Beast of Rosemead: A Retelling of Beauty and the Beast (Fairytales of Folkshore Book 4)

by Lucy Tempest

  The urge to rush after her, watch her fly and yell questions about the mechanics of her wings rose tenfold.

  Leander cleared his throat. “This way.”

  Reluctantly stepping out of my luxurious cell, I followed him downstairs.

  It was no different than following him up had been, the interior of the castle captivating me all over again. From the soaring ceilings to the shift in decor from one floor to the other, with more lights, there were new things to notice everywhere. Like the gloss of some parts of the wallpaper, or the curled oak leaves holding the banister, and the detail in the rose mosaic in the entrance—though it seemed there were more fallen petals than I remembered.

  A part of me wanted to break for the main door again, see if it would open this time. But I knew it wouldn’t. Even if it did, I wouldn’t escape him.

  Exhaling in resignation, I said, “Whose castle is this?”

  “It’s now mine.”

  “Whose was it before you?”

  “My father’s, before he married my mother at least.”

  “So, you’re like Lord Clancy?”

  He shot me a half perplexed, half exasperated look. “Lord Gestum has paid you a visit, I see.”

  Not wanting to get into another argument, I ignored his comment. “What’s the difference? In the books I read, people would always refer to noblemen by either their first or last name, and the same went for knights. Was that a writing error?”

  He contemplated my question before his response echoed in the hallway we entered to the right of the entrance. “A reigning lord, the head of the family, is referred to by his surname, while other family members are by their forenames. The same goes for the lord’s wife and his daughters. When Clancy was young, he was as you referred to him, a lordling among many. When his uncle died, he became Duke of Briarfell, head of his family, and Lord Gestum.”

  “And knights?” I asked, remembering Sir Dale and his friends.

  “With knighthoods, it depends if the man is of noble birth or not. If he is a knighted peasant, then he is known by his first name. Though if he is a lord, his title takes precedence. I made the mistake of calling the Earl of Sherwood ‘Sir Loxley’ while I was being fostered at Loxley Hall. The old man wouldn’t let me hear the end of it, and neither would his son.”

  There was an undercurrent of sadness at the mention of the son. I had a feeling they’d been friends. Had he lost all his friends because of his transformation?

  Refusing to ponder this or to consider feeling bad for him, I said, “What do I call you then, if you’re the Duke of Rosemead?”

  His upper lip curled in what looked like a grimace. “Just Leander is fine.”

  He looked ahead, seeming to consider this enough questions, so I went back to admiring the hall. The whole place looked more taken care of than the first time I’d seen it. The paintings on the walls and the woodwork displays weren’t draped in cobwebs and the endless carpet wasn’t dusty. Its emerald green background was woven in an intricate design of tiny fragments of varying colors, and bordered by an interlocking pattern and a frame of alternating symbols.

  My interest must have been apparent, since he asked, “Admiring the craftsmanship?”

  I nodded. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “You wouldn’t have. It came from Cahraman, a land far from here.”

  And even further from my island.

  Exiting the hall, we reached a circular room that opened onto many others. As Leander held open one door for me, I looked up at him. “Where did you send my father?”

  He gestured for me to enter. “Not back to the Woodbine lodge, if this is what you’re thinking. I sent him to a friend. He’s safe, and well-cared for, I promise you.”

  And this put an end to any hope of finding my father, even if I managed to escape.

  Heart sinking deeper in my chest, I passing beneath his arm into the room, grumbling, “Why should I believe you?”

  Offense wrinkled his nose and brow. “We made a deal, remember?”

  “It’s a bit hard to believe you’d honor any deal when you locked him up over a rose.”

  Anger radiating from him again, he slammed the door shut. “We’ve already gone over this!”

  “You think you did, but you explained nothing. I thought such a disproportionate punishment is very fairy-like, but now it makes less sense from someone who used to be a man.”

