Beauty in the Beast

by Christine Danse

Rolph owned a wagon to go with the horse. Beth and I took twenty minutes to unbury it from the snow and dust it clean, and it was another hour before Rolph had filled the horse’s tank with water, fired up its boiler, greased its joints and hitched it to the wagon.

  I was wondering how we’d get the wagon through the deep snow when Rolph appeared with a long panel of metal and hooked it to the chest of the horse. Two metal supports held it out at an angle, and each end of the panel was bent back, creating a shield. As I watched him tighten each leather strap, I realized we would be driving our way through the snow.

  “Almost ready,” he said and returned to the cabin.

  Fred took two pillows and a blanket from our sled and arranged them in the back of the wagon. “There. We’ll be snug as can be.”

  “You will. I’m sitting up front.”

  “You won’t keep me warm?”

  I stepped into the front. “Someone needs to keep the driver company.”

  Rolph and Miles appeared a minute later, Miles carrying the cracked water tank from the stomper and Rolph balancing an armful of broken pipes. Rolph’s eyes fixed on me from across the yard, taking in my choice of seat. He looked away as he approached.

  Miles and Rolph dumped the broken pieces into the back of the wagon beside Fred’s makeshift bed.

  “Hey, now!”

  Miles smoothly ignored him. “Sell what you can for scrap metal. But only after you’ve bought the new parts, because you might need them to show the shop clerk.” He handed a pouch and a folded sheet of paper to Fred. “This is almost the last of our savings, along with a detailed list of what I’ll need.”

  As Rolph stepped up to the driver’s side, I pretended to busy myself with my boot laces. I sensed him pause with his hands on the wagon and hoped he noticed that I had changed into my blue skirt. I pulled up its hem just enough to fiddle with my laces, but not quite far enough to bare my ankle.

  The wagon shuddered as he stepped up, and my stomach fluttered as he settled beside me. His body radiated heat like a boiler.

  I opened my mouth to greet him, but Beth stepped up to my side of the wagon and clasped my hands. “Be careful!”

  I squeezed her fingers. “Of course I will! You just worry about keeping Miles warm.”

  Her cheeks colored. Tara! she mouthed, flicking a look toward Rolph. I chuckled at her as she jogged away.

  Rolph picked up the reins and gave me a sideways glance, eyes traveling from my face to the graceful sweep of my skirt to my face again. “Are you comfortable?”

  I nodded and then folded my hands demurely in my lap.

  “Good.” He looked forward and flicked the horse into motion.

  I kept my eyes to the side of the wagon as we set off, watching the snow roil in the wake of the horse. With its shield, it nosed through the drifts like they were nothing. Behind us, Fred raised his voice in a light song.

  “The craftsmanship is amazing,” I said, admiring the way the mechanical beast moved. It walked more deliberately than a real horse, each step measured and smooth. It might as well not have had joints in its neck, it held its head so still. “Where did you get this?”

  “It was left at the cabin.”

  “What?” I couldn’t help a burst of startled laughter. I searched his face for mirth, but his expression was serious.

  “I returned from a trip to find that someone had stayed in the cabin. They left this horse. Perhaps as payment or because they could no longer use it where they went.”

  My eyes widened. “Must be worth a small fortune.”

  He glanced at me. “Do you wish to drive it?”

  “Oh! I won’t crash us, will I?”

  Now he smiled. “No. It’s simple.” He held up the reins, as if to demonstrate that he was doing nothing more than holding them. “It will travel straight until you turn it. You tug the right strap for it to go right and the left to go left. As long as you pull, it will turn.”

  I watched his hands deftly tug the straps. A slight twist of the wrist to make the horse steer at an angle, a deeper pull to make it turn outright. I was so entranced with watching his tendons move that I didn’t realize he was proffering me the reins.

  “Oh!” I took them and then stared at the horse with the sudden realization that we were headed straight into the trees.

  He must have recognized my stricken expression. He chuckled. “Here. May I?”

  I nodded, heart pounding, and he leaned in to close his hands around mine.

