As Old As Time: A Twisted Tale (Twisted Tale, A) (22 page)

“Everything all right,
mon chéri
? Enjoying your stay?” he asked, making a magnificent little bow.

“As much as I can,” Belle said politely, trying not to sniff. “You were right about the library—it
is
fantastic. I’m enjoying it immensely.”

She tried to see the human in the little three-branched candelabrum, but when he was still, he merely looked like a normal, if misplaced, taper holder—albeit with an arm twisted askew. There were no discernible eyes or features, not even in his flames. His name couldn’t possibly have been
Lumière
before the change, could it have been? Belle had read in books by Defoe and others that in England, masters of great houses often renamed servants when they entered their hire. Manservants went by the names John and James far too commonly to have been just randomly called that by their mothers. Had the Beast taken away his name once the Enchantress had taken away his body?

“We’re on our way to the kitchen,” she said gently, kneeling down. “Would you like to come with us? I can carry you…”

“Oh, no,
Mademoiselle
,” Lumière said with another little bow. “I am on my way…elsewhere…duties…”

Belle could actually hear the giggling behind the curtain this time. She tried not to smile nor imagine what furniture could do behind closed doors. She would never look at a writing desk the same way again.

Cogsworth was still, his face pointed at Lumière. Belle wondered if he was frowning sternly.

“I didn’t realize you…We’re trying to find a way to break the curse,” Belle began awkwardly. Things had become so much more desperate and complicated now that
these
peoples’ lives depended on her as well.

“Of course you are!” Lumière said gamely. Was it just projecting, or did she hear a little bit of strain in his voice? “Where there is life there is hope, no? Come along anyway, Cogsworth. Let’s let these young people…
work.
And please, let us know if there is
anything
we can do,
mon chéri.
”

“Of course,” Belle said. It was all she could promise.

The two little creatures hopped off together, what passed for their heads pressed close, like two old soldiers hobbling off into the sunset. They whispered as they went, strange, high little sounds that both chilled and saddened Belle.

The Beast just waited expressionlessly for her to move again, and followed behind her.

The kitchen was cheery and warm, a welcome relief from the dark hall and the sad revelations in the library. The stove was murmuring to itself, stirring the pots on its hob and occasionally popping open its oven to adjust the temperature and check what was going on in there. Bright orange firelight sparkled against the spotless glass on the cabinets, and a bubbling tub full of soapy water had a brush that was vigorously scrubbing cups in it.

“Goodness,” Mrs. Potts said, spinning around from her perch on the prep table where she was addressing a cohort of silverware, surprised by her master’s appearance. “I just sent Cogsworth after you to see if you had a hankering for anything in particular for dinner. It’s so nice to have a real guest after all this time!”

She moved and bounced and burbled. Belle could have sworn there was a pink glow to her rounded cheeks.

“We saw Cogsworth,” Belle said politely, “but we were coming down to talk to you anyway.”

“Is everything all right?” Mrs. Potts practically hopped up and down, coming perilously close to the edge of the table to get closer to Belle. “Was the tea cold? I know we’re not supposed to serve biscuits in the library but if you had asked, maybe—”

“What really happened to Alaric?” the Beast interrupted a little impatiently.

Belle shot him a look. Could he really be
that
rude?

Mrs. Potts
also
gave him a look. It was harder to read her because she had no eyes or mouth, but if Belle had to guess what expression it was,
slack-jawed stupefaction
seemed likely.

“My…Mr. Potts?” the teapot stammered.

“Yes. Your husband. Alaric Potts. The stablemaster. What happened to him?” the Beast said.

“What I think he’s
trying
to say,” Belle broke in, “is that we’re working on a…different angle to break the curse and could use whatever information you have about any disappearances that may occurred some years ago.”

“Alaric Potts. The stablemaster. Your
favorite
servant. Out of all of us,” Mrs. Potts said slowly and calmly.

“Yes. What happened to him? Why did he leave? My parents said he just abandoned you and his job. Possibly because of me.”

“Because of you…? It’s been over a decade since his disappearance and you’re just asking that question
now
?”

Thus far, Belle’s only view of the housekeeper was of a lovely, fat little animated teapot, sympathetic, motherly, and kind.

The tone she used now was not that of a housekeeper or anyone sympathetic to anything. It was a dignified older lady filled with righteous affrontment.

“I was a child. A lot was going on,” the Beast said defensively. “The plague, my parents…”

“I see. Yet…
now
is the first time it has occurred to you to inquire what happened to a wayward servant? A
favorite
wayward servant?” she persisted, trilling her consonants. “
LET ME TELL YOU
about Alaric Potts.”

She hopped up to the Beast so violently that her lid clacked up and down. Belle was tempted to reach out and steady it so it didn’t fly off and break. But she was paralyzed by the woman’s anger.

“Alaric Potts was the most kind, honorable, decent,
caring
man I ever met,” Mrs. Potts declared. A little puff of steam came out of her spout after each adjective. “Sometimes
too
kind. He didn’t believe in treating anyone differently, whether he was a prince or a gnome. He loved me and Chip and everyone in our family—everyone in the castle. He loved
you
, Master, almost as much as his real son. And he loved his job in the stables. He loved those horses.

“I don’t know what happened the night he never came home. I never found out. No one did. He was just gone, into thin air like everyone else. But through the plague and this wretched curse for over
ten years
, I’ve put on a brave face for our son who lost his father. Surely you can sympathize with
that,
can’t you?”

Belle risked a glance at the Beast. He looked shocked…and perhaps a little guilty.

“And then…
blurble
…to come…
blorb
ten years later…
glug
…and
ask
me…”

Mrs. Potts was quite literally boiling over.

