The Servants and the Beast

by R. A. Gates

  I reached down to the shelf just below me. “Perhaps local history? We read global yesterday.”

  “Just so long as it isn’t recent history,” Isadora said with a slight sniff. “I am not interested in hearing about his royal beastliness.”

  Isadora was a kind-hearted soul, but she harbored resentment toward a certain royal personage. I couldn’t say I disagreed.

  “I still don’t see why we got cursed because he was rude,” Isadora muttered, rocking back and forth along the shelves in her irritation. “Didn’t we always try to direct him toward the nicest reading choices? It’s not our fault he wanted to study warfare and princely privileges, instead of your charming botanical guides.”

  “It is hard to see how anyone with a proper appreciation for the beauties of plants could grow up arrogant and discourteous,” I agreed, rifling through the pages of the book I had selected. “This has a chapter on His Highness’ parents, but most is earlier ancestry.”

  “Good enough,” Isadora said, and while I can’t exactly explain how a sliding ladder can settle comfortably into place, she somehow did. “I always enjoy your reading, you know.”

  “A proper reading voice is of course a requirement of my position,” I remarked, though it was not unpleasant to hear the commendation. I reclined in my chair and plucked an apple from the bowl of fruit painted beside me. A new one always reappeared a moment after I seized one. I didn’t need to eat, but the habit did make things more pleasantly homey. Pity I wasn’t painted with a bottle of wine—but at least it was a variety fruit basket, each item painted at the peak of freshness. Unripe apples would have palled quickly.

  “Chapter One,” I began. I happened to glance out toward the window across the way. And stopped reading.

  “Hugo?” Isadora prompted after a moment. “Is something wrong with the book?”

  My voice emerged in a strangled croak that was quite unintelligible. I coughed, tried again. “A woman. There’s a woman on the front lawn!”

  “Really?” Isadora said in a high-pitched squeak, as she whizzed over to the window. It was a sign of her excitement that she bothered, because we had learned long ago that her eyes were pointed the wrong way to look out when positioned in front of the window. “Ergh,” she said inarticulately, and whizzed back around the circle to find an angle she could see from.

  The woman seemed to be a tall, willowy creature, with vivid red hair and an equally vivid purple dress that I suspected were not meant to be matched (fashion, east wall, shelf 10). I couldn’t see a great deal from this distance, but she did seem to be looking up toward the castle and striding forward with purposeful interest.

  “Do you think she can break the curse?” I asked, gripping the edge of my frame in my anxiety. “Didn’t that mad fairy say that if His Highness fell in love—?”

  “Yes, yes!” Isadora said eagerly. “I hope they like each other! And that he behaves!”

  I was already leaping to new plans and ideas. “So they meet, he probably won’t make a sterling first impression but give it a little time…what do you think, freed from the curse in a couple of weeks?”

  “Some men take much longer to fall in love than that,” Isadora said, suddenly sounding offended. “Or at least to realize it.”

  I couldn’t see what I had said to upset her—I usually was very good at keeping to social etiquette (east wall, shelves one through nine). “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  “Nothing,” she said in shorter tones than usual, and somehow managed to give the impression of flouncing off as she whizzed away again.

  Women. Hopefully this new arrival would be calmer. She had already disappeared from view, heading for the front door. I leaned back in my armchair, peeled an orange, and thought about how wonderful it was going to be to get out of this painting. I could hardly remember the last time I’d seen a plant up close.

  An hour or so later we heard the Prince roaring in the distance. He grew inarticulate in moments of rage, but presumably it was something to do with the woman. I exchanged an uneasy glance with Isadora, who had given up being offended. “Well, we didn’t expect a positive start,” I pointed out. But surely the Prince knew how important this was. Surely once he calmed down, he’d try to be agreeable?

  After the roaring had faded away, Isadora circled around as close as she could to the door. “Lady Jayne!” she called. “Did you see what happened?”

