Curse of the Wolf King: A Beauty and the Beast Retelling (Entangled with Fae)

by Tessonja Odette

  Blackbeard steps up beside me, leaning forward. “The kitchens are nice, though.”

  The king sighs, then gives a resigned shrug. “Yeah, the kitchens, those are fine.”

  “And her bedroom,” Gray adds, her voice like a creaky floorboard.

  “Obviously,” the king says with a nod. “We keep the ambassador suite up to par.”

  “The parlor has good lighting,” Blackbeard says.

  The king scoffs. “The parlor is a dump, but you’re right, we get by.”

  “And the library.” This voice comes from Micah, who I hadn’t realized until now had been following.

  The king barks a laugh. “The library. Now that’s a joke.”

  Warmth spreads over my chest, sending tingles down my arms and spine. I almost feel as if I could float on air. It’s impossible to mask the longing in my voice when I whisper, “You have a library?”

  He nods, oblivious to the pounding in my heart, the yearning in my eyes at that delicious, magical word. Library.

  “Now, onto the dining room,” he says and starts down one of the staircases.

  I follow, but my mind lingers on the platform above, waiting, watching, seeking any sign that could lead me to the promised haven of books and paper. Of unread sentences and uncharted worlds.

  My body tugs at my mind and orders it to rejoin the tour.

  With a sigh, I obey, returning my attention to the stairs beneath my feet and the dust I disturb with every step.

  14

  Exhaustion tugs at my bones by the time the tour is over. It ends in the parlor, which appears to be the most frequented room in the manor, although the furniture is sparse, faded, and outdated. But just like Blackbeard had mentioned, the lighting is good, with several tall windows lining one wall, inviting a view of the gardens. Daylight streams inside, illuminating motes of dust swirling through the air and laying over every surface.

  “This room will be one of the first we make presentable,” I say, facing the king and the fae who’ve continued the tour with us—Blackbeard, Gray, and a few other wolf-people I’ve yet to know by adopted name. Micah, it seems, had run off at some point.

  The king grunts in response and turns away from me to stalk toward the hearth. Unlike my room, a fire has been made. Without a word, he settles into a wingback chair facing the fire. The other fae shift anxiously from foot to foot, glancing from me to the king.

  With my bare feet still aching and my body drained of energy, I feel my outward persona attempting to slip away. I breathe in deeply to steady myself. There’s still so much more to do. To learn. To plan for. And I’ve taken it all upon my shoulders.

  The latter thought should feel daunting, but instead, it echoes inside me, to the last time I ever felt important. When I ran my family’s household in Bretton, there was never a dull moment, and the pressure was fully upon me to keep our lives afloat. In turn, I was given a sense of purpose, appreciated by those I loved.

  That all changed, of course, with the scandal.

  I shake the thoughts from my mind and focus on the anxious fae before me. “Do any of you have positions in this household?”

  They exchange glances, then Blackbeard says, “I used to be on the king’s royal guard, but…there isn’t much need for that anymore.”

  “I was once a soldier,” Gray says, surprising me. It’s hard to imagine the ancient woman as a fighter. “It was long ago, though, in the first war. I simply serve the king now.”

  “You won’t find the servants and staff you’re looking for,” the king says, eyes on the flames in the hearth. “I lost most of my household staff when I refused to have a palace built in the new Winter Court. Everyone else left when I was sentenced to be cursed.”

  “Who are the rest of you then?” I ask.

  The king says nothing, so Blackbeard takes a hesitant step forward. “We are those most loyal to His Majesty and suffer the curse at his side. We are ready to face death if needed.”

  “Pah! Don’t listen to him,” says the king. “Blackbeard may have stayed out of loyalty, but these other wolves were from my pack. The weakest ones. Too injured, too old, or too young to survive in a new pack. They stayed with me out of lack of better options.”

  Gray rolls her eyes. “That’s not all true, Your Majesty.”

  “Oh?” The king turns in his chair to smirk at her. “How would you have fared in a new pack? They’d have berated you for looking so old.”

