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

by Lucy Tempest

  “Move where, dear?”

  Oh, great. I’d said that out loud.

  It would have been good form to brush it off with a simple “Never mind.” But I had to know. The severity and mechanism of this curse they were all under.

  So I said, “Your legs, when they became this tail, was it hard to move at first?”

  She slowed her pace, if one could call it that, sighed, sounding sad and defeated. “It didn’t happen overnight. But yes, it was difficult to navigate at first, essentially crawling on my belly. A very long, very heavy belly. Good thing is, I’ve grown very strong with moving requiring so much effort.”

  A stifling mixture of horror and pity overtook me. How could they tolerate their transformed bodies? Not just the fact that their appearances kept them trapped here, but being covered in fur, their skin hardening to scales, horns bursting from their skulls, or their skeletons warping beyond recognition?

  Needing to change the subject, I said, “Do you know Jessamine’s condition?”

  “It’s hard to say with her. She’s not much of a complainer, the sort that would walk on a broken toe. So, if you notice anything too bad, be sure to tell me, because she won’t.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Someone called her from below. When she called back that she was busy, Oliver piped up, “I can take her!”

  Ivy looked down at him. “Do you know where she is?”

  “I know everything in this castle,” he bragged as he grabbed my hand. “Come, I’ll show you.”

  I stumbled up the stairs behind him, waving back to Ivy.

  He had me almost running after him up to where my room was then across the floor, before he pointed at a whitewood door that was just like mine.

  “She’s in there.”

  Before I could thank him, he was a receding dot in the distance.

  Inhaling an unsteady breath, I lightly knocked before I entered. I found Jessamine sound asleep on a bed facing the door, her wings spread out, with the injured one balanced across the nightstand and wrapped in bandages. Clancy was asleep in an armchair by her side with an open book on his lap, spectacles sliding down his nose and his head lolling back so his horns hooked over the back of the chair.

  Despite the terrible circumstances, it warmed my heart that he was here, watching over her. If it weren’t for his timely save, Jessamine would have met the fate she’d saved me from my first night here.

  Knowing she was cared for and not alone, I closed the door.

  Then I went in search of Leander.

  Finding no one to direct me to “the Master’s” quarters, I wandered around, familiarizing myself with the layout.

  Though my body ached all over with a bonfire of bruises and lacerations, and I was deathly tired and utterly depleted, I couldn’t consider sleeping yet. My mind was rioting and I knew I’d close my eyes only to relive the night’s horrors. So I explored, trying to subdue my feverish thoughts, and to come to terms with everything that had happened.

  But no matter how beautiful a marble vase was, or how peculiar the metal sculptures of foreign animals were, nothing could distract me. My mind now came back to those moments before the redcaps had attacked us.

  By then it had been clear Castor considered me the reason for all his troubles, besides being annoying, disrespectful, and talkative. He’d dismissed everything I’d said, had been offended by my every suggestion, had led us into danger against my pleas, then blamed me for it all.

  I could now see he was the handsome hunter of a hundred chivalrous stories—until things didn’t go his way. Not a hero, not a villain, just a man who overestimated himself, and underestimated everyone else, with failings, and a temper.

  But I couldn’t tell if he’d left me behind, or if it had been yet another miscalculation that had landed him in the clutches of the redcaps. All I knew was that it had been the Beast he’d been supposed to slay who’d come for me. Leander, the gruff, volatile man who was literally turning into a beast, hadn’t abandoned me when I’d transgressed against him with far worse than disobedience and criticism. He’d still chosen to brave a grisly end to spare my life.

  Unable to contemplate any of those mind-scrambling realizations anymore, I went back downstairs, almost in a fugue now. I ended up following the curve of the castle to a circular, sitting hall with massive, painted double-doors at its end.

  Hanging beside them was a brass frame housing a ripped painting of a family of six. It stopped me in my tracks, brought both blurring thoughts and vision back into sharp focus.

