Pulchritude

by Ana Mardoll

  "Can the beast read?" It didn't seem possible, with those long claws. Bella imagined he'd rip to shreds any book he touched. She glanced behind her, but nothing in the castle stirred except her. Carefully, she pulled books from the shelf -- five large volumes -- and carried them over to the low table. Bella ran her fingers over the titles of the books, straining to read the ornate writing, her lips mouthing the sounds as she went.

  A True Account of Dealing with Fata.

  Mischievous Folletti and Their Curses. 4

  The Treasures and Vengeance of Monachicchi. 5

  Benevolent Creatures of Home and Hearth.

  Driving Away Mazapegol Without Causing Offense. 6

  Bella had never heard the titles before, but she knew the words well enough. "Fairies?" Nervously she looked again towards the open library doors, but she was alone. "Who is reading about fairies?" She stepped over to the window and peered out the thick glass. In the distance she could see the rose hedge, the roses staring at her like bright red eyes. The beast moved slowly along the perimeter of the hedge, inspecting each flower and watering the hedge from a large bucket he carried. Bella had seen him periodically throughout the day from the castle windows; his patrol was painstakingly methodical as he examined each rose, pulled weeds, and refilled his bucket from the well over and over again.

  She frowned as she watched him, and looked back at the table that held the strange books. Bella felt certain that there was some piece of logic that would make her life suddenly make sense again. "A deserted castle," she ticked off in her mind. "A magic garden. A magic rose hedge?" The roses were as bright as the fruit trees in the orchard. "A magic gate?" The silver that gleamed at her in the afternoon sun couldn't actually be silver. Not even newly-polished silver shone with such intensity. "And the beast is the magician?"

  That was what Father had told her, but why had the beast been so uncomfortable when she praised him that morning? He didn't seem naturally humble; on the contrary, everything he had shown her so far had been shown with deep pride. He had been proud of his ownership of the garden, but was not proud of the magic that made it noteworthy. And the night before, he had been proud of the bedroom, almost as if ... "Almost as if he was born here," Bella realized.

  None of it made any sense to Bella. If the beast was a magician, why wouldn't he take on a human form? There had been moments at breakfast when he had clearly wanted to touch her -- to stroke her hand or touch her hair -- but he had held back, apparently fearful of hurting her. "Why would he shy away from discussing his powers, when he is otherwise so interested in impressing me?"

  A movement outside the window caught the corner of her eye: the beast was walking back to the castle, but was not looking in her direction. Quickly, Bella returned the books to their shelf before closing the curtain and picking her way out of the dark room. She closed the doors behind her, and bit her lip in thought. It would be best, she decided, not to bring up the subject of magic unless he first broached it himself.

  As she walked back to the bedroom, the beast joined her in one of the intersecting hallways of the castle. He stepped out of the hallway expectantly, and Bella wondered if he had been waiting for her. "How much do those ears hear?" she wondered, casting a thoughtful look at the long doe ears that gently twitched atop his head.

  "Are you hungry for dinner, my dear?" the beast asked courteously.

  "Yes, please," Bella answered truthfully. She had been so caught up in her exploring that she had not returned to the orchard after breakfast.

  "Then may I escort you?" The beast stooped and offered his elbow in an exaggerated gesture of courtesy. Bella stared at him, a little unsure, before carefully sliding her arm through his. The beast grinned at her and with slow steps to keep pace with her own short stride, he led her out once again to the garden.

  Bella watched the beast from the corner of her eye as they walked. Her arm was so much shorter than his that her hand fell to rest on the sleeve of his shirt. The material was soft and rich, but she was distracted by the strange feel of his arm underneath the shirt -- the squishy sensation of fur and the uncomfortable feeling of hard bone. The slow pace and stooped posture seemed to pain him, but his expression was satisfied, and almost triumphant.

  The garden was bathed in the orange light of sunset, and the juicy pear the beast picked for her glowed golden in the light. The breeze was cool and clean, and full of the smells of wildflowers and orchard fruits. As Bella settled herself quietly on to the stone bench they had used at breakfast, she felt tears sting the back of her eyes. "It's so beautiful here," she thought sadly. "I could be happy if only ..." She wasn't sure how to finish the thought. If only everything were different, perhaps, but it was hard for her to imagine what that scenario might look like.

