by Lucy Tempest
Beast of Rosemead
Lucy Tempest
BEAST OF ROSEMEAD – A RETELLING OF BEAUTY AND THE BEAST
Copyright © 2019 by Lucy Tempest
Cover Art Copyright © 2019 Lucy Tempest
Editor: Mary Novak
First edition published in 2019 by Folkshore Press
ISBN: Paperback: 978-1-949554-06-9
ISBN: Ebook: 978-1-949554-07-6
All rights reserved.
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Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, transmitted, stored in, or introduced into a database or retrieval system, in any form, or by any means, without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
Disclaimer
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
But he that dares not grasp the thorn
Should never crave the rose.
― The Narrow Way, Anne Brontë
Contents
Introduction
Map
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Note from the Author
Pronunciation Guide
About the Author
Also by Lucy Tempest
Introduction
Welcome to the magical world of Folkshore!
Fairytales of Folkshore is a series of interconnected fairytale retellings with unique twists on much-loved, enduring themes. It starts with the Cahraman Trilogy, a gender-swapped reimagining of Aladdin.
It is followed by the Rosemead duology, a retelling of Beauty & the Beast.
Join each heroine on emotional, thrilling adventures full of magic, mystery, friendship and romance where true love is found in the most unexpected places and the fates of kingdoms hang in the balance.
Coming retellings will be:
Cinderella, Sleeping Beauty, Hades & Persephone and The Little Mermaid!
Map
Chapter One
Distant voices echoed in the darkness, heated, angry, none distinct enough to discern. A tinny whistle followed the escalating shouts, drowning them in its blanketing sharpness.
It was like my head was submerged beneath murky waters, where I felt heavy and weightless at the same time. And I was slowly floating to the surface, towards the rays of lights pouring from above, rising, rising until I…
I sat up with a gasp, kicking the woolen bed covers off me, the chill from the open window instantly gripping my body. My eyes filled with tears, if only from the scratch of dryness, for it wasn’t that bright. A lantern hung from a hook across the room, and framed in the window, lilac-grey clouds blended with the pink-orange sunset as the top of the apple tree rustled in the breeze.
Disoriented, pounding head pressed into my palm, I disentangled my numb legs from the covers. I swung my feet to the dusty, wooden floor, and the yellow, silk nightgown fell to cover them as it hung off my small frame.
Why would I have gone to bed in Adelaide’s clothes? We’d just done the laundry two days ago, and I couldn’t have run out of clean sleepwear this soon.
Unsure if I was still dreaming, I gathered the nightgown up in a knot, shuffled towards the lantern and picked it off its hook. Needing to investigate the sounds of arguing, something totally foreign in our house, I was almost at the door when a floorboard beneath me croaked like a giant frog. That one noise extinguished the haze of sleep from my aching head with a downpour of confusion.
Adelaide didn’t own silk clothes. I didn’t sleep in the attic. We didn’t have an apple tree. And our house was made entirely out of stone.
Where was I?
I spun around, sluggish heart suddenly thundering. Taking in the unknown room, panic climbed up my every nerve, a feeling so foreign it shook me, rattling the lantern in my weakening grip.
There were no wooden places in Aubenaire. The only place I knew of was Miss Etheline’s tavern, which was the last place I remembered being in. But this couldn’t be one of the lodgings, as the tavern had neither an attic nor an orchard. Wherever I was, it seemed I wasn’t just away from home, but I was out of town.
And I couldn’t remember how I got here.
Suddenly, I felt much smaller, younger, the missing memories even more terrifying than the mystery location. I wanted to call out for my father, for Adelaide, but the cry died in my throat, exiting my spastic lips a rasp of fright.
There was only one answer for how I’d gotten here: I’d been kidnapped.
My heartbeat filled my entire body, each thud worsening my trembling. Why would anyone take me?
I could think of plenty of terrible reasons, some from my books, but mostly ones my father used to discourage me from straying away from home. But I didn’t want to consider them now. I couldn’t.
The question now wasn’t what I was doing here, but what was I going to do about it. Do I hope whoever had taken me had made a mistake and would let me go, or was a merciful captor and would return me if I begged—or do I attempt to escape? If I did, could I find my way home?
I had always thought that my first brush with danger would be exciting, an encounter with the magical, or at least with the strange customs of the places we traveled through. “We” being myself and Adelaide, who’d handled life on her own for years, roaming the island, and dealing with all sorts of people and circumstances, and the danger both posed. She would have known what to do in this situation, would have escaped out the window and be halfway home by now.
