“I am at your disposal for as long as you have need of me, doctor.” I had made the decision to help him live, and I didn’t intend to see him die now.
For the next three days, I spent most of my waking hours in the Beast’s chambers with the doctor and nurses. He was delirious, moaning and growling and writhing in his bed. Sometimes he had to be forcibly restrained so that he didn’t hurt himself. Only my touch and voice seemed able to calm him, so I hated to leave the staff to cope without me. Even when the doctor ordered me to my bed for some rest, I hurried back after only the smallest amount of sleep possible to allow me to keep functioning.
Their care and concern for their master never abated, and it both impressed me and piqued my curiosity. It was almost as if I wasn’t the only with reason to be grateful to him, and yet I had only seen him treat them with brusque disregard or outright anger.
If there was any part of them that felt, like I had done in the woods, that his death would be a freedom of sorts, neither their actions nor their words ever even hinted at it. They seemed, instead, truly concerned about his condition.
Occasionally I would be left alone with him while they rested or fetched new supplies, and when that happened, I would sit there and stare at his disturbed face. What was going on in his fevered dreams? Without audible words, he didn’t murmur or cry out.
On the third evening, during one such occasion, it occurred to me that he might not survive, and that I had never given my apologies or thanks.
It felt foolish, speaking to an unconscious person, but it also might be the only opportunity I had. Perhaps some part of my words might penetrate into his dreams.
“There’s something I’ve been wanting to say to you.” I took a deep breath. “I’m sorry for entering your room without your knowledge after telling you I would not.” He stilled as he often did at the sound of my voice. “And I never took the chance to thank you for saving my life from the wolves. You put yourself at risk for me, and I appreciate it.”
He stirred and for a moment I thought his eyes would open, but they did not. When I left his room that night, it was with a heavy heart.
But the next morning, when I rushed back in, I could sense a change in mood, even without listening for the exact words. I hurried to the side of the bed and saw that the Beast slept peacefully, his face calm and no longer coated in sweat.
Good news, said Doctor Henshaw, a smile evident in his tone. The fever has broken and the wounds have stopped seeping. I believe we are now on our way to recovery.
I smiled and sank into a nearby chair. A tension in my chest that I hadn’t realized was there eased. A blissful vision of my own bed flashed through my mind. Next time I lay down, I intended to sleep for twelve hours.
You should go and get some more rest, Princess Sophie, said Henshaw. You deserve it, and I don’t want to find you getting sick next.
“Are you sure?” I joked, having become comfortable with him over the last few days. “You might need me more than ever if he’s going to wake up at any second.”
Henshaw chuckled. Even the prince is not strong enough to get out of bed today. So you should take your rest while you can.
I grinned. “I’ve been warned, hey?”
I stood up to leave, but a hand gripped my wrist, holding me in place, and a weak voice said, Sophie. I looked down into clear blue eyes, free from the sheen of fever. I thought I heard you in my dreams, but I wasn’t sure if…
She has hardly left your side, Your Highness, said Henshaw. She has been truly tireless.
He frowned as if confused by his doctor’s words, and I pulled away, stung. Was it really so unbelievable that I would assist in a dangerous illness?
“You must excuse me, I was just on my way out.”
He said nothing further, but his eyes followed me as I moved to the door, and when I looked back from the doorway, I saw a hint of the pleading I had seen in them the first few times we met, before we could communicate.
But I had given everything I had to help him through his illness, barely sleeping for days. What more did he want of me now? My relief from earlier gave way to a deep weariness. He had been unconscious for days, I didn’t know why I had thought he would wake up with a different attitude. I left without speaking. I should have known better than to expect gratitude.
It felt good to do nothing for the day, other than take a short stroll through the garden. I considered resuming my search of the castle but couldn’t muster the energy. Tara and Lottie took it in turns to keep me company, and I found Lottie’s quiet presence and Tara’s constant chatter equally welcome. I invited them both to stay while I ate my evening meal, though they both refused to actually eat with me.
In retribution, I made them entertain me instead with accounts of each other’s physical appearances.
Tara volunteered to go first. Lottie is tall, and…um…willowy.
Skinny, you mean, said Lottie with a depressed tone. Without a single curve.
Willowy, said Tara firmly, sounding more supportive of Lottie than I had yet heard her. The trick to beauty is having confidence in yourself. Start thinking of yourself as willowy, and you’ll soon find everyone else does, too.
Only if I announce it loudly at every opportunity, muttered Lottie.
See! said Tara. You think you’re wounding me, but I take ownership of my outrageous statements—I’m refreshing and fun.
“I couldn’t agree more,” I said. “And I’m forming a tall and willowy impression of you as we speak, Lottie.”
She has pale blonde hair, continued Tara. And gray eyes. And very long, elegant fingers.
Oh! Thank you, said Lottie, and I instantly wondered if the tall, shy girl had always been secretly proud of her elegant fingers. My heart warmed to Tara for noticing.
Now it’s your turn to describe me, said Tara.
Well…Tara is short, much shorter than me. And slim, but with a large…bosom.
I could almost hear her blush in the word, and Tara and I both burst into laughter.
“She’s blushing, isn’t she?” I asked.
I think she’s heating the whole room.
You would, too, if you had this horrid pale skin that turns red at the least emotion, said Lottie, roused almost to defiance. She ran the rest of her description together in her rush to get it out. She has golden-chestnut hair, brown eyes and toffee colored skin—lucky thing—which only seems to blush when she wants to look coquettish.
Coquettish? exclaimed Tara. What an excellent word!