Beauty in the Beast (7 page)

We arrived in town just before noon and found the streets empty. Many of the buildings were still shuttered after last night’s storm. However, some paths had been made through the snow, evidence of light traffic and activity.

A young woman stood on the front stoop of a home, dumping water from a bucket. She stared at us as we passed—the mechanical horse trailing a ribbon of gray smoke, the creaking wagon it pulled, Fred in the back twiddling his fingers around the neck of an imaginary lute. Her eyes widened when I waved, and she scuttled backward like a crab, closing the door. An instant later the drape of the front window pushed aside, and she stared at us through the frosted glass.

We found the mechanic shop across town. It looked dark and tired, the Closed sign just visible behind the door’s dusty windowpane. Fred rattled the door handle.

I regarded the upper story window and its closed, lace-fringed curtain. “I wonder if the shopkeep lives above.”

I left Fred and Rolph to the noisy business of calling the shopkeep and wandered the streets. I nodded to a young boy pushing a wheelbarrow of coal. His floppy hat nearly covered his eyes, and he tilted his head back like a mouse to see me from beneath its rim. Two more children passed by on a cross street with a sled, both so bundled I couldn’t tell if they were wearing dresses or britches. Dogs barked, sounding close in the crisp air.

I followed the sound of a shop bell to the only establishment on the street with its curtain drawn open, a store crowded from floor to ceiling with food and domestic supplies. An old woman sat behind the far counter, stitching a needlepoint. Embroidered pictures of birds and flowers decorated the only bit of bare wall behind her, a narrow stretch squeezed between shelves of jars.

“That was quite a storm,” I said in greeting.

She looked at me over the rims of her glasses. “It was.” She placed down the frame and needle and laid her glasses beside them. “Can I help you find anything?”

“I’m really just browsing.” My eyes skated over a row of small tin automata.

She resumed her needlework. “Take your time, love.”

Dry goods crowded one wall—boxes of sugar and baking soda, jars of dried spices, tins of oatmeal and a dozen other household staples I hadn’t purchased in years. Above a shelf of dust pans and sewing supplies, lamps stood in neat and ready rows.

Bags of flour dominated the middle of the store, stacked in an island as high as my hips. I circled them to examine a display of esoteric-looking kitchen machines. Printed signs read AMAZING Automatic Can Opener!, Tired of CHOPPING and DICING? and BEAT EGGS with the crank of a SWITCH!

Propped next to the register was a smaller sign, this one hand-painted. It read Potatos, Turnips, Carrits, & Onyins.

“You carry produce?” I asked.

“Only what’s listed there. I sell what I have through the winter until I’m out.”

I thought about the stewpot over Rolph’s fire. “I’ll take a pound of each.”

She stood. “No onions.”

I nodded. She excused herself to fetch them from the cellar, leaving me to dig through my purse for my small stash of money.

“What are those books there?” I asked when she returned, spying a stack of leather-bound books.

“Journals.” She set a lumpy canvas bag on the counter. Through its collapsed mouth peeked bits of deep brown, faded purple and orange. She plucked a book from the top of the stack and set it down in front of me.

I smoothed a hand over the soft leather cover. It creaked when I opened it, and I admired the milky-white pages—all spectacularly blank, like a promise. I could feel words hidden behind the pages, hazy ideas and pictures.

I dared to look at the price penciled lightly inside the front cover and did the quick math. “I’ll take this too. And two pencils.”

She wrapped all three items neatly in brown paper and tied it with a length of twine. With the package in my arms and the shop bell chiming behind me, I suddenly felt the closeness of Christmas. I watched plumes of black chimney smoke snake into the sky and smelled bread and pies baking. I hoped we would make it to the Frost Fair in time to see the tree on Christmas night, lit with candles like a thousand twinkling stars.

At the side of an inn that looked shuttered for the winter, I found a table and benches. A tree that probably offered shade to the table in the summer now shielded it from the worst of the snow. I scraped away what had been left there after the storm and sat, wondering if Fred and Rolph had found any luck with the parts. I ought to check on them, but I wanted to enjoy the sense of peace here for just a minute, the hush that had fallen with the blanket of snow.

