Roses (29 page)

“I feel like a fine lady now,” she said to him once, and she was about to add that she wondered if she could ever return to the hard life of labor when she realized that she would never have to. The thought saddened her deeply, for she had seen the life of luxury in Sago and she had seen the life of work in Imwane and she knew which she preferred.

Beast asked her once if she would not prefer to spend more time alone. She was seated at the table, eating an exotic dish that she had asked for after reading about it in their latest travel volume and she had almost gulped the whole meal, it tasted so nice.

“Why do you ask?” she replied between mouthfuls.

There was silence and she paused, glancing over at him. He was crouched on a rug before the fire and his expression was pensive. Though his features were mostly covered with fur, she had learned to read his moods.

“Do you wish to spend more time alone?” she asked with a sinking feeling at the pit of her stomach.

“Beauty,” he said at last. “You are not here to please me. You must not humor me with your company; you should do as you wish.”

“But I do wish to spend time with you!”

“You are sure?”

“Yes.”

He did not look completely convinced.

“Beast, you have taught me to read and you have lavished me with pretty things, but I am most grateful for your company in this lonely place—do not deny me of it, please.”

“I would never deny you anything.”

She glanced down at her plate.

“Beauty, I . . . I . . .”

“Yes?”

“I am very grateful for your company also.”

“I am glad that is settled,” she said with a smile, but Beast turned away and stared into the fire.

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The Nightmares

W
ith the joy of spring came the horror of nightmares. The first occurred after a blissful day, when Beauty and Beast had taken their books from the library outside and had laid on the grass beside one of the fountains to read. Beauty still sometimes found a word that she did not recognize and she preferred reading aloud so that they could share the story. She had climbed into bed later that night with her head full of the tale they had been reading—about a ship sailing to a distant land, carrying a boy who sought adventure—but as she fell into slumber that image had quickly disappeared.

Instead, she saw Owaine lying shivering in his sleeping closet with the doors unfastened. Sun streamed through a window of the cottage, yet he hunched in the shadows. His face was pale and drawn and his hands shook. He coughed and she awoke, her cheeks damp with tears.

“What ails you?” asked Beast the next day.

She sat next to him beneath a willow tree, wringing her hands in her skirts. He was reading aloud from the book since she had said that she would rather not, and the tale that had so gripped her the
day before now barely held her attention. Instead, she was staring off into the distance, not hearing a word.

“I had a bad dream,” she whispered, working her fingers into knots. “I dreamt that my father was dying.”

“It is just a dream.”

She turned to face him.

“It is never just a dream for me,” she said.

He started with a grunt and was speechless for a moment.

“You . . . you have never told me that before.”

“You have never asked.”

The next night she dreamt of the cottage again, and she saw Owaine even weaker than before. The life seemed to be ebbing from him slowly and deep pain was etched across his face. He coughed blood into his hands and could barely move. Watching him was torturous and Beauty awoke with blood on her own hands, having bitten her lips as she slept.

“Is it true what you said to me yesterday?” asked Beast abruptly the next morning.

They knelt before the golden dais in the chapel, their hands pressed to the ground. Beauty had been praying fervently for Owaine and she jumped at the sound of his voice.

“About my dreams?”

“Yes.”

“It is true.”

He sighed and rocked back onto his hind legs. “Then you are a Magic Blood?”

“I suppose I must be. I told you that I do not know my true parentage. I know nothing.” When he turned from her with a growl she asked, “You did not suspect with my appearance?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I do not look like other people,” she said with a blush. “I look peculiar.”

His hazel eyes searched her. “You do?”

“Yes.”

“I had noticed nothing.” He stood and stalked from the room.

“Where are you going?” she called.

“I must think!”

That night she dreamt of a bare, desolate place. Skeletal figures crept about the streets, rubble choked the squares, and bodies littered the shantytowns like wood chippings. Beauty saw Sago as she had never seen it before. The people were like savage animals that stooped in corners and the temples were destroyed. Added to the stench of grime and muck was the reek of death, and the air was constantly filled with wails of pain and screams of horror. It was calling her back to it, but she knew not why.

