‘I should like that very much,’ I said. ‘Shall I wait for you outside?’ She nodded and went back inside her bedroom.
As I waited outside on the steps, I noted the chill in the air from the previous evening had not dissipated. Within moments of formulating this thought, a cloak appeared from nowhere and enveloped me in its warm, woollen folds. A short time later, Isabeau appeared at the front door. She stepped out into the sunshine and when she saw me she smiled.
‘Good morning, Beast,’ she said. ‘It is rather late, isn’t it?’
‘You have only yourself to please,’ I said, ‘and no appointments to keep.’
‘True,’ said Isabeau and covered another yawn with both hands. ‘Therefore, I think I will prescribe myself a day of complete indolence and spend the afternoon asleep.’ We started down the front steps, making for the snow-covered side of the house where Isabeau had seen the rabbits.
‘Did you not sleep at all?’ I asked, puzzled at this onset of insomnia.
‘I … stayed awake reading,’ she said, not meeting my eyes. My puzzlement grew. I could understand she wanted to keep her tour of the portrait gallery private, but surely it could not have accounted for an entire night of wakefulness.
‘Oh, you found something to your liking in the library, then,’ I said lightly, looking away from her and becoming absorbed in scanning the snow ahead for signs of animal life.
‘Mmmm,’ was all the response I received. It then became very easy to let this conversation drop, as a rabbit suddenly burst out from the hedge some way ahead of us, ran several metres, and froze.
‘Look!’ I breathed, barely able to believe my eyes. Isabeau turned to see and, as she moved, the rabbit leaped back into life and streaked off, vanishing into the hedge once more.
‘There! I told you,’ said Isabeau, in a satisfied tone. ‘Let us see if we can find his brothers and sisters.’
We walked along the hedge for some time, and while I did not get another view of a rabbit quite so clear as the first, we saw a number of tracks and had another glimpse of a tail disappearing into the dark tangle of leaves and twigs standing between us and the forest. I also found my beast’s senses could detect a lingering odour I identified as rabbit in the places where we found marks. I had not smelled another animal for so long, I had forgotten this ability of mine. It was not a comfortable sensation, for it stirred up memories of the time I had lived in the forest.
Eventually Isabeau began to yawn again in earnest and when I pressed her she confessed to growing weary once more. I offered her my arm to lean on, in returning to the house, and she accepted with what appeared to be genuine gratitude. My satisfaction with our walk was made in all ways complete when we heard a twittering trill and a flash of red darted across the path in front of us. We turned and saw a robin alighted on a nearby bush. It watched us carefully for a few moments, then flew off again, disappearing over the hedge.
‘She is probably looking for a snug place to rear her brood in your hedge,’ Isabeau observed.
My heart was too full to reply.
The next few days passed very pleasantly. Isabeau’s family seemed to be almost happy, which did much to relieve my guilt over the removal of their youngest member. Neither sister was as miserable as they had been the first day I saw them.
Isabeau’s music proved a welcome source of diversion for the both of us. Initially she spent all her time at the virginal and it was not many days before her hands became noticeably more nimble and the music more fluid. Then she began to dabble on the other instruments, but the virginal remained her favourite. She thanked me very prettily for the music I gave her and was good enough to start learning several of the pieces straight away. It seemed she liked them too, for she played them often and seemed as happily transported by these as by her other favourites.
She suffered me to sit quietly in the room and listen to her play, but she would not sing if I was there. After a few days I came to the conclusion she was a little shy of her playing as well and made more wrong notes if she observed me watching her too closely. She insisted I was welcome in the music room, though, so I began to take a book with me. Often I merely held it open in front of me and pretended to read, but even if Isabeau detected the ruse, it appeared to make her more comfortable.
One morning I heard her begin to play and went to take my customary seat in the corner. Given my general disinclination to read at these times, I had with me a small volume of poetry that was a favourite of mine, on the basis that I found poetry easier to pick up and leave off than prose.