  “Like this.” He guided me gently to pull the reins to one side. I stared at the horse, but all of my attention was on his hands—their heat, the way they covered mine, their controlled strength.

  When we were headed straight, he released me and sat back. My fingers felt suddenly small, cold and exposed. “And you figured out all of this on your own? How to operate it?”

  “Trial and error.” He grinned.

  I grinned back. I practiced little turns at first and then zigzagged us until Fred called out a complaint. “Hey! You trying to make me sick back here?”

  “If it means you’ll stop singing, then yes!” I shouted back.

  In response, he sang louder.

  Rolph took the reins again. With a toss of the straps, the horse picked up speed. “How long have you been storytelling for?”

  “For as long as I’ve been able to talk. But as a vocation, considerably less than that. I didn’t think about making money at it till I met Miles and Beth four years ago. At a Frost Fair, in fact. Fred joined us a year later. We picked him up at a tavern.” I twisted to face Fred. “Isn’t that right?”

  He tilted his head back to give me an upside-down look. “What?”

  I nodded and resettled in my seat. “See? Exactly.”

  I turned my grin to Rolph only to realize he was looking at me, amusement lighting his eyes. I flushed and brushed my hair behind my ear, coyly avoiding his gaze. “There’s a long story behind that.”

  “Oh? Well, we have a long path ahead of us.”

  I threw him a smile. “All right. But don’t laugh. It all started with a chicken coop…”

  Chapter Eight

  We arrived in town just before noon and found the streets empty. Many of the buildings were still shuttered after last night’s storm. However, some paths had been made through the snow, evidence of light traffic and activity.

  A young woman stood on the front stoop of a home, dumping water from a bucket. She stared at us as we passed—the mechanical horse trailing a ribbon of gray smoke, the creaking wagon it pulled, Fred in the back twiddling his fingers around the neck of an imaginary lute. Her eyes widened when I waved, and she scuttled backward like a crab, closing the door. An instant later the drape of the front window pushed aside, and she stared at us through the frosted glass.

  We found the mechanic shop across town. It looked dark and tired, the Closed sign just visible behind the door’s dusty windowpane. Fred rattled the door handle.

  I regarded the upper story window and its closed, lace-fringed curtain. “I wonder if the shopkeep lives above.”

  I left Fred and Rolph to the noisy business of calling the shopkeep and wandered the streets. I nodded to a young boy pushing a wheelbarrow of coal. His floppy hat nearly covered his eyes, and he tilted his head back like a mouse to see me from beneath its rim. Two more children passed by on a cross street with a sled, both so bundled I couldn’t tell if they were wearing dresses or britches. Dogs barked, sounding close in the crisp air.

  I followed the sound of a shop bell to the only establishment on the street with its curtain drawn open, a store crowded from floor to ceiling with food and domestic supplies. An old woman sat behind the far counter, stitching a needlepoint. Embroidered pictures of birds and flowers decorated the only bit of bare wall behind her, a narrow stretch squeezed between shelves of jars.

  “That was quite a storm,” I said in greeting.

  She looked at me over the rims of her glasses. “It was.” She placed down the frame and needle an
d laid her glasses beside them. “Can I help you find anything?”

  “I’m really just browsing.” My eyes skated over a row of small tin automata.

  She resumed her needlework. “Take your time, love.”

  Dry goods crowded one wall—boxes of sugar and baking soda, jars of dried spices, tins of oatmeal and a dozen other household staples I hadn’t purchased in years. Above a shelf of dust pans and sewing supplies, lamps stood in neat and ready rows.

  Bags of flour dominated the middle of the store, stacked in an island as high as my hips. I circled them to examine a display of esoteric-looking kitchen machines. Printed signs read AMAZING Automatic Can Opener!, Tired of CHOPPING and DICING? and BEAT EGGS with the crank of a SWITCH!

  Propped next to the register was a smaller sign, this one hand-painted. It read Potatos, Turnips, Carrits, & Onyins.

  “You carry produce?” I asked.

  “Only what’s listed there. I sell what I have through the winter until I’m out.”

  I thought about the stewpot over Rolph’s fire. “I’ll take a pound of each.”