  She puts her hands on her hips. “I’d have done just fine, thank you very much. I’m still spry in my wolf form.”

  The king shakes his head and returns to looking at the flames.

  I am curious why Gray looks old when the others look so much younger. How does aging come into play for immortal beings? And will all of them die alongside the king if the curse isn’t broken? The thought sends a pang of worry to my heart, but I force the questions from my mind.

  “Regardless of whether you had positions in the king’s household before,” I say, “we must all take up work from this point on to make the manor presentable.”

  A few of the fae wear scowls at that, but others, like Blackbeard and Gray, seem encouraged.

  “I’ll draw up a list of positions and set about filling them. Now, where are the ledgers tracking the king’s finances?”

  Gray points to a bureau near the wall of windows. “You’ll find them in the drawer.”

  I approach the bureau, which appears far more frequently used than the one in my room, with several papers strewn over the top, two pens, and even an old quill. I see two half-finished copies of the ransom note to my father, both scratched over with a haphazard slash of ink. My stomach drops at the sight, reminding me of the most dreadful task to come—one I must take care of at once.

  “How do you send or receive correspondences?” I ask. “If none of you can leave the boundaries of the curse, how do you deliver letters or get want ads in the paper?”

  “Bertha takes them to town,” Blackbeard says. “And she always checks the post for anything received.”

  “Bertha…the one who makes the bread?”

  He nods.

  “But you don’t know when to expect her back?”

  Blackbeard opens his mouth, but it’s another voice that answers, muffled as if stuffed full. “She’s already here.” I look toward the parlor door, where I find Micah peering around the doorframe, cheeks puffed as he chews what must be an enormous bite of bread. “She came to bake more bread for our prisoner.”

  The king releases a grumble. “Might as well have her make a full dinner.”

  Micah’s eyes brighten, but he quickly feigns nonchalance. “I’ll go let her know.” He prepares to take off, but I start forward.

  “Wait!” I call after him.

  Micah pops his head back around the doorway.

  Before I can speak, the king rises from his chair and makes his way to the door. “Just bring the old bear up,” he says with an irritated sigh. “I’m sure Miss Bellefleur has a job to offer her, or some such nonsense. In the meantime, I’ll go find some new corner of this shithole where it’s supposed to be quiet.”

  By the time I have my letter finished, signed, and sealed, Micah returns with Bertha. Even in her seelie form, she’s a bear of a woman, with a wide, dense build. Her skin is the color of raw honey and her hair is just a shade darker. She’s dressed in a simple brown dress covered in a stained apron. I meet her in the middle of the parlor, which emptied of the other fae shortly after the king left.

  “You must be Bertha,” I say.

  She greets me with a warm smile, eyes crinkling at the corners. “And you must be this prisoner I’ve heard about. Lovely to meet you, my dear.” She emphasizes the word prisoner as if she’s referring to a harmless game played by unruly children.

  Come to think of it, that isn’t too far off.

  “She’s not our prisoner anymore,” Micah says. “She’s our house steward, whatever that is. Is there more bread in the kitchen?”

 
Bertha nods, and the boy scampers off, leaving me alone with the cook. “House steward, eh?” she asks.

  “Yes, and my name is Gemma Bellefleur. I hear you’re a cook and provide food for the manor?”

  “I do my best,” she says. “I know His Majesty likes to say my food is drab, but he never fails to eat less than three bowls of my famous rabbit stew.”

  The thought of warm stew nearly has my stomach rumbling. “Are you compensated for the meals you make?”

  She waves a dismissive hand and lowers her voice to a whisper. “It’s the least I can do for His Majesty. Very few fae know he lives here, and I understand why. He’s a good soul, the king is. Doesn’t want anyone else to suffer his curse.”

  I have a hard time considering the king and good soul in the same sentence, but I’ll let her keep her opinion of him. It would serve little purpose to correct her and inform her that the king’s misconstrued vanity is what keeps others away. “You are doing a great service, Bertha, but I would like to compensate you and ask that you prepare meals for the manor more regularly.”

