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Mrs. Potts.
She loved telling the story of how the boys had convinced themselves the castle grounds had been plagued by an evil dragon. On more than one occasion, the boys went off adventuring all day and were gone well into the night, making everyone sick with worry over what might have befallen them—and the two of them just waltzed right in as happy and gay as could be, without a care in the world, wondering what the fuss was all about.
That was how those boys had been. The Prince wondered how much they’d actually changed, though Mrs. Potts reminded him at every opportunity that both he and Gaston had changed a great deal. She often said she didn’t see much of the little boys she once adored in either of them.
Changed.
He had changed, hadn’t he? And not in the way Mrs. Potts feared. In other ways. She still loved them, though. She couldn’t help herself. She probably even thought of Gaston as a gentleman. She always treated him as such. She saw the best in everyone when she could, and encouraged their friendship when they were young, even though he was the gamekeeper’s son.
“It shouldn’t matter who his father is, young master. He is your friend and has proven to be a very good one at that.” He remembered feeling terrible for letting a thing like status make him reconsider a friendship with Gaston. None of that mattered, not now. Gaston had his own lands and people to work them—the Prince had seen to that—and that life when they were so young, when Gaston lived with his father in the stable quarters, it all seemed so far away and long ago.
Gaston’s very voice interrupted his thoughts.
“Prince! Why are you standing there daydreaming when you should be readying yourself? We have a long journey ahead of us.”
“I was remembering when we were young, Gaston. Recalling our earlier adventures. Do you remember the time you saved my life in the…”
Gaston’s face hardened. “You know I don’t like to talk about that, Prince! Must you always remind me that I am not your equal?”
“That wasn’t my aim, dear friend.”
“Nevertheless, it is the result.”
The Prince felt scolded.
Gaston seemed to be lost in his own thoughts now, musing over the large portrait of the Prince hanging over the fireplace. “When did you sit for this portrait? How long ago was it? Five years?”
“It was finished only a quarter of a year ago. You remember, it was done by that wildly eccentric painter. He called himself the Maestro, remember? He seemed to live in another world altogether with his pretty speeches about preserving our youth and making time stand still through the magic of depiction.”
“I do! Yes, he was very…uh, interesting.”
“Interesting? You wanted to toss him out the nearest window, if I recall!”
The two laughed but Gaston seemed to be preoccupied with thoughts other than those about strange painters and their proclamations of preserving a moment in time.
“I suppose there is something to his insane ramblings, though. I do seem much changed since this was painted. Look, around the eyes in the painting. There is no sign of lines, but if you see here, it does look as though I’ve aged more than five years.”
“You sound like a woman, Prince, worrying about lines around the eyes! Next you’ll be wondering what color petticoat looks best with a blue dress. Shall I inquire with your fairy godmother?”
The Prince laughed, but it wasn’t genuine. Gaston continued, “We have better things to do than waste the day clucking away like a couple of hens. Meet me in the observatory for breakfast when you’re finished getting ready.”
“Yes, feel free to start without me. I’m sure Mrs. Potts is in a tizzy that it’s taken us this long to get down there.”
The portrait was still bothering him. How had his eyes become so lined in just a few months? Was it possible they had looked like this at the time and the painter wished to compliment him by making him seem younger? No, the Maestro was very specific about preserving that moment in time. Making it as pure and realistic as possible. Freezing a moment that could never be diminished or altered, preserving it for the generations so they might evoke something of his memory once he was long gone. So the man had said, almost word for word. It seemed contrary to his annoying speeches and proclamations for him to have painted the Prince any differently than he had appeared at the time. So Gaston was right? Had he aged five years in just over three months? Or was Gaston simply being mean spirited because he’d reminded him of when they were young?
Could it be…? No. But what if…what if Circe’s curse was real?
Then he remembered the sisters’ mirror. He had tucked it away the night the fiendish harpies gave it to him, and hadn’t given it a second thought. Their words started to ring in his ears and he couldn’t take his mind off the hellish thing. It will show you as the beast you are bound to become! He walked over to the mantel. Sitting on top was a voluminous tortoiseshell cat with narrowed yellow eyes lined in black. She looked down on him, scrutinizing him as he looked for the button that opened the secret compartment within the fireplace mantel. The fireless pit
was flanked by two griffons with ruby-red eyes that sparkled in the morning light.
He pressed one of the eyes inward, and it recessed into the griffon’s skull. Each griffon had a crest on its chest; the crest on the griffon to the right popped out, revealing the compartment containing the mirror.
The Prince just stood there looking at it. The mirror had landed facedown when he tossed it in. He stared at its back side. It was seemingly harmless, a simple silver hand mirror almost entirely black now from tarnish. He reached in, grabbing the mirror by its handle. It was cold in his hand, and he fancied he could feel the evil of the sisters penetrating him by his simply touching it.
Fancy.
He held it to his chest for a moment, not wanting to look at himself, wondering if this was folly. He was letting the sisters get to him. He had promised himself he wouldn’t surrender to fears and superstitions. Yet he found himself wanting to look into the mirror. And he was worried about what he might see.