  In the center, a black-haired mother sat with her youngest on her lap, a blond boy of about five. She had golden skin, high cheekbones, sharp eyes that matched her dark-green dress and an emerald tiara. Standing with his hands on her shoulders was the fair-skinned, blue-eyed father, his blond hair and beard a few shades lighter than his golden crown. To their left were two girls, one around eight, black-haired, green-eyed, skin a few shades lighter than her mother’s, and one a bit younger than me, with her mother’s face and dark hair, but her father’s fairness and greenish-blue eyes.

  The sixth figure, a taller man standing to the right of the father, had his face ripped.

  Enraptured, I dragged a chair and stood on it to straighten the curled edges of canvas, and trying to approximate the slashed parts. Just as I started to make out a face, something heavy fell behind the doors, rocking my chair, followed by a pained shout.

  I jumped down and tore the doors open. Bursting in, I realized at a glance that it was Leander’s quarters. And he was sprawled on the floor, shirtless, covered in bandages and a lot less hair than before.

  He gaped at me for long moments, as if he thought he was seeing things.

  He finally shook his head, as if to clear it and snapped, “What are you still doing here?” He struggled to sit up, blood seeping through the wrappings on his shaky arm. “I keep telling you to get out.”

  I rushed to kneel before him, tried to help him up. “Something tells me you didn’t really mean that.”

  Grunting, he snatched himself away from my reaching hands. “I don’t need your help.”

  I still threw my weight against him, insubstantial as it was, doing my utmost to prop his large, heavy body until he sat on his heels. “Well, too bad, you’re going to get it anyway.”

  When he finally pulled himself upright on his knees, he pushed his long hair off his face with his bleeding arm, and my breath stalled.

  Like the rest of him, his face was less hairy than before, and the transformed, bumpy skin had softened. Not to the point that he looked human, but far closer to it than before.

  I raised a hesitant hand to touch his protruding lower fangs. “How do you talk with those teeth?”

  Instead of snapping at my hand as I’d half-expected, Leander stilled, stared down at me.

  Then he finally opened his mouth, wide enough to swallow an apple, and moved his jaw in an improbable circle. “My face is not what it used to be.”

  “Is that why you ripped your side of that portrait?”

  Ire hardened his eyes as he rose to his feet, bleeding arm failing to clench its fist. “Get out.”

  “No.”

  He snarled, baring every fang, wide nose wrinkling, only seeming more defensive than intimidating. Almost as if I was the one who threatened him. “I won’t ask again.”

  “Then don’t.” I stood to my full height, which had me facing his midsection. “I’ll do all the asking, because Your Highness owes me a lot of answers.”

  His resolve wavered then cracked as one leg buckled beneath his weight, dropping him on his massive bed with a curse and a hiss of pain.

  The sight of his suffering snuffed out any confrontational mood I had, making me mumble in contrition, “I didn’t come here to fight again.”

  “Then what do you want? You had your chance to leave like you so desperately wanted to, so why are you still here?”

  “Can you stop being so difficult for a minute and show me your arm? It
seems worse off than the rest of your injuries.” I held out a hand, and he grudgingly sat up and showed me his arm. Carefully, I unwrapped the soaked bandage, found not just bite marks where the redcaps had fed on his blood, but deep gouges where they’d ripped at him, from which blood kept flowing.

  My father had had his fair share of work injuries—including deep cuts and some burns, and I’d tended to them all. But I’d never seen anything this bad. It made me feel lightheaded and queasy.

  I needed to look for supplies, but when I turned away it was mainly to subdue the pity and guilt churning in my stomach. His quarters were twice the size of mine and arranged in a half-circle, with furniture mostly in black with red accents and gold-painted frames. But as I crossed to pick the roll of cloth and solution bottles off the table in the sitting area, I couldn’t help being sidetracked by the huge bookcase beside it. Not just the array of interesting titles, but the pale wood that held them.

