Page 25 of The Beast & His Beauty
I nearly debate leaving. Simply walking out of the gate. But fear keeps me from testing that boundary. That and my promise that I would stay. If I were to go back home, Crawe may be waiting for me. They will need answers as to what’s happened.
My heart races with endless possibilities of the tragedy that may occur either way. Along with the judgment and penalties for what I’ve done.
The moment the sadness consumes me and my thoughts travel down that round, the magic pulls me somewhere else in the castle. With trinkets I’ve only heard of before, I’m suddenly swept away into wonderment.
There is little else to think of. I am relatively free within the castle. It’s peaceful and quiet aside from the movements of the objects that dust and mop in the rooms and halls closest to mine. Every morning, the bed I am sleeping in remakes itself with fresh sheets, the fabric hovering over the mattress. The pillows fluff themselves. The comforter smooths itself out and tucks itself in tight as if done by the most experienced housekeeper. In the afternoons, the floor is swept by a broom that dances over the floors. I see this happen in other bedrooms, sheets snapping and flying and tucking themselves into mattresses, each room seeming to prepare for something, though no one arrives.
I do not think anyone else lives here. I do not see servants or housekeepers or footmen. For all the motion in the castle keeping it perfectly clean, it begins to seem quite empty.
I explore the long hallways. Some doors open as I approach, inviting me in to see the trinkets or antiques that lay within. They are dark and dusty, these rooms, but when I walk in and imagine them cleaned and bright, the house springs to life again. Windows open, letting in fresh air and closing themselves before they make the rooms uncomfortably cold. Brooms appear to take the dust from the floors.
Where is the beast? Where has he gone?
I do not think he has left the castle, but if he has, I do not think I can go after him. He has forbidden me from leaving. I think stepping away from the castle grounds would be obvious disobedience, and I would not be able to get a message to my father, nor convince the beast to send one.
Have I imagined the beast?
For a little while, I wonder if I’ve made all this up in my mind. It could be that I wanted to escape Crawe so badly that I’ve fallen into a dream and can’t be woken. Maybe I’m lying in my bed at my father’s cottage right now, my father leaning over me, worriedly trying to wake me.
But then that cannot be. Just as the scar from the beast’s bite mark still lingers on my shoulder, the bruises he pressed into my hips also linger. I check for them each morning in the mirror and while they are beginning to fade away, I can still see them. I can feel the echoes of the friction between us and the heat of him inside me.
In the afternoons I look at more paintings or curl up in a chair by a fireplace, relishing the peace. This life is one I’ve never felt before. Sleeping with ease and worrying for nothing…apart from my father. It was not often in the village that I was able to take time for myself after reaching womanhood. My father needed all the money I could earn, which was not much but it kept us from starving.
In the castle, I have no fear of starving. My breakfast appears each morning in my room, and lunch appears wherever I happen to be in the castle, usually on a convenient table with a chair and a window to look out of. The same goes for dinner. Everything I am served is as fine as the food the beast fed me, but it does not have quite the same appeal as when I was able to suck it off his fingers.
On the third day I find the kitchen.
It is late afternoon, and the light is golden in the spacious kitchen equipped to feed ballrooms full of people. The light falls on sturdy countertops, gleaming copper pots, and rows of polished knives and ladles and serving forks.
It comes to life as I enter, the tea kettle jumping on the stove. As I wander nearer to a pair of wide sinks, they turn on, spilling clear water below. I rinse my hands in the water, finding it pleasantly cool. On the window ledge, a small, lush herb garden grows, the plants fragrant. When I reach to touch the carved wood of the box, a watering can floats from its hook, fills itself with water at the sink, and sprinkles water over the herbs.
It entertains me, the magic does. I’m entranced by it and all it does.
On one shelf, I find a row of cookbooks. Some are heavy and ornate, while others are smaller and worn. I choose one of the ones that looks loved and open the leather cover. The pages have illustrations here and there and finally the cookbook falls open to a recipe for a fruit tart.
I place my finger on the page, thinking to read through the list of ingredients, but at my touch cabinets open with a bang, startling me. I drop the cookbook to the countertop and whirl to discover what’s happening.
Various cabinets open and items fly out. A bowl spins to a stop on the huge island at the center of the kitchen. An icebox opens and fruits soar out, arranging themselves next to the bowl. Sugar and butter float from somewhere nearby. My heart races as I realize what’s happening. I turn back to the cookbook and stare at the list of ingredients.
Before long the kitchen has gathered everything necessary to make the fruit tart. I watch in astonishment as dough is prepared and rolled out and settled into a circular tin. The filling mixes itself together with plenty of sugar, the white grains coating the fruit. I think of Ara at the bakery, her hands red and sore from the work she begins before sunrise and of how much time this would save her.
Would this magic work outside of the castle? How far can the magic go? I do not know, and I watch, entranced, as the oven glows brighter and the prepared tart floats inside.
I’ve heard of witches…perhaps an essence remains. I do not know, but my mind wanders as the kitchen utensils move around me.
The light begins to fade as the sun sets, glowing orange through the window. It finishes sinking into the horizon as the tart pops from the oven and floats to a rack to cool. Candles burn to life in sconces on the walls, illuminating the kitchen with comforting light.
That is when I hear footsteps in the hall.
They pause outside the door, then enter, but I keep my eyes on the window as they move across the room. I think the beast is moving behind a wall that leads to a large pantry.
My breath quickens and I stay perfectly still. I haven’t got my blindfold with me. I wait for a command, finding myself hoping that it is him. Realizing just how lonely I’ve been without him.
It is darker on that end of the kitchen, and my heart races. I want to turn and search for his eyes in the shadows, but I do not. The last rays of the sun fade, and nervousness sets in. I have come to the kitchen without permission. The beast did not forbid me from coming here, but he did not permit it, either. There have been no notes on the bedroom floor telling me where to go or what to wear, but that does not mean he has no thoughts about it. And now I have had the house prepare a tart from his stores.
“I’m sorry,” I say, my voice soft but seeming loud in the kitchen after days of quiet. “I didn’t know?—”
“Do not be,” the beast answers before I can finish my apology. “It pleases me that you make yourself comfortable.”