TFT 01 Beauty and the Beast (4 page)

“Is she pretty?” Lucien asked, leaning eagerly across the table.

Severin rolled his eyes.

“Is she?” Lucien demanded.

Severin leaned back in his chair, trying to recall the few brief moments he saw the girl. While her eyes were passably pretty her lips were too full and her nose was too long for her to be considered a true beauty. Her bangs were jagged, and although her ink black hair seemed nice enough Severin was willing to bet his horse that Emele had her work cut out for her whenever she attacked the girl’s mane. “For the lower class, perhaps.”

“Oh,” Lucien said, starting to lose interest.

“Her name is Elle, I believe,” Severin added.

Lucien paused for a moment as if considering something. He opened his mouth twice before shaking his head. “Peasants,” was all he said in the end.

“Is that all for today?” Severin asked, glancing outside the dusty lodge window. It was almost dark, and it was still an hour’s ride home from the lodge.

Lucien waved his hand dismissively. “Yes, yes. I’ll have your order sent to the chateau. Father and Sylvie send their love, of course. They’re both doing well.”

“Your Highness,” Severin said, standing and bowing to his brother in thanks.

“Don’t you have any messages you would like me to pass along?” Lucien asked, still lounging in his dusty chair.

“Please tell Princess Sylvie I am glad to hear she is in good health.”

“And Father?”

Severin blackly eyed his half brother.

“Sooner or later you will have to forgive him for fathering you,” Lucien said, folding his arms across his belly as he leaned back in his chair.

“No, I don’t,” Severin said, gliding through the lodge in his animal grace before throwing the lodge door open.

The wind gusted inside, scattering a few leaves across the floor before Severin shut the door behind him.

“Touchy,” Lucien said.

It was the dead of night, and Elle couldn’t sleep. Her leg throbbed, guilt invaded her thoughts, and the room felt hot and stuffy. She was dying for a breath of fresh air, or for a noise, anything at all to get her mind off the consuming pain that tore at her leg.

“I hate monarchies,” Elle said, fluffing her pillow.

There was a noise at the door, and Elle had a table knife in her hand as the door creaked open.

“Hello?” Elle asked.

No one entered the room, but something padded across the floor.

There was a snorting sort of panting at the foot of Elle’s bed. Elle propped herself up on her elbows, knife still brandished, but could see nothing.

The snorting-breathing continued with the occasional tug on the bed blankets. Elle was beginning to wonder if the chateau was home to a pack of uncommonly large rats when something catapulted itself on top of the bed.

It was a dog. A small dog with a fluffy tail and fluffy ears. Elle recognized it as a Papillon—a dog favored by the upper class for its dainty beauty—but it was the fattest Papillon she had ever seen. Elle didn’t know a dog could even
get
that fat.

The dog waddled up the bed, his fringe of fur and fat swinging in the air. He snuffled in the blankets as Elle secured her filched kitchen knife back in her clothes.

The dog made his inspection as high as Elle’s face, thrusting his nose in Elle’s ear. His tail wildly wiggled, and the dog turned in a circle twice before arranging itself next to Elle’s head, its fat forming a cushion.

Elle hesitated before she reached out to touch the dog, eliciting excited pig-snorts from it. “You’re…endearing,” Elle said, closing an eye when the small dog whipped its tail in her face. When it finally calmed down its deep, snoring breathing formed a beat.

The dog didn’t wake up when the man came through the window. He pried a window open with a knife and wordlessly slid inside, dressed entirely in black.

“I apologize for my inactivity, but as you can see I have been detained,” Elle said as he approached her bed. “I assume you have a message for me?”

“Your absence will be excused until you are fully healed,” he said.

Elle blinked slowly. Did she hear that right? “What?”

“Your absence will be excused until you are fully healed.”

“Elle frowned. “What of my family?”

“All of your debts still exist, and you
will
return for duty, but for now you are excused.”

“Did Farand say this?” Elle asked.

“Yes.”

Elle stared stupidly at the expensive coverlet while the man walked back to the window. “So what am I supposed to do in the meantime?”

He shrugged. “Think of it as a holiday,” he suggested. “I will remain on duty. If you should need me, you know the signal,” he said, slipping out of the room.

Elle leaned back in her bed. “A holiday,” she dumbly repeated before a brilliant smile leaked across her lips. “Why not? I haven’t been on one in ages.”

Chapter 3

Free to Walk

When Bernadine came for another visit the following week Elle was sitting in bed, receiving visitors like a queen. A tall, impossibly thin woman who closely resembled a heron followed in Bernadine’s wake, an unpleasant frown twisted on her lips.

“Bernadine, how good to see you again,” Elle said, fanning herself with a lace fan Emele had given her for no reason apparent to Elle. “Tell me, who have you brought with you? I’m dying for company you know.”

If Bernadine or Emele noticed Elle’s mastery of language increased significantly overnight they said nothing.

“Your name is…Heloise,” Elle said, reading Emele’s slate when the ladies maid held it up.

Heloise nodded with a stork-like snap of her head and loomed over Elle. She grasped Elle’s chin and waggled her head back and forth, inspecting Elle with narrowed eyes.

Emele raised both of her hands to her mouth before stomping a foot.

Bernadine picked up Emele’s oddly shaped pillow and whacked Heloise in the head with enough force to ruin the bun the woman had her hair pulled back into.

Heloise scowled at the cook, who shook a finger at her. Heloise rolled her eyes and released her grip on Elle’s chin only to meticulously wipe her hand off on her apron.

Heloise twitched her shoulders and sailed from the room.

“It was nice to meet you too,” Elle called, snapping her fan as Bernadine moved to shut the door and almost closed it on Duval.

The barber-surgeon dodged the door, almost dropping his armload of materials and tools. A kitchen maid trotted behind him, carrying a small pot of steaming water.

