As Old As Time: A Twisted Tale (Twisted Tale, A) (13 page)

“Really?” she asked despite herself.

Rooms of books.

When other children dreamed of mansions with fountains and big silky beds and servants to do their bidding,
this
was what Belle dreamed about. The money to buy all the books she ever wanted from all over the world—and a place to keep them.

“Yes, yes, yes, come,” Cogsworth said. “You can spend the whole night there if you want. Biographies, histories, twelve different translations of the Bible, romantic adventures….”

It was tempting.

But the library would be there tomorrow. She had
forever
, right?

These little guys were trying to hide something. Just like they tried to hide whatever had happened ten years before…She just
knew
all of the answers she sought would be revealed upstairs.

Including why I have never heard of this castle and kingdom…And who is the Beast? How did he come to rule all of these inanimate objects? Where are all the actual people who should be living here? On what grounds is it considered acceptable to throw a harmless old man and his daughter into prison…?

…And why did no one want her going into the West Wing?

She started climbing the stairs again.

Lumière looked stricken. “
Please
, don’t go…the Master asked…”

“I only gave my word to
stay.
Nothing else,” Belle repeated firmly.

Nothing would stop her from satisfying her curiosity about the most interesting thing that had ever happened to her.

In the sleepy little village, Maurice kept improving his inventions, and Rosalind refined her bespelled roses—all the while both were learning how to properly feed (and butcher) their chickens, milk the goats, tend the bees, and other new and unfamiliar chores of country life.

Belle grew, reading voraciously, running around barefoot, watching the clouds and dreaming of a life beyond the fields and the plants; the days so similar they all seemed rolled into one.

Meanwhile, in their old kingdom, the fever redoubled its strength and began to spread faster, just like the plague had in horrible days long before. It utterly destroyed the population; young or old, rich or poor, man or woman—it didn’t matter. People were dying like rats in the town below while the king and queen hid themselves in their high castle and barricaded their doors against potential contagion. No one was allowed in or out, including the servants…and therefore Alaric.

But the village where Rosalind and Maurice and Belle lived seemed strangely unaffected by the disease rampaging around them. Perhaps it was because of the other town’s closed borders and quarantine.

Or perhaps it was because of Rosalind’s wards. Or a certain quick-growing oak tree. Or the special broth made by another relocated goodwitch.

Whatever the reason, not a single person west of the river was affected. Nor were the other villages that received the fleeing
charmantes.

And then, late one dire, rainy night, long after Belle was put to bed a
third
time after trying to read under her covers with a jar of fireflies, there was a knock on the door.

Rosalind and Maurice looked at each other once and leapt up, expecting to see their dear old friend again.

Instead, an unknown person stood hunched over in the cold, a pale and milky moon making his tired eyes seem even more sunken.

“You are to come to the castle. At once. The king and queen would see you.”

“We are no longer citizens of that fair kingdom,” Rosalind said with a barely contained snarl. “We do not need to obey any demands or requests of the rulers there. They hold my allegiance no longer.”

Maurice put his hands lightly on her shoulders, curiosity always stronger in him than outrage. “What do they want?”

The man sighed. “The disease which ravages the countryside is now inside the castle walls, killing royalty and servants alike.”

“I don’t…” But Rosalind trailed off whatever she was going to say. Her anger deflated in the face of needless death, and the worry in the messenger’s eyes. Perhaps he, too, had a loved one who was sick.

Rosalind looked back at Maurice.

“You should go,” he urged. “People are in trouble. And you can see Alaric once you’re inside the castle! That would be good….”

“All right. My husband is a kinder man than I.” Rosalind was suddenly swirling a warm gray cloak around her neck. “But I shall make my own way there. Just as you must make yours wherever you would go now.”

After she disappeared into the night, Maurice was left, somewhat awkwardly, with the exhausted messenger.

“Can’t have you in,” he said apologetically. “Plague. And all. I could…get you a cup of tea? Which you could take. With you. As a…souvenir?”

The castle was very different from the last time Rosalind had been there. Lights were dim and servants kept to the shadows; the deep chanting of priests echoed in the corridors. There was so much incense clouding the air she almost couldn’t breathe.

The king and queen were on their thrones, looking tired. The boy prince was nowhere to be seen.

“Enchantress,” the queen said, her voice a little scratchy but otherwise as firm as ever. “You are forgiven for the high crime of breaking quarantine. In return, we would ask you use what powers you possess to secure the safety and health of our royal selves and the castle.”

Rosalind blinked.

“What?”
she asked, for once in her life at a loss for words.

“The queen stated it quite clearly,” the king snapped. “We have out of the graciousness of our hearts cleared you of illegally crossing the border to fly like a coward from our kingdom in distress. In gratitude,
perhaps,
you will…fix…this….” He waved a hand vaguely around the room, trailing a handkerchief that no longer smelled of perfume and flowers but of salts and bitter medicines in hopes of warding off the plague.

“I am not a criminal,” Rosalind stated as calmly as she could. “I fled this…
nightmare
of a place and live in a new one now, where no one smears insults on my door and my neighbors don’t just disappear without investigation because of their background. You can forgive me of imaginary crimes or not as you like. I have no desire to come back here ever again, and your words are meaningless. Go fetch yourself a doctor and be done with it.”

