Five Enchanted Roses: A Collection of Beauty and the Beast Stories

by Kaycee Browning

  “He told me,” Mr. Alleway continued, his voice breaking though he struggled on to finish his tale, “that I was to bring my daughter to him within the fortnight, or he would come to collect her himself.”

  “Da,” Maisie spoke gently, touching her father’s shoulder, “You’re not thinking clearly. Wulvers aren’t real—”

  “Do you dare doubt me, child?” Mr. Alleway’s voice was so sharp, Maisie startled back, her face paling. Sorcha felt her father’s forehead again for a fever. He pushed her hand away. “I am not ill, Sorcha! I did not imagine it, nor am I delusional. I saw what I saw, I heard what I heard.”

  “We just find this a little hard to believe,” Calum said, crouching across from his father and trying to meet his gaze.

  But Bonnie, staring at the rose in the cup, did not disbelieve. Not for a moment. Even as her siblings continued to protest and Mr. Alleway continued to defend his mad story, she remembered every one of the visions she had seen over the last few years, starting that night when she first gazed out upon that distant forest. She did not doubt that this was the same forest in which her father had been lost. Nor did she doubt a word of his tale, for the rooms he described and the rose he had brought her were too perfectly matched to everything she had dreamed time and again.

  And the shadow breathing in the corner . . . the one she always turned to in her dream but never quite glimpsed . . . must be the wulver himself.

  “True or not,” Calum declared suddenly, “it makes no difference. Bonnie is going nowhere. And if perchance some monster comes knocking at our door, I’ll kill it myself!”

  Sorcha agreed, speaking as violently as her brother and even taking up a carving knife as though ready to do battle then and there. But Maisie whispered in tremulous terror, “What if it curses us?”

  “I’d like to see it try!” Calum answered, his fists clenching and his good eye bright.

  Mr. Alleway protested, throwing up his hands. “It’s no use, don’t you see? This monster is much older, much more powerful than you know! I will return to it myself before the fortnight is up and pay for my theft. It is the only answer.”

  At this his three older children put up still greater objections. Through it all, Bonnie listened silently, hardly able to lift her gaze from the yellow rose.

  I vowed I’d never cause them pain again, she thought. It’s my fault. I asked for this gift. She should have bitten off her own tongue before requesting a rose! And now, once more, she brought doom upon the heads of those she loved.

  She knew then exactly what she would do, and it did not matter how her family might argue. So she kept her peace and watched them quietly, all the while making her own plans.

  Chapter 7

  ONCE HER MIND was made up, Bonnie knew there could be no use in waiting. The pain of leaving her family behind—not to mention the unknown horrors that awaited her at the end of her journey—would become too much, and she might, despite her guilt and her conviction, talk herself out of going.

  No, she must leave that very night, as soon as her family slept. Calum had not yet returned their cousin’s horse to its rightful owner, so she would ride it into the forest. She did not doubt in which forest her father had discovered the beast and the rose. It had to be the same dark wood she had observed from a distance years before.

  Her father, weak from exhaustion and sorrow, remained quiet all the rest of that day. Sorcha and Calum whispered much, and Maisie wept now and again, though she put on a brave face. They all wondered if perhaps Mr. Alleway had lost his reason due to this last crushing disappointment in Burntisland. Only Bonnie did not doubt the truth of his strange tale.

  The dreams were sent so that I would know I have to go, she told herself as evening fell upon the snow-covered world. It made sense to her now—after all, she had been the one to cause her family grief. So she must be the one to suffer for their sakes now.

  After a bleak meal together and a quick tending to the animals, the Alleways took to their pallet beds, all sleeping in the one main room near the fire for warmth. Bonnie lay for some time, listening to the sounds of their breathing. At last, when she was certain that even her father slept, she rose up, wrapped a thick shawl around her head and face, and slipped out into the night. There could be no goodbyes, and well she knew it. She must go in silence and secrecy, and hope that her family would remember her with kindness. And that they would understand why she chose this course of action.