  “DON’T!” he shouted, the ferocity taking even him by surprise, tempering his follow-up to a harsh hiss. “Don’t ever compare me to a fairy. Call me an animal all you want, but animals can feel. Fairies cannot.”

  His impassioned words only added more questions to my ever-growing mountain of curiosity. But whatever his dealings with fairies were or had been, this wasn’t the time to ask.

  I turned from him to the seating arrangement, four chairs around a low, walnut table before a stone fireplace. On the mantelpiece was four figurines, and above them, the room’s centerpiece.

  In a ridged, copper frame, hung an exquisite painting of a majestic white stallion, front legs curled mid-gallop, head turned up towards the hidden sun. Massive wings sprouted out of its back, spreading among the clouds, its feathers in shades of platinum, pearl and silver.

  It took my breath away. “It’s so beautiful.”

  “Not as beautiful as you.”

  The sheer randomness of his comment wrenched me from my wonder. I didn’t even know what to say to that.

  Avoiding my gaze, as if he regretted saying it, he crouched by the fireplace to stoke the flames. Deciding to pretend he hadn’t said anything, I returned to admiring the painting’s subtle variation of color. I reveled in the idea that something like this creature existed, that something as large and earth-bound as a horse could be capable of flight. It comforted me to think it was free to venture beyond its realm, when I was bound by so many limitations.

  The name signed at the bottom-left corner was his. LEANDER SILVERTHORN.

  Had he really painted this?

  Unable and unwilling to consider how such an unexpected talent changed my view of him, I turned to examining the porcelain figurines on the mantelpiece. They were of two boys and two girls, with the boy with the dark hair also bearing his name. The blond one was FLORIAN, and the two dark-headed girls ESMERALDA and FAIRUZA. The last name was as foreign as that carpet.

  Where those his siblings? Were they here as well, transformed into maybe a lizard, a rodent and a quail?

  Hard as he was to look at, he was becoming less fantastical and more real to me. This was a nobleman of all things, trapped in his own castle, one who had friends, a sister with a pet unicorn, and even a rare gift. Not that I could imagine him painting with those large, clawed hands. This must have been painted before his transformation. Which begged a few more crucial questions, ones I should weave into a conversation.

  But I never had much tact to speak of.

  Since I didn’t, I sat down near the fire and just shot my questions. “How long have you been like this? And how old are you?”

  “Almost three years, but it wasn’t always like this.” He abandoned the poker to sit across from me, waved around his face, wide mouth twisted in distaste. “It’s getting worse the more time passes.”

  So, I hadn’t imagined the change in his appearance?

  “I am twenty-one-years-old,” he added. “How old are you?”

  This was a common question, even from people who’d known me for years. Some still believed I was twelve. That never helped with my father’s overprotectiveness or people’s refusal to hire me.

  “How old do I look?”

  Scrutinizing me, he raised a hand to cup his chin, but removed it with a grimace when an overgrown nail scratched his nose. “Not that much younger than me.”

  I goggled at him. “I’m eighteen. But most people think I’m still a child.”

  “I thought the same at first.” His eyes bore into mine, their amazing blue-green intense in the firelight. “But n
ow I’ve gotten a good look at you, you’re definitely older than my sister.”

  “The one with the unicorn?”

  His gaze flitted to the figurine labeled Fairuza and his brilliant irises darkened. “Yes. She’s seventeen, for now.”

  Jessamine chose that moment to burst in, pushing a small cart laden with a delicate tea set and a plate of cookies.

  She served us before lingering to arrange one utensil at a time as we spoke. Eavesdropping?

  I popped a cookie in my mouth, spoke as I crunched it, “What do you mean ‘for now?’”

  His broad shoulders sagged as he picked up his cup, a subdued kind of anger I didn’t think him capable of. Anger at something old or constant, something he’d gotten resigned to. “It is unlikely she’ll live to see eighteen.”

  My heart gave a flutter of dismay. “Is she sick?”

  “Worse. She’s cursed. And so am I.”

