks a jar of something off her dressing table, causing a cascade of powder, she leaps up to grasp me and stumbles to the table, wielding me by the base to sweep off the other bottles and potions. She plunks me down before the looking glass and sinks into the chair, then buries her face in her folded arms and sobs some more.
Can she not simply go? I am furious! Beast should have devoured her and gotten it over with! Besides, he’ll hear her; her weeping must be echoing throughout the chateau, rebuking Beast over and over for the way he has frightened her, disgusted her. What purpose does it serve to keep hurting him with her tears? Hasn’t he been hurt enough tonight? Did she not see his eyes?
But perhaps she did not. That wounded look wasn’t meant for her, anyway. It was meant for me.