  Once Queen Marie’s secretary, Lady Jayne was now a bookcase, trapped in the front hall. She could see more of what went on than Isadora and I—but we had more books in our reach. The front hall was a long way to call to, but it was just possible when the situation seemed urgent enough.

  “Oh, my dear, it was simply terrible!” Lady Jayne called back, voice refined even as she projected across the distance between us. “A young woman has arrived, and His Highness was perfectly awful to her! She went into his study and was looking in his desk when His Highness found her. He…took it badly.”

  I knew Lady Jayne of old and she was always discreet. His Highness must have taken it very badly indeed.

  “But what happened?” Isadora called. “What did he do?”

  A pause, then her words came in a rush, as though she couldn’t help herself. “He ranted and roared and hauled that poor girl off to the North Tower!”

  I moaned. “What is he thinking? He can’t woo a woman by throwing her in the tower! She must hate him.”

  “That’s better than not being noticed,” Isadora remarked, rather obscurely I felt, since you could hardly not notice His Highness, pre- or post-curse.

  “Perhaps he’ll calm down and apologize,” Lady Jayne suggested, but did not sound hopeful at all.

  Nor did it seem a hopeful sign when we heard distant bellowing shortly later. Distant, but growing closer. The Prince was returning from the North Tower, and he had not calmed down.

  As loud as he was, I soon was able to distinguish his words. “Stupid, mocking woman! She was staring at me, I know she was. Like I’m some kind of freak! Because I am a freak! I used to be so handsome, any woman might have loved me then, but now—now that horrible fairy has turned me into this monster. I know that’s all she’ll ever see me as…” The words trailed away into a deep, inarticulate growl that was even more alarming. Especially because by now he was in the hallway outside the library.

  I shrank down in my armchair, desperately hoping that he wouldn’t turn in at our door. It still gave me shudders to remember the most recent time he’d entered this room. We often heard roaring from elsewhere in the castle, but His Highness came into the library only occasionally. And that was more than often enough.

  Last time he’d come tearing in shouting about that evil fairy who cursed him and knocked every fairy tale off of the shelves. They’d crashed to the ground in a flurry of pages and little puffs of sparkles. Even those silly stories didn’t deserve that. My painted heart had ached to see the piles of tumbled books strewn across the floor. The Beast had shoved over two armchairs and thundered out again, without so much as acknowledging Isadora and myself.

  I had been too depressed even to read, despite all Isadora’s efforts to cheer me. Finally Darwin, a castle guard turned into a suit of armor, had wandered in. At our urging and with our directions, he put the fallen books back into place, giving me renewed courage to carry on.

  His Highness had been known to throw a book or two before the curse came upon us, but it had only grown worse since he was enchanted.

  The rumbling growl of the Prince’s voice grew ever closer now, though I could catch only an occasional articulate word. Something like “monster” and “mocking” and “all laughing.” Even worse, the sound of his voice was accompanied by a scratching, scraping noise. Other servants, able to move around, had told us that His Highness had taken to running his claws along the walls, leaving long furrowed scratches in his wake.

  I held my breath as he came closer, closer…and passed on beyond our doorway.

  I relaxed again in my chair,
though my relief was short-lived. My lovely books might be safe for the moment, but there was still the larger situation to think of. With Lady Jayne despondent, Isadora baffling, and the Prince making very poor choices regarding this visiting woman, I was sorely pressed to remain positive.

  It did not help that we could do nothing now but wait for further developments. The suspense was dreadful. I had never even liked mystery novels (south wall, shelves 38 through 42).

  The next morning, activity finally began again. It was so frustrating to be trapped in the library, where we could hear distant footsteps and voices, but couldn’t learn what was happening. I paced within the narrow confines of my painting—well, as much as I could without feet—and kept my gaze on the open doorway, hoping for someone with news.

  First, I thought I heard voices away down the hall somewhere—possibly the Prince, possibly the higher-pitched notes of a woman’s voice. Had he repented of his temper, let her out of the tower, and begun a more proper wooing? Perhaps all was not lost yet!

