Beauty and the Beast

by Wendy Mass

  Alexander pulls the curtain closed. I sit back in my seat, at a loss for words. The volume outside continues to increase, if such a thing is possible. Now I hear chants like “I will see you at the ball! Dance with me first!” and “No, me! I shall make the best wife of all!”

  Mother reaches over and pats Alexander’s knee. “And to think Riley was worried about you not having enough dance partners tonight.”

  Alexander winks at me and grins. But as the cheering gets more insistent, more frenzied, his grin fades. He presses his back deep into the seat and doesn’t peek out of the curtain again until the noise fades and the carriage is once again on the open road. A light rain begins to fall, and the sound lulls me back to sleep. I awake to the carriage lurching, and my stomach along with it.

  The rain has grown heavy. The dirt roads have turned to mud and the wheels keep sinking into it. The coachmen must stop to dig us out, only to have to stop again moments later. Finally, the horses give up even trying to make us move, no matter how hard the coachmen drive them. We have no choice but to wait out the rain. Maybe we shall miss the ball!

  Mother takes out her knitting. Father begins to recite a poem about a wayward traveler who meets a robber on the road, only to discover he is his long-lost brother. It must be the worst poem ever written. And it rhymes. Alexander starts humming to drown out Father’s words. Between the poetry and the humming, I am ready to stuff chunks of cheese in my ears. Just when I think I can take it no more, the sun breaks through and the rain slows, then halts completely.

  “Thank goodness!” Mother says, tossing her knitting below the seat. “Silas, do feel free to end your poem now.”

  But there is no stopping Father once he begins to spin a tale. We must simply wait until the wayward traveler and his reunited brother make up for all the years they lost by moving to a farm and raising goats. Admittedly, I have not read much poetry, but if it is all like that one, I do not see the art form lasting much longer.

  The coachman appears at the door to tell us that in order to dig out the wheels — which have sunk even deeper now — everyone must vacate the carriages to lighten the load. At this rate it would be faster to walk the rest of the way to King Rubin’s castle. Not that I will suggest that.

  Since there is nowhere to stand that isn’t knee-deep in mud, the four guards hop off their horses and allow the four of us to climb on. It feels so much better up here than in the stuffy carriage. Alexander and I share a glance, and I know he is thinking the same thing.

  “Mother, Father,” he says, circling his horse around to face theirs. “Shall we ride ahead a bit? The caravan will catch up soon.”

  “Excellent idea,” Father says, patting the mane on his large white stallion. “What say you, my darling queen?”

  Mother looks uncertain for a moment, and then a tiny gleam enters her eye and she nods. As much as she tries to rein it in, Mother has a bit of an adventurous streak in her.

  She alerts the guards that we will be going ahead. I can tell by the way the head guard, Parker, has crinkled up his face that he wants to tell my mother it is not a good idea for the royal family to ride alone in unfamiliar territory. I do not fault him for holding his tongue, though. It usually does no good to argue with Mother.

  “Please, Your Majesty, do stay on the main road,” he finally says, glancing ahead worriedly. “We shall meet you at the next pass.”

  She nods and turns her horse back around. Without hesitation, the three of us trot after her, sticking to the sides of the road where the puddles are not as deep. My mood lifts even higher. Out in the open like this, with the fresh breeze in my face, it is easy to forget my troubles.

  I ride up alongside Alexander. “Brother, do you recall the last time we four traveled on horseback together with no guards?”

  He shakes his head. “I believe I like it.”

  “I think they do, too,” I say, pointing to our parents, who are riding close to each other, giggling like children.

  We reach the next pass sooner than any of us wants to, and pull off to the side to await the caravan. I pat my horse’s flanks and he breathes heavily. “I think my horse is thirsty,” I tell the others. “I hear a stream.”

  “We must wait here,” Mother replies.

  So we wait. A few moments later, my horse begins to pant. “I truly think he needs to drink.”