Isabeau was somewhat restless and indeed, after only half an hour at the virginal, the melody trailed away half-heartedly. I raised my eyes from my book, wondering what was wrong. She was leaning forward on the stool with her elbow resting on the edge of the instrument and her chin in her hand. She appeared to be gazing out the window, but as I looked up she turned to look at me.
‘You are not inclined to play today?’ I asked.
Isabeau shook her head ruefully. ‘No. You see what a poor student I am? I am now paying for my earlier enthusiasm. I confess today I am weary of my music.’
‘That is a shame,’ I said.
‘It’s kind of you to say so.’ She smiled in a self-deprecating way. Then she knitted her brows thoughtfully and asked, ‘What do you do to entertain yourself? I mean when you are not listening to me play. What did you do before I came?’
What a question! What could I tell her about the wretched daze of my life in the chateau before she came? Of staggering about in an attempt to walk like a man and the dreamlike strangeness of holding such familiar things as a cup, a knife or a sword in my ungainly paws and being unable to use them? Of howling my loneliness to a blank and unsympathetic moon?
‘I mostly read,’ was the answer I eventually gave, looking down at the book I had laid down on my knee.
‘Then I imagine you have done quite a bit of reading in your time,’ she said quietly.
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I have read most of the books I possess.’
Isabeau raised her eyebrows. ‘I have seen your library!’ she exclaimed. ‘So many books!’
‘I cannot take the credit for it,’ I admitted. ‘I have never added to its collection. It was amassed by others.’
Isabeau frowned as though this had given her something curious to think about. Then she asked, ‘So what would you recommend to a young lady who doesn’t wish to apply herself to anything too serious?’
Never before having had to make a recommendation to young ladies wishing to apply themselves to anything at all, I was somewhat taken aback.
‘I have no idea,’ I said. ‘All I can do is tell you which ones I have enjoyed the most. They will be easy enough to identify,’ I said with a wry smile, holding out my hairy paws. ‘Those I have read often are rather battered, you see.’
Isabeau smiled. ‘I can see you would use your books rather hard,’ she said. ‘What are you reading today? Would you mind very much reading some of it to me?’
Once again the conversation had taken a turn that left me more than uncomfortable. I tried desperately to think of a way to politely decline and couldn’t. She must have seen my amazement in my face and misinterpreted its cause.
‘My elder sister used to read to me often,’ she explained. ‘Papa was mostly too busy for such things and my mother passed away while I was still in leading strings. As you see with my music, I never had enough self-discipline to truly apply myself to any kind of studious pursuit. Marie used to read to me in the hope I would grow interested enough to do it more often on my own. Or, failing that, that I would glean some sort of education.’
‘I could,’ I said doubtfully. ‘I have never read aloud to anyone. I don’t know if I would be worth listening to.’
‘Please,’ she asked, a little more hesitantly now. ‘I promise to be as impressed with your reading as you were with my playing.’
I tried to swallow my apprehension. It was the first request she had actually made
of me. How could I deny her this simple thing?
‘Very well,’ I said gruffly, feeling excruciatingly self-conscious. I picked the book up and Isabeau left her seat at the virginal and settled herself in a chair near mine. I cleared my throat and looked up and saw her large, liquid eyes fixed expectantly upon me.
‘Would you mind … not looking at me, perhaps?’ I said, and if a dark, hairy beast could have blushed I would have been the colour of a beetroot.
Isabeau looked somewhat surprised, but said, ‘Of course,’ most contritely. She resettled herself in a different chair with a view out the window. I cleared my throat again and began to read.
Initially I must have sounded somewhat hoarse and halting, but I tried not to think of her sitting there listening intently, and concentrated on the verses before me. It grew a little easier and at one point when I dared to raise my eyes a little, while I could not see her face, her posture was relaxed. She had tucked up her feet underneath her and was leaning her cheek on her hand. At that point my throat had begun to grow dry and I was going to ask her if she had had enough. But, seeing how comfortable she looked, I determined to continue. No sooner had I formed this resolve, than a glass of water appeared at my elbow. Gratefully I drank it down and continued.
