As Old As Time: A Twisted Tale (Twisted Tale, A) (9 page)

“Not that this isn’t amazing,” Belle said, holding it up and looking at it closely. Chip flinched and giggled again, making it hard to keep a grip. “This is like…I don’t know
what
this is like. The most incredible fairy tale I’ve ever read. Papa will be so—” She stopped, remembering that she wouldn’t be seeing him again. “But I’m stuck here forever.”

“Cheer up, child. It will all turn out all right in the end. You’ll see,” the teapot said sympathetically. Then she jumped, steam coming out of her spout. “Look at me jabbering on, when there’s supper to get on the table—for the first time in I don’t know how long!”

Belle tried to process the teapot’s cheery, if bland, words of comfort. They seemed completely out of place in a dark castle ruled by a beast.

Mrs. Potts hopped clumsily out the door and her little retinue followed. Belle sucked down the rest of her tea and set the cup at the end of the line. He hopped quickly to catch up with the others.

She felt strangely let down after the door closed behind them. Belle wished the teapot could have stayed a little longer and told the story of the castle, of whatever wizard had breathed life into their inanimate forms, of whatever the Beast had to do with any of this.

Because except for ordering the others around, Belle had seen no indication he could perform any magic himself. Definitely not a Prospero managing his little islands of conjured sprites. No, the Beast was more like a princely squatter, haunting the ruined and bespelled castle as it slowly wore itself down over the centuries.

Magic,
Belle suddenly realized,
must have a lot to do with why I’ve never heard of this place.

Magic.

Magic was
real.

It was a thing not confined to German fantasies about the Black Forest or ancient stories involving giants and golems.

She was in a castle
full
of magic, completely hidden from the outside world.

And so close to the normal, boring little place where she had grown up!

If it were a “haunted” castle of the more prosaic, actually
un
haunted type usually found in the woods, no one in the village would have been able to
stop
talking about it. Teenagers would have dared each other to spend the night within its walls; people like Gaston would have marched in and shot everything that looked even remotely interesting. The place would have been looted of all its mirrors, sconces, and statues years ago. And no doubt British tourists would be thronging through on a weekly basis, begging to be taken to the romantic abandoned castle to paint pictures, smoke opium, and write terrible poetry about their experience.

No, this castle had camouflaged itself well. She wondered how her father and Phillipe had managed to find it the first time. Clever old Phillipe…

Belle bit her lip, feeling another surge of loneliness. What was so important that the teapot couldn’t have stayed another moment to talk with her? And just how
did
a teapot cook dinner? She had introduced herself as the housekeeper, so maybe she merely ordered other servants around. Were
they
real? Or other
living
objects? Or beasts? Or…

The wardrobe cleared her throat.

“Well, now, what shall we dress you in for dinner?”

I’m dreaming,
Belle told herself again, a little hopefully.

The wardrobe threw open her doors. Inside were a few interesting things—one of the largest, clearest mirrors Belle had ever seen, some moths, and an extremely pretty collection of gowns that would have made the blond triplets, Paulette, Claudette, and Laurette, swoon.

Belle examined the dresses skeptically. Of course, if things went the way they did in fairy tales, they would all fit her perfectly. The question was, was this a “Bluebeard’s Wives” situation? Or something else?

The tired girl turned and walked over to the bed. So far
it,
at least, seemed to be inanimate.

“I’m not going to dinner.”

“Oh!” the wardrobe said, shocked. “But you must!”

“No. I’m a prisoner, that’s fine. But he can’t make me do something I don’t want to.”

Well, maybe he could. Belle really had no idea. She would find out just what the limits of his powers—and anger—were. More clues to help her escape.

“But…you can’t decline a royal invitation!” the wardrobe sputtered.

“Royal?”
Belle asked quickly, sitting up. “That…
beast
…is a member of
royalty
?”

The wardrobe somehow managed to look guilty.

“I-I mean…” she stuttered. “We can’t really talk about these things.”

“Is it forbidden? Like, by a curse or a spell?” Belle pressed, eager for any information.

