As Old As Time: A Twisted Tale (Twisted Tale, A) (33 page)

Coming back to the village through the snow, under the dark cloudy skies, Belle felt like she had been away for a lifetime. She had, in fact, never left the village by herself before this. There were a couple of overnight trips to fairs with her father, and once or twice during mushroom season they got swept up in the fury and spent a few nights in the forest, gathering morels and truffles and camping out. But that was all, and always with Papa.

She gazed at the snug little houses and their lights and felt around the recesses of her heart carefully, seeing if she felt any different. It
was
a lovely little place, despite the provincialism of its inhabitants. A clean and safe and pretty place to grow up. But…even as framed as it was from a distance, as perfect as any terribly twee landscape painting, Belle felt nothing but a slight twinge of
future
nostalgia. No sadness, no missing it
yet
. The village was like an egg—she had developed there, she had been imprisoned there, she was trying to break free. But it had a pretty shell.

“So you’re from here?” the Beast grunted from beneath his hood.

“Yes, but further on—over there, outside town. You can’t see our house, it’s hidden by the hill,” she said, pointing.

Belle looked back at the dark forest out of which they had come. Because of its shape and the depth of the valley, she couldn’t see even the highest points of the castle.

“It’s like it’s already gone,” she murmured.

“Maybe it wasn’t meant to be,” the Beast said softly, immediately understanding what she meant. “Maybe we were always meant to disappear, one way or another.”

They were silent for a moment and the snow fell.

“Come on,” Belle said, shaking herself, refusing to give in to melancholy. “We should go see Papa first. Oh, won’t he be so amazed to hear about everything?”

“We go see the bookseller first,” her companion corrected gently but firmly.

“But Papa will be so worried about me!”

“
Belle.
We have little time. The castle was sinking—you saw it. Let’s break the curse first and then have our happy reunions.”

Belle’s head drooped. He was right. If she hadn’t been so impulsive and grabby to begin with, none of this would have happened. Except for her father, she had never really had to think about anyone else before or put anyone’s needs above her own.

“All right. First Lévi, and then my papa.”

They decided to go the more direct route across the river since they had no horse or cart. The bridge was out, the swollen, semi-frozen river swallowing it in rounded mounds of ice and rushing water. But a rope gondola was tied where the current remained swift and, while Belle worried for a moment about their combined weight, the tiny boat only dipped a little as the Beast embarked. He had obviously never seen such a thing before but as soon as she lifted the rope he got the idea and easily pulled them across, with no more effort than if he were reeling in an empty hook and line.

“Smoke,” he said, frowning, when they were halfway across.

“Mmm,” Belle sighed. “Everyone’s in for the night, all warm and cozy.”

An icy wind blew down the river, skimming the water like a dragonfly during the summer. Without a word the Beast stood closer to Belle, between her and the cold. He radiated warmth, rather like a cow or a goat—but smelled much better. She almost regretted it when they stepped off the little raft and onto the gravelly path of the village proper.

Most of the shops had closed early for the cold, dark day. The streets were almost entirely empty. Still the Beast kept out of the meager light, slinking predatorily from shadow to shadow, hiding behind lampposts and signs. Belle wasn’t sure if she should be delighted or disappointed that the few people they passed failed to recognize her. All she was doing was wearing a different—albeit new and fancy—cloak. It was like the villagers couldn’t see past the red on her hood.

As she pondered this, she saw drifts of the smoke that the Beast had smelled—and it wasn’t normal wood smoke. It hung in the air, transparent and gray, as if from a fire that had been out for a while but still smoldered. The scent wasn’t bad at all; in fact, there was something strangely familiar about it.

“It’s not time for the Christmas bonfire,” Belle said, puzzled. She headed off the main street to the right, where the bookshop was. The smoke grew thicker.

When they turned the corner she finally saw the source of the smoke.

Belle sank to her knees in the street with a cry.

There was almost nothing left to Monsieur Levi’s bookstore but four blackened walls, a smoking roof, and rubble and ashes.

Monsieur Lévi! And all of those books
…

The fire had brushed the nearby buildings, but except for some singed roofs the little houses were fine. A few old people were sweeping and tidying up nearby; it looked like the blaze had occurred more than a day before. Strange black ashes, as thin and flat as the petals of some ugly tropical flower, fluttered easily with the slightest breath. They covered the plaza and gathered in corners, whirling around and around themselves.

On some, a few words could still be seen.

The town is covered in books,
Belle thought, nearly sick with sadness.
In the only way it could be.

One tightly bundled villager hurried by and without thinking Belle grabbed his coat. The Beast was obviously torn for a moment, but his need to hide finally outweighed his desire to comfort Belle. He slipped into the dark shadows of a nearby doorway.

“Monsieur,”
Belle cried. “What happened here?”

“Belle?” The man looked at her in surprise. It was Monsieur Sauveterre, who ran the fancier dry goods store. “Where have you been? Your father has been going quite mad about you….”

“It’s a long story,” Belle said impatiently, standing up. “What happened here? Where is Monsieur Lévi?”

“Yes, a shame that,” the man said thoughtfully, looking at the ashen remains of the place. “Someone set it, obviously. The fire started from within. A harmless old academic, that Lévi. I don’t know who would do it.”

“Is he all right?”
Belle demanded.

The man shrugged in a particularly Gallic way. “I don’t know…no one said anything about a body. I think he was away. It’s probably why they set it. I have to get home, Belle. The children are waiting to eat. Go see your father! He’s worried sick about you!”

Belle let him go, collapsing back onto the street again.

The Beast was suddenly there again, looming above her, a silent shadow.

“Let’s go in,” she said after a moment.

