Jacob frowned and sat back in his seat, pouting silently in his displeasure (which his mother ignored, for she was not often in the habit of changing her mind) while Keturah finished her lunch. “Come now,” she said. “Our host has told me that there is a room of toys which you may use.”
The boy jumped up and followed her with a gasp. “A room of toys for me!” he cried, and the young woman smiled and showed him the way.
A Beast’s Tale
“No! Please! Not my Ella!” screams the merchant in desperate appeal that is turning swiftly from fear to anger. “You’ll not have my Ella!” At last, some shadow of the brave hero who had defended his wife and loved her so fiercely emerges once more. The now fat and pampered duke pushes himself away from the diner table and faces me with the sword once more. He grinds his teeth and breathes hard past his nostrils. “Do not dare touch my Ella, beast!”
I give the man an annoyed look, and with a single raise of my hand, knock him back into his seat. I did not hurt the man, but the act was enough to set him trembling again and return the cowardice that at least keeps him out of my way.
Once more, I turn my attention towards the little girl, standing there in her nightgown as if woken from her sleep. She begins to tremble at the sight of me, her eyes going wide, and she takes a few steps back, but she neither cries nor screams, just watching me. I should probably say something, do anything to appease the frightened thing. After all, she is so very young and small. Finally, I turn my entire body towards her, and she sucks in a breath but holds still, looking at me with her hands drawn up to her chest. I smile just a bit, and I wonder if she knows that her mother once did the same thing.
Those two-toned eyes watch me, and I move a bit closer to her. She does not scream or run. She stands rooted in the ground, eyes unblinking upon my form. “Good evening, little one,” I greet in a low rumble, bowing to her. “May I ask your name?”
The child looks to her father and sisters, uncertain, but then turns her gaze back on the beast. In all of this time, neither of her sisters have spoken up in the least. They are both still crying softly against their father, and I am fairly certain that the eldest is very near fainting. I move away from them and closer to the child. “E-Ella, milord… Isabella…Keturah…Hawthorne…” she says at last, shaking but staying where she is, looking up at me. She glances over at her father and tears pool in her eyes, but her eyes snap back to me when I stand before her. I cannot bear that look in her eyes. ‘Save me.’ ‘Protect me.’ Her eyes scream at me, and I know well that look within them. I have seen that look before, the eyes of a child who has never truly known safety.
Anger courses through me, but she is watching me with fear now, and so I sigh it all out in a rush and give the slightest and most sincere smile as I am able, seeking to calm her. However, my expression is rather terrifying and only makes my appearance that much worse. The child flinches, but she does not run. “Tell me, Ella,” I say softly, “do you understand what marriage is?”
She studies me for a long moment and then nods hesitantly. “A maiden and a lord live together and they… they have a family…”
I fight another smile, not wanting to frighten her, and I nod my head. “Yes, very good. Tell me, little one…what am I? Am I a monster or a man?”
She takes a moment, studying me, looking into my face. I am large and terrifying, covered in fur, my mouth filled with teeth. My paws are nearly as big as she is, and laced with thick, sharp claws. But she turns her eyes back to my face, and there she sees the blue eyes larger and richer than any blue eyes she had ever seen before. She stares at my eyes, swimming pools of serenity that calm her trembling and ease her soul. “What makes a monster, and what makes a man, milord?” she asks in her little voice. “I cannot tell by looking at you.”
That pleases me to no end, and I do smile this time. I grin at her, and she gives me an odd look, eying my teeth with uncertainty. She scrunches her nose up just a bit, and her eyebrows pinch together as if she is thinking most ponderously upon something. I can see those thoughts within her eyes, but she does not share them with me. “Tell me, Ella,” I coo in my low rumble. “Are you afraid of me?”
Her eyes snap back up to me, and the child huffs and puffs up her chest. I wonder where she learned such a thing from, this little peacock display. Her sister, Sabel, shows it as well, but Ella is much more insistent than she is unkind. “I am not afraid,” declares she.