I must have read to her for more than an hour, because by the time I had finished the little volume, the sun had climbed high in the sky. As I closed the book and put it down, I wondered if perhaps Isabeau had fallen asleep. But she gave a happy sigh and turned around.
‘I love those poems,’ she said blissfully. ‘Marie used to read me those very verses. They were some of my favourites.’
‘Really?’ I asked, momentarily forgetting my discomfiture. ‘They are mine as well.’ She gave me a radiant smile.
‘Really,’ she answered. ‘Thank you, Beast, that was very pleasant. You read very well.’
‘I am much obliged,’ I muttered gruffly, a good deal of my initial embarrassment returning. ‘I am glad you enjoyed it.’
‘Would you be kind enough to read to me again, sometime?’ she asked.
I looked at her carefully to see whether she was just being polite, or whether she had genuinely enjoyed it. She seemed in earnest.
‘If you will consent to continue to play for me, as you have been, I will read to you whenever you wish,’ I said boldly.
‘That sounds like a fair exchange,’ said Isabeau, rising from her seat. ‘Shall we shake on it?’ and she held out her hand. I stood to take it in my massive paw and we shook. Again I was glad beasts do not blush, for at her touch my palm quickened.
‘Isabeau, would you dine with me again tonight?’ I asked impulsively.
‘Certainly,’ she said and, with her hand still in my paw, she dropped a brief curtsey. ‘Until this evening, then.’
I bowed to her. ‘This evening,’ I said.
She left the room and my palm continued to tingle for the rest of the day.
Chapter XIII
Once again dressed with more than my usual care (and I had been dressing with extreme care since Isabeau arrived), I awaited her at the bottom of the grand staircase. I had ventured out on to the summer terrace, but an inexplicable chill in the air had driven me indoors. I puzzled over this briefly while I waited for her. My magical weather was not usually so capricious. Once I saw her on the stairs, however, all thought of weather was driven from my mind.
She was dressed again in a gown of fine brocaded silk, this time in that same pale pink that made her seem like a flower out of my rose garden. The full skirts swelled out around her and she appeared to float down the stairs. Her hair was elaborately dressed and threaded with pearls, and there were more jewels at her throat. The clothes she habitually wore during the day had continued to be very plain, almost common. The difference was enchanting.
I tried not to stare as I stood at the bottom of the stairs, but it is unlikely I achieved any measure of success because as she reached the last few steps, she gave me a sharp look and said, ‘Clearly dinner is something of a grand affair, here,’ in an irritated voice.
‘You did not wish to dress?’ I asked, taken aback. I was more than surprised. My dismay must have been as evident as my admiration, because she immediately relented.
‘No, no, I intended to,’ she assured me, ‘just not in anything so fine. But when I went to my wardrobe, this was apparently the only item of clothing I possessed. And the amount of grooming I was subjected to, you would not believe.’
‘I see,’ I said gravely, thinking this over. It occurred to me I had been looking forward to seeing her in just such finery this evening. I had grown very used to my own wishes being responded to almost before they were formed. Perhaps the magic had allowed me to somehow impose this wish on Isabeau? I uttered a low growl, appalled at the thought. In another time I might not have thought twice about insisting upon my own preferences, but now I was mortified at the thought. I looked at Isabeau, standing on the bottom step, staring at me, her eyes wide. I made my thoughts as clear as I could and directed them at the magic surrounding us.
From now on, I determined, my wishes will not take precedence over Isabeau’s. She will be accorded the same courtesy and obedience I have been shown. If a choice must be made, her comfort and needs are of greater importance than mine.
There was a sharp crack, quite close by, as though a pane of glass had just splintered. This time I caught a clear, sudden scent of magic.
‘What was that?’ asked Isabeau, startled.
I offered her my arm. ‘I think perhaps it was old magic bending in a new way,’ I said, as she came forward and laid her hand hesitantly on my forearm. ‘You will not have a problem with your wardrobe again. You shall wear whatever you wish.’
