by Lindsay Mead
Belle’s heart beat grievously against her breastbone. Breathing became harder. Belle drew her shoulders back, pressing her lips into a thin line. The turbulence of emotions raged inside her and thundered for release. Painfully, she held them back, refusing to break in front of these men.
With the ghost of a grin, the Bishop watched her. “Though, I am sure God will come through.”
Unable to stand there any longer, unable to speak, Belle pushed through the office door. She rushed through the church, along row after row of pews. Raw emotion tumbled out of her in waves of gasping, shallow, breaths. If there were people around, she didn’t see them. She just wanted to get away from there—away from those awful words.
Tears welled in Belle’s eyes, blurring her sight. Delicately made murals and sculptures became smears of color. The front entrance was open, washing the floors in natural light. Street noises breached the cathedral’s threshold. Belle stopped short of the entryway. She couldn’t go out there like this; heart racing, tears brimming over her eyelids and down her cheeks.
Her breath caught and, quick to hide, Belle dashed behind one of the large pillars. She covered her mouth, trying to stifle her sobs, and leaned against the column for support. Her throat was tight with pain; pain from humiliation.
How could the Bishop say something so terrible? To not just call her a whore, but to also insult her mother’s memory, was unthinkable. Belle was not unfamiliar with the meanness of others, but no one had ever spoken so cruelly to her. The vulgarity alone was appalling. Worse yet, Father Sinclair had done nothing.
Not wanting anyone to see her so undone, Belle rested her head against the stone column and closed her eyes. One last tear slipped by. She took her hand from her mouth, placing it on her stomach to lend fortitude. With deep breaths, Belle summoned her composure.
It struck her then, the oddness of her emotions. Belle killed for a living. She’d seen things—grotesque things. Belle had buried family and friends, stood alone in a dark woods while creatures stalked her, but little of it ever got to her the way the Bishop’s words had. Only words, but they’d cut deeper than claws.
Swiping away the last obstinate teardrops, Belle opened her eyes. She pushed off from the pillar, letting her own feet support her. Needlessly, Belle smoothed her dress. She blinked several times, feeling strangely lighter.
Holding her head high, Belle left the cathedral—vowing that the next time she saw the Bishop, she would be ready for his callousness. She might even dare to strike back.
Henri slashed his sabre through the neck of a champagne bottle. Foam erupted forth, spilling onto the wood floor. The Hunters cheered from around the dinner table. Henri held it out until the foam receded, then handed it to Friar Clemens who started filling glasses.
“Oh, I like that French tradition!” Jack pounded the table, making the dishware rattle with his enthusiasm.
The Friar’s dinner for their early Noël party had been wonderful. Dishes of all sorts had been laid out. A variety of platters—breads, cheeses, and pastries—were now only crumbs. Roasted duck had been reduced to a carcass. Dessert was a cake made by Andre’s parents, the local bakers. Everything had been delicious and they all ate their fill, leaving spirits high.
“No. No, my dear boy,” Henri said, quieting the room. “Not a French tradition—a Hunter tradition.”
“I was there, the night the tradition began.” Belle looked at her father, absently fiddling with a curl at her shoulder.
“Were you?” Grabbing his napkin, Henri wiped the foam from his hands. “At your age, you should have been in bed.”
Belle chuckled. “The town was at war with Hell and my inventor father was Commander of our army. The LeClairs didn’t sleep much in those days.”
“So, how did the tradition start?” Jack prompted.
“It’s a good story,” Gastone said, watching Belle. There was warmth in his eyes that caused her chest to tighten. “She told it to me once.”
“Well, I want to hear it!” Jack insisted, flinging out his hands and the other Hunters vocally agreed.
“We were still living at the inn then.” She didn’t speak loudly as she started her story. The men would quiet for her, just as they did for Henri. “I’d slipped out of my room and hid on the stairwell, peaking through the railings. I could taste the despair coming from the men gathered below. A large pack had crossed the border and far more men than we could spare had died. The doc was there, I remember, he walked around the group, administering treatment.”
