Of Beauty and Beast

by Stacey Jay

  The thoughts make me feel sour inside. They make me wish I could have a moment alone with Gem to speak frankly. I want him to know that I understand what it’s like to be a prisoner. That I know what it’s like to walk a road I didn’t choose to a destination I fear, and that I will do my best to make his life in Yuan tolerable.

  But the guards and the healers would never knowingly leave me alone with a Monstrous, and it doesn’t matter anyway. I am Gem’s jailer and his enemy. Why should he feel anything for me but contempt? He shouldn’t. And I shouldn’t care one way or another.

  “Tomorrow, then,” I say, taking Needle’s arm and allowing her to lead me from the room. I have enough misery to bear. There’s no need to take the hatred of a beast to heart.

  But as I walk away, I can’t help remembering Gem’s cry in the hall, how desperate and human he sounded, and how much something inside me wanted to protect him from the soldiers.

  From Yuan. From … me.

  GEM THE healer gives me more bitter water to drink, and the agony in my legs fades to a distant ache. My eyes grow heavy, but I fight the muddying of my thoughts. I don’t want to sleep.

  I want to lie here and stare at the white wall until my mind is as soft as windswept sand. Then I will bury all my hate deep beneath it, so deep that not even an outline can be spied from the surface. The queen may be blind, but she saw through me. I have to try harder.

  She was kind today, open in a way she hasn’t been before. She even confirmed my suspicion that the roses’ magic gave her the power to see for that moment in the garden. I should have welcomed her confidence. I should have shared a story of my own. I should have done something to begin the long journey to earning her trust.

  Instead I mocked her. I mocked her because the worry in her eyes hurt more than my legs. Because her promises to help made me hate her more than I did before.

  It’s too late for kindness. No amount of kindness can change who she is or what her people have done to mine. Her moment of compassion only proved she’s worse than I first assumed. To be cold and incapable of pity is one thing; to have compassion and use it only when it’s convenient is nothing less than evil.

  I hate her so much my body aches with it, but I hate myself more. I hate that I felt even a moment of pity for that little girl with her nightgown on fire, or for the queen whose guards roll their eyes before obeying her commands. No warrior of my tribe would ever treat his chief with such a lack of respect, but the soldiers clearly feel no need to conceal their disdain from the blind queen or her silent attendant.

  Or from the monster whimpering on the floor.

  They should be more careful. Everything I see and hear is my weapon. Everything. From their disdain, to the way the silent woman’s fingers move with words, to the flash of guilt in the queen’s eyes.

  “Isra’s eyes,” I correct myself aloud. “Isra.”

  I practice saying her name again and again, until it sounds the way it did when she said it, until I sound like a Smooth Skin, until I fall asleep with her name on my lips and dream of sand.

  Thick, warm sand, rising up my thighs, trapping my chest, spilling into my nose and mouth. Burying me alive.

  6

  ISRA

  “HERE. Use the middle fork,” Bo says, pressing a utensil with a smooth bone-covered handle into my hand. “The spoon is only for soup.”

  “Thank you,” I mumble, cheeks flaming as I run my fingertips over the heavily glazed duck on my plate, searching for a place to aim my fork.

  By the moons, I know which utensil to use. I was simply trying to spare myself the embarrassment of dirtying yet another napkin.

  Whoever planned the menu for my coronation should be cast out of the royal kitchens in disgrace. They couldn’t have made the meal more challenging for their queen if they’d tried. I’ve already spilled soup on my dress, sent half a boiled carrot leaping off my plate when I tried to cut it, and dirtied four napkins with my sauce-covered fingers. And there is no doubt that every member of court observed my failure. The banquet hall is positively buzzing.

  Buzz, buzz, buzz— the noise in the great room builds like a swarm of bees, rattling my nerves, killing my appetite, stinging the skin on my face, the only skin left completely exposed on this momentous day.