“No, it’s…déclassé.”

Belle raised an eyebrow.

The wardrobe shrugged.

“Help is supposed to be seen, not heard,” she said apologetically. “Anything the master wants you to know, he will tell you himself.”

“Who
is
he? Really?”

“Anything,” the wardrobe repeated patiently, “the master wants you to know, he will tell you himself.”

“Well, what
can
you talk about?
Yourself,
maybe? What kind of wood are you made from?”

“Honey, if I knew about wood, I’d be an enchanted ax,” the wardrobe said with a sigh. “I know from corsets and ribbons and hand-spandable waists and what shoes to wear to what sort of occasion and how to tie a thousand different girdle knots and which hat to wear to what sort of outdoor entertainment.”

Belle’s quick mind reviewed what she had just heard.

“You know, I’ve never known much about fashion, living in the country and all,” she said innocently. “What sort of hat would a lady like myself wear to an afternoon tea outside, in the garden, with other ladies? Assuming I’m ever invited, of course.”

“Oh, that’s easy…a lovely straw number, with a wide brim,
en grecque
curls if you’re dining amongst the ruins, or piles of flowers and feathers, and tipped, just so…”

Belle allowed herself a little smile.

“No one has worn hats like that, even in this remote part of the world, for at least ten years. Not even Madame Bussard has pulled one out of her own wardrobe recently. And she is very thrifty with her accessories. So
whatever
happened here must have happened at least a decade ago.”

The wardrobe shifted nervously.

“You’re a clever girl,” she said with some grudging admiration. “I like that. But I think…maybe…I’d better hold my drawers with you for a while. Unless, of course, you’d actually like to get ready for dinner?” she added hopefully.

“Nope,” Belle said with a firm shake of her head. “My father and I both wound up here by accident and it is incredibly uncivilized, even
evil
, to hold us accountable for such a simple mistake. I gave my word about not leaving, but that is all. I will starve to death before I consent to having dinner with such a monster.”

And with that she lay back down on the bed, head turned away from the wardrobe, lest she see the traitorous tear leaking down Belle’s otherwise brave face.

The wardrobe didn’t say anything. In fact, when she was quiet there was no way to tell she
wasn’t
just a piece of furniture and Belle wasn’t just making up conversations in her head like a madwoman.

Her eyes shot open.

Just because the bed didn’t talk didn’t mean it couldn’t. And what about the windows, the rugs, the very stones in the walls?
Anything
could come alive in this strange place and address her. Or just watch her…

She closed her eyes tightly shut again and clutched the pillow.
I just won’t look, then.

Beyond that, Belle was out of ideas. She didn’t have any real plans aside from a hunger strike.

Eventually the door creaked open. A new voice, high and nasal, announced officiously: “Dinner is served.”

Another servant. Possibly a butler. She was curious what he would turn out to be—a brush, a hanger, a serving plate, maybe?—but decided to stay firm in her resolution to sulk and ignore any communication from the master of the castle who kept her prisoner.

She remained lying down but opened her eyes a crack. Fortunately, nothing moved on the wall, not even a spider.

“Miss?” the voice persisted.

“Young lady?

“Dinner…?”

Eventually he went away.

Castles, even more modern ones, didn’t creak like houses. Or at least this one didn’t. Wind picked up for a moment outside; she could hear it past the very expensive glazing in the windows. But nothing squeaked or rocked or shifted. Solid.

The silence was absolute.

Belle might have drifted off to sleep; it was hard to keep track between the hush of the shadows, her tears, her hunger and—if she fully admitted it—fear. She lay on her side like a lumpy, sick child. Just like the time Maurice tried to get her to go out and play with the three little girls he had rounded up as companions for her. She hadn’t
needed
companions. She had
him.
And her books. That was all she ever needed.

“They’re meanies,” she had insisted with a pout. She could hear her father making stuttering, muffled apologies in the kitchen, either to the girls or to their mother.

“You just need to get to know them,” Maurice had said brightly, coming into her room to get her. “It’s human nature to avoid what’s new….Maybe they just need to get to know
you
…to see that you’re no meanie…yourself.”

