As Old As Time: A Twisted Tale (Twisted Tale, A) (8 page)

In the throne room the young king and queen sat with their princeling—well, the toddler was held by his wet nurse—all three in deep shades of matching velvet.

“Your Highnesses,” Rosalind said with a mild head nod—generally unacceptable as a way of greeting royalty, but, after all,
she
was an enchantress.

“Enchantress,” the queen said in an equally neutral tone. Her features were beautiful, if harsh: white-blond hair and razor-sharp cheekbones, ice-blue eyes. Motherhood had softened her looks not at all.

“This is an unusual visit,” the king said with a smile that did not reach his eyes. He had long dark-brown hair drawn back into a ponytail, with the front part curled over his forehead in a way that was currently very fashionable. Neither one wore a crown, for it was not considered modern. But they were each covered in sparkling pins and jeweled brooches, golden buckles, and rich, rich cloth.

“I have come to offer a blessing on your child, the royal prince,” Rosalind began, turning to him.

“That will not be necessary,” the king said languidly. “These are modern times. We appreciate your sentiment and allow your presence out of respect for ancient traditions, but your blessing is no more than words, your charm no more than meaningless well-wishing.”

Rosalind stared hard at the king, trying not to show how taken aback she was. In
this
kingdom! The last refuge of ancient traditions and
les charmantes.

Magic was being forced out of the world entirely. She shivered—was this really the end?

“In that case, let me attend to the other issue I came here for,” she said, spreading her hands and now lowering her eyes. “I beg your intercession on behalf of my people. They are being harassed, beaten, sometimes murdered. Let their persecution come to an end and defend your innocent citizens.”

“And which citizens would that be, Enchantress?” the king asked mockingly. “The good and natural citizens of this kingdom? Or are you allying yourself with some of the more unpatriotic and unnatural creatures who dwell in our fair land, threatening our citizens and disrupting our peaceful life?”

Rosalind ground her teeth, trying to keep the look of a mild petitioner. Trying to control the anger Maurice always warned her about. She looked around the room but the servants and royal entourage all seemed to be doing a very good job of not paying attention to what was going on. The Prince was playing with a ball that looked like it was made out of real gold.

She took a deep breath. “If I may be so bold, what
unpatriotic
creatures? Who has been threatening
you
?”

“Their
existence
is threat enough,” the queen said. “They—you—all have abilities which make our muskets and swords seem like toys. And they show no hesitation at using these powers at the slightest provocation…as if this is some medieval fairy tale and not the age of laws and reason!”

“A boy is dead because of his interest in a
charmante
girl and the anger of her warlock boyfriend,” the king pointed out. “And the unrest that followed, the attacks on our own soldiers, destroyed even more lives.”

“You’re allowing the complete subjugation of a people because two boys fought over a
girl
?” Rosalind demanded. “A woman is dead because of this insanity, this…prejudice! An innocent woman who never hurt
anyone
…who wasn’t even there when the fights broke out. What has a midwife ever done besides keep young mothers healthy and deliver babies into the world? Her death is on your hands!”

The king shrugged.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about. Such things do not concern us. We have other, more important affairs to attend do. The business of running a kingdom. Business of the state. The reemergence of what looks very much like the plague in countries far too close to us. We need to consider shutting down our borders.”

“So if one or two…of the more…odd…residents of the land disappear, and thus keep the others in line in this time of trouble and possible quarantine,
c’est bon, n’est-ce pas
?”

The queen made a little kissy noise at her son.

The princeling babbled incoherently back.

Rosalind regarded the scene with disgust, hate, and rage. She wanted to turn away, leaving with some juicy retort, like
you will regret this
, and become a golden ball of light and explode out of there.

But the way things appeared to be going, maybe it wouldn’t have been a good idea to make such a display.

So she turned and stalked out like a…

…like a
human.

Like a failure.

Belle wept on the floor of the cell.

A surprisingly large part of her thought that maybe if she just closed her eyes and cried hard enough, it would all disappear. Everything was so unlikely anyway—the castle, the monster, her imprisonment…It could easily be a nightmare she was having after falling asleep reading one of those horror stories her father warned her about.

But the floor was ice-cold under her knees and wet from her tears.

There was no denying reality.

Any dream she had of escaping the boring little village she grew up in to go on adventures was gone forever; she would spend the rest of her days chained in a dark room, lost and forgotten. She wondered, briefly, if Gaston would look for her…if he would mount a search party even after the whole wedding business.

I’ll never see Papa again.

Belle leapt up and dashed to the one tiny window, pressing her face against the cold stone frame. In the courtyard below what looked very much like a dusty, wheel-less old carriage crept along on its axles like a giant bug. Belle gasped at the strange thing. Her father was inside, desperately trying to open the door; she could just see his anxious face. Then the gates swung open of their own accord and the carriage scuttled away, carrying its passenger into the woods.

Belle could
feel
rather than see the silent presence of the Beast. He was terrifying, to be sure, but far less immediate than the waves of despair engulfing her.

“You didn’t even let me say good-bye,” she sobbed, not looking away from the window. “I’ll never see him again.”

There was a strange whispering noise—as if the Beast was shuffling his feet.

“I’ll—” He paused, coughing. “I’ll show you to your room.”

Belle swallowed her tears in surprise. Did she hear him right?

“My
room
?” she asked, looking up. She glanced around the cell. “But I thought…”

“You
want
to stay in the tower?” the Beast growled impatiently.

“No, of course not, but—”

“Then follow me!”

