The Beast (6 page)

My monthly visits with Bastien are making me
paranoid. Whenever I catch my thoughts straying more toward the
ridiculous, I go to the library to read. But these days my hand
reaches not for the works of Homer, Virgil, Socrates, and Dante,
but the more obscure names, oft times scrawled across the book’s
cover with a quill and chafed almost clean off.

What I read in these volumes can hardly
compare to the classics. It is crudely worded and poorly written
but this lack of polish reveals stories far truer than any poem
from Rome. Rather than pretty, they are heartfelt. Letters and
passages recounting lives filled with love, hate, envy, greed,
pain, suffering, and incredible joy. I read about men going out
into the world to make their fortune. About the wives and children
they left behind.

I read these things and they shock me with
their poignancy. So much raw emotion, written into books by people
whose lives were distinguished not by grand deeds of heroism or
martyrdom, but by the silent tears they wept late at night when no
one would see them. By the heartsick sighs hidden behind sociable
smiles, while their coveted love flirted with another. By the cries
of joy torn from them in those secret moments shared with their
lover.

I seek out these book because I crave those
feelings I’ve hardly experienced. I’ve never felt love so deep it
cut me to the quick. I’ve never known anguish so great I thought to
end it by my own hand. Though I’ve felt joy, it has always been
tempered by other things.

It shames me to admit that the stories which
captivate me most are ones of passion.

The very books I’ve blushed over in Bastien’s
chamber are ones I have read again and again, seeking meaning in
the minutest details. I can hardly admit even to myself that more
and more now I steal away from company to hide where no one will
see me read such shocking things. Though I am careful, always
keeping a proper book nearby, I’m afraid I could not tear my gaze
away from those pages even long enough to cover my indiscretion. I
would not even notice anyone nearby.

This is how I while away the time until the
moon rises full again. I tell myself it is merely to be prepared,
so that next time I will not blush so fiercely to read such things
aloud. I tell myself that if I can only show Bastien that his
tactics no longer shock me, we can find some common ground.

I tell myself anything I must to justify
taking the next book off the shelf.

I read until I am too tired to make out the
words, and fall asleep with the book still in my hands. What the
writers have begun, my mind continues in sleep. I dream of things
that cannot be put into words. It is as though I am the one living
those things, wholeheartedly engaging in one lurid act or
another.

I dream of being kissed so deeply that breath
becomes secondary. Of being stripped of my gown and watched by a
burning, lustful gaze. I dream of hands caressing my skin and
sifting through my hair. At times I can feel lips on mine, hot
breath searing me. My heartbeat quickens at such dreams and I awake
in a tangle of sheets, overheated and a little frightened. I fight
to catch my breath and dread falling asleep once more, but
eventually I always do.

And he is always there, waiting for me to
return to him. His insatiable eyes roam over me; his words are
gruff praise that makes me shiver. I long for him to take me in his
arms again. My body aches without him nearby. I’ve never felt such
things before and cannot seem to control them. They overwhelm me
until, if he does not come to me, I rush to him and cover his face
with kisses, pleading. For what, I do not know.

From the welling tension, I jar awake crying
his name: “Bastien!”

I have, indeed, changed.

I am no longer the same Lyssette who boldly
walked through the gate and stood before the raging beast, daring
him to claim his demanded prize.

I am the wiser, foolish one who would run
through the doors and throw herself at the cruel man, begging him
to do so.

Amalia has another new gown. The expensive
blue silk with silver ribbon trimming is the most extravagant thing
I’ve ever seen. It shimmers in the light, like ocean waves. Noelle
beams, watching Amalia twirl about. She is quite proud of the work
she’s done on the gown. It flatters Amalia beautifully, just like
all the other gowns do.

“Isn’t it beautiful, Lys?”

“Indeed.”

“Have you ever seen anything so
beautiful?”

“I have not,” I say.

“You look stunning, Mademoiselle.”

“And don’t I look like a princess?”

Neither I nor Noelle have an answer for this
but Amalia doesn’t mind or notice. She laughs in delight and twirls
in front of the gilded mirror she ordered to be brought for her. “I
want one just like this in every colour!”

