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

by Kaycee Browning

  “Call me whit I am.” The light from the fireplace played on the darkness in his eyes. “A beast. Anything else is a lie.”

  He backed from the room and shut the door. She listened for a latch or a bolt but heard only the sound of his footsteps fading down the stair.

  The finality of her position hit her, and she sank to her knees and wept.

  Chapter 8

  HELP US! HELP . . . us . . .

  Bonnie she sat bolt upright in bed as she so often had in the last few years, her heart racing, her lungs struggling with a scream she could not utter. But this time, as she stared about, trying to recover her consciousness, she did not find herself in the safety of her family’s humble cottage. She did not see the sleeping forms of her sisters on their pallets, she did not hear her father’s snore through the cobble divide.

  Instead she sat upon a large bed, much grander, much richer than any she had ever before known, even in Burntisland. How dirty and poor did her garments look, spread out upon that rich counterpane! This she thought dully, for her head felt groggy and her ears still burned with the dream-voice of the child.

  This time the child had not whispered. Indeed, as Bonnie shook her head and tried to rub exhaustion from her eyes, she recalled that she had heard the voice speak loudly for the first time. As though the child had stood beside her bed and leaned over to speak right into her ear.

  But the only sound she heard now was the tick-tock of a tall Dutch clock standing in the corner of the chamber. Its rhythmic voice served to emphasize the silence all around her. She could not even hear the voice of the sea outside her window.

  Climbing out of the rich bed, she ran a hand through her mass of curls. The . . . beast had told her to come down for the midday meal, but he hadn’t told her when that would be. The clock’s face indicated eleven in the morning, but how could she know if it was accurate?

  Discovering a mirror on the wall near her bed, she inspected her face. Her bloodshot eyes stood out starkly in her pale face. She sighed, thinking how little she resembled her moniker, and, yawning, walked over to open the door.

  The handle wouldn’t move.

  Bonnie frowned and tried again. Then she frantically jiggled it and, her anger suddenly rising, pounded on the door. She had not heard a bolt drop when the wulver left her a few hours before, but apparently he had locked her in after all.

  “Let me out!” She felt as though her voice struck the door and bounced back into the room, unheard by any who might lurk without. She called again and again to no avail and wearied her hands with pounding.

  At last she groaned and slid to the floor. A prisoner! How foolish she had been to hope she might be treated as a guest. Despite the lovely room and comfortable bed, she was still nothing more than a prisoner.

  Head aching with both physical and emotional exhaustion, she leaned against the door. She wanted to weep, but more tears would not come, only a sharp stab of overwhelming homesickness. All she wanted was the embrace of her family’s comforting arms.

  What have I done? she asked herself again and again. But her heart reminded her: The only thing you could do. You vowed not to cause them more pain. A shudder ran through her body, and she feared that she would be sick.

  It seemed like hours but may have been mere minutes before Bonnie heard a heavy tread upon the stair. At last! Relieved and terrified at the same time, she scrambled to her feet and stared at the door.

  The footsteps stopped and nothing happened. No pounding, no sound.

  And then the wulver’s voice growled, “Yer late, Miss Bonnie.”

  “My door is locked,” Bonnie replied, her voice so soft that she wondered if he could hear it. So she spoke again more loudly. “My door is locked. I could not come down.” This time she sounded almost as angry and frightened as she felt.

  Another silence. Then she heard a rattle of keys, a click, and the door slowly opened. The beams of late-morning sunlight pouring through Bonnie’s window revealed her captor standing without, but to her surprise he did not look angry or even particularly ferocious. Instead he looked rather embarrassed.

  “I apologize,” he said in the strange, emotionless tone he had used a few hours before. “Ye must be hungry.” His eyes on the floor, he backed from the doorway, offering for her to pass through before him, as polite as any fine gentleman could ever be. At his quiet demeanor, Bonnie’s terror dissipated, replaced by a vague uneasiness which she found easier to stomach.

