by Laura Kenyon
The ring was already around her finger when Snow finally called, blaming traffic for the delay. “Then Rye woke up as soon as we got on the ferry,” she’d said, “so I had to feed him a bottle. I’m sorry, but I couldn’t bear making him wait all that time. Thank goodness he dozed off right after, but he’s still sleeping now. No problems with the room or the crib or anything. The poor thing must be exhausted. He doesn’t know what’s going on, but I think he knows it’s something big.”
Something big. Belle couldn’t help but picture Snow wearing an ear-to-ear smile as she said this. Nor could she help but scowl as she heard it. They both assumed he’d be up within the hour to eat again, and Snow promised to call her as soon as that happened.
Belle remembered feeling disappointed and a little woozy. She hadn’t been able to kiss Rye goodnight. She hadn’t gotten her evening cuddles. She felt empty, inadequate, alone. She recalled shooting Gray a weak smile and then folding herself into a ball on the armchair. But then Beast pattered over and tried to unfold her, shoving her limbs aside with his snout until finally giving up and resting it on her thigh.
“You’ve still got one baby here,” Gray had said with a laugh, before standing up and declaring that she was in no condition to be left alone. “Penthouse or cabin. You can have the bedroom while I take the couch. You decide, but I’m not leaving you alone.”
She’d argued for a few minutes—partly in fear that Hazel would find out and partly distressed by his assumption that she’d want them in separate rooms—then gave in. “Beast will be happier,” she’d said, neither denying nor declaring that she would be as well.
She should have pumped a little before climbing into bed, but Rye was supposed to be up any minute and she didn’t want to scam him. She could take a little bit of pain, she remembered thinking seconds before her head hit the pillow and everything faded away.
Only it wasn’t just a little bit of pain, she now realized, huddled in front of the bathroom mirror. Her boobs were the papier-mâché balloons she used to make as a kid—soft on the inside, hard as plaster on the outside, and ready to pop any second. She slung her sleeve back to look at her watch. Six o’clock. She’d gone more than fifteen hours without either nursing or pumping. Why hadn’t Snow called?
“Belle?” Gray said through the door. “What’s wrong? Beast is worried sick out here.” On cue, she heard his big wet nose smacking the doorknob. “Can I help?”
Were it not for the pain, she might have found the whole situation quite amusing. Here she was, holed up in her wannabe lover’s bathroom, cradling her breasts like they were newborn puppies, while her dog tried to break down the door because he thought she was being attacked—just like he thought the same mailman was really a covert assassin who occasionally delivered treats.
“Can you get my bag, please?” she pled between clenched teeth. “And my phone?” Then she leaned into the sink and tried to remember what her books said about manual expression. Pinch then out? Pinch then in? In, pinch, out?
Her lids came together as she tried to concentrate. In, pinch, out. In, pinch out. In, pinch—
“Oh!”
Her eyes shot open as the door pulled shut and her purse dropped onto the bathroom floor. She yanked her shirt closed and caught the thin, vertical glow of the living room just before it disappeared.
“Sorry.”
“Gray!” she shrieked, absolutely mortified.
“I’m so sorry,” he repeated, at least five times, through the wooden door that suddenly seemed paper-thin.
“I’m fine. I’ll be fine. I just have to call Snow and probably Doctor—”
She jumped as her phone started singing and Snow’s face popped up.
“Belle?” Snow’s voice sounded ridiculously calm—sleepy even.
“What happened? Is everything okay? I just woke up. Did I miss your call? Is Rye all—”
“I can’t believe it, but he slept through the night. I guess the Tantalise woods are more peaceful than a bustling, mid-town hospital.” Belle tore a hand towel off the bar and twisted it into a ball. “Anyway, the little guy sure is hungry so you should hurry up and—”
“Two seconds!” she hollered, hanging up before she was even finished speaking. “Be right there!”