  Chapter Nine

  I couldn’t believe a curse hadn’t been the first thing I’d thought about.

  But then, I’d just discovered the castle beastly inmates were originally human only yesterday. And I hadn’t exactly been thinking straight since I’d woken up from whatever spell the fairy who’d kidnapped us had put us under.

  But now I knew his sister’s curse was premature death rather than metamorphosing into a beast, a different yet equally terrible fate, it led me to one question.

  “What did you two do?”

  He paused his sip, glowering at me over the rim of his teacup. “What makes you think either of us did anything?”

  I pushed away my plate along the table. “How else would you have been cursed?”

  “By a malicious being that enjoys ruining lives?”

  “Judging by your attitude, you must have provoked it.”

  His calmness was gone, and back was the marrow-chilling rage. “I did nothing, and neither did my sister!”

  In spite of quaking in my flat shoes at the brunt of his temper, I pressed on. “Witches can’t be going around casting curses all willy-nilly. You had to have done some serious offense or injury.”

  “Stop it.”

  “Why? It’s not like I said anything unfounded,” I shot back. “Going by how you’ve behaved so far, how defensive you’re being now, I bet I’m right.”

  He had nothing more to say to me. Nothing in words. His response was to crush the cup in his grip with a deafening roar that had me bursting to my feet and running away with my heart in my throat.

  Jessamine flew after me all the way up to the bedroom, blocking the doorway with her wings. “Please, go back. Just give him a chance!”

  “I already did, and look what happened.” I tried collapsing a wing to pass, but she wouldn’t budge.

  “But it was going so well!” she argued.

  Residual fear still coursed through me, and I was on the brink of tears. I had to get out of this place, even if it meant breaking my neck climbing out the window again.

  I dropped to the floor and crawled inside between her legs. Once back on the bed, hugging a post to ground myself, his roar still ringing in my ears, I looked at her.

  She remained on the threshold, shoulders slumped, wings limp, and yellow eyes unblinking. She wasn’t just upset, she looked defeated, like this disastrous meeting had dashed her hopes for something vital.

  Before I could ask, she closed the door, headed to the window. “I’ll come back in a while. I need to go clear my head.”

  And with that, she dove out the window and soared up with the winds.

  Not long after she’d left, another of his knocks came at the door.

  I didn’t know why I bothered checking, but I did.

  It was a box of chocolates with a solid gold rose on top, with a note that said: I’m sorry.

  Back in Aubenaire, chocolates were a luxury that got imported only during winter holidays and a tiny box cost as much as a new season’s outfit. I used to wait a whole year for them and devour them in an hour. But now I felt sick to my stomach, being at the mercy of someone this aggressive and volatile.

  The gold rose felt like a taunt as well. Something worth more than my house was given freely, but a regular rose was what had doomed my father and I to this place. I didn’t bother kicking the gift this time, just shut the door and curled up on my bed, watching Jessamine fly outside in circles, refusing to fly me to freedom.

  In this moment, I was the fairytale princess locked in a tower, guarded by a monster that wouldn’t yield. There was nothing I wanted more than for a knight to come rescue me.

  After hours of motionless melancholy, an idea struck me.

  Jessamine hadn’t returned, making it possible to sneak outside. I went downstairs as quietly as possible, in search of the kitchen. It most likely was on the ground floor and had to have windows that opened, to air out any smoke or trapped heat. That could be my way out.

  I reached the darkened entrance, found patches of subdued moonlight shining on the floor mosaic. The rose seemed to have wilted since the afternoon, surrounded by more petals. I was sure I wasn’t imagining it this time.

  Pushing the weird observation to the back of my mind, I took the opposite direction to the one we’d traveled earlier, which I was certain didn’t lead to a kitchen. I hoped there wasn’t anything lurking in my path.

  I couldn’t tell which corridor led to what, scrambled aimlessly, getting more desperate by the second. Then suddenly, I stopped dead, my ears straining.

  Was that the sound of wind?