  She picked up her skirts and made her way across the landing to the staircase. It was strange descending the stairs before the wulver, but when she arrived at the passage below he took the lead once more. For a moment she thought he would offer her his arm like a proper escort and was relieved when he seemed to change his mind, merely indicating with his claw-tipped hand the direction they would take.

  He led her to a room that she recognized as clearly as she had recognized the castle at first sight—a huge dining room with an enormous fireplace, which was blazing despite the midday light pouring through the windows along the opposite wall, the fire necessary to drive away the cold of winter. Bonnie knew the room as well as she would know the confines of her family’s cottage. And now she also knew who the shadow beside her was.

  The wulver pulled out a chair for her. Bonnie took her seat, noting that the only other place setting was at the far end of the table; and as she watched the wulver take this place she felt grateful for the distance between herself and her captor. Dishes piled with food filled the table. Most of it was the simple, hearty fare she had grown used to in the Highlands—oat bannock, porridge, and the like. But she spied several more elaborate dishes that she remembered eating in richer days.

  She had not realized until that moment how hungry she was.

  “Eat yer fill, lass. Please,” said the wulver with a gracious nod.

  Bonnie hesitated only a moment before serving herself, attempting to balance decorum with the extreme hunger she felt. She chose the simpler food, knowing it would be more sustaining. Besides, she suspected her palate would no longer appreciate the more sophisticated fare offered.

  As she began to eat, she glanced down the table at the wulver. His plate was empty. Her stomach clenched, and the first several bites she had swallowed seemed to turn to stone in her gut. Was the food poisoned?

  “Why don’t you eat?” she asked.

  “A beast’s meal is not a pretty thing,” he replied.

  Something in his voice convinced her to believe him. She could not say what, exactly. Neither could she starve herself. So she forced down more of the oat bannock, though her anxiety made it taste like dust on her tongue.

  They sat there in silence for some while before the wulver spoke again. She looked up sharply at the sound of his voice and at first could not even comprehend the words he spoke.

  “Miss Bonnie, will ye marry me?”

  She went cold all over. Once more she wished she had not eaten, and her head went light with sudden terror. When she did not respond, the beast cleared his throat and repeated his question more loudly. “Miss Bonnie . . . will ye marry me?”

  She tried to speak but could not find words. Her mouth moved, and her hands clutched the edge of the table for support.

  “Answer truthfully without fear,” the wulver said in a tone Bonnie might have recognized as kindness had she been more coherent.

  “Oh no, Beast!”

  She flushed at the haste with which the words spilled. The flush turned to deathly pale as she wondered what the consequences might be. With an effort of will, she forced herself to look the wulver’s way, to ascertain his reaction.

  He rose from the table and bowed with strange elegance. “I will leave ye to finish yer meal. Guid night.”

  After her meal, Bonnie found her way back to her own room almost too easily. Her memory told her that she had followed the wulver for much longer on the way to the dining hall, but when she had finished dining she stepped out into the passage and found the door to the wi
nding stair only a few paces away. Too tired to reflect on this for more than a moment, she hurried up the stairwell and back to her room, shutting the door with some relief. As though she could somehow shut out her fears.

  If he were truly a monster, he would not have asked, she told herself as she stood in the center of the room, trembling. He would have taken me by force.

  She could not consider that thought any longer, but shook her head fiercely and looked around the room. A wardrobe stood in one corner—large and elegant and carved with an intricate pattern of roses and thorns. Feeling how drab and dirty her own garments were, Bonnie opened the wardrobe, curious to see what it might hold, and discovered that it was filled with richly embroidered gowns cut in an old-fashioned style with voluminous sleeves and wide portrait necklines, very little like the styles of her own day. But they were beautiful, stunning even.

  Bonnie looked down at her own rumpled frock, which seemed even dirtier and more provincial next to the garments in the wardrobe. She touched a certain blue gown and wondered to whom it had belonged, possibly a hundred years ago . . . .