I rested my chin in my hands and closed my eyes. The rich smell of wood smoke, coal and thatch mixed with the clear sharpness of snow, enveloping me like a blanket of winter incense.

The breeze brought another scent, one both strange and familiar. I opened my eyes.

“Rolph,” I said.

He paused in the street and turned, his expression warming. The way he had his hands buried in his coat pockets gave him a boyish appearance. He strolled toward me. “Enjoying the afternoon?”

“It’s beautiful. Did you find the shopkeep?”

He nodded. “Fred is at the shop now. They don’t have what you need in stock, so they’re checking another storeroom. May I?” He gestured to the bench across from me.

My heartbeat quickened. “Of course.”

As he sat, his gaze fell onto the bag. “Potatoes?”

“For the stew, since we’ve been eating so much.” I slid the brown package toward him over the table. “And this is for you.”

He looked rather dumbstruck.

“Open it! It’s not
just
a package.”

How long had it been since someone had given him a gift? My stomach tightened. What if he didn’t like it? I itched to tear the package open for him as he carefully picked apart the twine and unfolded the paper.

Rolph picked up the book and opened it. A question formed in his eyes.

“A sketchbook,” I said. “Pencils too.”

He shook his head, lines creasing at the corners of his eyes. “But why? I can’t take this from you. Money is scarce…”

I tried, somewhat unsuccessfully, to keep my expression from falling. “Not so scarce that I can’t buy a small token for a friend.”

“Friend?” His eyes widened.

“Yes. Friend. Someone who puts you up in a blizzard and drives you to town through snow deep enough to swim in because your stomper’s broken down.”

I hoped to tease a smile from him, but instead he looked down at the journal with a small frown.

I sighed, reaching for it. “If you insist on returning it, I can always buy something for one of my other friends…”

He pulled it away, out of reach. “No, it was only a suggestion.”

“But a prudent one. I’ll exchange it this instant for a tin whistle.”

“A tin whistle!”

“Yes, so that Fred has something to do besides sing when his lute is locked up in the trunk of the sled.”

Grinning, he held the journal up high. I made a lunge for it, but my hand slipped on the damp wood of the table and I fell against his chest. For a moment, I thought we might both go tumbling to the snow. He caught me with his free hand, though, with a sure grip around my upper arm. Our laughter faded, swallowed in the instant tension.

“I think I’d rather not part with it,” he said softly, looking at me rather than the sketchbook.

I stared into his eyes.
There. That flash of amber.
Reluctantly, I let him right me, trailing my fingers lightly over his chest as I pulled away. I tucked my hair back.

He ran his thumbs over the creamy paper, then cradled one of the pencils in his grip. “I’ve been out of practice.” He hesitated. “May I sketch you?”

My stomach tumbled over itself at the idea of his eyes studying my features long enough to draw them. “Yes.”

He folded the brown wrapping paper and pushed it to the side, coiling the twine atop it, and spread the sketchbook on the table in front of him.

I squirmed. “How would you like me? Um. Do you want me to just sit like this? Should I take off my coat?”

He looked up from the page and smiled. “Stay like that. I like you as you are.”

Heat spilled through me. I propped my elbow on the table and leaned my cheek on the heel of my hand, fingers threading through my hair. I was never so conscious of my own features—cheeks, eyebrows, nose, lips. Rolph’s eyes traced over them all.

I knew when he was drawing my eyes, because he looked straight into them. I had the strange feeling that he was looking
behind
my eyes, and I wondered what he saw in their depths. At last, he refocused and met my gaze. “You have such beautiful eyes. I wish I could capture their color—like the winter sky.”

I felt my smile against my hand. I tried not to move and lose the pose. “Thank you.”

His gaze lingered on mine. A slow smile stretched across his face.

“What?”

“Nothing.” He shook his head and glanced away, then returned to my eyes again.

“What?” I demanded, smacking my palm on the table, my mouth gaping in a stupid grin.

“Nothing!”

A clump of snow smacked my forehead and exploded. “Oh!” I froze with my arms up, spread half open like wings. I looked up to see a sagging tree branch, a part of it now bare of snow.