  Tearing my attention back to my task, I rushed back, set the scissors, bandages and salve on the bedside table before ducking into his bathroom. Not having the time or inclination to admire its width or the pattern created by its rich marble tiles, I gathered two hand towels, emptied a soap bowl and filled it with water, then returned.

  I found him literally licking his wounds!

  Gagging, I moved his arm away from his mouth. “Don’t do that!”

  He blinked in surprise, so big he still looked down at me even sitting slouched on the bed. It seemed it wasn’t only his appearance that was becoming beastly, but his instincts, too. And what was more natural to an animal than cleaning his own wounds?

  Ears heating with uncertainty if those instincts were right, I changed the subject as I started working. “Is that willow?”

  He watched me with suspicious eyes. “The bookcase? Yes, why?”

  “Just wondering if there’s a willow tree nearby.” I dabbed his wounds with the damp towel and he ripped his arm from me. “Hey!”

  “That hurt!”

  “Cleaning your wound is supposed to hurt.”

  “It didn’t hurt that much when I licked it.”

  “Well, you keep saying you’re not a beast, and men don’t lick their wounds.” I eyed every one of his wrappings. “Did whoever bound you not clean your wounds?”

  “There is no need.”

  “Yes, there is. Those things were rabid and those cuts could become infected.”

  “Don’t touch me!” he yelled in my face when I dabbed at the wound again, hot breath making my loose locks fly back, and my limbs shake.

  I still stood my ground. “You were attacked by a pack of vicious creatures that tried to eat you, all so I could get away. You’re already weakened, so stop needlessly tiring yourself out and sit still while I clean your wounds!”

  He brought his face down to mine, until my view of it was all teeth. “I SAID NO!”

  Every dread and worry and grievance that had been simmering within me the past week finally boiled over in a scream. “DON’T YELL AT ME!”

  He sagged back on his elbows, gaping at me with stunned eyes.

  I couldn’t blame him. That was the loudest I had ever been. My throat burned, my face flamed and my every nerve twitched. But I’d had enough of his childish attitude. Life-debt or not, I was not going to tolerate being yelled at for helping.

  “I wouldn’t be yelling if you weren’t bothering me,” he finally mumbled sullenly, but didn’t resist when I dragged his arm back, only wincing as I dabbed at it.

  “I’m trying to prevent any infections, you dolt! I don’t want your condition to worsen.”

  “I wouldn’t be in this condition if you hadn’t run off into the woods.”

  I uncapped the salve, slathering it on him, ignoring his noises of complaint. “I wouldn’t have run off if you hadn’t scared me!”

  “You snuck out before that. And you did the same thing your father did, and expected me to not get upset?”

  “Well none of this would have happened if you told me what was going on from the start!”

  He avoided my eyes, gritted his fangs and said nothing more until I finished double-wrapping his arm.

  “There.” I set the arm over his chest with a light pat. “Was that so bad?”

  “Yes, Miss Fairborn, you’ve killed me,” he drawled sarcastically. “Is that why you asked about the willow tree? You want to bury me under one? You might soon get your chance.”

  Injured or not, I was not above flicking his nose in retaliation.

  He bore down on me with a reflex growl, but I tested my luck by flicking him again. “I asked because willow bark can be used to relieve pain, something you and others around here could use right now.”

  His ire deflated, a hesitant expression entering his gaze. “There’s one in the back garden. If such a remedy is true, we’d all appreciate it.”

  “Good.” I jumped up beside him on the bed, feet dangling way off the floor. “It’s bound to be better than what whoever patched you up can offer, even if I haven’t tried it myself.”

  “Then where did you hear of such a thing?”

  “Read it in a book on natural home remedies, things most households seem to have lost track off now we have apothecaries and doctors.” I pointed to the bookcase. “What are those?”

  “Books,” he deadpanned.

  I rolled my eyes at him. “What genre?”

  “History, some fantastical essays and ballads I would like to believe is history, and the rest are just the journals of my ancestors.”

