by Liz Braswell
Renaissance rulers with thick curled collars and poison rings, intellect and conspiracy at every dinner.
Ancient kings and queens in long, heavy dresses and cloaks, wise looks on their faces and solid gold crowns on their heads, innocents in a world they believed to possess unicorns and dragons, and maps whose seas ran off at the edges, beyond where the tygres were.
Of course, maybe around here there were dragons and unicorns. Who knew? They had talking teacups.
Belle froze at that thought.
The wardrobe looked like just a wardrobe when she was still. How many of these other things were just biding their time, silently watching her, until they were called to awaken?
She waited a long moment…the same amount of time a child stalls in the halflight of a spooky hiding place, or a bed, or an empty road, to see if the shadows are indeed a monster coming to get her—or just her father.
Wait—what was that?
She put a hand to her mouth to stifle a scream. Her heart pounded in her chest like it was trying to break free.
“Nothing has tried to harm me yet,” Belle whispered aloud to give herself courage.
She tried to be calm and just listen to the darkness.
Nothing.
But then she turned her head a fraction of an inch, willing her ears to pick up the sound again. Gaston, a superb hunter if nothing else, would probably have had no trouble at all stalking this prey.
There.
It wasn’t anything in the room with her; it was somewhere beyond. In the direction she was headed, the faint jabber of voices and clinks of pottery being put away. Belle shuddered in relief. Nothing deadly.
She started moving again, still tiptoeing awkwardly.
The noises grew louder as she drew closer. Several voices were arguing. None, thankfully, were the Beast’s. She recognized Mrs. Potts and the high one she had heard before, the butler or whatever….
A set of stone stairs led half a floor down. Wonderful smells and heat drifted from a large open doorway at the end. Belle descended cautiously and peeped around the frame.
Just a few feet away, on the servants’ dining table, was one of the most wonderful and unsettling things she had ever seen.
The teapot, a mantel clock, and a small candelabrum were arguing with one another, bowing and gesticulating and emoting as charmingly as a trio of children who didn’t know they were being watched.
Belle bit her lip. This really was the adventure she had always been looking for. If she wasn’t just going mad.
“But if the master doesn’t learn to control his temper, he’ll never break the…”
Belle coughed politely.
Suddenly all three dropped into a hushed silence and spun around to stare at her—just like servants caught in the act of doing something clever but illicit in a Molière play.
“Splendid to see you out and about, Mademoiselle,” the little clock said—and it was indeed the voice from outside her door earlier. He waddled forward on his strange, rubbery wooden feet, gilded flourishes below his dial unfurling to become arms as he dipped into a small—but graceful—bow.
That’s odd, Belle thought. Wouldn’t the hands on his face make better hands? At least philosophically?
“I am Cogsworth, head of the household.”
He put his little golden hand out to hers, drawing it up for a polite kiss.
The candelabrum was suddenly between them. He had three arms; apparently the middle one was both his head and his body. The other two were, well, arms. And the flames, hands.
“This is Lumière,” the clock said with a disgruntled sniff.
“Enchanté, ma chérie,” Lumière said, kissing the back of her wrist. Her skin felt hot for a moment, like an ember from the fire had popped and landed on her. But it wasn’t unpleasant.
The candelabrum turned as if to throw a look of triumph back at the clock. But Cogsworth obviously thought it was too much and tried to shove Lumière out of the way.
The candelabrum responded by just touching the clock’s wood edging with one flame hand.
“YOWCH!” Cogsworth shrieked against his will.
Belle wasn’t sure whether to laugh or pity them. Were they grown-ups? Were they children? Were they something else entirely?
The little clock recovered himself, and, with slightly bruised dignity, swished his minute and hour hands like they were a mustache he was resettling. “If there’s anything we can do to make your stay more comfortable…extra pillows, maybe a pair of slippers…”
“Well,” Belle said, “I am a little hungry, actually…”
“Do you hear that, dears?” the teapot said excitedly to the rest of the room. “She’s hungry. Stoke the fire, break out the silver, wake the china!”