  The sleeves of my coronation dress fall to my wrists; my skirt brushes the floor. My hands were encased in silk gloves until I was forced to remove them for the feast, and my feet are snug inside new slippers. Even my legs are bundled into thick cotton stockings. If I trip and my dress rises up, Needle and I wanted to be sure every inch of tainted flesh was covered.

  We were so careful, with my dress, with my hair—slicked into a bun so tight it’s impossible to tell how wild my curls usually are—but all the preparations were a waste of time. I’m still taller than every whole citizen of Yuan. I’m still big-boned and sharp-featured, with hands too large and lips too wide and eyes too sunken.

  The common people saw me for the tainted thing I was the moment I stepped out on the dais. They gasped. One shocked collective breath, followed by a silence so thick and terrible I would have turned and fled if I’d been sure where I was going.

  The cheering and clapping started soon after, and Needle insisted the people were simply surprised by how “lovely” and “exotic” I looked, but it was too late for her kind lies to make a difference. I know the truth. My people are horrified by their queen. Yuan has never had a tainted ruler. I am the first, the contemptible offspring of the king’s mad second wife. Her insanity almost cost the people their lives, and now her tainted daughter sullies their throne.

  I’m sure they’re all praying I will die before having children of my own. As long as I’m married, the covenant will be secure. My king will be able to remarry, and the poor noble girl forced to wed him will take on the mantle of sacrifice.

  Sacrifice. Blood and bones. That’s all I am.

  The common people cheered, and the nobles have spent the feast flattering me, but the truth is that none of them sees me as anything but a walking dead girl. There have been queens who ruled with wisdom and power, but none of them were tainted. Or blind. Or locked away and hidden from the people. I will have to be truly extraordinary to lift myself above all my failings.

  “Should I have the servants bring more sweet wine?” Bo asks, laying a hand on my wrist and letting it linger there too long.

  “No, thank you.” I pull my hand away, scratching between my sticky fingers to cover my escape.

  The more wine Bo drinks, the more familiar he becomes, ensuring that I can’t help remembering the kiss he stole when he was the first to know I was queen. In hindsight, that kiss is nothing if not suspicious. For twenty years, Junjie has been the most powerful man in Yuan aside from the king. There’s nowhere left for him to rise except to the throne. He’s already married and too old to wed me himself, but I’m sure he finds his son an acceptable substitute.

  “You are beautiful tonight,” Bo whispers, his wine and rosemary breath warm on my cheek. “Your eyes are like springtime.”

  “Thank you,” I mumble, struggling to keep my expression from going sour. There’s nothing wrong with Bo’s lies. They’re pretty lies. Kind lies.

  There’s nothing wrong with him wanting to be king, either. Someone will be my king. It might as well be Bo. He is solicitous and flattering. Our marriage would make his father happy, and the people relieved. It would fulfill my duty as a daughter of the covenant, and secure the future of the city. All good reasons to relax and let his hands linger, but for some reason my body remains tense no matter how much wine I drink.

  “May I walk you to your rooms tonight?” Bo asks, his arm snaking around my shoulders, trapping me in my chair.

  Around us, the buzzing grows hushed for a moment before resuming at a more insistent drone. The nobles are talking about me. They’ve been talking about me since Needle led me to my chair on the raised platform at the center of the room. The hall eventually grew too noisy to pick out indivi
dual words, but before it did, I heard more than enough.

  Words like “large” and “mad” and “mother.” Words like “sad” and

  “strange” and “frightful.”

  “Would that be all right?” Bo’s fingers grip my shoulder, making my pulse speed. I feel like a rabbit trapped beneath a falcon’s claws. Prey.

  Something to be consumed.

  … get her married …

  … glad it’s not my son …

  … an embarrassment …

  The scraps of drunken conversation are arrows flying through the roasted-duck-perfumed air, finding their marks in my heart.

  I take a deep breath and remember the smell of the newly broken ground in my healing garden. I remember the feel of the plow handles beneath my palms, the sound of Gem’s new brace squeaking as he walks, his gravel-and-grit voice telling stories of his tribe while we work the rocky dirt by the Desert Gate.

