As Old As Time: A Twisted Tale (Twisted Tale, A) (31 page)

Sometimes in the night, strange thoughts came to him. Like he had somehow taken this path before—besides the one time accidentally, on his way to the fair. And he kept expecting guards, or border patrols, or something…which was silly; this was deep forest and there was no one around for miles.

“Maurice?”

The inventor stopped in his tracks.

“There’s no one around for miles,” he repeated to himself.

He turned around slowly, swinging the lantern to look.

Against all probabilities, there were Gaston and LeFou—holding a much larger lantern. LeFou looked miserable in the cold, Gaston like he didn’t notice it at all.

“Gaston!” Belle’s father cried in relief. “You came after all! How did you find me?”

The larger hunter grinned generously. “You lead us on a merry chase, Maurice. We thought you’d be home on such a cold winter’s night. So then I checked the bookstore…”

At this LeFou seemed to deflate, shrinking into himself in either exhaustion, embarrassment, or horror—or a strange mix of all three.

“But you weren’t there, either. So I tracked you, Maurice. I tracked you like the skilled hunter I am.” Gaston grinned and patted the sack and the club he carried over one shoulder.

“Well, this is great!” Maurice said. “I’m sure with you along, we can absolutely subdue the Beast. Er, where’s your gun?”

“Yes, ‘subdue the Beast.’” Gaston laughed—too loudly. “You really are a riot, Maurice. Why don’t you make it easy on all of us and just come quietly?”

“Come quietly…?”

Finally, Maurice began to read the situation as it really was: LeFou looking nervous, Gaston looking triumphant, the presence of the sack and the lack of firepower. He began to back away. “No…he’s real, Gaston. I’m not making it up. Maybe it’s a crazy man in a beast suit…but whatever it is, he has Belle. You
have
to help me!”

“I may not be able to, but Monsieur D’Arque hopefully will. And by helping you, he will be helping
me
,” Gaston said, reaching for him, “to get
Belle.
”

“D’Arque?”

Before he was knocked unconscious, Maurice’s mind went to a funny place. It was unthinkable that D’Arque would have anything to do with this. Because…

Because…

…but he couldn’t quite remember. And then it was all black.

Belle had strange dreams of their pet dog. Maurice was smiling happily, glad he had finally managed to provide his daughter with some sort of companion. She had found an old brightly colored bit of wool and carefully sewed it into a charming collar. The little mutt jumped and ran and grabbed sticks and panted and Belle, so young in the dream, clapped her chubby white hands in delight and gave it a big hug, rubbing her face in its fur.

As the night slowly let its vinelike grips off her subconscious, Belle wondered at first what happened to the family dog. She missed it.

Then she remembered that they never had a dog.

Then she realized she was lying next to a giant dog.

Then she realized it was the Beast, actually.

At some point, by the third or fourth Jack story maybe, both of them must have drifted off. She remembered the Beast’s eyes being bright and open one moment, then snapping shut like a book the next. No fluttering, no fighting sleep or gently succumbing to it. Awake, then asleep, like a wild animal.

Belle was mildly shocked to have fallen asleep so quickly herself, her feet pressed comfortably up against his toasty side. The smell of fur—not bad or unclean, just
strong
—permeated the duvet.

No wonder she had dreamt about a dog.

On the table nearby, the little teacups were gently breathing and snoring, moving very little. It was ridiculously adorable—Belle didn’t think she had ever seen something so sweet and strange.

Maybe being trapped here forever, forgotten, wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe they would have endless tea parties and sleepovers and story time until she was an old lady and the Beast’s fur went gray. There were worse ways to spend a life….

The Beast turned and shifted, his massive size picking up a corner of the blanket and pulling the whole thing off Belle in one accidental tug. He wriggled his shoulders and then yawned…a large, horrible, nearly endless noise that stretched out his mouth until it looked like it could have consumed cities.

Belle drew back, a little nonplussed.