  “Other kings and princes?”

  His eyes returned to me in an unblinking stare, full of dread of all things. “You know who I am?”

  “I know you’re not a duke. The painting outside said as much. With the tiara and the crown, and with you clearly the oldest son, it makes you a prince. A crown prince.”

  For some reason, my deductions seemed to somewhat relax him. “I might as well be a duke at this point. In fact, I’m more useless than a blind watchman.”

  “Does your whole family know about your curse?”

  “Only my parents, my younger sister and my uncle know.” His gaze darkened at the mention of his uncle. “Everyone thinks I’m severely ill and quarantined.”

  “I get the feeling your uncle isn’t a favorite of yours.”

  His fangs flashed in a grimace. “With my father abroad, I should have been regent, ruling from the capital. But I’m stuck here, worsening by the day, while Uncle Jonquil runs the kingdom like it’s his personal playground.”

  “There’s nothing you can do?”

  “What do you expect me to do? Show up at the castle, demanding my throne and getting killed on sight by my own panicked guards?”

  “There must be a way to break this curse you’re all under. People here seem to think I can help you. So how can I?”

  Surprise softened his features, disbelief swirling in the depths of his wide-set, turquoise eyes. “You’d do that?”

  If I said yes, there would be no going back. No reneging on my obligation, no escape attempts, no longing for the outside. Not until I’d repaid him and found a way to free everyone in this castle. But I’d already decided. I had to do it.

  Feeling I was committing myself to something both inescapable and inexplicable, I nodded. “You nearly died trying to save me, when you had every reason not to. For that I owe you my life.”

  He stared at me for fraught moments, my words seeming to reverberate endlessly in his stunned silence.

  Then he finally set a large, hesitant hand over mine, a few of his long nails torn off in the fight for my life, their nailbeds crusted with blood.

  When he finally spoke, his voice was ragged with entreaty. “Join me for breakfast tomorrow. Join me, and I’ll tell you everything you want to know.”

  To that, I only nodded.

  I’d enter his world for real tomorrow. The world I’d just signed on to become a part of.

  I could only hope I hadn’t made a terrible mistake. Tha
t in trying to help him and everyone else, I didn’t end up harming them even more instead.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Hazel the rabbit-girl woke me up.

  Taking over for Jessamine while she recovered, she came in at seven o’clock, rushed me into the bathtub and laid out fresh clothes for me, all the while twittering with excitement. Apart from her restless nose and ears, I could bet she had a wiggling cottontail under her skirt.

  Whatever it was I needed to do, they all seemed to depend on me for it. I’d hate to let them down after giving them any hope of regaining normalcy and freedom.

  As she styled my hair into a crown of braids, I asked Hazel about herself and the others. Her chattering kept going off on tangents, telling me about their condition instead. Rosalind, the female centaur, was resting her legs where she’d been stabbed, Jessamine was awake and taking her breakfast in bed, and everyone else was recovering in their own way from last night’s attack.

  I brought us back on topic again. “Were you a lady’s maid before this?”

  I saw her ears flatten in the hairdresser mirror. “That would have been a good job, but no, I work in the kitchens. But I had three sisters, all married now, so I have some experience with preparing girls for important meals.”

  I caught her eyes in the reflection. “Can you do something for me? I was told that you have a willow tree here. Can you make tea from its bark or twigs and serve it to everyone who was hurt yesterday?”

  “I’ve only ever made ginger tea from scratch, but yes, I can try!”

  “Thank you, Hazel.”

  She did a double take, halting her braiding before quickly finishing up, face flushed. “You are very welcome, Miss.”

  A knock came at the door. Hazel made no move to answer it, so I did.

  Once again, a box sat on my doorstep, peachy-pink with a carnation-like ribbon glued on its lid. “Why does he keep doing this?”

  “To win your favor,” said Hazel nervously. “Gifts are the way courtiers express their feelings, an incentive for you to give him your time, your attention, and a chance at winning more than that.”