  Mother glances at the horse and sighs. “Fine. Let us be quick.”

  We turn and enter the woods, with Alexander taking the lead. We stay close together. The sound of the stream gets louder and louder, yet I still do not see it.

  Father glances anxiously at the road behind us, now all but gone from view.

  We ride a few more moments as the rushing of the babbling water continues to intensify. Still, no stream appears. Just as I am about to suggest we turn back, we ride right into a small clearing. I can see the stream at the far side. It is surprisingly small for such a noisy thing. Other than that, it looks like any ordinary stream.

  The beautiful yellow-haired girl standing beside it, however, with her hand resting on an enormous buffalo, is anything but ordinary.

  “You should fight for him,” Clarissa insists as we climb into our beds. I am exhausted from the long, strange day and do not wish to discuss this topic any further.

  “I asked you to leave it be,” I tell her, pulling my blanket around me. Papa had recovered enough money to purchase a few more necessities. We now have blankets, chairs for the table, a few candles, and enough food to last three days. Four if we do not eat much.

  “But —”

  “Look,” I tell her, sitting up. I can only see her outline in the bed since we are saving the candles for emergencies. “Handsome is my friend. My first friend in years. I am not interested in becoming his bride. I am happy for him if this marriage is what he wants.”

  “But perhaps you two met for a reason.”

  I groan. Clarissa and her romantic notions! “Perhaps we did,” I reply. “But it is not to break up his engagement.”

  “Fine,” she says, flipping over onto her belly. “I shan’t mention it again.”

  I lie down. “Yes, you will.”

  “Probably,” she admits.

  Papa has hidden the clothes I was wearing the day of the fire. I cannot find them anywhere. I am afraid he has buried them near the outhouse in the backyard, where he knows I will not dig for them. I think Clarissa put him up to it. She says I am a woman now and must dress like it.

  I do not see how I am a woman today when I was a girl yesterday, but I allow her to pick out another of her frilly dresses for me because I am fairly certain I would be fired if I turned up at the apothecary shop in only my undergarments. Clarissa offered to tuck the dress with pins, but I do not trust her with anything sharp too close to my body. Her mind tends to wander.

  “This will be fun!” Clarissa says, bouncing along beside me as we make our way into town. “I was so bored all alone at the house.” She refuses to call it home. It certainly does not feel like one.

  I grip my lunch sack tighter. “Do not make me sorry I agreed to let you come to work with me.”

  “You did not agree. Papa gave you no choice.”

  “I hope the apothecary will not mind your presence.”

  “Me? Who would not want to have me around? I shall brighten up the place!”

  I glance sideways. It is true, she will. She has chosen her fanciest dress, which would be much better suited for a castle ball than for sitting on a stool in the corner of the apothecary shop all day. I think all the talk of Handsome’s engagement yesterday got Papa thinking that our only real chance of rising from the ashes is to marry one of us off. He was very quick to agree when Clarissa said she wanted to come with me today. The boys who had flocked around her this past year have quietly moved on. Whether they have found other girls, or whether they are no longer interested due to our fall from society, I know not.

  “You promise you will not get in the way?”

  “I prom
ise. I shall be as quiet as a church mouse.”

  “I doubt that.”

  “Unless a handsome boy comes in. I do not mean your friend Handsome, of course.”

  “I figured.”

  We pass by the riverbank and I remember the talk Handsome and I had about our births. Now that I know he is engaged to be married, perhaps it is not right to spend time with him. I debate asking Clarissa her opinion, but I do not want to get her talking of boys again. She’s likely not to stop.

  Master Werlin does not even turn around when we enter the shop. He is busy hanging batches of herbs upside down from a string. The string reaches the length of the shop and hangs high above the long, marble counter where I have seen him grind his herbs and roll pastes or ointments. Cabinets as high as my shoulders line the wall behind the counter. Each one is made up of tiny wooden drawers with a knob on the end. Most of these are sticking halfway out, their colorful contents visible. A long shelf runs above the cabinets, full of all manner of tools, pots, different size scales, mortars and pestles, oils, and one particularly nasty jar full of black leeches twisting and turning lazily in murky water.