We burst out in startled laughter. Rolph rescued the sketchbook from the table and tapped the snow from it. He looked at me and laughed again.

“Wait a moment.” He reached out a hand.

I froze. He brushed the snow gently from my hair. His fingers lingered on my bangs, running through the strands. I leaned into the caress, flicking my eyes downward toward the journal as an excuse to linger. “May I see?”

“It’s still rough.” Rolph tilted the sketch out of my view, looking strangely shy.

“Many things that are rough are also beautiful.”

I nearly followed his hand across the table as he pulled away slowly and curled his fingers. His brow creased. “What a strange little sprite you are.”

I widened my eyes innocently. “May I? Please?”

He hesitated, then turned the sketchbook. The lines were not perfect—I could see his hesitation, the soft sketchiness—but he had captured a wistfulness in my expression, a daydream quality that was almost angelic. He had a knack for drawing lips. And my eyes… Though he didn’t have colors, he had caught their depth and lightness with the use of masterful shading. I waited for the drawing to blink.

“Is it all right?”

“It’s…beautiful.”

He lowered the book. “Would you like it?”

“No. I hate to see a page torn out of a book. It’s like a question mark.” And I wanted him to have a memento of me.

The Frost Fair didn’t seem quite so important anymore, not as real or warm or close as the cabin’s warm carpet of furs or Rolph’s arms. I imagined him holding me close, sketching my skin with his fingertips while a blizzard howled outside.

A piercing whistle sounded. Fred waved at us from the road.

We jumped apart. I raised my hand to brush back a lock of hair that I realized was already neatly tucked behind my ear and tried to look casual as I waved back. “Looks like he got the parts.” I nabbed the bag of vegetables.

Rolph held his hand out for the bag. “I’ll take that.”

“Certainly,” I said, and slipped my hand into his.

His warm fingers closed in surprise around my cool ones. I think he couldn’t have looked more dumbstruck had I stretched up and kissed him.

For a moment, I considered it. Perhaps I’d give Fred something else to sing about on the way home. But I only smiled at him. “Let’s go.”

The sun was hovering just over the spires of the trees when we rode up to the cabin. I waved to Miles as he emerged from the front door.

While the men unloaded the parts, I brought the vegetables to the kitchen, where I recovered a knife from a dusty tin box and chopped them into stew-sized chunks. I had to keep my hands busy. If Miles repaired the stomper and the night remained clear, our stay here would be over, and I didn’t want to think about that.

Beth stood by my side, throwing looks around the kitchen. I smiled, imagining how the spider-webbed corners and leaf-littered floor must be making her fingers twitch. Finally, she announced, “I just can’t allow this,” and plucked the broom from its place of hibernation.

A time later, Rolph strode down the hall and paused at the kitchen door to find us both on our knees, scrubbing the floor. I grinned at his dumbfounded expression.

“That isn’t necessary,” he said.

Beth sat up and wiped a wayward strand of hair back with her forearm. “Oh yes, it is.”

His eyes widened. I raised the back of my hand to my mouth in the guise of scratching my nose, only to stifle a giggle. There commenced a brief moment of staring—Beth scowling and Rolph stricken—followed by Rolph disappearing down the hall. With a frown, Beth plunged her brush into the scrub bucket and then slopped it onto the floor.

Later as I sat by the fire with a book, Rolph brought a lamp outside so that Miles could work into the night. I tried not to be disappointed. It would be just my luck that Miles would finish at midnight and we would pack out, losing not only a night with Rolph but any semblance of sleep. However, Miles came in not long after.

He stomped his boots at the entryway. “It’s starting again.”

“What?” I looked up from my book.

“The storm.”

My heart lifted a little. “What about the stomper?” I tried to quell my excitement. This was a serious situation. We hadn’t the money to fix it
again.

“It should be fine. There’s no water in the system yet.”

“Oh, good.” My shoulders relaxed. I glanced at Rolph to see how he was handling this news. The storm might buy me another night with him and possibly another morning, depending on how long it took us to dig out the stomper the next day. His face, however, was a mask.