I chuckle, a low, warm, inviting sound. It shakes the entire hall, but while everyone trembles and cries in fear, the chandelier beginning to swing every so faintly, Ella smiles softly, giggling at the sound, for she knows that it is a gentle one. “What a delightful child you are!” I say and smile down at her.
She gives me a wry little smile, as though pleased with herself, and she watches me very intently with those dark eyes from her short, little height. To my surprise, she takes another step closer towards me, clasping her hands behind her back wistfully, no longer holding them in front of her in fear. At last, I ask her sweetly, “Ella Hawthorne…speak honestly, my dear…would you marry a beast?”
Ella studies me for a long moment, my blue eyes, my teeth, my anxious expression. She frowns and tips her head a bit to one side. “Would he be beast like you? One who speaks and acts as a man? I think I shan’t mind if he spoke and acted as though a man…if he were kind.”
I laugh and smile warmly at her. A clever child indeed. The first two daughters may have been failures, but I am delighted to find that the young, bold couple I met so long ago managed to produce a child of such courage and tenacity. “I give you my word, Miss Hawthorne…that he shall be a beast only in form, and that his heart shall be human and kind.”
She studies my face, this little girl, understanding so very little and quite certain that she is in a dream. And finally, she gives a slow nod. “Then I shall,” says she, and her father collapses into sobs. He gives low, agonized moans, hiding his face in his hand and shaking it back and forth, sobbing quietly. Ella looks over at him with a frown and a concerned expression before looking back up to me, confused.
I shoot the duke an annoyed look before turning my attention back to the girl. “You most certainly are fearless, aren’t you?” The girl thrusts up her chin in response, her eyes fierce and almost glaring at me. “And how shall I know that you will keep your word, dear child? What can you give as evidence of your covenant with me?”
The child honestly looks offended, staring at me as though I had struck her. She opens her mouth, then pouts and shuts it, glaring at me outright now as those dark eyes of hers spill through her thoughts. She stomps her foot, thinking hard and then says at last, “Sit, beast.” I raise my brows at the order, while the servants and her sisters look horrified upon us, certain, I am sure, that I will eat her. But she meant no harm and so I sit down on the floor from where I had been kneeling in front of her. “Stay,” she orders again, and my ears flick up, watching her and quite amused. Getting up will not be nearly so easy for me. I am very old now, and although I am powerful, my body does not enjoy abuse more than any other.
The little girl turns from me and runs back down the hall, her bare feet pattering away. For fifteen minutes, no one moves. No one says a word. I am about to go looking for the child when at last, she comes scampering down the hall once more, carrying something in her hand, although I cannot tell what it is until she is nearly to me, and at that point, my eyes go very large.
“Here,” she says, huffing and puffing, and in her tiny hand, she clutches a most elaborate and expensive piece. A beautiful rose with delicate, veined petals and sharp thorns which will not cut nor slice into her palm. She is breathing hard, having had to devise a means by which to climb up to the top of her wardrobe to collect the piece. “It was…my mother’s…she left it to me,” says the little girl proudly. “There…see? I promise.”
I am so stunned by the child that for a moment, I dare not speak nor move, as flabbergasted as the rest of the house, all save Isabel
la who stands up tall once she has caught her breath and looks up at me expectantly with her blue-green eyes. I give a warm, rich laugh and drag myself up to my feet, holding the rose up in the air triumphantly, a hearty cry of triumph and amazement bursting from my lungs. And then, I swoop down into a bow, and the girl jumps but stands her ground as I take her hand and bow to her. Her hand barely even circles half of my furry digit. “Very well then, my dear Isabella Keturah Hawthorne. Until then…”
The little creature smiles wearily at me, and she gives a little curtsy in her night dress, pulling her hand back after a moment and holding it to her chest once more, although this time it seems more to be a habit of sleepiness than fear. “You…will take care of it, won’t you?” asks she. “That rose is very special…you must take care of it.”
