Callista wrinkled her nose at the thought. While Mrs. Picard was a wealth of information about all the things that had happened in the castle leading up to the curse, her current knowledge wasn’t the best; and she did the same thing the rest of them did: stared at Callista as though she was going to suddenly start proclaiming her undying love for Griffin on the spot, ending the curse once and for all.
Did she love him? That was the question—and it was a question that became more pressing with every day that passed. Today, she wasn’t sure she wanted to deal with the weight of those questions.
It was too late to go into town. Too hot to wander the gardens. In short, Callista was running short of options.
The idea occurred to her in a blast of inspiration: she could visit the attics! It was the one part of the castle she’d yet to explore at all and the one most likely to hold untold treasures.
She snapped her fingers twice, sensed that little musical tinkle immediately. She had been right: the invisible servants were starting to notice the fact that she was getting bored.
“Can you show me to the attics?” she wanted to know.
That tinkle was most definitely affirmative. Callista followed the faint tug at her dress over to the stairs, winding her way up into the attics one flight at a time. It was a long way up. For a moment, she even suspected that they might be leading her up a tower instead of to the attics—but no, that was silly. She was in the middle of the castle, far away from both of the towers.
Finally, she was able to open the door and slip inside. The dust and grime was evident; Mrs. Picard obviously wasn’t bothering to clean up here, and the invisible servants didn’t seem to have taken note of it in a long time, either.
It was, however, just as fascinating as she’d thought it would be. There were old paintings—some of them done by old masters, just sitting up here unpreserved! Trunks full of ancient gowns, or filled with the possessions of years gone by. She found furniture that had obviously been consigned to the attics generations before and an impressive array of weaponry from knights and warriors past.
“Some of these things ought to be downstairs,” she informed the air. “Or at least preserved properly, instead of being left up here to gather dust!” Accustomed to talking to herself, Callista wasn’t really expecting an answer—but one came anyway in the form of a light tug on her gown. The servants keeping watch over her, in case she got lost on her way back downstairs? It had taken her some time to get up here in the first place.
She followed the faint tugging over to a stack of paintings beneath a window. They had been tossed there with little regard; only a cloth covering them protected them from the sunlight streaming in through the window, and Callista didn’t have to look hard to realize that it hadn’t covered them all perfectly.
She frowned. “The paintings?” she wanted to know.
That mental tinkle became affirmative.
She went to her knees, heedless of her skirts, and lifted the sheet away. At first, she understood perfectly why the paintings had been thrust into the attics with so little care. They appeared to be random portraits, pictures of people who had clearly mattered once, but who were no longer important to the castle.
Then an invisible hand reached out and swiped away some of the dust over the nameplate on the frame, and Callista felt tears filling her eyes. It was a family portrait: a young man, no older than eleven or twelve, standing between his parents. The nameplate was simple: Prince Griffin Alexander Clearmont, King Alexander Reginald Clearmont, and Queen Elspeth Andrea Clearmont.
Griffin and his parents. Her heart thudded. Why had these portraits been thrown up here, where no one could see them?
She snapped her fingers twice. “Take these downstairs,” she commanded.
Nothing moved. She had gotten used to things picking themselves up and moving when she made those requests. Callista frowned, snapping her fingers twice again.
Still nothing.
She sighed. “Fine, then,” she muttered. “I’ll take this one downstairs myself, and then Griffin can tramp up here and haul them back down. All those muscles ought to be good for something.”
There was a tingle in her mind—entirely unlike the usual tinkle, yet the same.
“What?” She folded her arms over her chest. “Something to tell me?”
Nothing. Not even a message written in the dust—and there was more than enough of that for the invisible servants to have told her anything they wanted. They could have written a novel on the dust, if they had so desired; but no, the things couldn’t communicate with her, and now they were refusing to do what she’d asked!
With a huff of irritation, Callista hoisted the painting into her arms. Griffin had been a handsome child—though she knew enough from her own portraits to know that a talented painter could make even the plainest individual look nice, especially if one happened to be the crown prince of the realm. She couldn’t really judge what he would look like now off of a picture from his childhood.
Still, she found herself fascinated, twisting so that she could see him in the picture as she carried it down the long flight of stairs.
Dusty, dirty, and exhausted, she reached the bottom of the stairs triumphant, the portrait still clutched tightly in her arms. She hadn’t tripped and fallen—she counted that as a point in her favor.
“Where is he?” she asked aloud.
No tug came at her dress. Callista sighed. The invisible servants were being entirely less than helpful today, and she was starting to get seriously tired of it.
“He’s probably in the music room,” she decided. “He said he was going to practice last, and I know we’ve got to be getting close to the end of the day.”
She could have propped the picture against the wall; but she wanted to show it to Griffin as soon as she could. She couldn’t imagine that he wouldn’t be overjoyed to see his family displayed so clearly before him: his mom, his dad…
She loved the portraits she had of her mother. Wouldn’t Griffin be just excited to be able to see his parents again?