Oh, Ada, what could she and my father be feeling now? They must have found out I was gone, must be going out of their minds with worry.
But—what if they were here as well? What if whoever had snatched me had taken them as well? If they had, I was certain they couldn’t hold Adelaide for long. She would free herself and my father. So should I wait for them to come for me?
But if they hadn’t so far, it probably meant one of two things: either they weren’t here, or they were but unable to come for me. Maybe they were still knocked out? Had I come around faster for some reason? Or where they tied up? Or worse, injured…?
The thought felt like a stab in my chest, its pain burning behind my eyes, hitching my breath.
No! I couldn’t think the worst. I’d be of no use to them paralyzed with dread. I had to find them, set them free. They’d take charge from there and lead us back home.
I took another step towards the door and almost jumped out of my skin when another floorboard complained below my slight weight like a discordant violin. I froze, expecting my captor to blast through the door and tie m
e up this time…or something. But long moments passed, and nothing happened, the sounds of argument continuing unabated from below. Gulping a shaky breath into my starving lungs, I finally tried the door’s handle.
It moved. I thought it stranger still to find the door unlocked, but I didn’t pause to think why as I cracked it open, peered out. There was no one outside.
Heart rattling my whole body, I rushed out to the landing and stumbled down the creaking stairs, sweaty hands sliding over the polished-wood banister.
The floor below was spacious, sparsely decorated with leather-upholstered furniture. It was perfectly silent, making the argument from below fill the entire house. Breathing in labored puffs, I carefully peeked inside each room, and thought over escape plans.
I’d never needed to run or hide, not beyond schoolyard games. I’d never faced any kind of emergency, let alone danger. But if I were to be confronted by someone right now, what could I do? Eighteen I might be, but plenty of younger teens or even children towered over me. I couldn’t fight anyone even if I wanted to. But what if I had to?
It didn’t look like I’d have to so far. While it drenched me in disappointment that I didn’t find my father and Adelaide, there were also no other threats in sight. The entire floor was empty. And there was an open balcony across the hall.
It immediately reminded me of Adelaide’s many stories of climbing in and out of houses through balconies, windows or even chimneys. This was lower than the attic’s window, could be my only way out.
I was crossing towards it when a yell speared through the cacophonous debate, stopping me dead in my path.
“Whatever game you’re playing, it’s not working!”
Dad!
Caution thrown to the wind, I spun around and barreled down the steps, sobs of relief tearing through me.
I was almost atop the last flight of stairs when I came face to face with a bear.
I screamed.
The scrape of wooden chairs followed by the scramble of hurried feet encroached on me as I fell back on the steps, their edges digging into my back.
Someone rushed up the flight, yelling something, but I didn’t hear anything over the roar of panic as I swung the lantern at his legs.
With a surprised yelp, he crashed sideways, landing on the steps below me, clutching his knee.
“Crazy as your old man, I see,” he growled.
“Who are you?” I said shakily, whatever hope of acting tough gone.
His groan was pained as he pushed himself up. And in the light from my lantern and the floor below, I saw his face.
Breathtaking beauty was a common sight in nature, from blackthorn blossoms in late winter, to butterflies in the summer. But in people, I always thought it only existed in books.
Except for him.
I could draw a line down his face, straight through his linear eyebrows, elegant nose, defined philtrum and lower-lip crack, all the way to the cleft in his strong chin. Each feature was better than the last, from his intense, thick-lashed eyes to the jut of his firm, triangular jaw. I’d never seen a face so chiseled and symmetrical.
“I am Castor Woodbine,” he huffed, back on his feet. “And you are in my family’s hunting lodge.”
“What am I doing here, Castor?” I wheezed as I tried to sit up.
“Recovering.” He held his hand out to me. “Or I hope you are. From the way you’re shaking, I’d say you’re still way out of sorts.”
“Why am I here?” I asked warily, searching his face in the dim stairwell, trying to pick out more details, colors, imperfections, intentions—anything. “Recovering from what?”
My father’s voice traveled up from below, cracked, urgent. “Bonnie? Bonnie, is that you?”
“Dad!” I jumped to my feet, but they buckled beneath me. Before I could fall on the steps, Castor stuck his arm around me, lifting me up and against him.
I was used to feeling small, but right now, pressed against his tall, broad frame, I felt minuscule, the thrush to his hawk.
There was no way I could fight him, and I honestly didn’t want to anymore. He was so big and strong, felt so secure, my mind stilled in his steadying hold. I wanted to lean against him, trust him not to let me fall again as I searched his face with all the wonder I did the night sky.
