“I know!” he barks. He turns away, shaking his head ruefully. “I know it,” he says more quietly. “I was foolish to think she might ever be . . . content here.” He sighs. “I suppose I could not expect her affection, but I thought she might learn to regard me with something other than fear, than obedience. I dared hope for an occasional honest smile, shared laughter, another voice to answer mine, if only . . .” His voice trails off. His warm, gold-dusted eyes lower in defeat.
“I can’t bear to see the constant terror in her eyes,” he mutters. “Of course, I should send her home.”
That’s not the only reason, as he ought to know.
But — what if he doesn’t know? I am stunned by this new possibility: if he remembers nothing before waking up in the park in his beastly form, as he told me once, he may not even know about the spell that created him! He may not realize that this new life he has only just embraced might be taken from him just as quickly.
But how can I tell him in this moment? I have never seen Beast so despondent, so dispirited, so resigned to misery. What would it do to him to think that he had some connection to the hateful Jean-Loup? I remember how Jean-Loup raged inside of Beast, at first, when we smashed the mirrors and he shut me up in that cupboard. Beast has found the strength to overcome him since then. But Beast’s grip on life may be fragile. What if the truth about his origin is too big a shock? What if Beast loses his hold, and Jean-Loup comes back?
I don’t know the answer. But I do know the danger posed by Rose, even if she’s proven she can never care for Beast as he is — with my help, I remind myself guiltily. If only I can persuade Beast to send her home now, perhaps he’ll never have to know about Jean-Loup.
Rose is very attached to her father, I tell Beast. It was very kind of you to forgive his debt, but perhaps she fears it will shame him if she leaves without your permission.
Beast considers this. “Would you have endured so much for your father’s sake, Lucie?”
As much and more. If only he were still here.
And out of nowhere, I hear my father’s voice again, warm and humorous.
“You are the light of the world, my Lucie,” he would tell me. “Open your heart to life.”
I stop abruptly. What would my papa say to see me now?
“You must have loved him very much,” murmurs Beast.
Yes. I pause to get hold of my thoughts, sensing my opportunity. Beast, you must send Rose away. Send her home to her father.
“Agreed.” Beast sighs again. “I will never be more than a monster in her eyes.”
She simply doesn’t know how to see who you are, I protest. You have far more humanity than the chevalier ever had.
This from some hidden generosity of spirit, so long untapped inside me. It must be the memory of my papa. Open your heart.
But Beast frowns at the mention of Jean-Loup and turns his great head away. Then he musters the nerve to face me again. “It has haunted me every day, Lucie, what . . . was done to you here. I would give anything, do anything, to erase that moment of horror from your life. But I haven’t found any magic spell for that.”
He shakes his head, his expression intent. “I should send you away from here too, Lucie, but I can’t manage it. I have tried every way I can think of to beg or bargain or bully the magic of this place to release you from your enchantment, to send you back to a life you deserve, but it all comes to nothing.”
Release me? Have I ever sought release? Such an idea has never even occurred to me. Where would I go? I try to imagine myself in human form again, that dull, plain girl, friendless, ill-used, and abandoned. Had I fled with the other servants, I might have been welcomed down in Clairvallon for a day or two, perhaps a week. My tale of the chevalier’s hideous transformation should have ensured me companions for a time who might have purchased my story for a meal or a bed. But sooner or later, I would be alone again, with no living nor any prospects, to sell what little I possessed — my wretched body — or starve in the road. Perhaps both. No, I am far better off the way I am.
The sudden trilling of Redbird downstairs startles us both and signals Rose’s return in the entry hall. Beast rises quickly.
“I mustn’t let her see me,” he rumbles. And, with a last, poignant look at me, he turns and disappears down the stairs.
Two more nights pass with Rose taking her meals in restless solitude. On the third night, Rose and I are once again in the dining salon before the warming fire, serenaded by unseen musicians. When eight chimes fail to produce Beast, Rose sets down her goblet next to me on the table and sighs.
“Please, Sir Beast, do come back to me,” she addresses the air. “I shall die of loneliness.”
The doors open slowly, and Beast stands in the entryway; I wonder, does he wait there each evening, hoping to be summoned? His fine gold-worked cloak sparkles in the firelight. His mane is groomed, and his paws are almost hidden by long, embroidered shirt cuffs. His bulk is arranged in a posture of humility, and his eyes are downcast. He does not enter the room.
“Sir Beast.” Rose gasps, and he draws a step back. “No, wait! Please . . . come in.”
He comes as near as the doorway again. “Please accept my apologies for . . . my appearance the other night,” he rumbles. “I mistakenly thought you were in danger, that something had happened to you, or I should never have burst in like that. I would never frighten you for all the world, Rose.”
Beast does not glance at me, but I feel another pang of shame.
Rose draws a breath. “I behaved very badly myself,” she says. “It was all a terrible mistake, as you say. I am willing to forget it, if you are.”
Beast does not know what to say at first. He does not actually sniff the air, but I see how alert he is.
“Whatever you wish, of course,” he says at last, watching her. “But . . . you are not obliged to remain here.”
“I know I am not,” says Rose. “It is very kind of you to forgive my father’s debt, but I will not betray his honor by running away like a child. I will stay until his honor is satisfied. And my own,” she adds, lifting her chin. “With your permission, Sir Beast.”
I have underestimated her, this frail-seeming girl. She is learning that courtesy and kindness mean more to her fearsome host than an ocean of tears.
Beast continues to peer at her. Now, I think, now is the moment to tell her she has acquitted herself with honor and send her home. But after only a moment of hesitation, Beast nods, disarmed.
“You are welcome here for as long as you like, Rose.”
“Thank you.” Then she favors him with one of her radiant smiles. “Oh, please, Sir Beast, do come in.”
He steps tentatively into the room and reaches for his chair at the opposite end of the table. Rose makes a grand gesture and motions him two chairs nearer. Beast looks surprised but takes his place as directed.
“I pray you are . . . content, here, Rose,” says Beast. “That it’s not too unpleasant.”
“But it’s very pleasant to have everything one could ever want!” She smiles at him again. “All I lack of late is your company. I’ve . . . missed you.”
This time, Beast does raise his perceptive nose to the air but apparently scents no deceit. The girl’s resolve must be strong indeed. “Have you?” Beast considers this. “In spite of . . . everything?”
“You have ever been a most gracious and civil host,” she replies, choosing her words with great care, her dark blue eyes keen. “So long as you maintain that humor, you shall always be welcome at my table.”
Her table? Who is she to order him around, demand civility? He is master here; he could split her eardrums with a single roar of his sovereignty! But he only gazes at her in quiet contemplation.
“Then I shall endeavor to be civil, Rose . . . for your sake.”
They chatter on in their civil manner, the two of them, saying nothing about nothing in words with no more weight than the down of a swan, floating in the air. Another hour passes before Beast senses Rose’s weariness and excuses himself.