  Shaking with fear more than with cold, she saddled their cousin’s horse, led it from the shed, and mounted in the yard. There she hesitated, gazing upon the humble cottage that had become dear to her over the last five years. She never would have believed that such a poor abode could feel so full of love and good cheer!

  Perhaps he . . . the creature . . . will let me send the horse back, she thought even as she turned her mount’s head and, taking the south road, began her journey. If this beast of the castle agreed, she might even be able to send a letter back to them, explaining herself. She could only hope.

  The moon shone brilliantly that night on the new-fallen snow. As this was the first major snowfall of the year, the drifts were not yet terribly deep. Nevertheless, Bonnie was obliged to ride with caution for fear of driving the poor horse to a misstep and sending both of them tumbling to earth. But the wood was not many miles off. She thought she could make it well before dawn.

  Sure enough, after a few frozen hours of steady riding, Bonnie rounded a hill and found herself facing the very forest she sought. She knew it was the right one immediately, for the moment she set eyes upon it she felt again the same pulsing darkness she had experienced that first night in this region, so long ago. She half expected the visions to return as well, but they did not. The dark pulse was potent, however, and she felt sick with dread as she urged her horse up to the edge of the trees, where the snow was not so thick on the ground, caught as it was in the branches overhead.

  She turned to look back, where the moors spread out for miles. A quick breeze tickled her hair, which had escaped her long braid and now fell freely down her back. Bracing herself, she faced forward in the saddle once more.

  For several terrified heartbeats she did not think she would be able to go on. Not for lack of willingness! But the pulse of darkness was so great, she feared she would not have the strength to push through.

  Almost without realizing she did so, Bonnie whispered into the night air: “Lighten our darkness, we beseech thee, O Lord! By thy great mercy, defend us from all perils and dangers of this night.”

  As she spoke, she urged the horse on, and it progressed into the shadows of the forest. A terrible moment during which Bonnie thought she might be pushed from her own saddle by the darkness itself left her sweating despite the cold. But the moment passed, and she was through, riding into the wood of the wulver.

  As she made her way through the trees, her eye lit upon something unexpected—something made of stone resting almost hidden beneath a broken branch, half-covered in snow. On an impulse of curiosity, Bonnie slipped from her horse and bent down to brush away the snow. To her surprise she discovered a paving stone. Brushing away more snow, her brow furrowed in concentration, she discovered a paved path gleaming with unearthly light, as though somehow the stones drank in the moonlight through the trees and reflected it back.

  The moment she recognized the path, it seemed to glow all the more, bright enough that she could follow it with ease.

  “Lighten our darkness,” she whispered again, and climbed back onto her horse, nudging it into a plodding but steady pace. She had ridden but a few minutes when the forest abruptly opened, and she found herself not more than a quarter mile from the edge of a cliff over the sea. This surprised her greatly, for she would not have guessed this forest lay anywhere near to the sea! But then, it must certainly be enchanted, she reminded herself. Far below, waves lapped on rocks and the sea murmured in its many deep voices.

  The path turned sharply to the left, and Bonnie followed it until
she approached an imposing gate, worn and beaten down with age. Beyond stood an old stone castle, large and beginning to crumble. She noticed that one side of the castle was so close to the edge of the cliff that one couldn’t walk around it without falling. Bonnie thought that it might have been beautiful once, but it was now a shell of what had once been.

  She slid off her horse. Now that she no longer had the protection of the forest, the wind from the cliffs whipped at her and blew her hair into her eyes. She pulled the horse up to the gate and examined the lock, which, she wasn’t surprised to discover, had rusted away.

  Her hands shook as she pushed the gate open and led the horse through into the silent courtyard beyond. She let out an unsteady breath, and once more feared her courage would fail her. For before her loomed in reality the exact vision of the castle she had glimpsed many times in her dreams. And she did not merely see it; she smelled it, the ancient corrosion of its stones. She tasted the dust of time upon the air. She heard the wind sighing round the tall turrets, blowing in from the sea.

