The inaudible hum faded, letting me relax. The clinking of china and glassware told me that a meal had appeared somewhere in the room, so I climbed to my feet and went to indulge, again, in crisp bacon. We hadn't had bacon at all since leaving the city, and it had never been this good. Enchanted bacon was a more prosaic use of magic than I had ever imagined, but one I entirely approved of.
I left my bedroom more apprehensively than I had the previous morning, as if the castle might aggressively besiege me with visions again. If, in fact, they had been visions at all: I had certainly known the story I'd been part of. It was the Queen's War, the one that had defined our country and staved off invasion so very long ago. I had been Queen Irindala in it, with the weight of a sword comfortable in my hand. No story I'd ever heard had told of the burying of the king's bones, though, or the blood sacrifice to build our kingdom's borders. But then, enchantment belonged to faeries or witches, and was considered suspect within our realm. Even if the queen was known to have witchy associates—and she was, else she would never have lived such an improbable span—she would not have been likely to confess to casting a spell, even to protect our borders.
My feet had taken me not to the breakfast room, but outside the palace. I looked up at it now, myself a small and solitary thing standing in the snow before its great edifice, and wondered at how long it had been there. It seemed that it must have stood since the Queen's youth, at least; it was as if the palace carried living memories of that time. And it had that library full of ancient, rescued books. Maybe the palace—or some version of it, at least—had been here always, collecting memories and stories that would otherwise be lost. Perhaps I could find my way into a corridor that would tell me of Boudicca, or one that would know the tale of the physician Al Shifa.
Maybe, a small and quiet part of me thought, maybe I could find a room that would let me know my long-dead mother, although Father still carried her memories with him, so perhaps they weren't lost enough for the palace's enchantments.
I was outside anyway, so I went past the frozen pools toward the gardens where so much trouble had begun. There were other fresh footprints in the snow: the Beast had come this way since the end of the storm. I put my foot into one of his prints and puffed a steamy breath of awe into the cold air. He'd been walking on all fours, which changed the shape of what pressed into the snow, but my foot still fit tidily into one of his paw prints. If he'd been walking upright I'd have been able to put both feet, heel to toe, into the print, and probably had room to spare.
The rose garden looked more gnarled than I remembered it from only a few days ago, but I hadn't been paying the closest attention, by the end of it all. I wandered its paths, rubbing my palm in memory of the prickles I'd taken, and did not pick any roses. After a while I went back to the library, where tea and scones with strawberry jam awaited me, and I wondered aloud if perhaps a book or two on perfumery might be found.
By the time I'd settled by the fire with my scones, a tidy stack of books and scrolls had arrived on the nearest table. I chose a scroll and unrolled it, then screwed my eyes shut as the text on it danced and swam. A second look rendered it perfectly readable, and I made a note to myself that I should probably always open a book and glance away briefly before trying to read it. Then I laughed. "How easily we adapt to enchantment, hm?"
The under-the-skin hum buzzed at that, and I smiled, this time apologetically. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make light of your situation." The scroll held a recipe for a perfume called khemet, made with cinnamon and myrrh and sweet wine, though the properties of the wine weren't described beyond its sweetness. I said, half to myself and half to the palace, "I don't suppose any of this particular sweet wine is lingering in the cellars," and put the scroll aside to examine others.
Nearly all of them contained recipes I didn't know, but many of those required ingredients I was confident of finding in the kitchen or on the grounds, come the thaw. I found myself talking to the library about them, explaining what I knew about how the scents combined, or the differences in practicality for a wax-based perfume versus a liquid one. I whiled away the afternoon in that pursuit, narrowing the scents I wanted to create—first, at least—down from dozens to three. I sighed contentedly and stacked the unneeded books together, thanking the servants as the books returned to their shelves one by one, and gathered the three I wanted to bring back to my room.
The khemet recipe scroll, which I thought I'd put away, wobbled at the edge of the table. Beside it stood a bottle no taller than my hand, so old that embedded dust had pitted the glass. My head snapped up and I looked around the room in astonishment, as if I could lay eyes on the servant who had delivered the little bottle. There was no one there, of course, so I picked the bottle up, gently tilting it to watch the wine inside shift. "Stars of earth and heaven. Thank you. How did you…thank you!"
My treasures clutched carefully in my arms, I left the library with a sense of satisfied servants in my wake.
I was late to dinner, and came down smelling of a peculiar enough array of herbs and spices that the Beast's nose twitched, though he didn't say anything. Dinner didn't taste quite right, either, with strong scents still clinging to my hands, even though I'd washed them with soap and then with lemon water. Eventually, as if testing uncertain waters, the Beast said, "You've found a way to entertain yourself?" and unleashed two or three hours of enthusiastic lecture on the topic of perfume-making. To his credit, he retained the appearance of interest, and it was only when my own stomach rumbled with a consideration of dessert that I realized the Beast had probably not eaten at all.
When the demand was put to him, he only shrugged. "I can eat later. It's been a long time since I've had anyone to converse with. Or," he amended, with what might have been the hint of a smile, "to converse at me."
"You should still eat," I said firmly, aware I sounded like Opal fussing over the boys when they were ill. "I'll look away, or pretend not to watch, but if I'm going to be here forever it's ridiculous for you to not have dinner with me."
The Beast gave me a measured look. "You are adapting very well."
"I believe I may be in some sort of denial." That was true enough: I couldn't really imagine remaining at the Beast's palace forever. Thinking about it, though, made it seem too real, so I added, more lightly, "Also, there are books. I've missed reading, the past year. Apple pie, perhaps?"
To my relief, the Beast responded with precisely the right amount of solemn pedantry: "I have never read an apple pie."
I smiled. "To eat. As an experimental meal shared. No one expects pie to be eaten tidily; it's too delicious."