  Her eyes widen, and she swats me playfully on the arm. A too-familiar gesture that has me suppressing a blush. “Has the king finally come to his senses?”

  “Well, with me living here full time and the manor preparing to welcome human guests, we’ll need proper food. Not just whatever it is the wolves eat.”

  She laughs. “You should see them trying to chew raw meat in their seelie forms. If you haven’t yet learned, this lot is as stubborn as rocks.”

  “I can tell,” I say, my lips lifting slightly at the corners. “Does that mean you’ll accept the position? We can discuss salary—”

  “Pay whatever is fair. I make do as it is. In fact, ever since I started coming around here, I often find quartz chips in my apron pocket by the time I get home to my cabin.” She gives me a conspiratorial wink. At first, I think she’s suggesting she commits theft while she’s here, but the warmth of her expression tells another story. She nods, patting her apron pocket. “He’s a good soul, His Majesty.”

  Words are momentarily stripped from my lips. So…he does pay her. But why do it in secret?

  “I imagine you’ll be wanting dinner tonight, Miss Bellefleur,” she says, pulling me from my thoughts. She takes a step back and begins untying her apron. “I’ll go to town and pick up what I need.”

  Remembering the envelope clenched in my fingers, I hold it out to her. Dread sinks my gut as the letter trembles in my hand. It takes me a moment to find my voice. “Will you deliver this on your way to the market square?”

  She takes it from me, glancing at the address before placing it in the pocket of her dress. “Of course, dear. Anything else?”

  All I can do is shake my head, eyes locked on her pocket, breaths shallow. This is it. As soon as she takes that letter to my father, he’ll know. He’ll know I’m employed, he’ll know I’ve gone against his wishes, and things between us will be forever changed.

  Changed for the better, I remind myself.

  “Very well,” Bertha says. “I’ll be back shortly and have dinner ready by nightfall.” Too soon, she exits the parlor, taking the letter with her. Sealing my fate.

  Left alone with nothing but the sound of my beating heart, my dread lifts and drifts away like clouds on a windy day.

  It is done.

  Another step toward freedom.

  15

  Hunched over a stack of ledgers at the bureau, I take my dinner alone in the parlor, alternating between bringing spoonfuls of stew to my mouth and flipping pages. Bertha’s rabbit stew is by far one of the most satisfying meals I’ve ever had. Or perhaps it’s simply from how tired I feel, and how hungry I am after such a strange and eventful day. Even though I started my morning hoping I’d be employed by nightfall, nothing could have prepared me for all that I experienced in between.

  By the time I finish my bowl, I’ve already gone through the most recent ledger three times, disappointed by what little detail has been recorded. The first page bears nothing more than a scribbled summary of deposits regularly made to the royal treasury, ending in an outrageously large sum—one I can only imagine came from the deal with my father’s quartz mine. The next several pages are tallies of quartz spent, which hasn’t been much. In contrast, the older ledgers—which must have come from when the king had a palace—are far more detailed with numerous lavish expenses recorded. Furnishings. Wine. Servants. Parties. Musicians and entertainment. It seems the king wasn’t exaggerating when he said he likes to spend his wealth when he’s a wolf. It’s strange to imagine wolves having parties, palaces, and servants at all. Surely his musicians and entertainers were nothing like anything I’ve seen. A howling quartet, perhaps? A four-legged cotillion?

  I snort a short laugh, then push the ledgers aside and take out a piece of paper on which I list every room that must be made presentable and the furnishings required for each. Just like our townhouse in Bretton, we need not drape the entire manor in luxury. A few key areas will do—the parlor, the dining room, the front hall, the grounds leading to the manor, the front walk, and the back gardens. Everything else can be cleaned and cared for at leisure.

  On another piece of paper, I draft a list of positions that need to be filled, both daily and for special occasions. I already anticipate that the king will need to host at least one luxe occasion—a dinner, perhaps—to secure his standing in Imogen’s mind. For that, we’ll need a convincing staff of human servants who are experienced with serving during such occasions. For everything else, the king’s current household will do.