  It was! At the end of the corridor. An open window!

  I hastily followed the sound into an office whose balcony was wide open. Through it came not only the whistle of wind, but also the gallop of horses.

  Could it be someone had come for me?

  Hope filled me, blinding me to the risk of vaulting over the balustrade and into the garden below. I landed on my feet with a stab of pain up each leg, tipping me into the dirt.

  With an ear almost on the ground, I could pick out the gallops of maybe half a dozen horses and the voices of as many men. I had to meet them at the gate!

  Ignoring the ache in my knees, I heaved up and ran through the grounds, blind to my surroundings—until a glimmer snagged my vision. That impossible rose tree.

  For some reason, it was more visible this time, as if with an internal light. There were giant thorns covering its green trunk, disappearing up into the rough leaves that surrounded the roses. And this time there was a pink one that wasn’t attached to a stalk, just placed among the leaves, drying up and missing many petals.

  Something crunched beneath my foot. Jumping back, I found the dead pink petals, now as hard as crystals, a couple I’d crushed into glittering dust.

  Was this the rose my father had plucked? But why would he have done so? What had compelled him to interrupt his escape for this? Had it been meant as a gift for me?

  As strange a compulsion came over me, making me relinquish my own escape and remove it from the leaves. I hissed as a thorn pricked my finger, but gripped it even harder.

  Something heavy landed behind me, shaking the ground and rattling my bones.

  I didn’t have to turn to know what it was. My massive captor was bearing down on me. Unprecedented anger was radiating from him like a furnace blast.

  He snapped his jaws at me, deadly fangs gleaming like polished silver in the diffuse moonlight. “Put it back.”

  My feet felt they’d been cast in iron, heavy as anvils. But my mouth had no trouble moving. “You put it back. And let me go.”

  “You’re the one who has to put it back,” he growled, menacingly advancing. “Then you’ll go to your room.”

  “I’ll put it back if you let me go.”

  He snarled like the beast he was, clawed hands reaching for me. I stumbled back until I pressed against the thorny trunk, throat bobbing on a jagged lump of tears. I’d failed to escape, and this time he seemed maddened enough to throw me in a dungeon forever, or even to kill me.

 
But if I were to die, I would at least defy him to my last breath.

  I crushed the rose in my grip.

  He reared back with a pained howl as if I’d stabbed him. Then as the pulverized petals poured between my fingers, he threw himself upon them. He gasped and wheezed as he dug through the dirt, trying to gather up the glittering dust like it was the last drops of water in a wasteland.

  Watching him desperately trying to reassemble that rose, heaving like he was suffocating, a bizarre sense of pity for him assailed me, had me in a chokehold.

  A deafening boom at the gates extinguished that thought and snapped him out of his frenzy.

  He rose back up, swiping at me. “You want to leave? Then go! Get out!”

  I screamed as his claws scratched the bark off the tree. If they’d been a few inches closer, he could have taken my head off!

  “GET OUT!”

  His bellow shot feeling back into my legs, and I ran like I’d never done before.

  I was almost at the gates when a battering ram burst them open, and six men rushed in, lead by Castor.

  Never had I been this happy to see anyone.

  But he didn’t appear to see me, gaze focused behind and above my head, no doubt at the Beast.

  I caught his attention by running to intercept him, slamming into his chest. “Castor, you came back for me!”

  Blinking in shock, he nearly dropped his crossbow as he reflexively wrapped an arm around me. “Bonnie—you’re alive!”

  “Yes, but not for long.” I tried to push him back. “We have to go now!”

  He only pushed me behind him, arming his crossbow. “Not before I kill the Beast!”

  “Don’t! Let’s go, before he comes after me.” He might change his mind about letting me go when my transgression sank in. If innocently plucking the rose earned my father a lifetime of imprisonment, willfully destroying it might warrant me a slow, painful death.

  “I’m hoping it does,” Castor said fiercely. “When it comes close enough, I’ll shoot it.”