Eyes still closed, he gave himself a good scratch and then stretched out. But as soon as one of his great toes met her leg his eyes popped open.

The look he gave her was so surprised and chagrined she almost fell over laughing.

“Wh…”
he began.

Belle put a finger to her lips and pointed at the teacups.

He raised a shaggy eyebrow, still a little stupid from sleep, and then nodded, suddenly understanding.

“I hadn’t realized I…” he whispered, scratching the back of his neck in embarrassment. “I must have…drifted off.”

“That’s all right,” Belle whispered back with a smile.

“It was a good story!” he protested, trying to keep his voice low. “I—I wasn’t bored! It was just so comfy, and I was so sad earlier, and the fire was nice.…”

“No, it’s fine,” Belle said, smiling. “I take it as a compliment.”

They were both silent for a moment.

Suddenly it got awkward.

Belle pulled her legs closer to her in a move that was supposed to look like she was casually adjusting her dress and stretching her toes.

The Beast sat stiffly upright as if yelled at by a posture coach, quickly putting his hind paws on the floor.

He tapped the armrest speculatively.

“We were…ah…sleeping here all night?” he ventured.

“No, just a few hours, I think.”

“Huh,” the Beast said cryptically.

The little cups, finally disturbed by the noise the grown-ups were making around them, began to push off of each other and roll and smack whatever passed for their lips. It was like watching a cuddle of baby kittens or chicks stir awake.

“Just one more…” Chip said sleepily through a yawn.

Belle laughed. “It’s time to go to bed,” she said gently.

“Noooo!” he groaned.

“My mom’s gonna
kill
me!” one of the other teacups swore.

As if summoned by thought, the library door creaked open as Mrs. Potts herself came in. If Belle didn’t know better, she would have thought the housekeeper was listening at the door. She no longer wore the black cozy but had a little mourning ribbon tied around her handle.

“All right, Chip, the sleepover is
over
,” she said firmly. “Time to come over for your real bed.”

“This was great, Mom!” Chip said, dancing up and down. Belle leaned forward, afraid he would throw himself off the table. “Can we do it again?”

“And can Belle read us a story again?” one of the other cups begged. They hopped to the edge of the table and single-file, like little ducklings, hopped down, each landing with a
clink
on the floor. They were all perfectly used to this sort of thing, but Belle felt like she died a little bit each time one made the leap.

“She’s very busy, doing important work,” Mrs. Potts chastised. “It was very nice of her to let you listen in but don’t think you’ll be making a habit out of it or anything. Off you go!”

Belle smiled. “It’s all right. I’d love to read them a bedtime story now and then. They were a perfectly wonderful audience.”

“Oh, I’ll bet they were,” Mrs. Potts said, sounding like she believed precisely the opposite. “I’ll send in some tea and a midnight snack…or a
petit déjeuner
, or whatever you’d like in a minute. All served on much quieter dinnerware,” she promised. But as she left her movements seemed slow and awkward. Tired. Like she was running down.

“That was nice of you,” the Beast said after she was gone.

“They’re delightful,” Belle said, sighing. “I wish I had a dozen of them at home.”

“Children?” the Beast said, eyes wide and eyebrows high.

“Talking teacups.”

“Oh. Right. Of course. Sure.” The Beast relaxed. Then his look turned pensive. “I guess we’re kind of like one of your stories, right? With the harp that talked?”

“I guess you are,” Belle said thoughtfully. She had one chilling moment where she wondered if she was
still
dreaming. If the dog was real and the Beast was not. If she had fallen asleep with one of her books and hadn’t quite pulled herself out of sleep yet, living out her fantasies as if they were real.

Nope, that fur smells pretty strong
. She didn’t think she could make that up.

“I liked that first one the best,” the Beast went on to say, a little shyly. “The one that
you
liked. About the giant. You were right, he
did
deserve to be defeated.”