She paused to thank Friar Clemens as he handed her the first glass. No one spoke, they hung on her words. “Père stood before them, holding his bottle of champagne. He spoke of the battle and of the men that were lost. It was the best thing I’d ever heard. Grown men had tears in their eyes. Père finished his speech with a booming voice like I’d never heard before. He tried to open the bottle so they could drink to their victory—”
“Damn thing refused to open,” Henri added with a grin. He held his glass in one hand and rested his other on the hilt of his sabre.
“It made him so angry.” Belle went on over the men’s chuckles. “He unsheathed his sword with a slur of horrible curses and sliced off the top.” She tilted her head to look up at her father. “When the applause died you said that you’d stand by them. No matter the loss, you’d stand by your Hunters. Till my heart stills, were your words. And they repeated them back to you. It was the moment I decided to become a Hunter.”
“Well.” Henri held up his glass. “To that then!”
Everyone joined in with the toast, tipping the champagne into their mouths.
“Who’s in the mood for some music?” Andre asked, flicking back one of the spiraled locks he called dreads.
“Splendid idea.” Henri swallowed down a mouthful of drink. “Should I crank the piano or would Jean like to do us the honor?”
Without any further urging, Jean moved to the piano bench. He checked the gorgeous gold and green scarf wrapped around his neck, making sure it still covered the ghastly scars beneath. Where once Jean could have been an operatic singer with his voice gifted by angels, he was now mute—his voice taken, instead of his life, by a hellhound. Pushing back the piano cover, he poised his hands above the keys.
Then his fingers were moving, twinkling over the keys with the grace of a dancer. It was beautiful. All of the talent Jean had once contained in his voice must have transferred to his hands. Transfixed, they all watching him, listening as the music filled the room.
A hand appeared in front of Belle. Her eyes traced the arm up to its owner. Gastone stood there, happiness shining in his eyes. She’d been so distracted by Jean’s playing, she hadn’t even noticed Gastone move.
“Care for a dance?” There was something in his voice. Something new. A softness perhaps.
Belle placed her hand in his. “I would.”
He guided her out of her chair and to the small dance floor. Belle caught sight of her father. He was beaming. For just a moment, she wondered what he was thinking. Gastone turned her so that she faced him.
Belle subconsciously touched her hair. Part of it was clipped up in a bundle of curls that dangled around her face. The rest sat loose, cascading in ringlets and waves past her shoulders and nearly to her waist. Her mother’s watch necklace, embossed with a rose, rested on her chest. Belle’s dress was one of her nicest, one she reserved for special occasions.
Gastone held his arms out, waiting for Belle to step into them. She took a deep breath and moved into position. Belle’s red and green dress hugged her frame—and she could feel the heat of his hand through the fabric as they waited for the change in music.
Gastone moved with its cue. Belle followed, letting him guide her about the floor. It was slow and gentle. Gastone had the grace of a lord’s son. His eyes trailed along her face, causing a blush to rise into her cheeks.
The way he looked at her—the way they danced together—it was new, but somehow familiar. Like she’d known they
would dance together her whole life. Too soon, the song came to an end.
“Gastone, that is not how you dance with a woman,” Jack said as they stepped apart.
Raising an eyebrow at him, Gastone smiled boldly. “Does the Yank think he can do better?”
“Absolutely!” Jack pushed to his feet, tossing his napkin aside and walked around the table. He met Gastone’s challenging stare as they past one another. “Ladies love to dance. They dance often and with nearly anyone who offers. The key is to give them a dance they’ll remember.”
He pulled Belle into his arms, not bothering too much with posture. He leaned over to look at Jean. “Give us something fast.”
“Oh!” Henri jumped over to the piano, tinkered with some dials and started cranking.
When he finished, a set of dual violins, displayed in a glass compartment at the top of the piano, came to life. Their bows scraped along their strings, fiddling out a tune to get toes tapping. Jean picked up the song, and soon Jack was twirling Belle around the floor.