  Shaking her head, she shoved the gown back into the wardrobe. The idea pressed upon her mind that other girls may have been held captive here before her. But this she could not bear to consider, so she shut the wardrobe doors and turned away, rubbing her arms to ward off a chill although a bright fire blazed upon her hearth.

  Her gaze turned to the fire. Who had lit it? Surely not the wulver himself. And he certainly could not have prepared the food she had so recently eaten! But she had glimpsed no sign of anyone else in the castle.

  Trying to silence her questions, she moved to her window and gazed out upon a fine prospect of the sea. Who would have thought this castle stood so near the coast? It gave her an uneasy feeling, as though the forest she entered the night before had somehow shifted around her, leading her to places far away from all she knew. Though she had only ridden through the night, she suspected she was many days away from her family now.

  The day passed slowly, and evening fell. Though the wulver had not said as much, Bonnie guessed he would expect her to join him for an evening meal. A part of her did not wish to leave the room, for it seemed a sanctuary compared to the rest of the house. But if I don’t come down and he comes to get me . . . Little though she liked the idea of seeking him out, the thought of waiting for the beast to come to her was even worse.

  So, after running her fingers through her tangled curls and doing what she could to make herself presentable, Bonnie opened the door of the bedroom. The stairs were clear, and she took a deep breath before venturing out, knowing full well that once she left the confines of her room she was bound to run into the wulver.

  She found the table in the dining hall set less formally than at noon but still with more food than she could ever eat in a week. The wulver, however, was nowhere to be seen. Uncertain whether his absence relieved her or worried her all the more, she picked at her food. Upon finishing, she decided she would rather wander the castle and get her bearings than return to her silent room.

  And the castle was truly a marvelous place! Old and frail, yet somehow enchanting all the same. Again, someone seemed to walk before her, lighting the candles in each passage down which she turned, but vanishing before she caught any glimpse of who it might be. She opened one door and looked into a room filled with every musical instrument imaginable. Although she had never learned to play an instrument, she examined each one closely, admiring its beauty, before moving on to the next room. This was a library, but the light was too dim to read by even if she could settle her nerves enough to open a book. She passed through the room to the far end, where stood a tall curtained window. When she pulled back the curtain, she saw the castle gates and, beyond, the forest she had ventured through the night before. The sky was darkening and the moon beginning to rise, casting the trees’ shadows long and dark.

  “Guid evening, Miss Bonnie.”

  Bonnie startled and whirled about, dropping the curtain back into place. The wulver himself stood in the doorway, his great clawed hands clasped behind his back, his shaggy head bent. He bowed to her.

  “Good evening, Beast,” she replied, dropping a nervous curtsy.

  “Did ye find yer evening meal to yer satisfaction?” he asked, remaining in the doorway.

  “Aye. Thank you.” She gripped her skirts tightly in both hands, wishing she could escape the room somehow. But he blocked her exit. “I . . . I did not see you at supper.”

  “I thought to let ye eat in peace,” he replied. After a moment’s silence he added, “Ye may explore the castle as much as ye wish. Every door is open to ye. But ye may not leave the grounds or pass through the gate. Do ye understand?”

  Bonnie nodded wordlessly. If only he would step away and let her pass! She wished now that she had returned to her room at once following her meal.

  “Will ye marry me, Miss Bonnie?”

  Breathless, she answered at once, “No, Beast.”

  The wulver nodded. “Very well. Guid night.”

  “Good night,” she whispered, the words spoken to his retreating back. Then he was gone, and she stood alone in the library, her hands seeking the back of a tall chair for support. Why isn’t he angry? she wondered desperately, unable to comprehend. Though the wulver was imposing and, indeed, even terrifying to behold, he behaved with such control and courtesy, even when she turned down his proposal a second time.