Noelle looks at me aghast but I shake my
head, assuring her that no more gowns will be necessary for
Amalia’s ever growing wardrobe.

Amalia screams in terror, shocking us to our
feet. Heart racing out of control I look to see what frightened her
so. Pale faced, frozen to the spot, my sister stares into the
mirror. It is not her own reflection that scared her so. In the
long shadows of dying day, close to the floor on all fours glowers
the Beast.

He bares his teeth at the noise, his fur
rising in agitation, but he does not growl. Nor, however, does he
disappear as he is wont to.

“God preserve us,” Amalia whispers, crossing
herself.

Now the surly beast growls. “God?” He slinks
forward a step, just enough to come into the light. I’ve seen that
fierce look in his eyes before. Something must have angered him
enough to come out of hiding. “God did not make me this way. He did
not lift a finger to preserve
me
. Why should he bother to
spare you?”

“L-Lys?”

“It’s all right, Amalia. Noelle, if you’d be
so kind, please take my sister to her rooms now. I’m sure there are
still adjustments to be done before dinner time.”

“Yes, my lady.” Noelle curtsies and herds the
gawking Amalia out of the ballroom. I am once again left alone with
my Beast and he is in a temper.

“Useless wastrel,” he growls, staring after
Amalia.

I am offended at this and want to rally to
Amalia’s defense. My sister has always liked nice things but she’s
never spent a coin she could not afford to part with. Yet as I
think back, I remember her obsession with balls and village
celebrations. She’s always loved adoring crowds and the revelry
they brought with them.

True she never spent more than she could
afford but her coin was spent on pretty ribbons and paste jewels.
Amalia always dreamed about being a princess. Now, here, she can
finally pretend she is one. I could not deny her that for anything.
But my Beast does not share my affection for her and it is
his
castle she plays pretend in;
his
coin she spends
on new gowns.

I have no excuse for her behavior. “At least
she didn’t run screaming out of the castle,” I say, suddenly
feeling like an unwanted guest whose presence must be
tolerated.

The Beast grunts. “I think I would prefer if
she did.”

I recognize that change in his voice. For a
creature so used to solitude I begin to suspect he enjoys our
presence here. I can only attribute his inexplicable appearance now
to a desire to make himself part of our family gatherings.

I smile and his eyes soften. “I prefer your
gown to hers,” he says.

The compliment is gruff, unpracticed, but
genuine. I incline my head and curtsy. “Thank you, my lord.”

His gaze moves past me to the window and the
gathering dusk outside. “Full moon tonight.”

“Yes,” I say.

He expects me to say more, but I can think of
nothing to add. We both know what nightfall will bring. My Beast
knows far better than I what will await me tonight. His eyes turn
bleak. “Am I losing you, Lyssette?”

I am taken aback by his question. “N-no. Of
course not!” If anything I am more dedicated to my quest to free
him.

He says nothing, merely searches my face for
answers to questions he is too afraid to ask. Then he turns and
disappears soundlessly back into the shadows.

Perturbed, I retire to my chambers to dress
for dinner. My mind returns time and again to his words.
Am I
losing you, Lyssette?
What could he mean by that?

I bathe and dress in the gown I had Jocelyn
air out for me earlier. I need her help to fasten it; the row of
buttons running down the back is intricate and difficult to do
without seeing. When she is finished, she helps me arrange my hair
in flattering curls. I leave it loose tonight, knowing I will be
too tired later to take out any pins and will only stab myself with
them when I lie down to sleep.

The gown is a beautiful, dark green silk with
white embroidery and lace trimmings, like snow covering the forest
canopy. It makes the green in my eyes stand out, not quite the
jewel emerald of Amalia’s, but softer, warmed by the brown of my
father’s. “Thank you, Jocelyn,” I say, smiling at my
reflection.

“You look beautiful, my lady.”

“All thanks to you.”

“Not at all, my lady,” Jocelyn says. “You’ve
a natural beauty few women have. Even the lord said so.”