  She stood. “No onions.”

  I nodded. She excused herself to fetch them from the cellar, leaving me to dig through my purse for my small stash of money.

  “What are those books there?” I asked when she returned, spying a stack of leather-bound books.

  “Journals.” She set a lumpy canvas bag on the counter. Through its collapsed mouth peeked bits of deep brown, faded purple and orange. She plucked a book from the top of the stack and set it down in front of me.

  I smoothed a hand over the soft leather cover. It creaked when I opened it, and I admired the milky-white pages—all spectacularly blank, like a promise. I could feel words hidden behind the pages, hazy ideas and pictures.

  I dared to look at the price penciled lightly inside the front cover and did the quick math. “I’ll take this too. And two pencils.”

  She wrapped all three items neatly in brown paper and tied it with a length of twine. With the package in my arms and the shop bell chiming behind me, I suddenly felt the closeness of Christmas. I watched plumes of black chimney smoke snake into the sky and smelled bread and pies baking. I hoped we would make it to the Frost Fair in time to see the tree on Christmas night, lit with candles like a thousand twinkling stars.

  At the side of an inn that looked shuttered for the winter, I found a table and benches. A tree that probably offered shade to the table in the summer now shielded it from the worst of the snow. I scraped away what had been left there after the storm and sat, wondering if Fred and Rolph had found any luck with the parts. I ought to check on them, but I wanted to enjoy the sense of peace here for just a minute, the hush that had fallen with the blanket of snow.

  I rested my chin in my hands and closed my eyes. The rich smell of wood smoke, coal and thatch mixed with the clear sharpness of snow, enveloping me like a blanket of winter incense.

  The breeze brought another scent, one both strange and familiar. I opened my eyes.

  “Rolph,” I said.

  He paused in the street and turned, his expression warming. The way he had his hands buried in his coat pockets gave him a boyish appearance. He strolled toward me. “Enjoying the afternoon?”

  “It’s beautiful. Did you find the shopkeep?”

  He nodded. “Fred is at the shop now. They don’t have what you need in stock, so they’re checking another storeroom. May I?” He gestured to the bench across from me.

  My heartbeat quickened. “Of course.”

  As he sat, his gaze fell onto the bag. “Potatoes?”

  “For the stew, since we’ve been eating so much.” I slid the brown package toward him over the table. “And this is for you.”

  He looked rather dumbstruck.

  “Open it! It’s not just a package.”

  How long had it been since someone had given him a gift? My stomach tightened. What if he didn’t like it? I itched to tear the package open for him as he carefully picked apart the twine and unfolded the paper.

  Rolph picked up the book and opened it. A question formed in his eyes.

  “A sketchbook,” I said. “Pencils too.”

  He shook his head, lines creasing at the corners of his eyes. “But why? I can’t take this from you. Money is scarce…”

  I tried, somewhat unsuccessfully, to keep my expression from falling. “Not so scarce that I can’t buy a small token for a friend.”

  “Friend?” His eyes widened.

  “Yes. Friend. Someone who puts you up in a blizzard and drives you to town through snow deep enough to swim in because your stomper’s broken down.”

  I hoped to tease a smile from him, but instead he looked down at the journal with a small frown.

  I sighed, reaching for it. “If you insist on returning it, I can always buy something for one of my other friends…”

  He pulled it away, out of reach. “No, it was only a suggestion.”

  “But a prudent one. I’ll exchange it this instant for a tin whistle.”

  “A tin whistle!”

  “Yes, so that Fred has something to do besides sing when his lute is locked up in the trunk of the sled.”

  Grinning, he held the journal up high. I made a lunge for it, but my hand slipped on the damp wood of the table and I fell against his chest. For a moment, I thought we might both go tumbling to the snow. He caught me with his free hand, though, with a sure grip around my upper arm. Our laughter faded, swallowed in the instant tension.

  “I think I’d rather not part with it,” he said softly, looking at me rather than the sketchbook.

  I stared into his eyes. There. That flash of amber. Reluctantly, I let him right me, trailing my fingers lightly over his chest as I pulled away. I tucked my hair back.