They laughed and smiled, moving through the fast steps. Delano and Nicolas started clapping to the rhythm, which the whole room picked up. Jack’s style was nothing like Gastone’s. He didn’t hesitate to throw an arm around her waist or to spin her so fast, she’d fall without him. The dance ended with a flourish, leaving her flushed and breathless.
“Wonderful! Just wonderful.” Henri came over as Jack and Belle bowed to one another. He grabbed her by the shoulders and planted a kiss on her forehead. “I’d say now was a good time for presents, wouldn’t you?”
“I would.” Belle put a hand to her stomach, trying to catch her breath, and laughed. “Better now, before Jack does me in!”
They moved into the parlor, which was done up in ribbons and evergreens. A large tree sat in the corner, decorated to the fullest and bundled by presents. Belle sat on the loveseat as the Hunters found spots around the room.
The great clock above the fireplace ticked to the next hour. Many oversized gears ornamenting the hearth danced, their teeth rocking together. Puffs of steam issued forth as the gears movement reached the brass bells above the clock. Ding. Dang. Dong. The sound moved through and around her. Belle sighed; that sound was home.
“Wonderful!” Henri entered last, heading straight for the hearth. “Our timing is impeccable.”
As the last bell tolled, a hidden compartment above the mantel opened. A thin arm, holding a delicate teacup and saucer perturbed. Likewise, out came a pitcher. The arm tilted, pouring dark coffee into the flowered porcelain. Steam rolled into the air as Henri reached over to accept the hot beverage.
“Wonderful. Wonderful,” he mumbled to himself and inhaled the steam. “Would anyone else care for a cup?”
When all declined, Belle’s father turned a rather well-concealed knob. The metal arms retracted, taking the pitcher with it. The door then flipped shut to hide the compartment once more.
“Confound it!” Henri nearly shouted, suddenly glaring at the hearth. Belle discreetly covered her mouth, stifling her snicker. Her father slammed his fist against the wall. “Blast this thing, give me my pipe!”
Noisily the hearth clunked and moaned. With a sigh, a different compartment door popped open. Inside, held up by two small pedestals, was Henri’s smoking pipe. He reached in and snatched the pipe with vigor, placing it between his lips and softly inhaling.
A smile quirked the corner of his lips. “Now let us open presents!”
In no time, the presents were all opened. The boys had worked together on her gifts. Andre had bought her the design plans for a dress. Jack purchased ribbons for her hair. Jean, Delano, and Nicolas had selected the fabrics. Then with Gastone’s present of a lovely burgundy top hat, an outfit was in the works.
Jack was just thanking Jean for his new cowboy hat when the last present beneath the tree started to slide out. Pixie, Belle’s childhood mechanical fairy, pushed from behind. Her metal was green, her eyes slanted black opals, and she was small enough to fit in a woman’s hand. She huffed with mock effort and left the gift at Henri’s feet.
“Well merci, Pixie.” He reached down and picked up the small brown parcel.
Pixie parted her lips and a string of musical notes tumbled out—in lieu of a “you’re welcome”. Her voice box was a tiny version of the cylinder and comb mechanism used in music boxes. When Pixie opened her mouth, the instrument could be seen turning at the back of her throat. Leaping, her metal wings carried her over to the fire where she pretended to warm her tiny hands and posterior.
“The present is from you, Belle.” Henri smiled, ruffling his thick white mustache. He tore off the heavy paper. Beneath was a polished wooden box with the words, Liberty Watch Co., engraved on the lid. “Oh, the famous watch company in America?”
“Open it,” she prompted.
Needing no further encouragement, Henri drew back the lid. Sitting safely among white satin was a pocket watch. The timepiece’s face was brass with a leaf-etching design. Pulling out the watch, its chain dangling around his fingers, Henri pressed the top and it snapped open. The numbers were elegant and dainty. But the thing that made this watch unique was its back. Instead of brass coverings, the inner workings were protected by clear glass. Henri was likely already imagining the little cogs ticking away behind their glass wall.
“My fille, this is wonderful. Merci.” He tugged Belle into a hug. “It’s your turn now. Come everyone!”