Belle looked up at the sudden noises in the rest of the room, a little alarmed.
Almost everything was fluttering and shuffling: the china was indeed waking from whatever slumber it enjoyed; dishes were very carefully shuddering themselves to life; teacups were bouncing and trying to get out of their glass cabinet prison. The stove, which seemed so cheerful and warm and fiery at the end of the room, now began to yawn and stretch its great black iron arms and exhaust pipe. Belle drew into herself a little, alarmed. Stories of witches with their fires and stoves and terrible, terrible endings played through her head. Baba Yaga, Hansel and Gretel…
“Remember what the master said,” Cogsworth reminded them sternly.
“Oh pish tosh,” Mrs. Potts said back. “I’m not going to let the poor child go hungry.”
“If you absolutely must, then. Glass of water, crust of bread, and then…”
“Cogsworth, I am surprised at you,” Lumière said, chastising. “She’s not our prisoner. She’s our guest. We must make her feel welcome here.”
“Actually, I’m pretty sure that’s exactly what I am. A prisoner,” Belle said wryly. But she was distracted by the commotion around her. Pots were shifting themselves on the hob, cracking their lids to let steam out. The whole stove seemed to be holding its breath—or forcing it back down into its oven; suddenly, the fire expanded and grew more orange. The stove began muttering disgustedly to itself, something about preparing a feast and then being forced to abandon it and having everything cool off.
Silverware was marching like little soldiers down the long length of the table toward Belle. Pieces of china were shoving each other precariously out of the way, vying to be in the single place setting in front of her. Little pots of mustard and chutney and other condiments hopped one after another off the shelves lining the room, landing surprisingly intact on silver trays.
Too many things were moving around the room—things that shouldn’t have been moving at all. It was dizzying, and more than a little ominous.
“Really, this isn’t necessary…” Belle said, getting ready to bolt. A fresh boule, the cracks in its crust emitting amazing-smelling steam, was carried to her by a spidery basket with alarming silver legs.
“No, no, no, ma chérie,” Lumière said, gesturing for her to sit. The back of her own legs were whumped out from under her and she fell into a not-uncomfortable chair. It was still spooky and unnerving. The scents from all the different dishes were making her head spin. In fairy worlds you weren’t supposed to eat the food or you would be trapped there forever….
But then again, what fairies offered you pâté?
“Our master, he is a little…ungentile,” the little candelabrum said tactfully. “And he has been alone for so long…his manners may have grown a little rusty. He truly wished you could share this feast with him.”
“He threw my father—my harmless old father—into a prison cell and then exchanged me for him. That’s not bad manners—that’s behaving like a pirate,” Belle pointed out. “Also? The claws…and fangs—”
“Try the gougères,” Lumière interrupted, popping one into her mouth before she could continue. It was warmed by his flame and melted on her tongue—nothing at all like the perfectly good but usuall
y rock-hard ones she and her father baked.
“Ohhh…” she couldn’t help saying.
“It’s been so long since we had a guest!” Mrs. Potts danced around on the table happily, somehow managing to fold a napkin with her spout-nose. She tossed it into Belle’s lap: a swan shape that gracefully unfolded as it fell, almost like it was flying. Belle shrank back, worried it was actually going to fly.
“I can’t imagine why,” she muttered.
And then she was distracted by the food.
Piles of it. More than a feast—a banquet.
There was a whole leg of lamb, multiple terrines and soufflés, three soup courses, a delicate fish in white wine broth, an orange ice in between to clear the palate….
There was a water glass, a golden glass for red wine, a crystal one for white, and a saucer for consommé. There were seven forks of descending size and different numbers of tines, the last three whose use she couldn’t even begin to work out.
This was what the Beast was planning to have for dinner with her? As what—an apology for keeping her prisoner? For the way he had treated her father?