“The…doctors…who remain…have been unable to affect any cure or treatment,” the king added, choosing his words carefully. “Frédéric is apparently a gifted surgeon but a terrible healer.”

“All who
could
have helped you have disappeared or been forced into exile,” Rosalind hissed. “If one were more religious-minded, one would think God had brought this down on you to punish you for your sins.”

“I am a king,” the king said, his arrogance returning. “God alone may judge me.”

The queen waved her hand at him. “If you
must
blame us—do so. But
help
us. We beg you to save what is left of us…what is left of the castle.”

“Never,” Rosalind spat. “The last free country of
les charmantes
is gone because of the atrocities perpetrated while you looked on without so much as lifting a finger….I will never help you.”

The room was silent, though because all within it were stunned or just weary, it was hard to tell.

“We ordered you here for a spell, not a lecture,” the king finally said with a sniff. “Do not try to debate morality with
us
you base creature.”

Rosalind spun around and began to walk out.

“Wait!” the queen leapt up. “My son. I have a…son. You have a daughter. I don’t—I don’t care what happens to the rest of the kingdom. I don’t care what happens to us. But please…he is truly innocent of anything we’ve ever done….”

Rosalind spun back. “Innocent?
MY DAUGHTER
was at risk in your kingdom because her
mother
is one of
les
charmantes
…. And you think your
son
should be safe because you are a
queen
?”

“Please,” was all the queen said, her eyes lowered.

The king looked away and said nothing.

“I shall consider it,” Rosalind said coldly. “While I am here, considering it, I wish to see your stablemaster. He is an old friend of my husband’s.”

“Who?” the king asked, sounding utterly uninterested.

“Your stablemaster. Alaric Potts. We haven’t seen him since you barricaded your gates and hid yourself in the castle with your trusted servants, forbidding them to leave.”

“Oh. The horse fellow. He’s gone,” the king said, rolling his eyes. “Disappeared. Just up and left when things grew tough, I assume. Ran away from his family and the quarantine.”

“If he’s dead, it isn’t of the plague; they haven’t found his body,” the queen added. “I almost hope he
is
dead. The Prince has been utterly inconsolable without his daily ride. All he does is cry about his horse. Servants never consider the consequences of their actions—how it affects others.”

“Alaric. Potts. Would never. Just. Run. Away.”

A wind of rage and agony built inside of Rosalind, threatening to tear her and everything in the room apart.

Instead, the Enchantress let it take her and carry her home.

Weeping and exhausted, she related all that happened to Maurice while he held her. When she had no more to say, Rosalind straightened up and jerkily made the motions that cleared the house of pestilence. Then she went over to Belle’s doorway and made additional signs that hung green a moment in the air before trailing to the floor like vines.
Safe.

Maurice clapped her sadly on the shoulder.

“I understand your decision to not help them—especially after hearing about Alaric,” he said quietly. “But overall I’m not sure that was the kindest thing to do.”

“They didn’t protect my people—
their
people. Their subjects. There are repercussions for actions. Magic comes back to you, just as the actions of people do. The bigger the person, the more their actions affect the world. If they live, perhaps they will learn that.”

“And if everyone dies, no one learns anything,” he pointed out gently.

Rosalind remained silent, but her fingers started twitching, working.

Deep in the castle in the woods, silver sparkles fell over those ignorant of the doings of enchantresses and inventors.

“The Prince is…safe?” her husband asked.

Rosalind nodded. “As are the servants, and their children.”

The couple was silent for a moment.

“If something were to happen to me…” Rosalind began slowly.

“Nothing’s going to happen to you, my dear!” Maurice said, giving her a kiss. “You can’t get the fever.”

“But…if it were…something
else
. Anything else,” she said, thinking. “I would want…Belle to be safe. I would want my people…to be safe.”

“I don’t know how you could do that,” Maurice said with a sigh. “You’re the most powerful sorceress left in the world…but even
you
can’t protect everyone.”

“I would make everyone…else…
forget
,” she said slowly, thinking. “Forget about me and
les charmantes.
We would become nothing but fairy tales, and hide forever from the eyes of men.”

“That seems sad—but pragmatic,” Maurice said, putting his arms around her waist. “Just don’t include me in the spell. I don’t care
what
happens to me—I never want to forget you.”

Rosalind smiled and kissed him…

…but didn’t answer.

Cogsworth and Lumière frittered at the edge of the stairs, debating nervously about going up after her.

Belle left them behind.

This part of the castle was…different. If every other room seemed a little musty, cool, dark, and abandoned, the West Wing felt like a cave. Also moist, as if a window had been left open despite the early winter weather. Strange—if not strictly unpleasant—barnlike smells assaulted her nose. Vaguely reminiscent of animals.

Belle realized she was holding her breath.

What must have once been a truly spectacular mirror framed in gold took up the entire far wall at the top of the stairs. Its silvered perfection had been destroyed long ago; shards of deadly glass stuck out like teeth in the otherwise empty frame and littered the floor. There wasn’t a single piece remaining that was as large as Belle’s hand. But all of them—every single one, from the finger-sized remainders to the tiniest gemlike droplet—reflected her face and the pale, worried look she hadn’t even known she wore.