  While the voices were still distant, a thudding sound approached. I had learned to interpret many sounds as people on the move, now that so many of us lacked feet in one way or another, and was not surprised when two figures appeared passing our doorway.

  They were two of the castle musicians, now transformed like the rest of us, in the imposing form of Charles, a fine cello, and the much smaller shape of Victor, a violin. I used to direct them to the music section of the library (east wall, shelves 16 through 29), and we had had many gratifying discussions on musical history and form.

  “Charles, Victor, what is going on?” I asked.

  “No time!” Charles snapped, barely even pausing in the doorway. “We have to hide!”

  “But why?” I asked, baffled by this unfriendly and unhelpful behavior. I had never seen Charles try to avoid the fairer sex before either, so this was doubly confusing.

  The only response was a few mournful notes from Victor, and then they had disappeared beyond the doorway.

  “They seemed almost frightened,” Isadora said with concern in her voice. “What do you suppose they’re hiding from? His Highness?”

  Before I could formulate a response, a second figure appeared in the doorway, and this one fortunately entered.

  In fact, Archambault came careening into the library and slammed the door behind him, leaning back against it and panting. Once a footman, he was now a coat rack, his speckled wood enlivened by a pink fur coat (definitely not its natural color: animal biology, west wall, shelves 18 through 21) hanging from one branch, and an enormous feathered hat on top. They didn’t seem the usual sort of clothes for a young footman, but he held onto them, for reasons I had never inquired about. Today he seemed to have added an extra white feather to his hat.

  “Hello, Archambault!” Isadora said, sliding around toward him. “What can you tell us about the girl?”

  “His Highness let her out of the tower today. And she’s…loud,” Archambault said after a moment. “Very loud. And…interested in things.”

  He had a horrified expression on his speckled wood, which alarmed me but didn’t stop Isadora from saying, “Well? Go on, tell us more of what happened!”

  “It’s good the Prince let her out of the tower, right?” I prompted.

  At that moment the extra feather detached itself from Archambault’s hat, and I recognized the transformed shape of Quillsby, castle scribe. He floated over to the nearest bookshelf and perched on the edge, fluffing himself importantly. “One can only hope this is a positive progression of events, but I am none too sure,” he announced. “He did let her out, but he was not at all gracious about the matter.”

  “He told her she was irritating,” Archambault said faintly. “She stood at the door to the cell and complained. Loudly. About how this was not appropriate behavior and she deserved better and all that.”

  “Yes, yes, quite,” Quillsby said, whisking himself up to a higher shelf. “And now they are exploring the castle together, which may fall under the broadest definition of courting, but I do not feel he is exerting himself as he might. I think he ought to try a little bit harder, and I was about to inform him so when this footman ran off with me tangled in his hat!”

  Archambault shuddered, pink coat swaying. “She was commenting. Loudly. On everything.”

  “That doesn’t sound so bad,” I said, puzzled by his apparent horror. What was there in commenting about things that made a coat rack look shell-shocked?

  He gazed at me with a haunted expression. “She’s very loud.”

  This clarified nothing—but clarity was coming down the hall. The distant voices were growing, and now I was sure I could hear a woman’s voice. I automatically leaned out of my portrait, trying to make out words.

  I needn’t have bothered, as they grew increasingly audible. “Ooh, what a lovely mirror! It frames my face so perfectly! And the gold makes my hair glow. My mother told me I should always wear gold—it sets off my skin tone. I don’t know, though, sometimes I think a little silver for accent is just the thing. Don’t you agree?”

  There was the barest rumble of a response, lasting for perhaps a quarter-second, before the woman’s voice resumed.

  “But really what I like is diamonds—and rubies! And ooh, look at this funny suit of armor! How could anyone walk around like that? Their face wouldn’t show. And it’s not flattering to the figure. I have always been noted for my figure. It’s better than any woman I know. You can bet I keep an eye out. And I bet you noticed when I arrived! Ooh, what’s through this door?”