The strains of the violin reached her as she hurried down the hall, heedless of the fact that she was covered in both sweat and dirt. Callista couldn’t help the smile spreading across her face. He was going to love it! Maybe he would even explore the attics with her next time, tell her all about the family artifacts hidden within. She couldn’t wait to hear his stories—to learn all about the previous generations of the royal family.
Griffin looked up as she burst through the door, taking in her tangled hair, her dusty appearance. “What’s this?” he set his violin aside slowly, his thick eyebrows drawing together in a frown.
“I found this up in the attics.” Callista’s voice was faintly breathless. “Look!”
Griffin came over to her. There was an amused smile touching his lips. She could tell that he was expecting her to exclaim over a forgotten painting by an old master that had been forgotten up in the attics.
This? This was so much better.
“What—” Griffin stared down at the painting. Emotion flashed across his face so fast that Callista could barely keep up with it. “Why did you bring this downstairs?” he demanded hotly.
“I—I thought—” Callista stared at him. “This is your family, isn’t it? Your mom and dad?”
“And me.” He growled the last word, his voice lower and filled with more of the beast than she had ever heard before.
“Well, yes. I didn’t get a good look at the rest of the paintings up there—I thought there might be another, more recent one of you. I’d like to—”
“Stay out of the attics!” Griffin growled the words, fury resounding in every word.
Callista took a fast step back.
“These paintings? These portraits of what I’m not allowed to have anymore? I don’t want them shoved in my face every day. I don’t want to have anything to do with them.” He got louder, his voice thicker with every word. “Get that out of here.”
“I�
�” She’d barely gotten it down the stairs in the first place. Getting it back up was going to be next to impossible, and she knew it.
“Get it out of here!” Griffin struck out with a furious paw.
Callista screamed. The painting went flying, huge claw marks across the face of the boy in the picture.
“Griffin!”
“How could you?” he raged, pacing furiously back and forth. “How dare you bring that down here!”
“I didn’t mean—I thought—” She’d thought it would be a treat—a reminder of the parents he had loved.
Apparently, it was more a reminder of all that he’d lost.
“You can’t just leave well enough alone, can you?” he continued furiously. “Poking your nose into everything—prodding everywhere, never leaving things be—”
“I’m sorry!”
“You’re sorry? Oh, that’s rich.” He laughed—a sound that came out sounding more like a howl.
“Griffin—” She reached out to touch him.
He snarled at her, a rich, furious growl that had her jumping back as though he’d slapped her. The growl resounded through the house.
The door to the music room burst open, and Hemsworth came pelting through it. “Callista, get out of here!” he yelled.
“I didn’t mean to—I wasn’t trying—” Callista was frantic. The Griffin she knew was gone, and the only thing left—
“It’s not your fault. The beast—sometimes, it just takes over.” Hemsworth was dragging at her arm, trying to soothe her and instill a sense of urgency all at the same time. “But right now—”
“Right. I—right.” Callista let him usher her out of the room as Griffin began to tear it apart. Tears gathered in her eyes as she watched the violin go flying across the room.
Griffin didn’t come down to dinner that night—and Callista didn’t have the heart to complain. Hemsworth joined her instead.
“Is he all right?” She stared down at her plate. Mrs. Martel had outdone herself, preparing what she was sure was a delicious goose roast, roasted carrots, and rice. Unfortunately, Callista couldn’t bring herself to lift a single bite to her mouth.
“He’s going to be fine. He…came back…a little while after you left.” Hemsworth sighed heavily. “That hasn’t happened in…a very long time.”
“It’s my fault.” Callista’s voice was very small. “I brought a portrait down out of the attics—I thought he’d be excited, because it was a picture of his family, but—”
“But instead, he lost his temper.” Hemsworth toyed with a fork, looking no more inclined to actually put food on his plate than Callista felt. “He was the one who had them put up there,” he told her abruptly, looking straight at her for the first time since he’d come in. “Years ago, shortly after the curse first hit. He said he didn’t need to be reminded of everything he’d lost every time he walked through the gallery.
“I didn’t know,” she whispered.
“I know you didn’t.” Hemsworth studied the fork again, looking as though he considered it, at this moment, to be of utmost importance. “Do I need to make preparations for you to leave?”
“What?” Callista stared at him. “Is—is he sending me away?”
“I don’t—” Hemsworth stopped. “I wish he would come down and let you have this conversation with him,” he grumbled. “But he’s going to hide away up in his room and make me ask the hard questions.”
“Is he afraid?” Callista couldn’t help the hope that filled her voice.
“He—” Hemsworth growled under his breath. “You’ve just seen the worst example of his temper,” he pointed out quietly. “And His Majesty has always had one, sometimes quite sharp.”
“I’ve scraped against it before,” Callista informed him.