  "Bella?" The beast was watching her intently as he popped blackberries into his mouth one by one.

  "Yes, Ezio?" she asked, clearing her throat and blinking back her tears.

  "Did you have a nice day today?" He ducked his head in embarrassment and seemed aware of the strangeness of the question, but still he held her gaze expectantly.

  Once again, Bella felt as though something was expected of her. She wished she could just ask outright what it was. She worked up her polite smile, the cheerful one that she used to put on when telling Father about her day, and gushed, "Oh, yes. The castle is so beautiful, and there's so much to explore." As she expected, his face lit up with the pride she had noticed before. "At least I know how to flatter him," she thought with wry resignation.

  The conversation lapsed into a familiar pattern, one that she had perfected with Father long ago. Every little discovery of her day was woven into an epic tale of delight: The work dresses that would be perfect for laundry day! The velvet evening dresses that would look beautiful once she found some thread! The emerald butterfly that still perched in her hair and was the finest thing she'd ever seen! She told her stories with animation and affected pleasure, but did not mention the library, nor the silver spoon that now lay safely behind the vanity table.

  The beast listened with obvious attention and smiled obligingly at her animated facial expressions, but Bella felt his mind was elsewhere. When she had run out of ways to make her day seem exciting and interesting, she lapsed into a silence that he didn't immediately break. The sun was well below the horizon, and Bella could already see the moon and a few bright stars shining in the deepening blue sky. Beside her, the beast frowned, then cleared his throat with a strange barking sound, and then frowned again.

  "Bella?" he said earnestly, and she gave him her brightest smile, hoping to soften his suddenly serious mood. "Bella," he tried again. His hand reached out in the increasingly familiar gesture of trying to touch her and yet unable to do so. "Bella, I love you."

  The words hung heavily in the air as Bella stared at him, smile frozen in place. He looked at her expectantly, his face a mask of emotions she couldn't identify.

  He wanted her to say it back to him, she could tell from the way he held his breath waiting for her response. Bella felt frustration rising inside her; a full day had not passed since she'd been dragged here and abandoned by her father. She quickly pushed the frustration down before it could show on her face.

  "He's already my husband," she realized with resignation. "What's one more concession?" She smiled sweetly and imagined she was someone else when she said, "I love you, too, Ezio."

  The beaming smile of pure pleasure that he bestowed upon her was painful for her to accept. "Now I know what he wants from me," she thought sadly, "but how long can I keep lying to him?"

  Chapter 12 - Fiorita

  Fiorita was sitting on the front porch, just as she had every day for the last week. Ever since Cienzo had taken Bella away, she had spent her days waiting for her stepsister to return. Though Mama and Marchetta had been uncomfortably silent on the issue, Fiorita had to believe Bella was coming back. The alternative was too awful to consider.

  In the mornings, she would watch Mama and Cienzo
go into the village -- Mama on foot and Cienzo on his gray mule -- and in the evenings she would see Mama come home, bone weary but her eyes flashing with anger. Fiorita did not know when Cienzo came home; the only time she ever saw him was when he left at dawn.

  She was dangling her legs over the side of the porch and wondering if she should practice the organ so she would have something to show Bella when she came home, when a boy turned off the road and walked towards her. He was a skinny boy, probably two years older than her, with the slightest hint of a mustache on his upper lip. Fiorita smiled at him, but tried not to look too eager; none of the young people in the village had responded very enthusiastically to her attempts to be friendly.

  The boy stopped a few paces in front of her and fidgeted uncertainly. "Hello," Fiorita prompted kindly.

  "I'm here with a message from my papa, the butcher," he blurted out. He was starting at her with open curiosity.

  She wasn't sure how to respond. "Well, Mama isn't here, and my sister ..." Her voice trailed off. Marchetta was weeding the back garden, and would be cooking dinner later. Since the servants quit, the morning after Bella's abrupt disappearance, Marchetta had been so constantly busy that Fiorita hated to interrupt her. "I can take the message for you," she offered.