  Archambault made a frantic gulping sound and dove behind one of the several armchairs dotting the library. Quillsby fluttered his way up to perch on the edge of my frame. Mere seconds later the tall doors of the library swung silently open.

  “Ooh, a library!” a very, very loud and high-pitched voice exclaimed. And there stood the woman from the lawn, the woman who had come to the castle and was our best hope for breaking this terrible curse. I’d forgive her the loud voice, the bright pink dress that clashed with her hair as much as the purple one, everything, if she broke the curse. And maybe that exclamation had meant she was excited about a library. That would be a good sign.

  “This is my favorite room,” the Prince said in a low rumble. I had never heard him say before that he was fond of the library, despite the great lengths I had gone to encourage him in during earlier, happier days. He had come in so rarely since the curse struck (fortunately, considering the way he treated the books!) that I was still not used to his new form, seven feet tall and broad shouldered, with horns adding at least an extra six inches to his height. Not to mention the fur. That was also hard to get used to.

  Despite his size, His Highness didn’t entirely block the sight of Theodore, our butler-turned-armchair, awkwardly planted in the doorway. He was shifting back and forth as though he wanted to scurry away but didn’t dare. I’d heard that the Prince had ordered Theodore to follow him around at all times, in case he needed somewhere to sit.

  Meanwhile the woman was staring at the Prince, then suddenly went into a peal of laughter that echoed around the tower, rebounding and reverberating and knocking me back into the armchair in my painting. “Oh, you’re so funny!” she squealed. “As if anyone’s favorite room could be a library. Books are so boring.”

  About to introduce myself, I was shocked into silence, my painted skin crawling with horror. What sacrilege was this, spoken within the very walls of the library? What horrible kind of creature was this woman? Suddenly it seemed less strange that everyone else wanted to avoid her.

  Quillsby flitted agitatedly along my frame, tracing lines in the accumulated pink dust, muttering to himself. “Well, I never. That is simply not—I do not approve—a lack of appropriate respect for the importance of letters is not what I call proper, not at all.”

  Over the top of Quillsby’s feather, I watched the Prince inhale, chest expanding to an even greater size, while his furry hands curled into fist
s. Then he exhaled loudly, and in a low voice said, “I like books.”

  I heard the undercurrent of suppressed anger behind his words, even through my surprise at those words. The woman didn’t seem to recognize his tone or care about what he had said. “Why does anyone need all this paper and stuff?” she prattled on. “It’s not pretty, and you can’t wear it, and it’s not even valuable. I’ve been hearing all about your valuable castle my whole life, you know, and the stories only got grander after the place disappeared five years ago! So disappointing—I was only twelve, of course, but I had already planned out everything I could do with all the wealth in this big grand castle. I’m so relieved to have found the place after all. Now how much did you say you were worth?”

  His Highness’ anger seemed to have faded in the face of this long speech, though I guessed it was not soothed so much as outlasted. He just stared at her with his brow creased below his fur. “I don’t know an exact amount,” he rumbled.

  “Oh well,” she said, almost before he finished, “the castle alone must be worth a fortune. And all that lovely jewelry I saw earlier. And there must be a treasure vault. There is a treasure vault, yes?”

  “There—”

  “Of course, how silly, every castle has a treasure vault.” She went into another peal of laughter that made the Prince flinch. “Oh, won’t the girls back home be jealous! My mother always told me I was meant for great things. This is just what I deserve, and it’s about time the right opportunity came along. Even if there’s obviously a little bit of magic complicating things. Is this one of those curses where we have to get married to break your, you know, furry situation?”

  The Prince was staring at her as though fascinated, but I don’t think it was the good kind of fascination. I realized suddenly I was doing the same thing. I glanced around to see that Isadora and Quillsby were staring too, and I could just see the tip of Archambault’s feather behind the armchair. Theodore had backed all the way out of the doorway, just the edge of one armrest still in sight.