Beauty and the Beast Read online

  I let her words sink in. “It is a good plan. But how can I promise your safe return? Do any of you truly believe I can get a girl to love me in only three months?”

  No one replies. They do not have to. We all know the answer.

  Clarissa has taken to following me around with a powder puff. It was bad enough at home, when I awoke to find her putting the finishing touches on what I was horrified to discover later was a full face of makeup. Only now she is doing it at the store.

  “But your forehead shines like the sun,” she complains.

  “I thought it was the full moon,” I reply, darting out of her way.

  “It is even brighter today. One more dab,” she begs. I catch her arm as it reaches across the counter toward my face. She wrestles free and replaces the puff inside the powder container with a huff.

  Master Werlin finally suggests I leave for a while so Clarissa can focus. I agree with him. If Clarissa is going to be my replacement, she needs to pay attention to his lessons without stopping to tie back my hair or coat my “lackluster” lips with beetle-encrusted lipstick. I want to warn him not to expect her to focus on the lessons for more than a few minutes at a time, but he will find that out on his own. He gives me a list of items to pick up from various vendors — beakers, a ladle, a spool of thread — and sends me on my way.

  I return to the shop no more than an hour later, to find a small brown-haired girl waiting out front. “Did you not hear me calling you? What, did you think I meant someone else named Beauty?”

  I stop and squint down at her. I have never seen this girl before in my life.

  I awake on the cold, hard floor. With no windows, I cannot tell the time. It must still be before dawn, though, since Parker has not yet returned. The others are curled up around me, using the heat from my body to derive what little warmth they can. Father’s snoring and Mother’s gentle wheezing bring me comfort. They could be sleeping in their own soft beds but chose to be locked down here with me.

  “Are you awake, brother?” Alexander whispers.

  “Yes,” I reply, as softly as I can. It is still loud enough to cause both my parents to stir, but on they slumber.

  “I am terribly sorry for telling the witch you did not mind being a beast. That was thoughtless of me.”

  “You could not have known she was a witch. She seemed so lovely.”

  “Perhaps, but we had been warned against strangers and odd goings-on in the woods. I should not have been so trusting, and so careless with my words. If I am to be king one day, I must think more clearly.”

  “Do not be so hard on yourself,” I tell him. “She bewitched all of us. Remember how well I danced?”

  He laughs. “Perhaps you are right. Still, I pledge to help you return to your normal, only mildly beastly self.”

  “I would kick you, but I do not yet know my own strength. I cannot risk hurting the future king.”

  He laughs and skitters across the room. “You would have to find me first.”

  I smile for the first time since my dance with the girl. (Or witch. Or evil fairy. Or whatever she is.) The smiling would feel better, however, if the sharp point on the tip of my nose didn’t dig into my upper lip. Careful not to wake my parents, I lift my hand to my face. My nose still feels like my own, up until the time it curves downward to resemble … what was it? Oh, yes, a hawk. Perhaps I should be a little angrier with Alexander after all. I’m about to start taking inventory of the rest of my face when he starts shaking our parents awake.

  “Parker is here!” he cries in a loud whisper. “Wake up!”

  We all scramble to our feet (an act I find difficult since my sense of balance is off-kilter) and the others leave my side. I cannot tell where they are running to, but I know it is away from me.

  The door creaks open, slowly at first, until it is clear I am not charging forth in an effort to escape. Light seeps in from the hallway and I glance quickly behind me, hoping against hope that I will see my family. But all I find is the empty bench lining the moldy stone wall.

  Parker is not alone. The light of the lantern he is holding aloft reveals Ulmer, the bailiff, has accompanied him. I have never liked Ulmer much, but Father trusts him with the day-to-day business of running the castle. I find him to be a squirrelly little man, always darting around, his beady eyes missing nothing. If he truly were a squirrel, right now his tail would be twitching quite fiercely. I remember I am supposed to be inspiring fear, so I clench my fists and growl. He takes one look at me and backs up into the hall.

  I shall have to remember not to clench my fists again, as I have once more drawn blood. Stupid nails!

  “Are you not going to question him?” Parker demands. “He likely ate the royal family!”

  “I DID NOT EAT ANYONE!” I bellow.

  That does it. The bailiff turns and runs, the sounds of his footfalls quickly disappearing down the hall. Parker grunts in disgust and turns back to face me. Before he can say anything, I reach into my pocket and pull out the letter from Father.

  “This is for you.” I attempt to look both sincere and fearsome at the same time. Instead, I probably look like I need to empty my bladder. Which I do.

  He takes the letter and throws it to the ground. “I am not falling for any of your tricks, Beast.”

  I hear a small cough behind me, but do my best not to react. Parker’s eyes dart over, see nothing, and return to me. I growl and puff out my chest. In my deepest voice I say, “I suggest you take it. It is from King Silas.”

  “If this is a trick, I shall have you strung up in the courtyard. The loyal townsfolk shall throw rotten meat at your feet. And then the wild animals shall pick apart your bones for supper.”

  Parker always did have an active imagination. I do not reply. As a prince, I have never had such strong words flung my way before. I merely point to the letter.