  He ran his thumbs over the creamy paper, then cradled one of the pencils in his grip. “I’ve been out of practice.” He hesitated. “May I sketch you?”

  My stomach tumbled over itself at the idea of his eyes studying my features long enough to draw them. “Yes.”

  He folded the brown wrapping paper and pushed it to the side, coiling the twine atop it, and spread the sketchbook on the table in front of him.

  I squirmed. “How would you like me? Um. Do you want me to just sit like this? Should I take off my coat?”

  He looked up from the page and smiled. “Stay like that. I like you as you are.”

  Heat spilled through me. I propped my elbow on the table and leaned my cheek on the heel of my hand, fingers threading through my hair. I was never so conscious of my own features—cheeks, eyebrows, nose, lips. Rolph’s eyes traced over them all.

  I knew when he was drawing my eyes, because he looked straight into them. I had the strange feeling that he was looking behind my eyes, and I wondered what he saw in their depths. At last, he refocused and met my gaze. “You have such beautiful eyes. I wish I could capture their color—like the winter sky.”

  I felt my smile against my hand. I tried not to move and lose the pose. “Thank you.”

  His gaze lingered on mine. A slow smile stretched across his face.

  “What?”

  “Nothing.” He shook his head and glanced away, then returned to my eyes again.

  “What?” I demanded, smacking my palm on the table, my mouth gaping in a stupid grin.

  “Nothing!”

  A clump of snow smacked my forehead and exploded. “Oh!” I froze with my arms up, spread half open like wings. I looked up to see a sagging tree branch, a part of it now bare of snow.

  We burst out in startled laughter. Rolph rescued the sketchbook from the table and tapped the snow from it. He looked at me and laughed again.

  “Wait a moment.” He reached out a hand.

  I froze. He brushed the snow gently from my hair. His fingers lingered on my bangs, running through the strands. I leaned into the caress, flicking my eyes downward toward the journal as an excuse to linger. “May I see?”

  “It’s still rough.” Rolph t
ilted the sketch out of my view, looking strangely shy.

  “Many things that are rough are also beautiful.”

  I nearly followed his hand across the table as he pulled away slowly and curled his fingers. His brow creased. “What a strange little sprite you are.”

  I widened my eyes innocently. “May I? Please?”

  He hesitated, then turned the sketchbook. The lines were not perfect—I could see his hesitation, the soft sketchiness—but he had captured a wistfulness in my expression, a daydream quality that was almost angelic. He had a knack for drawing lips. And my eyes… Though he didn’t have colors, he had caught their depth and lightness with the use of masterful shading. I waited for the drawing to blink.

  “Is it all right?”

  “It’s…beautiful.”

  He lowered the book. “Would you like it?”

  “No. I hate to see a page torn out of a book. It’s like a question mark.” And I wanted him to have a memento of me.

  The Frost Fair didn’t seem quite so important anymore, not as real or warm or close as the cabin’s warm carpet of furs or Rolph’s arms. I imagined him holding me close, sketching my skin with his fingertips while a blizzard howled outside.

  A piercing whistle sounded. Fred waved at us from the road.

  We jumped apart. I raised my hand to brush back a lock of hair that I realized was already neatly tucked behind my ear and tried to look casual as I waved back. “Looks like he got the parts.” I nabbed the bag of vegetables.

  Rolph held his hand out for the bag. “I’ll take that.”

  “Certainly,” I said, and slipped my hand into his.

  His warm fingers closed in surprise around my cool ones. I think he couldn’t have looked more dumbstruck had I stretched up and kissed him.

  For a moment, I considered it. Perhaps I’d give Fred something else to sing about on the way home. But I only smiled at him. “Let’s go.”

  Chapter Nine

  The sun was hovering just over the spires of the trees when we rode up to the cabin. I waved to Miles as he emerged from the front door.

  While the men unloaded the parts, I brought the vegetables to the kitchen, where I recovered a knife from a dusty tin box and chopped them into stew-sized chunks. I had to keep my hands busy. If Miles repaired the stomper and the night remained clear, our stay here would be over, and I didn’t want to think about that.