“
You
don’t have friends,” Belle pointed out.

“Well, I’m too busy now. But I had some…rather odd friends once,” Maurice said. “Can’t for the life of me remember their names…or what they looked like…Ah, well. A lifetime ago. But the point is we got to know each other and became thick as thieves. The scariest, most frightening person can turn out to be quite a lovely character…if you give him time.”

Young Belle sat up, considering this. There was that one time Gaston had bumped her into the puddle…and Paulette had let her borrow her hankie to get the worst mud spots off. Maybe there had even been a flicker of sympathy in the girl’s eyes.

She took a deep breath and wiped her face. She opened her mouth to call out to the other little girls—

“We don’t want to be friends with her anyway,” came the unexpected chirp of a voice. Probably Laurette’s. “We’re just here because Mama and
le prêtre
said to.
For charity.
”

Belle threw herself back down onto her bed with a solid finality.

“I DON’T WANT FRIENDS.”

Trying not to weep at the other girl’s callous statement, she pulled out her latest book and deliberately and firmly turned to the last page she had read, the one right before the picture of the galleon being tossed about in the waves.

A quick pitter-patter of six feet sounded in the next room, away into the outside world. The girls were gone, free to enjoy the day as they chose, which probably meant avoiding the sunshine so they wouldn’t ruin their creamy complexions.

Belle’s father sighed and sat down heavily at the edge of her bed. He smiled when he saw what book she was reading and shook his head.

“Belle, girl, you can’t find real adventures that way. You have to go out into the world…you have to
meet
people…”

“
You
don’t,” she protested.

“I did when I was younger,” he said gently. “That’s how I met your mother. True love doesn’t just fall into your lap. You have to go out and find your other half.”

“But your…my…she fell
out
of your lap. She just kept going.”

Maurice blinked, obviously surprised by this pithy, intelligent observation from his daughter. Then he put his arms around her and pulled her until she was sitting in his lap like a much younger girl. She didn’t resist, snuggling into him.

“You can’t have adventures without risk. You can’t have great things if you constantly fear loss. And I am a much, much better person because of your mother. If nothing else, she gave me you.”

He kissed her on the forehead and hugged her tight.

“Oh, Belle, what are we going to do with you, my little dreamer?”

Adult Belle shifted uncomfortably on the bed and shed a few more tears at this memory. She was finally having her adventure—and it had cost her
everything:
her father, her home, her books, her life. It was too much.

She was shaken out of her reveries by a loud banging on the door. Thundering, really; the whole thing shook. A lesser door would have been torn off its hinges.

Of course it was the Beast this time.

“I THOUGHT I TOLD YOU TO COME DOWN TO DINNER!”

“I’M NOT HUNGRY!”
she screamed back, rage billowing out of her more forcefully than she had imagined possible. Thinking of the triplets and their behavior hadn’t improved her mood.

“YOU’LL COME OUT OR…I’LL BREAK DOWN THE DOOR!”

“HUFF AND PUFF ALL YOU LIKE, YOU MONSTROUS WOLF!”
she spat.
“GO RIGHT AHEAD! IT’S
YOUR
CASTLE, AFTER ALL. DO WHATEVER YOU WANT WITH IT. I’M JUST YOUR
PRISONER!”

There was a pause. She thought she heard voices in the corridor besides the Beast’s own, entreating him.

“willyoucomedowntodinner?” the Beast finally muttered.

“NO!”

“It would…give me…great pleasure…if you…would…join me…for dinner. PLEASE.”

“No. Thank you,” Belle replied just as formally and twice as icily.

“YOU CAN’T STAY IN THERE FOREVER!”
the Beast roared.

“JUST WATCH ME!” Belle spat back.

“FINE! THEN GO AHEAD AND
STARVE
!”

“I ALREADY
PLANNED
TO!”

The Beast let out a wordless snarl. He made no noise leaving, no stomping off. Much like the now-still wardrobe, there was just the utter silence of an absence of presence.