Listlessly she rose and trudged over to the wrecked store, stepping through what remained of the doorframe, not caring about the soot and ashes getting on her worn shoes.

“This was your…favorite place,” the Beast said slowly, coming behind her.

“In the whole world. Even more than my own bed,” Belle said bleakly. “Every time I came in, it was like a whole new unexplored land would be there waiting for me. Another story to step into. And Monsieur Lévi was a friend and a guide and an explorer who took me to these new places. This was
home
, as much as my own home was.”

She looked at the shelves, covered in lumps and black bricks that were once books. Very little of it looked salvageable. Even the ones that were only lightly singed had sort of compressed and crushed together with the heat of the inferno. The chairs she had loved to flop into were skeletons, their fabric and flesh burnt away, only thin bony laths of wood remaining.

“Belle…I’m…sorry,” the Beast said, putting a hand on her shoulder.

Belle grabbed it with both of her hands and began to cry. She couldn’t stop. Tears flowed town her cheeks like rivers, quick and endless.

“I…was looking forward to seeing your favorite place,” he added clumsily.

“I know,” she sniffed.

“I’ve never been in a shop before,” he continued, trying speak lightly.

“What?” Belle asked. She wiped her face on her sleeve. “Really?”

“Really. Merchants would come to the castle and show us their wares. We never had to go see them. And only the finest ones were let in. They had golden balls, and lead soldiers, and stuffed bears made with real bearskin and glass eyes…”

“All right, all right,” Belle said, shaking her head. “I get it, Your Majesty.”

“I’m just trying to…distract you.”

“I know. I appreciate it.” She took a deep breath and tried to shake practicality back into her arms and head. “Can you…can you smell anyone…dead? Like you did with Alaric?”

The Beast frowned and widened his nostrils. “I think maybe a couple of mice were caught up in here when it happened. But other than that, no.”

Belle let a large breath out in relief.

“Well, that’s something.”

Belle tried to divert her grieving soul away from the sadness with the mystery of what had happened.
The moment I find out my mother was an enchantress and Lévi himself is several hundred years old
…
he suddenly turns up missing with his shop burned down
?

A very unlikely coincidence.

“The stairs are all right…I’m going to look upstairs,” the Beast said.

Belle didn’t stop him but didn’t join him, either. She would feel strange going up to Lévi’s private apartments herself…it would be like invading his privacy. Somehow it mattered less when someone who didn’t know him did it.

“Everything seems normal up here,” he called down. “Um, except for there not being a roof.”

Belle put her hand to her forehead, thinking.
Where could Lévi be? He went several times a year to the big book fairs in cities, or on little vacations…But now? Was he somehow warned about the attack, and had he disappeared beforehand? And was it because he was a
charmante?
Had the disease of the little forgotten kingdom made it here, across the river? Is nowhere safe for these people?

Belle poked around the charred remains of his desk, where he tallied up the sums of people who actually came and bought or sold books, kept what little money he earned, and hid a small bag of pistachios he often shared with her. All of it was burned and black except for the metal hinges on his lockbox and some coins within. And something else, tarnished and gray…

A mirror. A small, yet very
familiar
-looking mirror.

It was round and pocket-sized, perfect for a gentleman’s vest or a lady’s grooming kit. Except for some smoke damage, the object was untouched by the fire; rubbing her sleeve on the glass quickly caused it to become bright and gleaming. Tiny roses decorated the rim.

“Beast!” Belle cried out.

Silently, faster than should have been possible, the Beast was flowing down the crumbling stairs and next to her, having heard the tone in her voice.

Belle showed him the mirror, holding it in the palm of her hand.

As if brought to life by the warmth of her palm, the silver-gray surface rippled and began to show images. A girl’s face appeared, filling the whole thing.

Familiar, but so young…

With a start Belle realized it was her mother. This was the first time she had seen her up close and looked directly into her green eyes.

The girl smiled in the mirror, as if satisfied. Perhaps her chin was a little pointed and catlike for true perfection, her eyes too knowing and intelligent for an insipid romantic painting.

Belle almost dropped the mirror when the girl—her mother—nodded seriously, then pushed a stray piece of hair back over her ear.

“She looks just like you,” the Beast said.

“I…” Belle wasn’t sure what she was going to say.
Know?

It looked like the girl was shaking her end of the mirror. The picture faded.

Belle had to keep herself from shaking the mirror as well, to see if it would clear. But she didn’t have to; it restarted of its own accord. Unlike the Beast’s mirror, it obviously didn’t need to be told aloud to show something.

She saw her young mother looking bored and annoyed as her parents—Belle’s grandparents—stood and talked with other adults at some sort of fancy occasion. Belle’s mother wore an amazing pale pink dress with a gold sash, which she was trying very hard to keep neat and stay fancy in—even when one of her friends ran up to her and dragged her off to play.

The friend’s feet had cloven hooves.

“What—” Belle began.

“Hmmm…a faun,” the Beast said, only vaguely interested, like it was an unusual squirrel.

The scenes shifted faster, as if sensing Belle’s impatience; while all of this was fascinating, it had nothing to do with
now
or the direness of their situation. Scenes of the kingdom, possibly through the witch’s eyes: a festival, Christmas, a flood one rainy spring. A fight between two young men in which one died, struck by magical lightning. A brawl breaking out among the spectators. Palace guards rushing in to break it up—slamming the heads of the magical people against the ground, rounding them up, and beating them.

More scenes of the guards looking away as
charmante
girls were nauseatingly and physically harassed by street thugs and
charmante
boys beaten up. Sometimes so badly they couldn’t walk. Sometimes so badly they never got up—or opened their eyes—again.