Isabeau looked around curiously, as though expecting to see someone else nearby. Then she looked back at me.
‘Truly, I do not mind very much,’ she said. ‘I just never had occasion to wear anything so grand before. It seems a little too much just for dinner. And …’ She hesitated a moment and looked uncomfortable, her cheeks turning pink.
‘Is there something else?’ I asked.
For a moment she looked as though she was trying to find a way to avoid the question. Then she closed her eyes and said in an embarrassed voice, ‘I am not used to being looked at.’
‘I see,’ I said, not sure what I could say to repair this awkwardness. ‘I’m very sorry if I embarrassed you. You do look very nice.’ It was hardly adequate praise and I was not sure if a compliment was really going to make the situation any better. However, to my relief she opened her eyes and managed a self-conscious smile.
‘Thank you. Did you choose this dress?’
Now it was my turn to feel uncomfortable. ‘No,’ I said, searching for words to explain my suspicions. ‘Well, it was not my intention. But I think the magic in this place has grown accustomed to arranging things to please me. That may have influenced what you were offered to wear this evening. I apologise. It will not be so again.’
Once more the small dining room yielded a feast of bewildering proportions and variety. As usual there was far more than even I, at my most ravenous, could have hoped to consume. I was searching for something to say by way of conversation, when Isabeau gave a low cry of pleasure.
‘Oh, look!’ she exclaimed. As an elegant silver dish filled with something pale pink and creamy paraded before her. ‘This is Claude’s favourite!’ She smiled shyly at me and offered me the dish. ‘It’s a kind of mousse made with smoked trout. You must try some, it’s really very good. She never could resist it.’
Obediently I took some. ‘It’s very rich,’ I offered.
‘Yes,’ said Isabeau. ‘I could never eat much of it. And it’s terribly detrimental to one’s waistline. Claude always used to moan over that. But she could never help herself. If it was on offer, she’d eat so much she would be in danger of making herself ill. It’s what she asked Father to bring back when he left last autumn. That and ropes of pearls.’
‘What do you mean?’ I asked, puzzled. Isabeau put the mousse down, realising how cryptic she had sounded.
‘She didn’t mean it literally,’ she said. ‘Of course, even if Papa had been able to afford it, he could not have brought something like that all the way back from Rouen. It would have spoiled, even in winter. She just wanted Papa to come back and tell her she could have her old life back.’ Isabeau shook her head sadly. ‘Even if his journey hadn’t been in vain, I doubt he could ever have offered us that.’ She sighed. ‘We all want something more than what our lives offer us now. But Claude would have done better not to draw his attention to it.’
‘Would you mind,’ I said hesitantly, ‘telling me why your father was travelling through my forest in deep winter, when no one else had dared enter it for so long?’
Isabeau looked down at her lap. For a moment I thought she was going to refuse.
‘My father used to be quite a wealthy merchant,’ she said, her voice breaking ever so slightly. ‘We lived in a very beautiful house in the best part of Rouen. We did not want for anything money could provide. It started when there were problems with the supply of goods he used to trade, I think. He would have rallied, but then there was a terrible storm that destroyed some ships. There should have been some sort of insurance against this kind of calamity, but it turned out someone my father had trusted in this regard had cheated him – with disastrous results. My father didn’t worry us with details. But one day he was bankrupt and his fortune gone. We had no choice but to sell our house. When there were rumours of sickness in Rouen, we left the city and set up house in a little cottage by the edge of your forest. That was a little less than a year ago.
‘Then, in autumn Papa received word that one of his ships had returned to port. He left straight away to see what could be done about restoring at least some of our prospects. He thought he could salvage something, so he jumped at the chance, despite the lateness of the season.
‘I gather whatever happened, it has had very little impact on our circumstances. When he returned, he was a little too preoccupied with the bargain he had made with you to tell us much about what had occurred with his ship,’ she said somewhat bleakly.
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