I smile gently and pat her head. She closes her eyes a bit and smiles up at me, pleased with affection. “Yes, my little one. Tell me…what happened to your mother?”
Her smile fades a bit, and she looks down at her feet, shuffling them nervously. “It…it is my fault.”
“No it’s not,” the duke booms, regaining his composure and looking intently upon his youngest daughter. He frowns at her, tears running down his face. “Do not ever think that, Isabella. It is not your fault.”
Ella looks up at him and then back to me, helpless. “Ketan…” she says quietly. “My mother named me… Ketan…because she wanted a boy.”
The duke sighs at my curious gaze, and he shakes his head. “Isabella was dying and…she wanted so badly to give me a male heir…I told her that Ella was a boy because…I hoped that it would encourage her to get better…but Isabella still did not last the night. So I change her name to Keturah instead…”
“I see…” I look back to her, the little child staring down at her feet, no longer looking at me. I crouch down before her again. “And which name do you prefer, little duchess?”
She glances up at me and sniffles, her dark eyes filled with tears and pain. “Ke…Keturah…” she says softly. “Because it is mine. It is not my mother’s, nor my father’s. When I am Keturah…I can be whatever I want…because no one else is named Keturah…”
I smile softly at her and pat her head. She sniffles again and rubs her cheek against my massive paw. The sight turns my heart. “And I look forward to seeing what you become, Keturah…Duchess of Hawthorne Manor…you will be something extraordinary…of that, I am sure…”
Chapter Thirteen: December
Every day was just the same. Keturah and Jacob would eat breakfast and then go down into the gardens where she would work on clearing the beds and Jacob would gather the cuttings for a burning pile. At noon, they would go up for lunch and Jacob would spend his evening in the toy room while Keturah returned to the gardens. Sometimes Alvaro would be there, and she would inspect the beds he had been working on and sometimes commandeer his help for the other portions of the gardens. When they worked, they spoke very little, both focused on their tasks. He still wore that awful mask—she could not convince him to leave it when they were outside—but she had grown somewhat used to the sight of it.
However, sleep had become a source of great angst for the thief. Nightmares plagued her like ravenous wolves in the night. She would wake in the darkness with a gasp and stare out at her black-dark room while she lay covered in a cold sweat and trembling all throughout. The worst part was that she could not remember the dreams once she awoke, only that they terrified her to her very core.
They started not long after she arrived. Visions of darkness, of madness. She would wake in the middle of the night, gasping out her breath. Visions of gold and red and darkness surrounded her, and Keturah would curl up, leaning over her knees and holding her arms, rocking quietly. Sometimes, she would be too afraid to go back to sleep, sitting in her bed and fearing what waited for her when she closed her eyes. If only she could remember the nightmares…why they terrified her so.
Alvaro was worried, but she couldn’t tell him. He noticed that she wasn’t sleeping, but she insisted that she was fine. He thought it was the cold weather getting to her, and although she hated him fussing over her, it was better than the truth. She didn’t want him to know of the demons that hunted her. So she would let him drape his huge, warm cloak around her and pretend that the winter was why her face was beginning to look sallow and thin. She didn’t want him to know. So many phantoms were haunting her sleep.
And they weren’t ending. Keturah went from waking up in fear to screaming. She would toss and turn, somewhere between half awake and half asleep, as if her nightmares were trying to trap her in the realm of dreams. Sometimes, it would take almost an hour to pull herself fully back into the waking world. And even still, she could not remember what had held her there.
Winter was getting colder, deep into the heart of it, and the nightmares were getting worse. She would linger half awake and half asleep, unable to wake up, unable to escape the nightmare, until at last, she screamed, her back arching up from the bed, sweat soaking her skin. Eyes. Golden eyes. Alexzander. He was doing this to her. She focused on those eyes, focused on the fear and terror in them. She had to remember when she woke up. She had to remember. She tossed and turned and screamed again, unable to wake, trapped in slumber.