  The boy shifted his weight from foot to foot, considering her offer. "All right," he said, a little sullenly. "Papa says that if you don't pay your meat bill this week, he's going to lodge a complaint with the village council."

  "Oh." Fiorita wasn't sure what else to say. "Um, thank you," she added, unsure of the etiquette the situation demanded.

  The boy was still staring at her and she shifted uncomfortably, feeling the planks of the wooden porch digging into her legs. "Is there anything else?" she asked.

  "How did you get so big?" he asked bluntly.

  Fiorita felt the heat rise to her cheeks. "I'm not big," she said defensively. She could feel herself clenching and unclenching a fold of her skirt anxiously. She tried to redirect the question. "I'm not nearly as tall as you," she said, hoping the boy wouldn't press the issue.

  "Not as tall as me, but twice as wide," the boy insisted stubbornly. He dug a toe petulantly into the lawn. "Is it because you're rich?" he asked. "Papa says rich people eat twice as much." His tone was aggressive, but his face was curious, and almost hungry.

  Fiorita felt herself growing angry, and tears pricked at the sides of her eyes. "I just am the way I am," she mumbled, staring hard at the ground and blinking rapidly. "I won't cry in front of him," she thought, furious with herself.

  The boy stared at her a few minutes longer, then shrugged his shoulders and walked off down the road toward the village, slouching his shoulders and kicking clumps of dirt as he went.

  She waited until he was out of sight before rising to her feet and shaking the splinters out of her skirt. She didn't want to leave the porch, but she didn't want to stay either. "Maybe Marchetta needs help in the garden," she hoped.

  Marchetta was in the yard behind the house, kneeling in the dark earth digging weeds out with her long, slender fingers. Fiorita knew her sister hated gardening, yet she thought Marchetta looked beautiful in her dirt-stained apron and with her wide-brimmed straw hat covering her long braids.

  "Can I help?" Fiorita said, walking over to kneel beside her sister on the ground.

  "You can take those to the stable," Marchetta said, gesturing at the pile of weeds beside her. "And then--" She stopped as she glanced up and saw her sister's face. "Oh, sweets," she said gently. "You've been crying. Is it Bella?"

  "No," Fiorita shook her head and then immediately felt guilty. She should be crying over Bella, and not because some stranger had been rude to her. She tried to shrug. "A boy from the village came by and hurt my feelings a little, that's all," she said trying to sound indifferent.

  "What, just now?" Marchetta asked, confused. Fiorita nodded. "Who was he?" Marchetta was frowning deeply. "What did he do?"

  Fiorita kept her eyes on the ground, and stroked one of the herb leaves with her thumb. "He said he was the butcher's son," she said with another shrug. "He said his father wanted our bill paid by the end of the week or he'd complain to the council."

  Marchetta scowled deeply. "That swine," she muttered angrily. "I offered to pay him yesterday when I bought the meat and he refused to take my money, said he knew we were good for it." She glared at the garden and then stood up, brushing the dirt from her dress. "He's just trying to cause trouble for Mama, but there's no help for it," she said briskly. "We're just going to have to go pay him."

  "Now?" Fiorita asked in surprise. "But he said by the end of the week."

  "That may be, but if he's set on causing trouble, he could complain today. We'll go into the village and get it taken care of now," she said firmly. Marchetta gathered up her basket and headed into the house.

  Fiorita stood slowly and followed her. "Can I stay here? I don't want to go." She thought of the rude boy staring at her and didn't think she could face him again without crying. Ever since they had moved to the village, she had felt like an outcast; her skin, her size, her accent all marked her as different from the others in the village. Marchetta had managed her weekly shopping visits just fine, but for Fiorita it had become more than she could bear, especially now that her only friend was missing.

  Marchetta stopped inside the kitchen and looked back at her. Her expression softened; she put her basket down and walked over to embrace Fiorita. "I know, sweets," she said gently, "but you can't stay here alone."