  I shudder and clear my throat. Master Werlin turns around quickly, and I worry he will fall right off his stool. But he recovers himself and says, “Not a moment too soon. My last assistant put all the drawers back in the wrong place, and I cannot find a thing. I need you to sort it out. A starts in this corner, Z over by the sink. Can you do that?”

  I nod.

  “Good.” He reaches up for another clump of herbs.

  Clarissa nudges me. I reluctantly step forward. “If it pleases you, sir, may my sister, Clarissa, join me?” I feel foolish even asking, as though I am too young to do the job myself.

  He sighs, gives Clarissa a cursory glance, and says, “Fine. But do not expect double the wages.”

  “No, sir,” Clarissa says. “You shan’t even know I’m here.”

  “I doubt that,” he grumbles, reaching up for the string. I giggle. He knows her already.

  I get to work pulling out the drawers and ordering them correctly. Each time I rest a drawer on the counter, Clarissa peers inside. “What is nutmeg for? What does mandrake do? Why would someone use sassafras root?” The apothecary gives her one-word answers until finally he says, “If you are so interested, you might as well make yourself useful. Go wash your hands in the sink.” Clarissa heads over to the sink, which I know she had been eyeing earlier. Our old house had a sink with running water in it, but our new one does not. She allows the water to pour over her hands until the apothecary tells her that is quite enough. He then places a mortar down before her, pours little red seeds into it, and hands her a pestle. “Grind this to a fine powder.”

  “Yes, sir,” Clarissa says, pushing up her dress sleeves. She begins to hum as she works, and within moments, the apothecary is humming along. When he catches himself, he mutters something about needing to pull some nettle roots from the garden and disappears out the back door.

  After Clarissa has completed her task (and quite well), she sets out to wander the marketplace. She says she is just going to admire the wares, but I think she is trying to find any of her old friends. I know she misses her active social life. She is not gone more than a few moments when an elderly woman comes in and asks if her order is ready. She points to a box on one of the shelves, full of jars labeled with different people’s names. The apothecary had not told me what to do in case this happens.

  “I am sorry, but this is my first day. Let me go ask Master Werlin.”

  Before she can reply, I hurry out the back door. I find myself in a small garden, as colorful as the powders and seeds and oils and minerals inside. The garden is fenced in on two sides, and reaches all the way up to the back wall of the store on the other. Master Werlin is nowhere to be seen.

  I duck back inside to ask the woman to come back later, but now she is gone, too. Six shillings rest on the counter, gleaming against the shiny surface. I guess she found what she needed. I hope she did not leave with anything else! I take one last look in the garden for the apothecary, then sweep the coins into the top drawer of the apothecary’s desk.

  Two more customers come in, one complaining of a bumpy red rash on his shoulder (which, of course, he had to show me, although I told him I can do nothing to help), and another whose grandmother’s cream for “rosy cheeks” had run out and she needed more. I am able to convince them both to come back later, but they are not particularly happy about it.

  I have made it all the way up to Nutmeg before the apothecary finally returns, through the front door. Unless they are stuffed in his pocket, he does not have any plants with him. I am about to tell him of the customers when two well-dressed men step in right behind him. All three seem quite anxious.

  “Are you certain, Master Werlin?” the taller of the two men ask. “His wife reported that he was a customer of yours.”

  “Everyone in the village is a customer of mine,” he replies as he pulls down one of the clumps of herbs, now dry, and lays it on the counter. “When did you say he was last seen?”

  “Two days ago,” the man replies, “at the mill. Some farmers reported seeing him there. They recalled his silver cloak.”

  I am wondering when someone will notice I am in the room, but no one takes the slightest interest.