“Well, yes, but this time was…rather different.” Hemsworth hesitated. “I could tell you that the prince has never been that destructive in human form, but I’m not sure you would believe me. When his temper is hit like that, it—well, the beast rather takes over.”
“I could see that.” Her voice was dry.
“You mean—”
“His eyes changed.” Callista shivered, remembering. “It was like Griffin wasn’t even in there anymore—just the beast.”
“That’s a fairly apt description, actually. He…goes away, almost, taken over by the form.” Hemsworth scraped his hands over his face. “When he came back to himself, he was horrified—and terrified of how you’d react.”
“I’m not sure.” Callista pushed herself back from the table sharply. “But I’m going to talk to him for myself.” She didn’t wait to see whether or not Hemsworth thought it would be a good idea. Instead, she simply headed straight for the stairs.
“He’s in his suite, milady,” Hemsworth informed her.
Callista smiled, knowing that was his way of offering his approval. Good.
She could use his support, at the moment. It would have been nice if he’d climbed the steps with her, gone with her to confront Griffin; but of course, even the most familiar servant would insist that it wasn’t his place. Instead, she was left alone. Callista, however, didn’t like that lonely feeling; and so, by the time she made her way up the stairs, she had worked her way into a towering temper.
She tapped lightly on the door to Griffin’s suite. He didn’t answer her—not that she’d been expecting him to. “Of course not,” she muttered under her breath. “Better to hide away and act like it’s my fault if things fall apart.” She snorted and shoved open the door.
He was sitting in a chair in front of the window, staring at a single rose in a vase. Several petals littered the table beneath the rose, but they didn’t seem to have come from it; rather, it was as vibrant as if it had been picked just hours before.
Callista glowered at him.
He spoke before she could. “Is she gone?” he asked tiredly.
“Excuse me?” she asked heatedly. “Just like that? ‘Is she gone?’ You weren’t even going to—to come and say goodbye to me?”
“I—” He looked up, hope suffusing his face. “Callista?”
She folded her arms over her chest, feeling sullen. “You were expecting Hemsworth, come to tell you I’d gone running the moment the curse showed itself?” she demanded.
“Well—I thought—”
“Let’s get something straight.” She stomped over closer to him so that she could see his face. “I’m not some wilting little slip of a girl who is going to fall apart the moment things don’t go according to plan.”
“All right…”
“And I am not,” she continued, “going to just disappear one day because we’ve had a disagreement. People fight. Even Stasi and Peter have fights every once in a while.”
“When they fight, does he endanger her?” Griffin demanded.
“Was it you that growled at me?” Callista wanted to know.
He shook his head without looking up at her.
“Were you the one who decided to rage?”
“I was—” He spread his hands as though he couldn’t find the words. “Hurt, I think. I was unprepared for that picture, for that reminder. But the beast…” He shook his head. “The beast doesn’t like to see my former form. It’s as though it doesn’t like to be reminded that there will be a day when it doesn’t get to stay here anymore.”
“I didn’t know,” Callista admitted softly.
“I know. It’s not your fault. I just—”
“Next time, could you just tell me, instead of being angry?”
“I don’t always get a choice.” There was so much shame in those words! “The beast—it used to come out whenever I was angry. These days, it’s mostly under my control, but sometimes…” He spread his hands again.
“Sometimes, you can’t control it as well as you’d like.” Callista sighed in understanding. “Any other triggers I need to know about?”
“You leaving,” he admitted tiredly. “Not going to the village.” This in answer to her start
led look. “I think it’s wonderful what you’re doing—teaching Arabella to read and all the rest. But if the day comes when you leave—if my hopes are destroyed again—I’m not going to take it well.” The admission came very slowly, as though he had to force out every word.
“Then I guess,” Callista told him quietly, “you had better be glad that I’m not planning to leave.”
Griffin looked up for the first time, staring hungrily into her face. “Mean that,” he begged her quietly. “Mean that you think I’m worth staying with in spite of—in spite of all of this. I care about you, Callista. I can’t stop it. And if I had frightened you away—if I’d been too much for you—”
“I’d rather you didn’t yell at me like that again,” she warned him.
“I’ll try not to,” he swore. “The beast—I’m stronger than he is, now, even though I don’t think I was before. These days, he doesn’t get to control me.”
“Then I think we’ll let that be enough talk about it.” Callista held a hand out to him. “Come down to dinner,” she suggested.
“You’d still eat with me?” He looked hopeful.
“I’m not going to be bringing you surprise paintings any time soon,” Callista teased. “But Griffin…I can see the difference between the beast and you.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
A Family Visit
Callista had been dancing around the castle for the last three days. Griffin smiled, watching her. She’d been with him for almost three months now—long enough that he’d gotten to know her, had learned how to tell when happiness overtook her or when she was excited about something.
Today, she was definitely excited. He didn’t begrudge her that excitement even though he knew it wasn’t going to be as pleasant for him as it was for her. Well, who could blame her for being happy? She was finally going to see her brothers and sisters again, after months of being without them.
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