  Dry grass is all that’s ever grown there, and I know Junjie doubts anything else ever will, but a patch of land is a small price to pay for an absent queen. And why shouldn’t I be absent? It’s becoming increasingly clear that no one intends to take me seriously. There might as well be a stuffed toy sitting on the throne, for all the attention my advisors pay me when I dare to speak up during their interminable meetings. There’s no point in fighting them. I’d rather leave the running of things to Junjie and the other cranky old men.

  And so I have my field and my Monstrous to help me tend it, and four guards to watch over me while I work, and Junjie meets with the other advisors and the nobles and soldiers and farmers and shopkeepers alone, without a blind girl getting in his way.

  I find the garden a more-than-satisfying use of my time. The work is hard but simple, and Gem has proven himself capable of making the best of his captivity. He is cordial and pleasant and appreciative of the efforts I make on his behalf. Best of all, with Gem, I never have to worry about what I look like.

  Heard she’s hiding … sickening … underneath. The whispers grow louder, harsher.

  “Isra?”

  Repulsive … never … large. My fork falls to my plate with a dull clink.

  Strange … mad … unnat—

  I push my chair back, shrugging Bo’s arm from my shoulders as I stand. If I don’t escape this room, I’m going to explode.

  “Isra? Are you—?”

  “I need some fresh air.” I hold out my hand, grateful when Needle’s fingers immediately appear beneath. “I’ll be back in a moment. Have them bring more sweet wine.”

  I squeeze Needle’s hand, and she immediately sets off at a brisk but reasonable pace, leading me down the platform steps, weaving between the tables scattered throughout the hall.

  Conversations stop as I pass by, and I swear I can feel the nobles’ eyes raking up and down my long body, clawing at my dress, hoping to catch a glimpse of the scaled skin they’ve heard rumors about, eager for me to do something wild and uncivilized.

  I hold my head higher and press the tip of my tongue to the roof of my mouth. I won’t cry. I won’t get angry. I won’t give them any reason to bring up the older stories, the ones about how I abused the women sent to care for me after my mother’s death, or the way I howled like a Monstrous from the balcony of my tower in the middle of the night, giving the city children nightmares.

  I can’t remember that time—I was only four years old, by the moons!—but Needle warned me that the stories live on. My people are waiting for a reason to believe I’m still that feral creature, that girl as tainted on the inside as on the outside.

  As soon as we’re out of sight of the banquet hall, Needle begins to sign.

  Are you all right?

  “I’m ready to leave.”

  You can’t leave. Not without—

  “I am queen. I can do what I wish,” I snap, pulling my arm away, only for her to reclaim it a second later. “Leave me!” I demand. “I can find my way from here.”

  But your guards. They’re still at the banquet. They will want to—

  “I am perfectly capable of getting back to my rooms without guards,” I say, voice rising as I pull away a second time. “Why do I need guards, anyway? Who would dare harm the sacrifice?”

  Needle sighs her sad sigh but doesn’t try to retake my arm, and soon I hear her footsteps hurrying away toward the tower. She knows better than to argue with me. Arguing is pointless. I am stubborn and selfish, and once I’ve made up my mind, I will not be swayed.

  For a moment, I feel bad for taking my anger out on my only friend, but soon I’m too distracted by the pain in my toes to think of anything else.

  My slippers are too tight. I told Needle they were too tight, but she insisted they were the same size I’ve worn for a year, and shoved them onto my feet. Now they pinch so badly, I’m hobbling by the time I near the royal garden. I stop, bend down, and rip them from my feet with a growl that turns to a moan of relief as soon as my toes are allowed to spread on the cool stones.

  Ah. So much better. “Stupid things,” I mutter as I toss the slippers into the flowers lining the path.

  “Good choice,” comes a voice from high above, making me draw a surprised breath. “Who needs shoes in a soft world like this one?”

  “Gem?” I ask, though I know it’s him by the pronunciation of the word “shoes.” His accent is changing, but still, no one else under the dome sounds like him. “Where are you?”