“Stay another night, then,” he said. “And help yourselves to food and drink. You are welcome in the kitchen, but otherwise I ask that you keep to this room.”

I searched for emotion in his expression. Frustration, relief, disappointment, anything. I saw only the same strain that had shadowed his features last night. What ghosts did the night bring to him? The mouth that had laughed so beautifully by daylight now creased.

My eyes begged him to meet my gaze, but he turned instead and retreated down the hall. I let the book fall limp in my hands as the afternoon’s events replayed through my mind. Had I said something wrong—again? Maybe I had embarrassed him in front of Fred, or been too forward. Maybe he liked a more demure woman and I had frightened him with my bold attitude and flirting. Worst of all, perhaps he simply didn’t care, and I had been fooling myself all along.

Beth leaned toward me. “Are you all right?”

“Yes,” I lied. “Just tired.”

She leaned her cheek against my shoulder. “It’s been a long day.”

I patted her hair. “It has.” I considered the sound of the wind as it buffeted the cabin in a sudden gust. It was picking up fast. “I’m glad we’re in here and not out there.”

I tried to read after that, but the words felt dry and my eyes kept skipping over them. I closed the book with a small sigh, exchanged my skirt for my warm trousers and curled under the blanket, only to be reminded of Rolph by his smell clinging to the pillow. Confound the human heart. Who could explain why it felt what it felt?

I am happy
, I told myself as I listened to Fred strum a slow tune.
I am content and warm, with a full belly and the company of friends. The sun will rise tomorrow and the Frost Fair waits for me.

But none of that eased the ache in my heart. I closed my eyes and tried to sleep, hoping to at least forget it for a little while.

* * *

I woke to a wave of energy that prickled over my skin and raised the hairs on my arms. Fabric slid over my body with a soft whisper, and I opened my eyes to find Rolph spreading the blanket over me.

His eyes, when they saw mine, widened. He froze where he crouched. “Did I wake you?”

A smile spread across my face and I shook my head, relishing the sound of his whispered voice. “It’s all right.”
It’s not every day I wake to a rugged man crouching at my side.

He relaxed and studied my face in the firelight while my stomach slowly heated. The corners of his mouth turned down thoughtfully, and I lazily caressed his lower lip with my gaze. Even the rough growth of beard couldn’t disguise its softness. Too bad I hadn’t kissed him earlier. Oh, but I was tempted to remedy that now.

He lingered long enough that I smiled and asked, “Going to sketch another portrait?”

His eyes snapped away. “My apologies.” He began to stand.

Tara, you idiot!
I caught his hand. “Wait. Don’t go.”

He hesitated, but I did not release it. Something passed over his face—uncertainty, perhaps—but he settled onto the floor next to me with his elbow propped beneath him. He studied my hand on his, curling his fingers lightly under my palm and caressing the fleshy heel of my thumb. Slowly, lightly, I ran my index finger along his.

He stilled. When I reached the tip of his finger, I petted it softly with the barest of touches.

He closed his hand around mine and whispered, “What do you see?”

I tracked the planes of his face. Shadows haunted every angle like ghosts, one for every lonely winter.

“I see a man.”

“That’s all?”

“A lovely, lonely man who made a terrible mistake, as all men make mistakes.” I raised a hand as if to brush aside his hair.

He pulled away and began to push up. “I should go.”

“You don’t have to be alone,” I said quickly, clasping his hand again…and found it shaking. I held tight as if I could make it stop. “What is it that you fear?”

Inside my hand, his fist clenched. He pulled, but not firmly enough to reclaim his arm, as he could have. His eyes darted everywhere—the wall, my friends, the fire, the ground—before he finally met my gaze. I saw the flicker of amber. “Myself.”

The fire popped in the silence that followed. His arm went lax, but I did not release his hand. I swallowed and whispered, “I don’t.”

The energy hummed between us, pulsing in my belly. He lifted his hand to brush my temple, his face dark. “You really should…”

I sighed into his touch. “Fear you? Why? Will you do terrible things to me?”

He snorted a soft laugh and trailed his thumb down the side of my face. “Cheeky. Perhaps I will.”