  “Oh, you’re still here,” comes the king’s gruff voice.

  I turn and find him hovering in the doorway. “I can leave,” I say, preparing to rise from my chair at the bureau.

  He waves a dismissive hand and makes his way to his chair by the fire. Hunched to the side, he rests his head on his fist like I saw him do in the chair in my room. A lock of tangled hair falls over his eyes, but he doesn’t bother pushing it away as he glares at the flames roaring in the hearth.

  Looking at him sitting like this, seeming so old, so worn, I can’t help but think…is this plan madness? Is there anything in the world that can make this creature desirable to Imogen Coleman?

  His throne, I remind myself. He doesn’t have to be handsome, gentle, or kind, so long as he has a kingdom and money. Imogen will be satisfied with that, I know it. But will it be enough to convince her to sacrifice her greatest treasure and break his curse?

  I shake my head. That’s not for me to worry about right now. Besides, even if my great scheme proves fruitless and the king’s curse remains unbroken, I have every intention of benefitting from this arrangement whether he lives or dies.

  Speaking of…

  I put my list aside and return to the ledgers. Then I make a tally estimating the cost to complete my proposed renovations, purchase the king a decent wardrobe, and hire staff. The sum is nothing better than a guess, and yet even if I were to double it, triple it, it would hardly put a dent in the king’s wealth. I clench my jaw, wishing I’d demanded higher compensation from our bargain. How could he have dared complain about twenty thousand quartz rounds when he has a fortune in the millions?

  I shake my head and hazard a glance at the king’s chair. My heart leaps into my throat as I find his eyes locked on me, and he doesn’t even flinch when I meet them. Heat burns my cheeks, my pulse roaring as I slam the ledger shut. “You really shouldn’t stare at a woman like that.”

  He blinks a few times. “I wasn’t staring.”

  “You were.”

  Averting his gaze, he returns to face the fire. “Oh, and how should I look at a woman then?”

  “Not like they’re prey.” I breathe deeply to steady my nerves and slow my pulse. “I’d say you’d scare dear Imogen off, but she is neither dear nor easily unsettled by the attention of men. She might find your inspection thrilling, but I do not. It’s very…canine of you.”

  He shifts in his seat
, muttering beneath his breath. “Freezing woman. I wasn’t watching you like you were prey.”

  Recovering my composure, I say, “There are two ways I suggest you look at a woman from this point on, and it depends on how you’d like your persona to come across.”

  “My persona?”

  “Yes. Think of it like a mask you must wear. In the same way you pretended to rescue me and then feigned injury, you’ll need to pretend to be a gentleman around Miss Coleman. And to do it convincingly, you should craft a persona. The way you wish to be perceived by her.”

  “Like a glamour?”

  I’m taken aback for a moment. I’ve heard about fae glamours but never considered if they were real. “I suppose it’s like a glamour. I imagine without your magic, you aren’t able to produce one?”

  He shakes his head. “I cannot.”

  My curiosity begs me to ask what a glamour is like, how one is created, what uses it has. But the mournful expression on the king’s face has me returning quickly to our prior subject. “For your outer persona, the two options I suggest you adopt are either the rogue or the stoic gentleman.”

  “What the freezing hell is a rogue?”

  “It’s…well…” I pause, thinking back to my favorite novels. The Governess and the Rake comes to mind. “It’s a man who is a bit brash, bold, and charming. A little rough around the edges in terms of manners. He can be quite forward in his attentions and pushes the boundaries of propriety. This, I think, will naturally suit you in many ways. However, a rogue requires witty banter, flirtation, and charming conversation—”

  He turns in his chair to face me. “Are you suggesting I’m witless and without charm?”

  I blush, realizing my insult too late. I know I should apologize, but the indignation in his tone has me wanting to laugh instead. Sealing my smile behind pursed lips, I shake my head. “I’m suggesting no such thing, only that…I imagine you may not enjoy using your charm on a…disgusting human.”

  He straightens his posture. “I’ll have you know I’m a great actor.”