That morning, Beast did not join Beauty in the chapel. He had not been in the library yesterday either, or at dinner the night before, and Beauty wondered if she had offended him with her secret. Unable to stand being alone for much longer, and with the image of her nightmares haunting her, she ran to the stables. She had not dreamt as vividly as this since she had been tormented by the image of the red rose.

Champ placed his great bay head on her shoulders and snorted as she sobbed into his silky coat.

“He is dying and something is changing,” she whispered. “I feel it.”

She stayed with him for the rest of the day, until hunger pangs spiked her stomach and she was tired of standing. She entered the castle exhausted, not wishing to sleep tonight, for she knew that she would dream again and she dreaded what she would see.

“Beast?” she suddenly cried, her voice breaking. “Beast? Please . . .”

He appeared and she sighed, rushing towards him, but stopping short at the last second.

“Where have you been?” she gasped.

“I told you that I needed to think.”

She rubbed her silvery, wane face.

“Is my being a Magic Blood so very terrible?” she asked.

“I thought that it mattered, but it does not. Forgive me, Beauty, for I have been foolish. It is a prejudice from long ago that often still haunts me.”

“You do not like Magics?”

“I am a Magic now,” he growled. “But yes, there was a time when I did not like them. I hated what I did not understand, and I was jealous of their gifts.”

Beauty swallowed hard. “Beast . . . would you . . . may I . . . what I mean to say is that I cannot sleep tonight alone. I do not wish to, I mean. I am scared.”

He frowned.

“You would like me to stay near you?” he asked.

“Yes, please.”

“As you wish it.”

That night, she climbed into her bed and Beast entered her room, sitting awkwardly in the chair before the fire, keeping his eyes turned away from her.

“You are sure you do not mind?” she asked quietly as the covers of her bed pulled themselves around her.

“No, I do not mind. Your dreams must be very terrible if you feel better with me here.”

“You make me feel safe,” she whispered before she dropped off to sleep.

She dreamt of Owaine again and she saw life leaving him. His chest was racked with coughs and shivers, and his face was pale and bloodless. He lay alone in the sleeping closet of his cottage and no one came to aid him. She saw a shadow appear at the door, but he cursed at it and it disappeared.

“Go away yur evil things!” he cried. “Yur people sent away my Beauty!”

She had never seen him so angry and his face was contorted with bitter hatred.

“Beauty!” he gasped at the ceiling. “Beauty, where are yur?” He choked and his breath wheezed and then he lay still.

“No!” Beauty screamed, sitting up in bed.

Beast was by her side in an instant. He reached out to take her in his arms, but stopped, his claws just grazing the skin of her back.

“What is wrong?” he asked. “What is the matter?”

Tears flowed from Beauty’s eyes and she clenched her fingers around her pillow.

“My father!” she cried. “Owaine, my papa—he is dead!”

“Are you sure?”

The fire was still lit and before it was an upturned book, which Beast had been reading before she woke. The heat of the fire made the room feel stuffy and close.

“I have dreamt it, so it must be,” Beauty moaned, raking her fingers through her hair. “He died alone. He died calling my name.”

“Are you sure that is what you saw?”

But she did not hear. Burying her face in her bed sheets, Beauty sobbed violently.

“He cared for me!” she cried. “He saved my life.”

“Beauty . . .” Beast was rumbling. “Beauty, please.”

Finally, he laid a paw on her shoulder and she raised her head. Her violet eyes were red with pain, and for a moment he could not speak.

“I have a way that you can know for sure if he is dead,” Beast said suddenly.

Beauty caught her breath. “You do? How?”

“I will show you.”

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The Corridor of Mirrors

A
s she changed out of her nightclothes, Beauty saw through the windows of her bedroom that it was dark outside. It must be almost midnight and the scene below was pure blackness. Beast was waiting on the other side of her door as she readied herself and she hurried, desperate to see what he would show her.