  “I have not seen him for at least a fortnight,” Master Werlin says, pulling the stalks off the herbs and tossing them into a large yellow bowl. “He had a toothache, which I offered to pull. He declined. He paid me two pence for a handful of poppy seeds to chew on, and I have not seen him since. Do you suspect danger has befallen him? A bear in the woods, perhaps?”

  I freeze at this. There are bears in the woods?

  “Perhaps more sinister than a bear,” the man replies.

  The shorter man clears his throat and tilts his head in my direction. The others turn, finally noticing me. The shorter man says, “Let us continue this conversation outside.”

  As the front door whooshes closed behind them, I feel a shiver run down my back. Something about a man at the mill with a silver cloak sounds familiar. Someone else was looking for him? It is too hazy, like trying to remember a dream.

  By the time Clarissa returns from her wanderings, I have already forgotten it.

  “Hello, travelers,” the girl says, her voice soft as a moth’s wing, as sweet as honey cakes. I blink a few times to be sure I am not imagining her. I cannot tell her age, perhaps sixteen or so. Her dress is a deeper green than the grass, her smile warm and friendly. “Have you lost your way?” The buffalo stamps a front paw and huffs, his eyes wild. Careful to avoid his large horns, she pats him until he quiets.

  We all shake our heads in response to her kind question. Mother turns her horse around and says, “Come, we must return to the road.” But the rest of us do not move. Exasperated, she turns back to the girl. “We are not in the habit of talking to strangers in the woods. We will be on our way.”

  Again, she turns to go. The girl’s long, yellow hair lifts and falls, scattering rainbows of color. I do not seem able to look away.

  “Are you lost, young lady?” Father asks. “Can we assist you in any way?”

  “Silas!” Mother says. “You’ve heard the warnings. We are not to talk to strangers in the woods!”

  “But she is not a stranger, Mother,” Alexander says, hopping off his horse. “She is —”

  “A friend,” the girl says, stroking the back of the buffalo. “A good friend.”

  “See, Mother?” Alexander says. “She is our friend. Our best friend.”

  Mother glares at him. He either does not notice, or pretends not to. “Good day to you, miss. I am Prince Alexander.” He bows so low his hair grazes the ground. “We are heading to the Harvest Ball.”

  She tilts her head at him and smiles. “Welcome to my stream, Prince Alexander. It gets very lonely out here in the woods. Would you like to dance with me? To practice for the ball?”

  He strides toward h
er, his hand outstretched.

  “Alexander!” Mother scolds. “I told you not —”

  The girl gracefully turns toward Mother, and her eyes flash. Mother swallows whatever she had been about to say. I have never seen that happen before. “With permission, Your Royal Highness, might I dance with your son?”

  Mother pulls a little too tight on the reins, and her horse whines in complaint. Her head moves in a close approximation of a nod, however.

  The girl steps toward Alexander, and they clasp hands. They begin to dance around the clearing. The girl’s eyes never leave his. When they have twirled around the clearing twice, the girl brings the dance to an end right in front of me. I am still atop my horse, who has shown no interest in drinking from the stream after all. “What of your brother?” she asks Alexander. “Does he dance as well as you?”

  Alexander laughs. “Not quite.”

  “’Tis true,” I say, once I can find my voice. I have never given girls more than a passing thought before, but truly, she is astonishing to look at. Her rosy cheeks, her white, perfect teeth. I quickly scramble off my horse, not wanting to appear rude.

  “Prince Riley may not dance well, nor will he win a beauty contest, but he has other excellent qualities,” Alexander says.

  “Thank you,” I reply. “I think.”

  “No doubt he does,” the girl says, her eyes twinkling at me. “But dancing, what greater joy is there?”

  Off the top of my head I can think of twenty, but I hold my tongue.

  “Would you like to be a better dancer?” she asks.

  I shrug. “It does not really matter much to me.”

  “Would you like to be handsome? Like your brother?”

  I shrug again. “That is not a big matter, either.”