  Without taking his eyes from my face, he bends to retrieve it. “Stand back,” he orders, then begins to read. His eyes widen in surprise, the occasional grunt escapes, but by the end his face smooths into a mask of grudging acceptance.

  A few moments later, he is leading me through the wing of the castle where most of the bedchambers are located. Every last person has fled from the castle, rendering it silent save for the wind whistling through the stones. Parker halts in front of a large guest room. “You shall stay here.”

  I shake my head. “I would rather have the room of Prince Riley.”

  “No, I cannot allow that. The prince does not deserve to have a beast in his private chambers.”

  “If my demands are well met,” I promise him, “the prince will return to find his chambers just as he left them — you need not worry.”

  Parker glares at me but says, “Last room at the end of the hall.”

  “Thank you. Please see to it that a full meal is laid out in the king’s private dining room as soon as possible. That is where I shall take all my meals. I do not wish to be disturbed while dining, or at any other time. If I need you, I shall find you. Thank you, that is all.”

  He hesitates, looking for all the world as though he would like nothing better than to see the hangman’s noose around my neck. Finally, he gives one sharp nod and strides away without looking back. When I hear him reach the floor below, I lean against the wall and close my eyes. With Parker standing guard outside, and no one allowed in the castle, I shall be utterly alone. As much as I enjoy being by myself in the lab, or atop the tower roof, this is quite different.

  “Please, Parker, thank you, Parker,” Alexander mocks. “I am fairly certain a terrifying beast such as yourself would not be so polite.”

  When one’s family is invisible, I suppose feeling alone and actually being alone are two very different things. I growl. “We are going to have to get you a collar with a bell.”

  “You are the one who needs a collar,” he replies. “I believe you are starting to shed.”

  “Is that so? At least I still cast a shadow.”

  “Stop teasing each
other,” Mother scolds.

  “You did an excellent job, Riley,” Father says, patting my arm. It feels strange watching the fur ripple under his invisible hand. “If Parker follows his orders,” he continues, “we may be able to live comfortably while —”

  A scraping sound from somewhere down the hall stops Father from finishing his thought.

  “That came from your chambers,” Mother whispers shakily. It takes a lot to shake up the queen.

  I nod, not daring to speak. My heart speeds up as I creep down the hall. I have little doubt that I shall find the witch girl awaiting me, ready to add me to her collection since my other option is hopeless. With a deep breath, I fling open the door.

  “You are home early from the ball, Prince Riley,” Godfrey says, a towel slung over his shoulder. “Are you ready for your bath?”

  “How do you know my name?” I ask the dark-haired girl. She looks vaguely familiar now. Perhaps she used to live near my old house?

  “Beauty!” the girl says in an exasperated tone. “It is me! Veronica!”

  My eyes widen as the image of white-haired Veronica adjusts into this one. “But how … why …”

  She laughs now. “’Twas your sister’s idea, actually.”

  “Clarissa did this to you?” No doubt the note of horror in my voice is evident. One cannot go around changing a child’s hair color and expect to keep their job. My stomach knots into a ball.

  “Master Werlin applied the dye,” she says, “but Clarissa had the idea of it. I went to the shop to see you this morn, and Clarissa said that my hair is so bright that it will catch the eye of everyone we pass. She said that the point of a quest is to blend into the crowd in order to find the information we need.”

  “Clarissa said that?”

  Veronica nods. “Well, I believe her exact words were: ‘You should not have hair that can be spotted from a rooftop thirty miles away.’ And she was right! Master Werlin agreed to dye it. He mixed chestnut bark with some foul-smelling paste, put it all over my head, and here I am.”

  Relieved that Clarissa (and, by association, me) still has a job, I stand back to get a good look. “Well, you certainly appear different.” She still has that fairy quality, the sharp features, the tiny frame, but without the white hair, she looks a lot more earthbound, more like any other child one might see on the street. I can see the sense in it, though. I feel a touch of pride that Clarissa saw the truth of it first, before Veronica herself.

  “By the way,” she says, “a large chunk of Clarissa’s hair is now green.”

  “Did you say ‘green’?”

  She nods. “Quite a bright green, in fact.”

  I sigh. I hope it washes out easily, or else Papa will not be pleased.

  “Anyway,” Veronica says, pulling a rolled-up piece of parchment from a large pouch across her shoulder. “I came to the shop to give you the list of supplies you will need for our quest.”

  I put down the bags of supplies in my arms, and she hands me the scroll. The list is written in a neat but childish hand, on very soft parchment, something only a well-off person could afford. As a lover of books and paper, I find myself running my hands over it, feeling its smoothness. She is watching me with curiosity.

  “You seem more interested in my paper than in the words on it.”

  “My father is a seller of books,” I explain. “Or he was, anyway, before the fire. Sometimes, if he could not sell one of his books, he would let me take it apart. Then I would use the bindings to make new books.” My mind flits back to the shelf in my old room, lined with books of my own making. I could spend hours lacing the pages together, gluing on the spines, decorating the covers.