Henri ushered them all out of the parlor and into his workroom. Every inch of the space was taken by tools, gadgets, spare parts, and gizmos. There were a slew of strange, abandoned inventions on one counter. On the wall were blueprints for projects yet to be undertaken. Henri walked over to a large, covered object; his invention for the World Fair. Everyone gathered around, eager to see it for the first time.
“I’d like to present to everyone the Responsibly Fiscal Currency Counter—Or just Currency Counter, as I’m sure they’ll call it.” With a flourish, Henri then ripped the white sheet off of his invention.
The brass machine was beautiful. The front was made of glass, with tubes inside for each sized coin. The gold tinted sides were decorated with fauna accents. A large man-shaped hand rested at the top.
“Will you demonstrate it for us?” Nicolas asked with eagerness.
Henri held up a finger to stave him off. Pointing to another covered object, this one much smaller, he said, “That is for Belle.”
Feeling so proud of her father, Belle took hold of the sheet and whipped it away. There was a miniature version of Henri’s invention underneath. He pulled a coin out of his pocket and slid it between the fingers of the much smaller hand.
“I give you, the Responsibly Fiscal Currency Counter—At Home Version.” Yanking a lever on the other side, the device started to purr as tiny puffs of steam rose out of a pipe in the back. The fingers tightened around the coin, then moved along the tubes and released it into the correct spot.
They applauded, giving Henri plenty of praise. He took it in stride, agreeing to demonstrate the larger unit several times and answering all their questions. After a bit, Belle pointed out the late hour and reminded them of tonight’s hunt. As everyone left to get ready, Henri asked her to wait a moment.
“You have one last gift.” He placed a thin, sealed letter in her hand. “I’m going upstairs to finish packing. I’ll see you when you return.”
With a kiss to the cheek, he left her alone.
Belle turned the letter over in her hands. There was no name on it, but the seal she recognized. It was the Chevallier family crest. This was a letter from Gastone. Sliding a finger along the parchment to break the seal, her mouth went dry.
Dearest Belle,
No doubt you are aware of the rumors that persist in regards to my future. I apologize if they have caused you any form of grievance. I have tried, somewhat in vain, to separate you from the dramas associated with being the next Count Chevallier…at least until I knew for certain. However, it has become
very clear to me that there is no better woman in all of Glace than you. I would be remiss if I did not act on these thoughts and increasingly undeniable feelings.
On the next cloudless afternoon, I would be honored to accompany you on a stroll through town.
Yours Truly,
Gastone Chevallier,
Heir to the Count of Contefées
Belle reread the letter three times. Her heart raced as though she’d been dancing with Jack. Suddenly she understood the change in Gastone. More than a few times in her life, she’d imagined what it would be like to marry him. What girl hadn’t? But never—not once—did she ever think it was a real possibility. All of the pieces seemed to have fallen into place now. Except, as she clutched the parchment to her chest, she wondered…did she love him?
The moon was gone, hidden behind a canvas of smooth cloud cover. Belle noted the icy wind that sliced her cheeks as she rode toward Vakre Fjell Forest. From beside her, Andre tugged his glove further over the flesh of his still-human hand.
“Snowstorm?” she asked him.
“It just crossed my mind.” He looked up at the sky, glaring through the increasing darkness.
They’d all spent enough time outside to recognize coming weather. It was in the way the clouds moved and the feel of the air. Snowstorms had a way of sneaking in, eclipsing the sky without anyone noticing. When they unleashed their power, it filled every space and shrank the world down to mere inches. It could be terrifying—and deadly.
Gastone rode Magnanimous up. “Do we turn back or proceed?”
Nervousness shot through her chest at the sight of him. Belle was suddenly so aware of Gastone. He was a man. An attractive man. A man who was interested in her. Was she interested in him? She honestly didn’t know. Searching herself, Belle couldn’t see past the fear and uncertainty that had taken up residence in her stomach. If she could get away from him, then maybe she could relax…and breathe.