  “In my new room,” he answers. “New rooms. There are two. One for sitting, one for sleeping.”

  “They gave you the apartment overlooking the gardens?” I ask, tilting my face in the direction of his voice.

  I gave the order for Gem to be transferred to the soldiers’ barracks a few days past. I requested that the apartment with the view of the royal garden be converted to a cell—Gem mentioned that he’d like to see the roses again—but there was some grumbling from Junjie about whether such a prime space could be spared.

  I told him to find a way to spare it and left it at that, but I wasn’t sure he’d take my order seriously. Junjie seems to treat my commands as suggestions he’ll take into consideration. If he remembers. If he approves. If it’s convenient.

  “They did,” Gem says. “Thank you.”

  “You like it, then?” I ask, craving approval in this night filled with condemnation.

  “I do. Very much.”

  “I know there are still bars on the windows, but …”

  “It doesn’t matter. The view is nice. And I like the books,” he says, before adding in an almost shy tone, “I’ve been trying to read them. My mother taught me your letters and the sounds they make. It’s not as difficult as I thought it would be.”

  “I’m sure you’ll figure it out soon,” I say, feeling a little envious. “I wish I could read. Being read to is wonderful, but I always thought the stories would go faster if I could see the words myself.”

  “I’m not very fast.”

  “You will be. You’re clever.” He is. More clever than I could have imagined before we started working in the garden together. The past two weeks have only confirmed how foolish I was to underestimate Gem. He has a vast knowledge of plants, speaks our language with the fluency of a noble, and has more stories memorized than I’ve had read to me in my life.

  “Soon you’ll have even more stories to add to your collection,” I say, trying to smile. “You’ll have to tell me your favorites.”

  “Of course,” he says, before adding in a softer voice, “What’s wrong?

  You don’t sound like yourself.”

  I lean against the retaining wall, and reach out, running my fingers over the wilting petals of the last of the autumn clematis. “I’ve done foolish things tonight.”

  “What kind of foolish things?”

  “I was mean to Needle,” I say, tears stinging my eyes for the millionth time since my father died. “I shouldn’t have been. She’s always so patient with me.”

  “She’ll forgive you,” he says, the lac
k of judgment in his tone making me feel even worse.

  “I know,” I mumble, wishing I hadn’t said anything. No matter how well we’ve been getting along, or how much more human Gem is than I could have dreamed a Monstrous would be, it was stupid to start confessing things to him. He’s not my friend; he’s my prisoner.

  “What else?” he asks.

  “Nothing,” I say, lingering when I know I should tell him good night and be on my way. But I’m not in any hurry to return to the tower or Needle, who I know will be waiting by the door with her sad sigh, ready to gently remind me of everything I did wrong tonight.

  I know I have to apologize and endure the reminders, but I’m not ready. Not yet.

  “I don’t believe you.” Gem’s voice holds a challenge I refuse to take.

  “Tell me a story,” I say instead, forcing a smile. Storytelling is what built the bridge between Gem and me in the first place. I began it as a way to break the strained silence during our first day in the garden, but Gem soon took the lead. He is a gifted storyteller and obviously appreciates a receptive audience. He has never refused me a story. “A happy story, please.”

  “What kind of happy story?”

  “One of your people’s legends. One with wind in it.”

  He falls quiet, but I don’t repeat myself. I know he’s putting his thoughts together and that it will be worth the wait. Gem’s stories are always wonderful, mysterious and magical and eerily familiar, stories my heart swears I’ve heard before even if my mind can’t remember them.

  “Once, long ago, in the early days of my tribe, there was a girl who loved a star,” he begins, summoning a delicious shiver from deep in my bones. I pull myself up to sit on the edge of the wall and draw my legs to my chest beneath my dress, grateful Needle gave me a full skirt rather than one of the narrow ones that make me teeter when I walk.

  “It was a summer star,” Gem continues once I’m comfortable. “And it appeared in the sky just as the summer grass turned brown. It burned a fierce orange and red, and spent its nights boasting of all the worlds it had known and the creatures who had loved it.