  So why had the theft of a single rose driven this calm, quiet beast to such rage that he’d imposed his terrible will upon her father?

  More confused than ever, Bonnie hastened from the library and, following the candlelight, retreated up the stairs to her room.

  Chapter 9

  THAT NIGHT, BONNIE entered her room to find the fire blazing and a nightgown draped across the chair before it, warming. After changing, she slipped into the bed, trying to enjoy the luxury of fine blankets but instead finding herself longing for the rough straw pallet she had slept on for the last five years.

  Nevertheless, she closed her eyes and slipped into dreams . . .

  Someone was crying.

  Bonnie bolted upright in bed. The crying only grew louder, so she ventured down the hall, still in her nightdress, trying to follow the sound with the assistance of a lit candle. The halls lengthened and twisted every which way. Every time she thought she had found the right way through the maze of corridors, she found herself back in the castle’s entry hall.

  For what seemed like hours she struggled to follow the sound of that sad weeping. At last she asked in desperation, “Where you?”

  The cries softened. “I am here,” the voice responded quietly.

  It was a voice Bonnie knew at once.

  She turned and watched as the wall behind her opened up, revealing the snowy garden beyond, the same garden Bonnie had seen in her dreams a thousand times. But now, where she had only ever seen the rosebush before, she saw instead a small girl, rolled up into a tight ball, weeping.

  “What is the matter?” Bonnie hastened to the child, knelt down, and laid her hand on her shoulder.

  The girl looked up, tears gleaming in her blue eyes. “Help us!” she said.

  Bonnie woke with a start, clutching the blankets tightly to her breast. She stared up at the canopy of her bed, struggling to draw breath. Never before had the dreams been so vivid! Never before had she seen more than brief glimpses of scenes!

  And never before had she seen the face of the child who made that desperate plea.

  “How can I help?” she whispered into the cold night. But there was no one to answer.

  The next day Bonnie descended the stair to the dining hall and found the beast waiting for her, standing beside the table. She said nothing but nodded politely and sat as he held her chair for her. As he moved to the far end of the table to take his own seat, she studied the pattern of the cutlery beside her bowl. Would it be better to say nothing and endure an interminable silence? Or should she try to allev
iate the loneliness and speak?

  “Are you . . . are you really a wulver?” she asked at length even as she served herself from the crock of humble porridge near at hand.

  The wulver, who had been gazing into the fire, looked her way, surprised perhaps that she addressed him. “Not of legend, no,” he said, shaking his heavy head. Light reflected off the golden brocade of his doublet, an antique piece of clothing that fit with the appearance of everything else in the castle . “I am entirely . . .” He paused for a moment as if searching for the right word. “I am entirely unique,” he finally finished.

  Bonnie nodded, half-sorry she had asked. His answer was far from satisfactory. She began to eat.

  “Why did ye come?” her host asked abruptly.

  Bonnie looked up in surprise. “My father said . . . That is, you wanted—”

  “Ye could have refused.” He gazed across the table at her meaningfully, and Bonnie realized that he knew she had come against her father’s will. Perhaps he had read her letter.

  “I could not leave my father to your mercy. And . . .” Bonnie stopped.

  “And?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve caused my family so much pain and maybe . . . maybe I wished to redeem myself.” She shook her head, feeling the intensity of the wulver’s studying gaze, and knew she would have to offer more of an explanation. “My thoughtlessness once hurt them greatly, and I’ve been unable to truly forgive myself for it.” Calum’s injuries—his scarred face and ruined eye—haunted her. Even in that moment she felt her heart sicken at the memory, and she feared she might disgrace herself with tears. Steeling her spirit, she closed her eyes, trying to drive back the memory. But she could not forget Calum’s dear smile, ugly though it may now be.

  “Ye are honest.”

  “I suppose so,” Bonnie whispered in response. She picked at the rest of her meal, and another long silence fell between them. As she laid down her spoon, the wulver, observing, rose to leave.