I have heard the servants talking often
enough to know that they address only Bastien by the title ‘lord.’
The Beast they refer to as ‘master.’ Surprised for the second time
tonight, I can think of nothing to say.

Jocelyn’s cheeks turn pink. She must realize
what she said. She mumbles something about chores, dips a quick
curtsy and leaves in a hurry. I bring a gloved hand to my own
heated cheeks. The man I called monster has never had a kind word
for me, in the six nights I have spent with him. Is this another of
his tricks? When could Jocelyn have overheard him saying a thing
like that?

The sun winks at me in the mirror as the last
of its rays dull. Sunset. I grasp my skirts and hasten to the door.
I want to be there when Bastien transforms. Better I find him than
he seeks me out. Though the Beast is becoming more amenable toward
my family, I would not trust Bastien within a furlong of them.

I pull the door open and stifle a startled
gasp to find the Beast waiting on the other side. He looks me over
from the curls of my hair, down to my gown and slippered feet. His
eyes dim somewhat. “You dressed for him,” he says.

The first spasm hits him before I can say
anything. He lurches forward and I move quickly out of the way as
the pain makes him fall to the floor. He bites back the screams but
his anguished moans break my heart. I close the door so that the
others might not hear. He crawls to the bed as his body changes in
sickening breaks and shifts. One large paw grasps the edge of the
mattress, shredding the covering even as his claws turn to human
fingers.

I watch in silence, unable to help, wanting
desperately to see the curse finally end somehow. When it is over,
Bastien levers himself up. He stands on unsteady legs, keeping hold
of the tall bed for balance as he catches his breath. His clothes
now hang on him, made for the Beast and much too large on him. Even
so, the body draped in a wrinkled white shirt and tattered black
pants is anything but small or weak.

When he turns to me, he is once again
perfectly all right, if a little winded. His eyes flicker from cold
annoyance to burning lust as he looks me over. “Ah,” he says, his
mouth pulling into a mocking sneer. “You dressed for me.”

“You shouldn’t have,” Bastien drawls.

“I didn’t,” I retort, though after the
Beast’s accusation, I cannot be sure. I did not intentionally
choose a gown to please Bastien. That it does makes me feel as
though I am deceiving the Beast.

“I would have much preferred you without the
gown.”

He does not come closer but his gaze is
piercing enough that I back myself against the closed door. Oh, how
pathetically I cower before this man. I dreamed of him night after
night. I imagined scenes so lurid I could hardly admit them aloud.
I was brave in those visions, boldly meeting him in kind. Where has
that bravery gone now that he is flesh and blood before me?

My heart beats so loud in the quiet room I am
afraid he will hear. I do not rise to his bait and he does not
press it. He merely gazes at me, as if the sight pleases him. His
silent perusal is far more unsettling than anything he might
say.

He comes a step closer but no more. “I had
intricate plans for this night,” he says, tracing the embroidery on
my bodice with his gaze. I can almost feel it as a physical caress.
I press my back harder against the door to disguise my shiver. It
unsettles me to be looked at with such unabashed hunger, but not
nearly as much as it ought to. It does not scare me.

It should. Bastien can hurt me in ways I
cannot even imagine; not even after having fallen asleep two months
ago with his shouted threats still echoing through my mind. Not
even after all those books I’ve read.

“Elaborate preparations, plots within plots,
and all that.” He comes another step closer; close enough to touch
but he does not reach out. My gloved fingers dig into the door at
my back. Better that than his chest. I want to push him away. I
want to pull him closer. “But now I think this is much better. A
prettily wrapped present just for me.”

Bastien braces his hands on the door on
either side of me, caging me in. He leans closer, dragging his gaze
up from my chest to my eyes. “You’re trembling,” he murmurs,
satisfaction shining in his blue eyes. “Do I frighten you?”

Yes!
I want to scream. Instead, my
lips whisper, “No.”

I surprised him. He accepts my words as a
challenge. Shifting his weight, he frees one hand and takes hold of
a strand of my hair, looping it around his finger. “You would not
be so brave if you could see what I am thinking.”