Moving as if she had a rocket strapped to her back, Belle shoved her buttons back together, high-stepped out of the bathroom, grabbed the hideous chunk of metal that would take her to her baby, and jumped back into bed. Then she jammed the ring onto her finger, spun it around three times, squeezed her pillow as if it was Angus Kane's neck, and closed her eyes.
Then she waited. After a few minutes, she stopped hearing Beast's nails rapping against the floorboards. She thought the air felt different. She thought she heard a cry. In one fluid motion, she opened her eyes, flung the covers back, and threw her feet over the side of the bed. But rather than landing on Snow's eco-friendly cork flooring, her heels hit polished red oak. Rather than seeing Snow's wicker loveseat and the towering aloe plant in the corner, she saw Gray, jaw half-open, and Beast, sitting nobly beside him with his head cocked almost parallel to the floor.
She must have done it wrong.
Without a word, she covered herself again, spun the ring, closed her eyes, and pictured Rye—his bright blue eyes, his dark fuzzy head, his tiny fist jammed into his mouth.
Nothing.
She cursed and flung the pillow across the room—an action that caused her ring hand to ricochet across her chest, slashing her inflamed nipple. She wailed and doubled over. Her boobs were on fire. Her baby needed food. And this damned, stupid, magical booty call ring wasn't doing its job. Why wasn't it doing its job?
"What’s wrong with this thing?" she screamed, wanting to fall to pieces but knowing she didn't have that luxury. Gray twitched, unsure whether to answer or pretend he wasn't there. Beast had already fled into the kitchen. “You found both rings right? And Snow has the second?”
Gray nodded and said Griffin had picked it up earlier that day.
“Then why won’t it work?” she begged, dropping onto the edge of the bed and letting the floodgates open. “I have to take care of my son. Why can’t one thing in my life work?”
Slowly, Gray tiptoed forward, lowered himself beside her, and wrapped her in his arms.
Maybe she was doing it wrong. Maybe she needed to actually fall asleep for the magic to take hold—though that would be a pretty stupid waste of a charm. Maybe the universe just didn’t want her to be happy. Maybe she was doomed to turn out like her mother no matter what she felt inside. Maybe she was the one who was cursed, not Donner.
“Maybe the universe is trying to tell you something,” Gray said, reading her mind.
“Yeah,” she said, laughing through her tears. “I think it is. I think it’s showing me a huge middle finger and trying to tell me f—”
“No,” Gray said, pulling her tighter but hiding a smirk. “Maybe it’s trying to remind you that you’re a person too.”
Belle looked up. “What is that supposed to mean? Of course I’m a person.”
“A person who needs to take care of herself too,” he clarified. “You’re making yourself responsible for the entire world, Belle. You keep choosing total misery rather than yourself.”
“Yeah well, I’m only one person and—”
“And it’s that thinking that makes people fall in love with you—that made me fall in love with you when I was convinced it was physically impossible.” His hand landed on her knee. She stared at it. Something concrete in this big, confusing, magical mess.
"Now I know you want to take care of your baby, but you have to take care of yourself as well—inside and out. You can build a castle out of the strongest steel known to man if you want, but if the foundation’s falling apart, it won’t last a year. I wouldn’t be surprised if that’s why the ring isn’t working. What was it Ruby told us in the hospital the other day? Magic has a mind of its own sometimes?”
"I just want to help him," Belle said,
even though she knew he had a point. "I'm his mother. If there's one thing Rye’s supposed to be able to count on right now, it's me. And I'm failing him."
“You are not.” Gray's voice was gentle but firm. “You’ve given more in four days than most mothers are asked to give in four years.”
“Yea. I’ve given him a curse, a new mom, and a freakishly small nose. Go me.”
“Hey,” he said, drawing her face toward his by the chin. His eyes pulsated inside of hers as he emphasized every word. “Snow White is not his mother. She’s a good friend, but she’ll never be his mother and everyone who matters knows that. He knows that." Belle sniffled and gave two quick nods—more because she wanted him to stop than because she agreed with him. "And your nose is not small. It’s perfect. Like a button.”
