“Jean-Loup,” she murmurs, but then she presses him an inch away.
“Rose,” he whispers urgently into her hair. “Marry me now, today!”
“But there’s so much to do!” she exclaims. “People to invite, arrangements to be made. We must tell my family and post the banns. I must have a dress!”
He gazes down at her and says nothing for a moment. “Of course, my dear,” he murmurs, “whatever you wish. Only let it be soon.”
He takes her arm and turns to propel her back to the chateau. Only then do I realize I’m no longer free to watch in anonymity. Stripped of my own enchantment, I’m but a plain, dull girl again, a voyeur to their perfect romance. I am the intruder now.
I stumble back for the protection of the rosebushes, keeping out of their sight. Not that Rose would likely take any notice of me; she has eyes only for her handsome chevalier. I might as well still be a candlestick, for all the difference it makes to her. Jean-Loup sweeps her to the far end of the row, out onto the gravel, and up the drive under the archway of roses. And I am left to huddle here alone, choking on my misery. I’ve regained my human heart only to feel it shatter.
They climb the front steps and disappear together into the chateau. I wander down to the place where Beast so recently lay, the moss crushed flat under the canopy of blooms, almost as if he lay there still, but invisible. After turning away, I see a glittering in the gravel track nearby — the ring with the tiny red heart, forlornly cast off, its long red ribbon stretching away across the tiny stones. For Beast’s sake, I crouch down and pick up the ring that seemed to mean so much to him. It brought him comfort, he told me. I close my fist around it, squeeze it tightly, and feel warmth and courage stealing into me. There is power in this ring. I can feel it.
But for all its power, the ring cannot bring Beast back.
I spread open the red ribbon, slide it on around my neck, and tuck the ring into my bodice. Rising on my unsteady limbs, I gaze up one last time at the magnificence of Chateau Beaumont. Then I hurry to the far end of this row and up the side path until I gain the horse track that leads across the side moat and around to the back of the chateau. Past the well, I begin to run through the green trees of the park and deeper into the black wood beyond, away from the chateau, away from the happy couple. But I can’t run away from myself, my thoughts.
Beast is gone! That noble soul, that gallant heart, gone forever. All of his wisdom, kindness, humanity, now lost.
That foolish girl, that beauty, has won her storybook prince. But I have lost Beast.
It’s dark night when I arrive at the side of the river; it bubbles and boils in agitation to match my own turbulent mood. But I’m no longer the ignorant, timorous chit I was the first time I came here. I know the forces that work in this wood much better now, appreciate their power and their mystery.
“Mère Sophie,” I murmur, “show yourself.”
And the dark little hut of thatch and bramble sprouts like a mushroom on the riverbank only a few paces away. I walk to the low, arched front door with its mysterious carvings, turn the handle, and gently nudge it open; that the cottage appeared at all is invitation enough to enter. All is as I remember inside: the same warming fire, the same tidy kitchen corner, the same calico cat purring happily among the bed pillows. Mère Sophie wears the same grey gown, tending a pot of something on a hook over the fire. Simmering meats and slow-cooking beans, a snap of thyme, a pungent hint of mustard, all release their fragrance, and my newborn human stomach responds with a twinge of longing. Mère Sophie does not look up as I enter.
“Finished, is it?” she mutters over her pot. “Happily ever after, I suppose?”
And all my resolve, my outrage, drains out of me in a great torrent of misery, and I burst into tears like a child.
“Oh, hush, hush, my girl,” she clucks at me, and comes to put her arm around me and guide me to one of the stuffed chairs before the fire. “Sit,” she murmurs, and when I do, she procures from the folds of her apron an enormous handkerchief, into which I sob and sob.
“I’ve been expecting you,” she says after a while, stroking my hair as she perches on the arm of my chair.
“Then you should have given me legs,” I sputter between raspy gulps of air, “to do your bidding faster.”
“My bidding?” says she. “What has my bidding to do with it?”
“You . . . enchanted us. You should have given me the power to change back sooner!” If only I could have gotten to Beast in time.
But Mère Sophie stands abruptly with an exasperated sigh. “Your power is yours to command, my girl, not mine!” And she stalks back to her pot.
I fling away the last of my tears with the back of my hand. “Then why couldn’t I help him?”
“But you did help him. Did you not call for Rose?”
I frown at her. “How do you know that?”
She glances at me. “My dear, who is the wisewoman here?”
“But I didn’t want her to bring back Jean-Loup!”
Mère Sophie stirs ferociously in her pot and shakes her head. “It’s always the same,” she mutters. “Folk pine for a thing and wish for a thing, and then they find it’s not at all what they want.”
“But can’t you change him again?”
She lifts her wooden spoon, dripping with thick broth. “With my magic wand?”
“A charm!” I cry. “Another spell!”
She lifts the pot off its hook and sets it down on the hearth to simmer. “You credit me with too much power, my dear.” She bustles over to her little kitchen corner, and I follow.
“I saw you change Jean-Loup into Beast once,” I say as Mère Sophie takes two pottery bowls out of her cupboard. She hands them to me to set on the table. “I saw it with my own eyes. Can’t you cast another spell to make him Beast again?”
“Oh, my poor, foolish girl, have you not guessed by now?” The wisewoman sighs. “Jean-Loup is the spell, the changeling, the figment of magic. Beast is the true chevalier.”
The bowls slip from my hands and clatter against the table. I can’t imagine what I must look like.
Mère Sophie sighs again. “Let me tell you a story,” she murmurs, “about a woman who gave birth to a monster.” She nods me to a chair at the table and lowers herself into another.
“Beast’s mother, Christine DuVal, the last Lady Beaumont, was a dear, sweet girl. Her mother had been a great friend of mine. I was Christine’s godmother. She was born in the country and loved countryfolk and country ways.”
“I saw her portrait.” I don’t mention my vision, the way she sobbed for my help, although it would not surprise me if the wisewoman knows that, too.
“Her marriage to the seigneur de Beaumont was arranged. Her father was a wealthy merchant elevated to the office of receiver of the royal tax. He grew wealthier still in fees and bribes but was not considered noble. He set aside a vast dowry in lands and income for Christine and sold her to the seigneur.”
“Rene Auguste,” I say, recalling the grim-faced portrait and the cast-off suit of armor.