The outline in her room dressed her in a simple, elegant gown of dove gray and began fussing with her hair before she batted it away.

“I must go,” she said irritably. “It is not the time for that now.”

She opened the door to find Beast crouched in the corridor and he turned to her slowly.

“Are you ready?” he asked.

“Yes.”

He led the way and no outlines opened doors for them and no torches flickered to life as they approached. He was showing her something that they did not wish her to see. She knew that he was doing some great wrong and she burned with guilt, but the thought of Owaine dead in the cottage was too much.

“Careful here,” said Beast, lifting up his candelabra to throw dim light on a flight of twisting stairs. “It is uneven.”

They climbed higher and higher until Beauty’s legs ached. They climbed higher than it seemed possible that the castle could reach until suddenly Beast stopped.

“What are you showing me?” Beauty whispered, afraid.

“Something that I should not.”

She placed her hand on his arm. “Beast?”

“It is all right. I know what I am doing.”

He pushed open a door and she gasped. Before them stretched a tall, long corridor lined with mirrors. The floor was polished marble, the ceiling shimmering gold, and chandeliers dripped like jeweled bouquets from one end to the other. The mirrors were set into the wall and edged with gold; they reflected each other from one end to the next.

“These are the only mirrors in the castle?”

“I do not wish to see myself.”

Beast led the way into the corridor and the door shut with a bang behind them. Beauty looked into the first mirror, but she saw no reflection. It was a vacant shimmer of nothing.

“I do not—”

“You must tell it what you wish to see.”

Beast hunched himself against the wall on all fours, but Beauty did not notice. She stepped toward the mirror, whispering, “I wish to see Owaine.”

Her voice echoed about the corridor and all of the mirrors rippled, their surfaces merging with colors. Suddenly, she saw the cottage reflected in all of them and Owaine lay on the floor before the dying fire, coughing.

“He is alive!” she gasped, pressing her fist to her mouth. “You are right, Beast. My dream was wrong.”

Beast groaned.

In the mirror, Owaine’s body jerked and shivered feverishly. His brow was slick and his eyes were wide and bloodshot. He did not have long, that much was clear, and Beauty yearned to comfort him. She stepped toward the mirror, trying to reach inside and pat his pale, withered cheek, but she touched cold glass instead.

“Oh, Papa,” she breathed.

“You should go to him.”

She spun around. “What?”

“I said that you should go to him. He is sick and he needs you.”

“Beast—”

“Go.”

Beauty could scarcely believe what she was hearing. She had desired her freedom for so long that she could not fathom it.

“You set me free?” she asked.

“I am permitting you to leave.”

She clasped her hands to her chest, unable to hide her happiness. She could return to Owaine; she could be with him before he died.

“I will return right away,” she promised.

“You do not have to.”

“But I want to.”

She walked over to him and laid her hands on his great, furry shoulder.

“I want to come back,” she said, and when he did not reply, she added, “Beast, what will this cost you? I know it is not you that keeps me here.”

“Just go!” he growled. “Go before anything tries to stop you.”

She jumped back from him.

“I will return,” she said. “I will.”

“Go!”

She ran to the door and then stopped. Turning, she ran back to him and lightly kissed his cheek.

“Thank you,” she whispered and then she ran from the room.

There was no time to take anything, she could tell that much, so she went straight to the stables, sprinting through the dark courtyard to Champ’s stall. He snorted as he saw her, startled.

“Come on, we’re leaving,” she hissed.

She swung open the half door and it tried to stop her, but she yanked it hard.

“He said I could go!” she cried.

Champ clattered into the cobbled courtyard and she used the mounting block to climb onto his back.

“Imwane will get a mighty shock when they see us,” she whispered, a smile playing across her lips.

He flicked his ears as she nudged him forward and they cantered across the front gardens of the castle to the smoking moat. There, Beauty pulled him up short and stared at the blurred darkness that awaited them on the other side. She looked over her shoulder at the castle, which was bathed in the filmy white of the moon and covered in roses as black as death and pain. Beauty suddenly understood what their changing colors meant.