She smiled. Only he could make her smile at a time like this—even if it was fleeting.
“Yeah, well, my button-nosed baby is probably crying his eyes out right now because he's starving," she said, rising to her feet and reaching for her phone.
"What are you doing?"
She took a deep, resolute breath. The words were going to hurt as much as her chest. "Telling Snow to feed him another bottle," she finally said. "I’m going to see Dr. Frolick and will be there as soon as my body allows me to be."
* * *
By the time the elevator hit the thirty-fifth floor, her chest was still on fire but everything else shivered beneath a down coat and one of Gray's fleece-lined flannels. He'd insisted on coming with her, but she outright refused. The last thing she needed was for Hazel to see them together in the newspaper and realize prison wasn’t the only thing standing between Donner and that big happy family.
“Belle!” she heard the moment her shoes hit the tile. She clenched instinctively and swung around, expecting to see a flood of reporters rushing towards her, pens hoisted like lances in some medieval joust. Instead, she saw a few orderlies, a man swimming in a cloud of Mylar balloons, and Kirsten.
“Belle,” she called again, clopping towards her with a little boy and another woman in her wake. She was wearing tan sneakers and an open trench coat over her periwinkle scrubs. “What in the world are you doing back here so soon?” she asked, hoisting a huge brown purse over her shoulder as the groups converged. “Did you miss the salmon cakes and lemon gelatin? Why aren’t you cuddling up with that li—” She raised her eyebrows and caught herself. “—with that pregnancy book you were trying to finish? Is everything okay?”
Belle gave a flustered smile and eyed the other woman, who was struggling to keep hold of her son’s hand.
“Oh, where are my manners?" Kirsten finally said, tugging on her companion’s elbow. "Belle, this is my sister, Kim, and my nephew, Cooper.”
The woman gave her a distracted wave, then did a double take and shot straight as a flagpole. “Your Majesty,” she said, prompting a speedy correction from Belle. She was nobody’s majesty anymore, nor did she want to be.
“We were just headed to lunch,” said Kirsten. “If you like tuna melts, there’s a diner three blocks over that makes the best on the planet. You're welcome to join us if … if you’re free."
Belle started to decline but was cut off when a woman sped between them and almost sideswiped the little boy. "Whoops, sorry!" she called back, hardly slowing down.
Kirsten frowned, then ushered the group away from the elevator, whispering something to Belle about staying behind if she needed her help. When they stopped, a few feet from a display stand filled with public service brochures and hospital schedules, Kim was still staring.
Belle pulled her coat a little tighter. “Oh, no. I'm fine. I just. . ."
Kirsten’s eyebrows moved in opposite directions. She just what? Needed a medical plumber because she’d neglected to breastfeed the infant that's still supposed to be in her belly? Couldn’t survive even twelve hours as a mother without hired help? She brushed her hand out to indicate it was nothing. “I just thought I might have left a piece of jewelry here, that’s all. But—”
"Oh no," cooed Kim, one hand on each of the boy’s shoulders. Belle looked at her for what seemed like the first time. She was small and pretty, with long brown hair, a swirly tattoo on her wrist, and the sort of face that seems instantly familiar. "We can help you look. We don’t have reservations or anything, and I'm a big—well, I don't know if fan is the right word but—supporter of yours. What does it look like? Is it a necklace? A bracelet?"
Belle rubbed her hands together while trying to send a telepathic S.O.S. to her former nurse. Then she realized she was rubbing Donner’s ring. She propelled her left hand forward and laughed. “No, it was this. Sorry. I thought I’d lost it, but I actually found it stuffed between the seats on the ride over. Go figure.” She rolled her eyes and pointed to her right temple. “You know what they say about pregnancy brain. But while I’m here I figured I’d say hello to everyone.” She laughed again, but this time the reverberations traveled straight to her chest. Instead of cringing, she channeled the pain into a ridiculous, ear-to-ear smile.