  Her dream was become reality, even as she had known it must from the moment she saw the yellow rose her father had brought home to her.

  Leading the horse deeper into the courtyard, she approached the tall front entrance. Uncertain what to do with the horse, she tied it to a spindly tree near the castle. Then, drawing a deep breath to steady herself, she approached the door and knocked.

  It swung open easily at her touch, as though she had been expected. Warm candlelight, just as her father had described, met her eye, but she found herself reluctant to leave the moonlight behind. Still, what good would it do to linger here on the doorstep?

  She passed inside and heard the door shut behind her but refused to look around. Iron sconces lined the stone walls on either side of the passage, their tall candles lit as though whoever lived here—the wulver, presumably—did not concern himself with the expense of burning so many candles at once. A luxury Bonnie herself had once enjoyed, but not for many years.

  The light from those candles illuminated fine furnishings, somewhat old-fashioned but not ancient by any means. This surprised her, though in retrospect, she could not say what exactly she had expected. Her visions had never shown her the castle’s entry hall.

  She moved on, walking quickly as though trying to outpace her own fear. Somehow she felt she must find the dining hall with the long table and the huge fireplace, the one her father had described. That chamber she had certainly seen in her dreams, and perhaps there she would—

  “Ye have come.”

  Bonnie almost choked on her own heart as it leapt in her throat. She whirled to face in the direction from which the voice had come and saw a figure dressed in a dark cape descending a huge staircase. It was difficult to discern much about him, for he stood beyond the candlelight and carried no light of his own. But his eyes gleamed bright amber in the shadow of his face.

  Bonnie said nothing. Her pulse quickened to a maddening rush as the beast reached the bottom of the stair and stepped at last into the full light of the nearest candle sconce. She saw then that his body was not unlike that of a man, though he towered over her by more than two heads. His clothing was loose and ill-fitting though finely made, and he wore no shoes on his large, fur-covered paws. His hands were also covered with thick, coarse fur, and long, razor-sharp claws tipped each finger. Worst of all was his face—for though his head was that of a wolf, his eyes were terribly human.

  So at last Bonnie beheld the shadow she had only ever sensed in her dreams. And he was beyond anything she could have imagined.

  Realizing that he had spoken and she had not yet given an answer, she valiantly fought to find her voice. “Aye. I have come,” she said, and how young she sounded, even in her own ears! Like a foolish, frightened child. She tried to steady her voice, to show some strength, though she felt none in that moment. “I have come to repay my father’s debt.”

  “Whit is yer name, maiden?” the wulver asked.

  His voice was so deep, so growling, and simultaneously so thickly accented that Bonnie almost did not understand him. She guessed as much as anything and quickly dropped a curtsy, saying, “They call me Bonnie, milord.” Though she tried to meet his eyes, she could not bear to, and dropped her gaze to the floor at his feet.

  “Are ye afraid to look at me, Miss Bonnie?” said the wulver. He stood so perfectly still, it was almost uncanny. One could have believed he was a statue had he not spoken.

  “Aye, milord.” Bonnie tried again to look into his eyes and failed. “But I am sure I shall grow used to you.”

  At this the wulver nodded as though satisfied. “Come with me,” he said, turning away so abruptly that Bonnie again scarcely understood him.

  She gathered herself quickly, and took two faltering steps after him. “Milord, my horse is outside . . .” She stopped as the wulver turned to look at her over his shoulder. Her throat tightened with fear, but she forced herself to speak on. “I need some way to send him back to my family. He’s not our horse, you understand, and my father cannot afford to pay—”

  “I will make certain he is returned,” said the wulver.

  How trustworthy was the word of a beast? What choice had she but to trust him? “Might I . . . might I send a letter back, telling them that I have arrived?” she asked.

  The wulver stood silent for so long, Bonnie feared she had overstepped her bounds. After an agonizing interval, he nodded toward an elegant side table near the door, which she had not noticed before.