“Yes, that’s my absolute favorite,” Belle said with a sigh. “Always has been, ever since I was a little girl and my father told it to me. In his version, though, the talking harp was a clockwork invention. From the time I was old enough to read I was always in Monsieur Lévi’s bookshop…and he was always kind enough to let me borrow it, never made me buy it….”

The Beast’s eyebrows shot up in surprise.

“What did you say?”

“He never made me buy it. I was the only one in town who loved books as much as he did, and…”

“No, no,” the Beast shook his head impatiently. “The name of the man. The bookseller.”

“Monsieur Lévi…?” Belle repeated, puzzled.

“That sounds very familiar.”

He dug down in between the couch cushions, pausing to swear when threads became caught on his claws. He threw the duvet aside on the floor—Belle would have to talk to him about that at some point, but not now, obviously—and searched more frantically. Then he looked
under
the couch—and triumphantly pulled out one of the census books.

“I saw it…in
here
, I think….Here it is!” the Beast said with triumph. He spun the book around so she could see and tapped at an entry with his claw.

Belle gasped.

Next to an entry labeled Monsieur David Lévi was
occupation: bookseller
. And there was a little symbol next to his name.

“But there’s nothing magical about him….” Her voice trailed off as she saw when the entry was dated.

Over a hundred years ago. One hundred and
ten
years before this year, in fact.

“My Monsieur Lévi is some sort of immortal being who has been selling books for over a hundred years?”

“Looks like,” the Beast said.

“If he’s been around for that long, and he’s one of
les charmantes
,” Belle said, getting excited, “I’ll bet he knew my mother—and can remember her!”

The Beast frowned. “How do you figure?”

“At its height your parents’—ah, I mean
your
kingdom—wasn’t
huge
,” she said excitedly, holding up one of the record books. “It looks like there were only three thousand ‘heads of household’ recorded. You have to figure that
les charmantes
would have been a small percentage of that—and they probably all knew each other. Plus he somehow magically winds up living in the same village as my mother? That’s too coincidental.”

“Good point,” the Beast said, nodding. “You know him closely, right?”

“He’s only my favorite person in the world besides Papa.”

“And he still lives in your village?”

“Yes.”

“We need to go talk to him, then.”

Belle looked out the library’s window—dramatically and ironically. White webbing now crossed it. “Remember, um,
that
? We’re prisoners here.”

“What would Jack do, Belle?”

When did
he
become the insightful one?

She mock pouted. “I suppose he would figure out some super clever way around it.”

The Beast looked at her with wry amusement. “Since you’re the clever one here and haven’t come up with a cunning plan, I was going to suggest brute force. Like we’re a castle under siege, fighting them off. That’s what
I
know.”

“That’s a fair point,” she ceded, smiling.

“We should…round up everything sharp and cutting,” he said. “And hammers and mallets to smash the panes between them.”

“Yes, sir, prince general, sir,” Belle said, saluting him with a sparkle in her eye.

It made sense to try and leave through the gates that Belle had originally come through; they unlatched inward so at least they wouldn’t have to be broken through first.

But throwing them open revealed a beautiful—if disturbingly solid—obstacle: a faceted wall of crystal and ivory, ice, and bone.

Some of the panes showed more scenes of her mother, and Belle was hypnotized by them at first. A particularly intriguing one was of her standing in front of a mirror and magically adjusting her hair color and outfit color, cocking her head to see how it looked.

“That’s…so…not like me,” Belle breathed.

But if she
had
a fancy glass and the power to change the way she looked on a whim, would she?

Most of the castle’s staff had gathered in the courtyard to watch and help: a strange collection of objects, furniture, and bric-a-brac scattered on the snowy ground. Some wore tatters of cloth like scarves, hearkening back to when they were human. Lumière and Mrs. Potts stood together, out of the way; the little candelabrum had an arm held comfortingly around her rounded middle. A pile of potentially useful—and inanimate—ancient weaponry lay nearby.