“What are you doing?” Margot moans, pulling a pillow overher head.
“You’re going to cook breakfast,” I tell her. “And you’re going to the market. Here’s a list.” I shove it at Claude.
“But I don’t know how…”
“Learn. I’m done doing everything around here while you two just sit around.”
They complain, whine, try every excuse. But I don’t budge.
The following day, they’re actually doing their tasks. Badly, but still.
By the third day, Papa is looking better. Less tired. He’s even smiling again.
But I feel like I’m dying inside. Every hour away from my Beast is pure agony. The bond in my chest pulls constantly. It’s a physical ache that never stops. At night, I lie in my small bed that’s so much smaller and colder than his, and stare at the ceiling, unable to sleep.
I miss everything about him. His warmth. His low, gravelly voice. The way he looks at me like I’m the prettiest, hottest, most precious thing in the world. Our library. I even miss Gideon’s sassy comments and Louise’s fussing.
On the fourth night, I give up on sleep. I sit by the window of my room, looking out toward the forest, toward where the castle lies hidden in the darkness.
The enchanted rose my father stole from Pierre sits on my windowsill. It’s still beautiful, preserved by magic, but in the moonlight I notice something that makes my stomach drop.
One of the petals looks… dull.
I pick up the flower, carefully examining it. No, I’m not imagining things. The color has definitely faded from one petal.
“What does that mean?” I whisper.
The rose doesn’t answer, but the bond in my chest pulls even tighter. Something’s wrong.
“Isabelle?”
I turn to find my father in my doorway.
“Papa. You should be sleeping.”
“So should you.” He comes to sit next to me.
I don’t answer.
He’s quiet for a moment, then continues, “You want to go back.”
It’s not a question.
“I can’t,” I reply, hearing my voice crack. “You need me here. You’re not well enough yet, and Margot and Claude are barely managing…”
“Belle.” He takes my hand. “I’m getting better. You taught your siblings how to help. And they’re doing it.”
“Barely.”
He shakes his head, leaning to catch my eye. “They are. And they will keep doing it.” He squeezes my hand. “You don’t need to stay for me.”
“Papa…”
“You’re miserable, sweetheart.”
“I’m fine,” I try.
“You’re not. You barely eat. You don’t sleep. You just stare out the window like you’re waiting for something.” His voice is gentle. “Or someone.”