He chuckled, a sound that quieted all my trembling into one last shudder. “How about you take it easy from now on?”
Struck dumb, I could only nod as he scooped me off my feet and carried me down the remaining steps. He smelled like smoke, pinewood and rainwater, an outdoorsy blend that reminded me of the last days of summer before I retreated indoors for months to read by the fire.
We crossed to a large, blanched door and entered a sitting room that was decked from wall to wall with curious decorations. At least, at first glance. On my second look, I recoiled with a squeak, curling up in his arms.
Rows of mounted heads stared down at me, each from a different animal, from antlered deer and elks with glassy eyes, to silently roaring bears, mountain cats, and wolves. Hides hung off the backs of the leather furniture facing the wide, roaring stone-brick fireplace, and lay on the floor as carpets.
One bear looked up at me as if in reproach, with its dead eyes and open mouth, the rest of it flat beneath the wide-backed armchair that held my father. He had his back to me, facing four men on the seats and couch, still arguing, gesturing wildly. As Castor took me closer, relief flooded me, until I saw my father’s leg bound by a chain ending in a large, metal ball.
“Dad!” I cried out. “What did they do to you?”
My father swung around, and the instant he spotted me, he leaped out of the chair, arms outstretched. “Bonnibel, I was so worried—” The ball yanked him back, but he struggled nonetheless, trying to drag it after him.
I struggled in Castor’s arms until he set me before my father and we met in a desperate hug. Father picked me up, but an alarming pop in his back had me kicking to be set back down.
Once on my feet, I found myself lecturing him like we were in our sitting room, rather than a stranger’s house. “You have to stop hauling heavy stuff. Your back is bound to give out.”
“I can still lug my work around, and it’s much heavier than you,” he grumbled, broad, kind face looking worn, his thick, greying-brown hair mussed, but his grey eyes brimming with joy.
A sharp clap cut our reunion short.
I swiveled away to its source; a muscled, bearded man with reddish-blonde hair, wearing a fur-lined blue cloak, with a sword at his hip.
“Now that we’re all here, we can finally discuss what’s going on,” he said.
But my focus remained on the sword. I’d never seen one outside of books. The engravings on its golden hilt said: To my lord, to the realm, I pledge my service.
I’d read those words before. In a book about an old kingdom in a faraway land that I’d been told all my life didn’t exist.
“You’re a—knight?” I hugged my father closer, my words slow, my mind racing.
The man proudly held out his arms and bowed his head. “Sir Dale of Roxborough, at your service.”
But Ericura didn’t have knights. Not in the way folktales and my novels did. Which meant this sword must be an heirloom from a forgotten past and this man had inherited some honorary title. Yet somehow, I didn’t think this was the answer.
“Where are we?” I tried to sound assertive, but my voice shook and spoiled the attempt.
“I already said you are in my family’s hunting lodge,” Castor said, entering my view.
This lighting added more depth and dimension to his face, revealing his eyes to be a dark blue and his hair to be an intriguing cross between ash-blond and warm brown, the sides cropped closest to his head shimmering in the overhead light.
I couldn’t put a name to this new feeling that came over me whenever I looked at him. I’d spoken to plenty of boys and men in my town, some even from beyond it, but not one had grasped my attention this wholly. It was like someone
had sculpted him, a commission for a temple. A vision of the utmost perfection to represent a god.
Getting a precarious grip on my wits as I stared at him, I managed to ask, “Yes, but where?”
“As we were just telling your father,” Sir Dale began with a sigh, sharing a longsuffering look with Castor. “You are in Rosemead. We found you unconscious in the woods while on a hunt for a sacrifice. We couldn’t tell whose family you belonged to, so we brought you back here.”
“A sacrifice?” My voice came out a squeak, fear crashing back into me. “A sacrifice for what?”
Castor’s smile dimmed, rage gripping his body, shifting his features from welcoming to intimidating. “For the Beast.”
I looked up at my father, whispering for his ears only. “Are they these mad cultists you once warned me about?”
He shook his head. “But they keep trying to sell me this silly story.”
“What story? What part of Ericura is Rosemead in? I’ve never heard of it.”
Castor poked his head between us. “That’s because Rosemead is in the Kingdom of Arbore, not the fabled island of Hericeurra, where your father claims to come from. That’s the silliest story we’ve ever heard. But whatever the reason he’s telling it, and whatever you’re here for, you’ve come to the worst place, at the worst time.”
Chapter Two
Castor’s words spun in my mind, refusing to make sense.