Duval smiled—which turned into an apple red blush when Bernadine affectionately patted his cheek. He set about organizing bandages and comfrey herb roots before he started removing the plastered bandages that encased Elle’s leg.

Bernadine smiled slyly and borrowed Emele’s slate. She wrote a message on it and showed it to Duval.

The barber-surgeon grated comfrey root into the hot water and considered Elle’s leg. Elle leaned forward to look as well, eager to see how her leg looked without the bandages.

Her skin was smooth but the leg was, in Elle’s mind, appallingly swollen. It was slightly discolored, but at least it didn’t feel like Duval was driving nails through her legs when he touched her.

The bandages on her arms had been removed earlier by Emele. For the most part the lacerations were healed—only the biggest cuts remained.

Duval turned to look at Emele and exchanged hand gestures with her, drawing a large smile from the ladies maid. The well dressed woman glided to the head of Elle’s bed, still smiling as she picked dog hair off the bed blankets—the fat Papillon had become Elle’s nightly visitor.

Emele brushed chalk off her slate and carefully wrote,
Dinner party
.

“Dinner party? Who with?” Elle blinked, doubling her efforts of fanning herself with the ridiculously frilly accessory. The illegitimate and sour tempered Prince Severin had never thrown a party in his life—even before he was cursed to be a beast. She could hardly imagine that he had any guests stowed away in his monstrous chateau.

Emele shook her head and would write nothing more.

Elle shrugged. “A dinner party. Why not? I
am
on a holiday.”

Duval glanced curiously at Elle before he finished wrapping new plaster bandages around her leg. He then washed his hands and victoriously thrust something into the air.

“Huzzah, you are right to be proud!” Elle clapped. “What is it?”

The stout barber-surgeon nodded and wrote on his slate.
Splint

“I can move with it on?” Elle said, lurching forward.

Duval tried to push his mask up his face—an impossible task as it seemed the servants’ masks were fixed to their faces—and nodded as he wrote on his slate.
A little
.

“Will I be able to stand?” Elle eagerly asked.

Duval nodded.

“Can I walk?”

Duval shook his head.

Only slightly disheartened, Elle leaned back against her pillows.

Duval set the splint at Elle’s beside before bowing and leaving the room.

When he left, Emele pounced. It took hours for the Comfrey soaked bandages to harden. Elle spent some of that time getting her hair scrubbed by Emele. The determined ladies maid swiveled Elle in bed so her head hung off the side before immersing Elle’s black hair in warm water.

Elle blissfully soaked in the attention—getting her hair washed was relaxing. However, Emele undid all the good by yanking a comb through Elle’s hair, trying to get it to a silky smooth consistency. Emele could do very little with Elle’s hacked bangs, but she wove the rest of Elle’s hair into a braid when it became apparent that it was going to stay frizzy.

After strong arming Elle’s hair, Emele stripped Elle and inventively pieced her into a dress—the pretty blue one Elle saw her hemming the first few days of her stay. Elle suspected it was one of Emele’s dresses, it hung from Elle in places that Emele was more blessed in, and the skirt puffed around Elle like a frilled mushroom. Emele then scrubbed Elle’s hands, arms, and uninjured leg with damp towels until Elle’s skin was rosy pink.

By the time Duval came back to put the splint on Elle’s leg, Elle was exhausted.

“I think I’m supposed to be thankful for the changes in today. I want to make it clear that I’m
not
,” Elle said, struggling to keep her eyes open.

Emele did not reply and struggled to cram Elle’s uninjured foot in a silk slipper. Duval good naturally patted Elle’s hand before opening the door to let four footmen carrying an upholstered armchair inside.

Duval scurried to Elle’s bedside and clapped his hands as the male servants set the chair down.

“Is someone coming to visit?” Elle asked, propping herself on her elbows as she inspected the fancy chair. “What are you doing?” she said when a footman drew closer. “What is—,” Elle bit her lip to keep from crying out when the servant scooped her off the bed and carried her across the room, carefully depositing her on the chair.

The jarring movement made Elle’s leg ache, and her breathing was ragged as she clutched the arms of the chair.

Emele clasped her hands in front of her chest and circled Elle.

Elle gave her a closed lip smile before she tipped her head against the back of the chair and released one great breath. “Wow,” she said as the male servants arranged themselves around her chair. “It is good to be out of bed—one moment, you aren’t,” Elle again cut herself off as she clutched her chair when the male servants picked it up and carried her from the room.

Elle was white as they carried her down a hallway, Emele trailing them. The height of her chair didn’t bother Elle so much as the uncertainty. Every time the servants took a step her chair jostled, making Elle horribly aware that she was quite literately in their hands. The servants paused at the top of a marble staircase, and Elle gulped. “Are we…?”

The servants carefully started down the stairs.

Every muscle in Elle’s body was tensed as she teetered back and forth with the movement of the footmen. It took an eternity to reach the bottom step.

Emele patted Elle’s hand and pointed to two ornately decorated doors directly ahead of them. Two maids stood in front of the doors, and they curtseyed before opening the doors, allowing Elle’s entourage through.

Inside the room was a giant table… and Prince Severin.

The cursed prince sat at the head of the table. Half of his horrifically feline face was immersed in papers even though the only light in the room was a crackling fire directly behind him.

The prince looked up when the footmen set Elle down at the other end of the table. His horrible yellow eyes never touched Elle. Severin fixed them on his servants as he set his papers down with more force than necessary. A growl trickled from his throat before he picked up a book and flipped it open.

The footmen bowed to the illegitimate prince and then to Elle before leaving the room with Emele.

Elle shifted in her chair, alone with Severin and only the barest light—for Severin’s hulking body blocked most of the firelight from her.

“This is…unexpected,” Elle said.