“Oh, then you should definitely join us,” Kirsten said, still visually suspicious.
“Yes you should,” Kim echoed. But her voice was suddenly cooler. And her eyes were glued, uncomfortably, on Belle’s hand.
“Actually,” Belle said, spreading both hands over her exaggerated belly, “I really should see Dr. Frolick while I’m here. You can never be too—”
“That’s a very interesting ring,” Kim interrupted. “Do you mind if I ask where it came from?”
Belle’s head automatically listed to one side. “It’s … It’s my wedding ring.”
“Really?” Kim said as her son slipped away and started plucking health pamphlets from the display case. He looked to be about six years old—or early grade school, anyway—and had bright blue eyes just like Rye. He could have been Rye in a few years, really—or a few months if they didn’t break the curse soon. Maybe that’s why he slept through the night already. “Sorry, I’m just interested because I used to have one exactly like it.”
Belle’s face plummeted. Kirsten’s sister had one of Donner’s booty call rings? She felt sick all over again. She felt betrayed. She felt—
“Well, I shouldn’t say I had one, exactly,” Kim continued, glancing at Cooper as he picked up a brochure about the dangers of UV radiation. Poor kid. He had no idea his mother was a home wrecker. “It belonged to my sister."
"Our sister," corrected Kirsten, who seemed instantly—almost guiltily—obsessed with her sneakers.
Kim nodded and looked away to watch her son again. Her hair parted a bit to reveal a second tattoo, this one with on the back of her neck—three circles. No, three stars. A group of men sailed by wearing visitor badges and two doctors rushed past speaking medical gibberish.
“Anyway,” Kim said, coming suddenly back to life. “Her ring disappeared a few months ago. It sounds crazy, but I think someone stole it from my house.” Kirsten made protesting noise but Kim waved her off. “I’m telling you. I never leave my bedroom windows open. There are no screens and I only have one air conditioning unit. But a few days before I realized it was missing, I came home to an open window. The bush underneath looked a little tousled too.”
“I’m still convinced you just haven’t looked hard enough.”
Kim narrowed her eyes. “No, it’s gone,” she said, her voice straining a little. “I never wore it anywhere.”
Belle shook her head. She was two minutes late for her appointment and needed medical attention stat. But something told her she needed to stay—something more than morbid curiosity. Perhaps it was the sudden pain in Kim’s eyes. Perhaps it was the fierce anger in Kirsten’s. Perhaps it was the way they both seemed to sink into the little boy collecting tri-fold glossy treasures a few feet away. Either way, she was in no way prepared for the tears that would flow from her next, seemingly simple question to Kim: “How old is your son?”
He was almost seven, they said, but he wasn’t her son
. Kim was raising him but Cooper was their nephew, born to their other sister shortly before her husband strangled her to death and stashed her body in the attic—along with his two previous wives.
Belle’s chill turned into frostbite as she began to connect the dots. Everyone had heard of Blue Beardsley, the serial killing husband who’d murdered his first three wives and faked their disappearance. It was the trial of the century just before Belle met Donner, back when she was living as her sisters’ punching bag in that tiny little cottage. Sometimes Julianne would whisper the details of the murders to Belle as she fell asleep—so that she couldn’t find peace even in her dreams.
Then Belle started to remember something else—something about her first night at the hospital, calling Kirsten by the wrong name. I had a sister named Karen, she’d said, but not anymore.
Karen Epson, yes, that was the name of his third wife.
Belle blurted a million apologies without thinking. Then she brought a hand to her mouth and panned from Kirsten to Kim, whom she now recognized as Kimberly Epson, the woman who’d planned Cinderella’s thirtieth birthday gala and offered to help restore the Phoenix. “I didn’t realize.” She looked at Kirsten. “I didn’t know your last name.”
Kirsten pressed her lips into a sad, closed smile. “Don’t worry about it. It’s not something I like to advertise.”
Belle nodded forcefully. “Of course. I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“For dredging up something like that. I didn’t mean to—”