With a movement that was graceful and powerful the Beast spun to leave, the candelabrum in one hand. Seamlessly he switched from two legs to four, then to two again, depending on what the terrain required: fitting through the door, gamboling down the stairs, holding the candles high to light the way. His movements were unnatural and strange, like a poodle walking on its hind legs.

Seeing no other choice and utterly exhausted, Belle followed. They walked in silence for a few moments, the only noise her own feet on the floor.

“I—” The Beast coughed again. “I hope you like it here.”

What?

He hoped she
liked
it here? Like a guest? What an odd thing to say to a prisoner. This monster was conversing with her almost like a human. A human that could be reasoned with. Hope began to rear its shining head.

“Excuse me?” she asked politely.

“The castle is your home now, so you can go anywhere. Except the West Wing.”

“What’s in the West Wing?”

But apparently she had grown too hopeful, too expectant, too quickly.

The Beast turned on her and bared his fangs in her face.

“IT IS FORBIDDEN!”

Belle shrank back against the wall. His hot breath engulfed her the way she imagined a lion’s would have right before it ate a Christian in ancient Rome. With a final, barely audible growl in the back of his throat, the Beast withdrew from her and continued down the stairs.

Belle reluctantly followed him. What choice did she have?

Mention of the West Wing ended all conversation on the long walk through the dark castle. She tried to look around, get her bearings, and pretend she wasn’t being led to what was essentially just a nicer prison cell—by a creature that could devour her in two gulps.

Eventually the Beast stopped in a long hall of apartments and opened a door, beckoning her to step in.

Belle was surprised at the grandeur of the room. In the center was a beautiful canopied bed that looked like it had just been made up that morning, not abandoned years ago. Thick velvet curtains hung in front of delicate oriel windows and enclosed a comfortable-looking tuffet for watching the world outside. A gilt wardrobe the size of her pantry back home stood at attention next to the bed. Fancy paint and plaster medallions graced the walls. The room was ringed by golden-mirrored sconces, which the Beast lit from his own candelabrum. Soon it was a merry and cozy place indeed.

The Beast swept out into the hall again silently and stood for a moment in the doorway as if unsure what to say.

Belle was unsure, too.
Thank you
didn’t seem appropriate. Not to her jailer.

“If, um, there’s anything you need…” the Beast growled uncomfortably, “my servants will attend you.”

Servants?
What servants? Except for the Beast and Belle and her father, there was no sign of any other life in the castle. What if, on top of being monstrous, her captor was insane as well?

“YOU WILL JOIN ME FOR DINNER!”
he suddenly roared. “This is not a request.”

And with that, he swooped out of the room and disappeared into the shadows, slamming the door behind him.

As much as she tried to resist, this sent Belle into another fit of weeping. Her confused, exhausted brain labored under the painfully strange duality of “little girl being punished in her room” and “terrified prisoner of a beast.”

In between her sobs she heard the faintest tap at the door.

It didn’t sound right. Too bony to be a normal human knuckle. Too small to be even the eldest, weakest hand. Almost fragile sounding. Delicate. A claw maybe?

What other horrors and mysteries did this night hold?

Belle took a deep breath and forced herself to rise.

“Who is it?”

“It’s Mrs. Potts, dear. The housekeeper.”

Ah, so there
are
other people here
. Feeling another surge of hope, Belle patted down her hair and tried to make herself look presentable. She opened the door. Maybe she would find some solace in…

“I thought you might like a nice cup of tea.”

Belle’s heart nearly stopped.

The voice came from below, close to the floor.

A ceramic teapot, sugar bowl, creamer, and cup came hopping into the room like a tiny porcelain army, chiming
tink tink tink
. The teapot kept its spout—nose?—pointed toward Belle as it—
she?
—spoke.

Belle backed away, into the wardrobe.

“You—but—you…” she stammered.

“Hey, be careful,” the wardrobe said, in a feminine voice that boomed.

Belle sprang away from the thing and landed on the bed.

She immediately leapt off the bed, terrified that it would begin to speak, too.

“This is all…impossible,” Belle whispered. She wondered if recent events were making her delusional. Somehow the Beast was easier to believe than talking furniture.

The teapot was very calmly pouring her insides into the cup. She spoke as she did so, sounding a little gurgly.

“Slowly now—don’t spill…”

The little teacup had a chip in it, Belle noted absently, as it hopped over to where she sat on the floor. It waited patiently, its—
head
?—tilted up toward her.

Dazed, Belle put out her hand and carefully lifted the teacup, one pinky extended like she had always practiced after reading a book on fancy etiquette. Where she touched the cup it was hard, smooth, warm from the tea, and utterly immobile. Solid porcelain. How did it move?

“Wanna see me do a trick?” the cup asked, shifting in her grasp.

Belle almost dropped it. The thing had no face at all but the voice sounded so real, so full of life. Like a little boy or girl. And the pottery still felt hard under her fingers; it wasn’t pliable at all.

The cup shivered. Bubbles began to come up through the tea. They nearly overran the rim.

“Chip!”
the teapot chastised.

The teacup shivered again and Belle could have sworn she heard it giggle.

Feeling strange about it but not seeing that she had much of a choice, Belle took a little sip. It was excellent tea, black and fresh and strong, with just enough sugar. Very restorative.

“That was a very brave thing you did back there,” the teapot said confidentially. “Trading yourself for your father. We all think so.”

Belle blinked, trying to focus on
what
the teapot was saying rather than the fact that it spoke at all. The cup felt strange in her hand and hung there, still mostly full.