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“I think he’s afraid of what they might do to him if he doesn’t break the curse.”
“I think you’re right, Sister.”
“I am also interested in seeing what they’ll do.”
“It shall be a gruesome spectacle indeed.”
“And we shall take much pleasure in bearing witness to it.”
“Don’t forget, Beast, true love, both given and received, before the last petal falls.”
And with that the sisters turned on the heels of their tiny pointed boots and clicked their way out of the rose garden, the sound fading little by little until they vanished into a sudden mist and the Beast could no longer hear them at all.
The Beast sighed and slumped down on the stone bench in the shadow of the winged creature statue hovering above him. Its shadow mingled with his own—his face and its wings—merging into what looked like a Shedu, the winged lion from ancient myth. It had been so long since he’d seen even his shadow that he hardly knew what he looked like, and this shadow stirred a great interest in him.
With an infusion of light the shadow faded into nothingness. Remaining was a new stark white statue, wearing a passive expression. It was neither male nor female—not as far as he could surmise, anyway—and it was standing completely still with a small brass candelabrum in one hand, candles burning, while the other hand pointed toward the castle entrance. It was as if the stone figure was commanding him back to the castle, back into the gaping mouth.
He feared if he returned, the castle would at long last devour him.
He made his way back, leaving the silent statue and the sisters’ taunting words in the garden. The light from the candelabrum looked tiny now, like fireflies in the distance.
The statue would make its way back to the castle in its own time, more than likely when the Beast was far enough away. They never moved or came to him while he was looking at them directly; they were always sneaking up on him while his attentions were elsewhere. It frightened him, really, to know they could come up to him at any time and do with him what they would, but that was yet another portion of the curse he had to contend with.
He thought about what the sisters had said, and wondered how Belle saw the castle’s enchantments and how its cursed servants appeared to her.
As he made his way through the foyer toward the dining room, he stopped to listen to the muted voices coming from Belle’s chamber but couldn’t quite make out what was being discussed. He was creeping down the hallway, hoping to get a peek at whom she was speaking to, when he heard a gentleman with a French accent inviting her to dine. She slammed her door and refused.
“I won’t! I don’t want anything to do with him! He’s a monster!”
Monster! His anger got the better of him. “If she won’t dine with me, then she won’t eat at all,” he growled, turning the corner and half expecting to see another of the living statues standin
g there to torment him, but the only evidence of anyone having been there at all was the small gold candelabrum he’d just seen in the rose garden, now extinguished, with a tiny ribbon of smoke curling up from the smoldering wick.
“She thinks I’m a monster!” he fumed.
He felt his anger mounting, raging out of control as he stormed his way to the West Wing. Monster! His claws gouged the wooden banister as he went up the long stairway, wishing it was flesh and blood, not splintering wood.
Monster!
There was very little light in this part of the castle. It was completely dark apart from the moonlight that came through the tattered red draperies of his bedroom. Leaning on the far wall were stacks of different shaped mirrors covered in white moth eaten cloths. Among the mirrors were portraits, some of which had been destroyed by his anger and frustration, the visages mocking him as the witches had, taunting him with his former likeness.
Monster!
He couldn’t light a fire in the staggeringly large fireplace or the torches on the wall brackets. His paws couldn’t master tiny things like matches, and the servants weren’t allowed into the West Wing. Not even the sisters came to this part of the castle. He had escaped their mockery for long stretches of time when he spent most of his days here in the beginning—hiding away, letting his anger swell to epic proportions, fearful of what he was becoming, yet intrigued concurrently.
It had been that way at first, hadn’t it? Intriguing. The subtle differences in his features, the lines around his eyes that frightened his foes when he narrowed them. Using a look rather than words to strike fear into his enemies was very useful indeed.
He had looked upon himself in the mirror in those days, trying to distinguish which sorts of deeds caused the most horrific alterations in his appearance. Knowing that this was a degenerative curse that wouldn’t abate.
The sisters seemed to know of his compulsion and teased him about it, saying he would suffer the fate of their cousin’s second wife if he wasn’t careful. The sisters were always talking nonsense, always speaking in fragments, and suffered from fits of laughter so severe he hardly knew what they were on about most of the time. He was not sure even they were aware. Could it all be the rambling of maddened minds? Here he was—taunted by insane crones. He, who had once been a prince.
Once. And now…now he couldn’t even venture out of his gardens or approach a wounded stranger who might wander from the forest to his castle in the night without sending him running in fear.
What did Belle think of what little she saw of him by dungeon torchlight? But he knew, didn’t he? She’d called him a monster! Leave her to the servants, then; let them weave tales of his dastardly deeds! Let them confirm how vile and ugly he was. He cared not! After all, he was a monster. And monsters knew not feelings, especially the sentiment called love.
His anger and confusion were quelled as his head spun from exhaustion. He sat on the bed, wondering what to do next. The sisters implied that the girl was his only hope of escaping the curse. Liars! He could make her fall in love with him easily enough if he looked as he once had—handsome, well groomed, some might say arrogant.
Women were easily managed then. A few flowery words of love, feigning some interest in what she had to say, perhaps showing a pretense of vulnerability and the girl was his. And often he didn’t even need to resort to such nonsense; only if the girl was exceedingly beautiful would he bother to try to win her admiration. Typically, his looks alone were enough to catch them spellbound.