  It felt comforting in her sister's embrace, but Fiorita frowned and pushed gently away. "Marchetta," she said seriously, "what's going on? Ever since Cienzo took Bella away, you hover over me like a hawk, and Mama goes into the village every day for hours and comes home exhausted. And you don't talk about Bella at all. I keep waiting for her to come home and she never does!" She saw Marchetta catch her breath and hesitate. "Please! Tell me," Fiorita urged.

  Marchetta turned from her and fiddled with untying her apron strings and hanging the garment up by the kitchen door. When she finally spoke, she sounded tired and drained. "Mama is trying to register a complaint with the village council against Cienzo," she said. "She wants to organize a search party to bring back ... Bella."

  "She was going to say 'the body'," Fiorita realized as ice crept down her spine. "You don't think Bella is coming back on her own then?" she asked quietly.

  Her older sister hesitated. "If she's hurt or injured," she said gently, "she may not be able to come home on her own."

  Fiorita felt her throat constrict. "When is the search party going out?"

  "That's the problem," Marchetta said, her face settling into a scowl. "It isn't yet. The council is divided on whether to believe Mama or Cienzo. He's telling them that he found Bella a rich suitor on his last trip to the port and that she's happily married and living like a princess." Fiorita thought her sister looked angry enough to spit. "It's come down to a question of who to believe. The younger men on the council are champing at the bit to ride out and rescue her, and the older men on the council are backing Cienzo against his foreign wife."

  Fiorita sat down heavily at the kitchen table, unsure if her legs would support her. She felt sick; so that was why Mama had been so tired. Fiorita couldn't imagine going before a group of strangers every day for a week and trying to convince them to do something to help Bella. "Can't we ... can't we go look for her ourselves?" she asked.

  "If Mama can't convince the council to act soon, we will," Marchetta said with a heavy sigh. "But it's a long shot -- there's a lot of ground out there to cover."

  Fiorita frowned, trying to work out the puzzle. "Well," she said slowly, "what if we started with the magician?"

  Marchetta looked confused. "What magician?"

  "Cienzo said he was taking Bella to a magician, remember?" Fiorita said. "He must live somewhere, and there must be people in the same area that will know he's a magician, right? Maybe we could ask around and find him."


  Marchetta rubbed her eyes tiredly. "Fiorita," she said, her voice tinged with exasperation, "there isn't any magician."

  "But Cienzo said--"

  "Cienzo is sick!" Her voice hung in the air, hoarse with frustration. Fiorita bit her lip and looked away; when she looked back, Marchetta was pressing one hand tiredly to her forehead. "I'm sorry, Fiorita," she said, "you don't deserve to be shouted at." She dropped her hand from her forehead and reached across the table to squeeze Fiorita's hand gently. "Cienzo is ... very ill. Mama made a mistake when she married him, a mistake leaving him alone that day -- she didn't realize he was so ill, didn't realize he could do such a thing." Her voice cracked a little with emotion. "There's not a magician, there never was. Cienzo took Bella out into the country and ... hurt her. Or left her there. We're not sure. But magicians don't grow magical roses to capture brides from passing merchants. Cienzo is confused, and that's why Mama has been locking the house up so tight at night. He's been sleeping in the stable."

  Fiorita stared at her in astonishment. "I didn't know," was all she could mumble.

  "I know. Mama boards up the house after your bedtime, and that's why I can't leave you during the day." She stood up briskly. "And that's why I need you to come with me."

  Fiorita didn't move. "Where is Cienzo now?" she asked.

  Marchetta frowned. "He's in the village with Mama," she said, "Arguing before the council. Again."

  "Then he can't come back while you're gone?"

  "No, but--"

  "Then I'm going to stay here," Fiorita decided.

  "Fiorita," Marchetta said coaxingly, "please don't be stubborn. Get your walking shoes and come into the village with me. You don't need to see that boy--"

  "No!" Fiorita stood up, frustrated and angry. "I'm staying for Bella! She was my friend and I'm going to wait here for her. When she comes back, someone will need to be here to let her in." She rushed out of the kitchen and up the stairs to her room, slamming the door behind her. She could hear Marchetta call her from the kitchen, but she ignored her and settled down in her seat by the window to wait.