  Veronica waves her hand before my face, bringing my attention back. “This paper is of the highest quality,” I tell her. “I have rarely seen its equal.”

  “One of the scribes at the monastery gave me a few pieces. He spends all day in that damp, dreary room, and I think he is happy for my company. Once he even let me copy a few words onto the page he was working on.”

  Her comment reminds me of the fact that she lives at the monastery, apart from her beloved grandfather. “The scribe sounds kind,” I say, not knowing what else to say. “Are all the monks like that?”

  She shakes her head. “They are not unkind, of course. They mostly keep to themselves. Having a child underfoot is not always looked upon as a positive thing. And a girl child, at that.”

  I do not want to press her further, so I hold up the paper to read her list.

  A traveling cloak, thick-soled boots, breeches, a dress, tunics, thick stockings, knife, spoon, bowl, sleep sack, towel, notebook, ink, quill, sickness tablets, canteen, iron or brass cooking pot, dried and salted meats, dried fruits, nuts, beans, and a compass. I do not even know what that is.

  I hand her back the paper. “I have none of these things.”

  “None?”

  “Nothing but the boots on my feet.” We both look down. I am embarrassed to see the nail of my left big toe, visible through the worn leather. All the walking to and from the new cottage has done much damage. “I am sorry,” I tell her. “When our house burned down, we lost most everything. I understand if you want to take someone else.” The relief I feel when she shakes her head makes me realize how badly I need the freedom of this quest, even if it is only temporary.

  “I told you I would provide what you need,” she says, “and I shall.” She picks up Master Werlin’s bags and sticks them inside the shop. “Come. Let us go do some shopping.”

  I hesitate. If Clarissa could manage to color her hair green in only an hour, perhaps I should not leave her much longer.

  “She will be fine,” Veronica says, reading my mind. I let her pull me toward the market.

  Turns out “some shopping” really means let us buy everything on the list with a seemingly endless supply of coin. I follow her from booth to booth as she loads us up with everything from hats to socks to a canteen to dried beef. “From where does all your money come?” I ask as she hands an entire pound to the cobbler without so much as a whimper.

  In return he hands her a pair of boots. She piles them on top of my already full arms and mumbles something about her great-grandfather being a successful ship merchant who found unique objects and sold them for triple the price. I would pay more attention, but I am distracted by the boots. I have never owned boots as fine as these. Not that I care much for such fancy things, but the sturdy wooden soles and the thick leather will make the journey much easier.

  We return to the shop to find Master Werlin covered from head to toe in a thick white powder. Clarissa is frantically rinsing out a rag in the sink. A green stripe runs the length of her hair. “I already apologized six times,” she says. “I promise I shall never use the mixer again.”

  Veronica and I exchange a look.

  “Do not even ask,” the apothecary warns.

  When Clarissa sees all the clothes and supplies in our arms, her eyes almost fly out of her head. She tosses Master Werlin the rag and runs over to us. “What have you got there?” She reaches out for the nearest item, a woolen tunic.

  “Just a moment,” I say, and plop it all down on the floor. Veronica adds the contents of her arms to the pile. Clarissa sits on her knees and pulls one item after the other off the floor. I watch her feeling the materials, running her hands over their surfaces in the same way I did to the fine parchment. My heart softens. She should be in our old house, surrounded by the things that made her happy. She should be going to parties and trying to find her true love, not stuck here trying to understand how different chemicals and minerals can either harm or heal depending on how you handle them. And yet she is trying so hard to hold it all together. Green stripe and powder-covered apothecary notwithstanding.

  “Here,” Veronica says, pulling a soft blue cloak from the pile. “This is for you. I thought it matched your eyes.”

  Clarissa takes it and looks up at her in surprise. “Truly?”

  Veronica nods.<
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  Clarissa swings the cloak around her shoulders and slips the button through the loop. She twirls around, beaming.

  My eyes get glassy and I have to look away. “Thank you,” I mouth to Veronica. She waves my thank-you away with a flick of her hand.

  “I shall bring a large enough pack from Grandfather’s house tomorrow,” Veronica says. Without so much as a good-bye, she pushes through the door. She is halfway down the road before I catch up with her.

  “I want to thank you properly.”

  “It was nothing,” she says, stepping carefully over the mess a horse has left in the middle of the road. “I knew your sister would fancy the cloak.”

  I fall into step beside her. “Not just that. Thank you for all of it. I promise I will return everything. Except for the food, of course. That likely will not make it past the trip.”

  She shakes her head. “Everything is yours to keep.”

  “Truly?” I ask, reaching out to touch her arm. “But how could I ever repay you?”

  She stops then, and looks up at me. I notice for the first time how dark and intense her brown eyes are. “You can repay me,” she says in her usual matter-of-fact way, “by helping me find my crystal.”

  “Your crystal?” I repeat, looking on the ground by our feet. I am good at spotting small objects but do not see anything shiny in the dry dirt. “Did you lose it just now?”

  She shakes her head and starts walking again. For a girl with short legs, she truly is speedy. I hurry alongside her.