  “Ye’ll find a pen and ink in the drawer,” he said.

  Bonnie hastened to the table and, her hands fumbling with the drawer, found the tools even as he had said. She could feel his powerful presence at her back, and her spine crawled with terror that those great jaws of his might close upon her neck from behind at any moment. The terror was so great that she could barely remember how to write. It had been many years since her hand held a pen.

  She managed to scrawl out a short note. I am safe; I have found the castle. A tear escaped her eye, and she wiped it away quickly, not wanting it to fall on the paper and betray her emotions to her family. Forgive me. I love you.

  What more could she say? She had wanted to explain her actions but now could not manage another word. Not with the wulver behind her. She signed her name and gently folded the paper in half.

  “Leave it on the desk,” the wulver said before she could ask what to do with it. “I will ensure that it is delivered.”

  She placed the letter on the desk and forced herself to turn and face the wulver again. Though she had thought it terrible to stand with her back to him, seeing him was hardly better. She stared dumbly at the pattern of an ornamental rug on the floor.

  “Come with me.”

  His voice was not angry, but neither was it kind. If she sensed anything at all in that voice it was fatigue. He turned from her, leading the way down the hall, the candlelight shining on his dark fur. Bonnie followed him silently for some time, her mind racing with questions she could not begin to comprehend. Finally, the most pressing question billowed up from inside her and burst from her mouth before she could quite think to stop it.

  “Please, milord, could you tell me . . .” He turned at the sound of her voice and looked at her. The words fell from her tongue beyond her control. “. . . could you tell me if you are going to eat me. Please, I’d rather know to begin with.”

  “Eat ye? Eat ye?” The wulver’s human eyes widened with honest surprise and horror. Then his lip curled, and he looked animal again. “Do ye think I would do such a thing as eat ye?”

  The strange combination of man and beast so unnerved her, Bonnie feared her knees might give way. She braced herself and tried to speak with courage. “I—I am sorry if I have . . . offended you. I shouldn’t have—” She flushed at her own stammering and stared at his enormous feet, ending so quietly that she didn’t know if he heard her: “I shouldn’t have said it.”

  The wulver didn’t speak, and afte
r a short but uncomfortable silence, she looked up to find him studying her with those human eyes of his.

  “In truth, ’twas not an unfair supposition,” he said at last. He heaved a heavy sigh, and his awful visage seemed to soften. “But know this: I say no harm will come to ye here, and I mean it. Ye have no need to fear me. Now come.”

  Oddly, Bonnie felt calmed by his words. She did not know why, but she found that she trusted this beast. Her courage rising, she followed as commanded, and he led her down a labyrinth of passages. Candle sconces lighted their way as they walked, and Bonnie could not help wondering whether they were always lit at night or if some unseen servant ran in advance of the wulver, lighting them before his approach.

  Finally the wulver stopped and opened a large wooden door. When he entered, Bonnie saw a winding staircase. Lifting her skirts, she hastened after him, around and around to the top, where they reached another door. This he opened and stood to one side, indicating for her to pass through.

  Bonnie hesitated but reminded herself that he had promised no harm would come to her. Drawing another long breath, she stepped through, passing so close to the wulver that she could feel the warmth of his breath on her hair.

  At sight of the chamber beyond the door, a small gasp of wonder escaped Bonnie’s lips. She had been expecting something dark, damp, and gloomy, a prison of some sort. By contrast, the room before her was bright and cheerful. A warm fire lit the hearth, and through an arched window she saw the sky over the sea begin to lighten with coming dawn. The furnishings, like all she had glimpsed in this place, were fine, though old.

  “Rest yerself,” the wulver said gruffly and moved to leave. “Ye’ll be expected downstairs for the midday meal.”

  “Wait!” Bonnie spun to face him, meeting his gaze and holding it for the first time. She clutched her arms tightly around her shivering body but kept her head upraised. “I—I only wish to know . . . What shall I call you, milord?”