Maybe…maybe the little accessories were right. Maybe he just didn’t know how to ask nicely.
No.
Belle shook her head. She had read about this. The victims of kidnapping often wound up sympathizing with the perpetrator. It was a sickness, a very scientifically predictable one.
This was the eighteenth century. The age of reason. And a man-beast had thrown her father into prison for simply trespassing. This wasn’t just about a failure to be polite. This was about breaking the laws of France. Even if the little magical castle was hidden far from the worlds of Paris and Versailles.
But…
The broth was nearly clear and colorless, singing with notes of the sea—and Belle had never actually been to the sea. When she broke her bread to dip, the crust shattered, the crumb inside moist to the point of almost being a custard.
The terrine was so rich she managed only one tiny demitasse spoonful.
She and her father didn’t eat fancily but they ate well enough and even had meat once or twice a week. The herbs that still flourished in her mother’s garden spiced up dishes more than it seemed like they should have. They supped well, like all Frenchmen and women.
But even Christmas was nothing compared to this.
Belle suddenly realized she was shoveling it all in like a character from one of those stories who was tricked into eating magic food until he exploded or grew too large to escape.
And a slightly more down-to-earth part of her spoke up warningly, in what she liked to pretend was her mother’s voice: You are, at the very least, going to have an extremely upset stomach from this rich new food.
“You really made this all for me?” she said, pausing to wipe her mouth.
“Of course, dear,” the teapot said glowingly. “You’re our first guest in ages. Years of bouncing around this dusty castle with nothing to do and no one to serve.”
“No one? But your master—”
“He, ah, doesn’t have very refined tastes or desires,” the candelabrum said tactfully, admiring the flame on one of his hands. “He didn’t really put us to work, as it were.”
“He doesn’t even sleep in a proper bed,” Mrs. Potts said severely. “Just curls up like a kitten wherever it’s soft or warm.”
Cogsworth shot her a look—even with numbers instead of eyes, it was easy to tell he didn’t approve of this sort of gossip about their employer.
But he didn’t disagree, either.
“Are there no human servants here at all?”
“Why?” Cogsworth asked, a little offended. “Do you require one?”
“We do everything ourselves,” Mrs. Potts explained gently. “The dusters take a bit of prompting, and getting the mops to do the job properly requires some direct supervision on my part, but on the whole, yes, we take care of the castle ourselves. Not that there’s been much to take care of for the last…”
“Ten years?” Belle suggested innocently.
“Yes, ten years,” the teapot continued, lost in her memories, unaware of the desperate headshakes and looks the other two were giving her.
“Why ten years?” Belle asked. “What happened ten years ago?”
The three little creatures looked at each other warily.
“Well, let’s just say that’s how long it’s been since we’ve been graced with a visitor,” Cogsworth said.
“You’re not going to tell me,” she said with a sigh.
Lumière seemed to be on the brink of saying something.
“It’s quite late,” Cogsworth interrupted, stretching strangely as if to look at his own face. “Time enough for stories another night. Off to bed now, eh?”
“Oh, I couldn’t possibly go to bed now,” Belle drawled teasingly. The food had settled warmly in her stomach—and the rich wine, too. It was hard to be afraid of anything with a full tummy and adequate rest. And how much of a threat could these three adorable talking objects be? “This was delicious, thank you. But I think I’d like to take a look around the castle where I will be imprisoned for the rest of my life now.”
“Oh, forever is just a word,” Lumière said philosophically, whirling one of his hand-flames around. “To a candle burning at both ends, forever is an hour. But if you want a tour, ma chérie, we would be glad to assist.”
“I don’t know if that’s such a good idea,” Cogsworth said quickly. “We wouldn’t want her…poking around…certain places….”
“Oh, but couldn’t you take me?” Belle asked, tickling Cogsworth under his dial. He giggled like a very pleased toddler. “I’ll bet you know everything about the castle.”