“Keturah!” the voice boomed like thunder in her room, and the furniture shook with the sound. It was enough to pull her from the magic-induced slumber, and she sat up with a gasp, panting and sweating. Her room was so dark, and she could see phantoms of demons in every painting, every chair. Even the curtains haunted her. “Keturah…” the voice was much softer this time, and although she gasped in alarm, curling her legs up to her chest and choking back a sob, she felt safer and more assured. Alvaro was there. Alexzander could not harm her. Slowly, candles flickered to life in her room, bathing it in a warm glow, and it eased her mind.
“Yes?” she rasped, her voice fighting the tremor in it. Slowly, surely, she calmed from the nightmare as she returned more fully and solidly into the real world. She had stopped sobbing and gasping, but she still trembled badly.
He waited a moment and then asked, softening his voice, “Are you unharmed?”
She shuddered a breath and nodded slowly before finding her voice again. “Yes. I’m not hurt.”
She wasn’t sure if he could hear her soft breathing and trembling, but he could. She rubbed her arms up and down, chasing away the phantom visions. “My magic alerted me to your distress…when I opened the mirror, I heard your scream.”
She ran a hand through her hair, then rubbed her face. Golden eyes. She remembered golden eyes. Alexzander. “Nightmares,” she rasped. “Just…terrible visions.”
“Hm,” he rumbled softly. “Perhaps…I can assist you? Come to my parlor, if you wish…the lights will show you the way.”
Her bedroom door opened and lights flickered in the main room. She stared at them for a while, knowing that she could ignore the request, go back to sleep. But she feared sleep now, despite how badly she needed it. By the sky, she knew that she must not have slept long. It was probably only midnight. And yet, she could not imagine closing her eyes until sunrise. And…these were no ordinary nightmares. How much was she willing to let him know?
Still, she could not sleep, that much was certain. Keturah slid out of the bed, wearing a cotton chemise that was now soaked in sweat. It made her feel that much colder, and she shivered, glancing at the mirror. “Are you still here?”
She waited, but there was no answer, so she pulled the chemise off and used it to dry off some of her skin. “I need some hot water in the basin,” she said hoarsely to the room. Her throat hurt from screaming, and it felt dry and sticky. She grabbed a brush and combed out the tangles in her hair, the mundane motions soothing her some. When the basin was full, she washed off the stale sweat on her skin and her face before looking back to the bed. A fresh chemise waited for her, but she shook her head.
“No,” she said, her voice low and tired. “…I do not want a dress. Just
…just pants and a shirt…” The magic hesitated around her, and Keturah added bitterly, “I’ve no wish to fight you…obey me.” And at that, the room complied, and the chemise was replaced with a man’s underclothes. They were warmer, and they made her feel safer when she pulled them on. She tugged the shirt over her head and smoothed it out before grabbing the velvet robe which had been left for her. It was a dark red with roses embroidered all around it. Most of all, it was warm and soft, and she sank into it for a moment before leaving her room.
The doors all opened for her as she approached them, and sconces lit up to show her the way. The manor had become even darker during the winter, like walking through an endless abyss, a black void. She could see only as far as the sconces illuminated her path, and the plush carpet swallowed all sound of her bare feet. It was almost like a nightmare in and of itself, and just as Keturah began to panic with the thought, a door ahead of her clicked open, and a warm, golden light poured out of the crack. She approached the double doors, but only the left one had opened, and she pulled it further out.
What she found inside was a room filled with the warm glow of a fire. The burning furnace poured out from a stone hearth to the side, illuminating a small library, a few tables, and one great, stuffed chair that housed the giant Guardian.
“You are here,” he said, and she thought that he sounded almost surprised, which he was. He stood suddenly, the mask on his face, and he turned to face her. He had not expected her to come to him, to trust him with the recesses of her fears, and he was very glad that she had indeed. It was the first time that she had ever really accepted anything from him, ever trusted him. He felt as though it meant that he had something to offer her, something worth her attention.
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