I flicked a glance at him. “You know, it’s proper to kiss a girl before you do terrible things to her.”

His breath caught and a flare of amber lit his eyes. I quivered. In that moment, I thought he would consume me.

His eyes darkened again and he said, “I really shouldn’t.” But his fingers curled behind my head and he drew closer.

I looked at his eyes and then at his lips. “I’m not making you.”

His lips moved near my ear. “Aren’t you?” He took a deep breath of me and let out a soft moan. “Every bit of you calls to me. Your ear…” His lips brushed against my sensitive lobe. “Your jaw.” His mouth lowered to plant a kiss at its soft curve. “Your neck.” He breathed against my skin. It turned into a low growl and he said, “You shouldn’t let me do this.” He kissed me again, this time on the hollow of my throat, then my chin. “You should cry out and push me away.”

I pushed into the roughness of his jaw, rubbing my cheek against his. “Do you wish me to push you away?”

He groaned. “If you don’t, I surely cannot control myself, and we’ll both be lost.”

His warm breath trailed over my cheek. I closed my eyes, waiting for the pressure of his lips against mine, but they flew open again at the strangled noise he made. Rolph recoiled as if burned and, for an instant, I thought the fire had spat an ember at him.

“Are you hurt?” I sat up and reached out.

He flew to his feet and gripped the corner of the mantel, knees bent as if ready to buckle. A long, low groan issued from him.

I scrambled to my feet and took a step toward him. “Rolph.”

“Don’t.”

The one word stopped me as if he’d gripped me by the shoulders.

He felt blindly over the mantel top, hand skittering over jars and knickknacks. His fingers touched a vial. It looked just like the one containing the strange-smelling substance that had so relaxed him the night before.

He opened his hand to grasp for it, but his fingers tipped it over. He clutched air. With a gasp of pain, he snatched his arm back and hugged himself. The air between us rippled.

My pulse beat like a moth in my throat. I took a step toward him.

“
Don’t
,” he rasped.

He turned and staggered away from me. With a heavy breath and a hiss, he heaved his shoulders up and stumbled toward the back door. I stared dumbly as he fumbled with the knob and tore the door open, lunging headlong into the storm.

Cold air exhaled over the fur-covered floor. My feet found wings, and I leaped to the door to catch it before it banged closed. Through the open threshold, I saw nothing but darkness.

I threw a look at my companions. Beth stirred against Miles’s chest but did not wake, and Fred snored softly.

I forced myself to close the door and put on my boots, fingers fumbling with the laces. I huffed in frustration.
Ridiculous to waste time with this.
At last I tugged the knot tight and sprang to my feet.

I pulled on my coat and opened the door. By the light that spilled out, I vaguely made out the shape of Rolph’s footprints. They led away from the door but were disappearing quickly under the thickly falling snow. Then I closed the door and could see them no more.

The wind whipped my hair about as I stepped away from the house, closer to the outer edge of the protective alcove created by the cabin and the stomper.

A sound caught my ears, a harsh, irregular noise that seemed to come from behind me over the roar of the storm. I turned and stepped back toward the cabin, neck craned.

“Rolph?” My voice was so soft that even I could barely hear myself. I paused. A shadow seemed to move near the edge of the stable, furtive and hunchbacked.

With a cry, the figure convulsed. I was sure the voice was human.

I raised my voice. “Rolph? Are you—”

The figure straightened and screamed.

My skin jumped.
That
had not been entirely human, although the timbre was unmistakably Rolph’s—perhaps distorted by the wind.
Or by agony
, I thought as I watched him throw his shoulders, extending and then curling his arms, over and over again, as if he was on fire.

As I watched, his shoulders broadened and his arms thickened.

Perhaps I gasped then, or the wind brought my scent to him. He whirled, and the thing that turned to face me was no longer human. His smell came to me in a flurry—wolf and man and ozone and something acrid. Fur stood up in every direction, silhouetted by the soft gaslight from the stable, and two ears tufted the top of his head. A pair of eyes flashed at me. Muscles bunched.

The thing that was Rolph sprang toward me.