“Well, I do, of course, I do, yes, of course,” he spluttered. “I’d be delighted to impart some of my knowledge. No harm in that. Right this way.”
The little clock hopped off the table and began to waddle out of the room down the hall.
“The kitchen,” he began, “is, of course, like most castles, the oldest part of the main building still remaining. We have found markings on the walls near the back indicating that it might even date back to Roman days….”
Lumière cocked his middle candle, his head, at Belle.
“Well, you certainly turned him upside down in a moment, ma chérie,” he said with appreciation. “There is a lot more to you than it would appear.”
“Don’t judge a book by its cover,” she retorted, following the clock out.
Lumière barked out laughter, and sparks sprayed harmlessly to the stone floor.
Maurice packed up the cart with all of their wordly belongings and harnessed their newly acquired foal to pull it. With a final tearful good-bye to the little apartment on its bustling street, he and his wife and their baby began the journey to their new home.
They had taken Lévi’s advice and decided to move to the pleasant, if dull, little village where the bookseller himself now lived, trading friends and excitement for a safe country life of chickens and weather and farmers as neighbors. And very little magic. Belle would grow up in a place without witches and enchanted crystals—but also without the violence and dangers of the tumultuous kingdom.
It was tricky driving their fully loaded cart through the busy streets at first. Besides the usual traffic, people often just stopped and stared: Rosalind had a kind of fame. Seeing her leave gave some people pause, and others a triumphant grin.
Approaching the border, where the road began to rise out of the forest, things grew quiet. But at the border, guards blocked their way.
“What is this?” Maurice demanded, pretending ignorance.
“Quarantine. No one is to leave or enter the kingdom without royal permission until the fever has passed,” one answered, not a hint of kindness in his voice. His black eyes flicked over Maurice and Rosalind and the baby—and even the horse.
Rosalind ground her teeth. She clutched her alder wand under her cloak, but there were at least ten soldiers.
/> “We bought a nice little farmhouse on the other side of the river,” Maurice said amiably. “For our growing family. Our plan was to escape from the plague. All of us are well—you can see that.”
“Escape from the plague,” the guard said nastily, putting a finger to his chin as if in thought. “How convenient. The sickness that rose up just as we began getting a handle on the situation of les charmantes. And now you flee.”
“We have a baby,” Maurice said, indicating Belle. “Of course we’re fleeing. It’s not safe.”
“Are you sure it’s the plague you’re fleeing, precisely? How many naturels did your wife kill or ensorcel the night of the riots?”
“I did no such thing!” Rosalind said, trying to keep her voice down. “I wasn’t even in town when the fight over the girl happened—I was deep in the woods, picking mushrooms.”
Two other guards closed in around behind the cart. Maurice began to reach inside his belt for his knife; Rosalind, her wand.
A fourth guard spoke up, almost impatiently. “Are you not Rosalind, the one who keeps the garden of magic roses in the park?”
Rosalind looked at her husband. Was this it? Was this where they took her but let her husband and baby go free? Was this the end?
There was no point in lying, either way.
“I am,” she said.
The young man regarded her for a moment. His eyes were unreadable, but unlike his partner’s, they were thoughtful.
“My mother had a cough. It wasn’t consumption but she couldn’t breathe properly, and sometimes blood came out. You gave her roses. Each fortnight, for two months. She put them in a vase and breathed in their perfume. It cured her completely.”
“Madame Guernbeck,” Rosalind said, remembering. “Her lungs were ailing. She loved my simple pink beach roses best, because she had never been to the sea. But the ones that cured her were yellow. I brought her both.”
“Alan,” the first guard hissed, seeing where this was going. “Who cares? We have our orders. No one in or out. And she is a charmante—she just admitted it!”
Alan waved his hand without looking at his partner, as if he were no more than a fly. “Move along,” he told the family. “Leave, and if you take my advice, never come back.”