Belle was horrified and unsure what to do. Deadly hot tea began to bubble up through the teakettle’s spout and out her top.

The Beast also looked taken aback and moved slightly away.

Eventually Mrs. Potts grew silent, shuddering and bubbling until she seemed to calm down.

She stopped moving entirely, in fact. Completely frozen.

After a moment, Belle began to grow worried.

“Mrs. Potts…?” she said tentatively.

Belle looked over at the Beast—he was also alarmed. The teapot looked like…just a teapot now. There was nothing at all animated about her.

And then she suddenly shook to life again, as if nothing at all had happened.

“I…I need to go rest. This is just too much,” she cried, spinning around and hopping off, spout in the air. Trying to retain her dignity. Belle and the Beast watched her hop down onto a chair and then to the floor and back to the pantry, her ringing clip-clop diminishing until they could hear her hopping up onto a shelf.

The stove busied itself, loudly stirring something it probably didn’t need to, casting angry ember eyes at the couple.

Everything else was awkwardly silent.

“I just…I always thought it was my fault,” the Beast finally said halfheartedly. He sank down into the closest chair. It staggered under his weight, readjusting itself on bent, fat little legs. “I was too ashamed to talk to anyone. I didn’t even think to talk to her or Chip. I was afraid they would hate me. I didn’t think about what
they
felt. Losing him.”

He ran a large, ungainly paw through the fur on the top of his head. Belle thought about the portrait in the West Wing; his real hair would have been a dark blond now.

She put a hand on his shoulder.

“I think you can explain that to her later, when she’s calmed down,” she said soothingly.

“Maybe your mother was right,” he whispered. “I never thought of most of the servants as anything other than…
things
. Things that made my life easier. That’s why she did this to me.”

“Perhaps.” She still didn’t like the use of real people for a morality lesson, however.

The Beast growled at her.

Then Belle saw the sheepish look on his face and realized that the sound had not come from his mouth. He put a defensive paw over his belly.

“Actually, I’m kind of hungry, too,” she realized. Her stomach felt emptier than usual and there was a slight dizziness in her head. She had successfully ignored it while working.

“We were supposed to come down here to talk about dinner,” the Beast said plaintively.

“Well…” Belle looked over at the stove. “Maybe…
we
should make dinner. For ourselves.”

He stared at her.

Belle put her hands on her hips. “You were just saying: these servants have been waiting on you hand and foot all their lives….And the last ten years they haven’t even been human for it! They
still
serve you, make you dinner, clean the castle…all while they’re spoons and mops and teacups and whatever. And they are only those things because of
your
curse. Maybe it’s time you eased up on them a little, huh?”

The Beast opened and closed his mouth a few times, obviously stunned into speechlessness by the strangeness of the suggestion.

“I don’t know how to make dinner,” he finally admitted.

“I will
help
you. We’ll do it together,” Belle said, going over to the washbasin.

“Cooking. Reading. Is there anything you
can’t
do?”

Belle grabbed his big paw and shoved it into the water as well. “Oh yes, I’m a veritable domestic demigoddess,” she said archly. “You should see me turn invisible and walk on water. Come on, let’s get you an apron.”

There probably wasn’t any real point in making him wear something over his fur and ragged clothes. Still, she tied a tablecloth up and around his neck, trying not to make him look ridiculous.

Actually, if the thick white cloth had leather straps, he could easily be Hephaestus or one of his titan helpers working the forge on Olympus.

But they were going to make ratatouille, not swords for heroes.

“…And buckwheat crepes, and an onion tart, and coq au…um…Riesling, in a skillet,” she added thoughtfully, looking at the time. The clock in the kitchen didn’t talk, thankfully. “We don’t have time for a true coq au vin or cassoulet. Oooh, and a tarte tatin for dessert!”

The Beast looked skeptical.

She turned, regretfully, to the stove. “I…guess we’ll have to use your services,” she said apologetically. “There’s no other heating source in here.”

“My skills are yours to command, Mademoiselle,” the chef said with a lowering of his pipes. “But only once. Otherwise,
nobody touches my stuff in this kitchen
.”

“Unless you’re too drunk to do it without hurting yourself,”
something called from the back pantry.

“MAYBE IT’S YOU WHO DRIVES ME TO DRINK!”
the stove shot back.
“YOU AND YOUR OVERUSE OF CUMIN!”

“All right. Beast,” Belle said quickly. “Let’s get you peeling some apples.”

She thought handling something dangerous and manly like a knife would be more interesting for him than trying to work with something fiddly like pastry dough. And at first he did seem excited. But he clutched the little paring blade awkwardly in his paw—which, despite its five “fingers,” was nowhere near as nimble as a human hand. He struck at the apples in little jabs, trying to put what passed for his thumb on the back of the handle. He obviously had skill in whittling at some point.

But after two and a half apples—and three cuts he tried to hide from her—the Beast gave up, throwing the knife on the table so hard that it stuck deep into the wood.

“This is
useless
!” he growled. “This knife is too small. These apples are too soft. I can’t do this.”

“All right…” Belle said, taking a deep breath. “Let’s have you mix up some dough. That should be fun!”

She found the largest bowl she could and tried to measure out correct amounts of everything; it was hard to keep to scale. But the Beast was delighted by the process of rubbing the butter into the flour; he could use his big, ungainly paws to mash them together. And he only tried to lick the bits off his fingers when she wasn’t looking.

They worked for a while in companionable silence. She wondered if this would have been what it was like if her mother had been around during her childhood. The two of them cooking side by side, Belle, a tinier version of her mother, maybe both of them with matching kerchiefs in their hair…