TFT 01 Beauty and the Beast (8 page)

“The intruder. What is her name again?”

Burke’s mask twitched, and he struggled to suppress the smile on his lips.
Elle
.

Severin waited until Burke had quitted the room before he exhaled a deep sigh. The skin between Severin’s eyes ached, and Severin pinched it, careful not to jab himself with his claws.

He hadn’t wanted to ask Burke what the girl’s name was because he knew it would raise false expectations among his staff. Burke was usually dependably silent about touchy matters, but Severin had no doubts the courtly dandy was searching out Bernadine and Heloise this very moment to share his new intelligence.

“She chased off a fellow villager. That is nothing to preen over—she’s only here in the first place because
she
trespassed,” Severin said to his empty study. “This changes nothing.” But Severin knew it would change everything in his servants’ eyes. Rare was the individual who was not terrified of them.

Severin stood and walked to the full length mirror that was leaned against the wall. It had an impressive, golden frame that was obnoxiously ornate, and it was quite large but otherwise utterly ordinary.

“Show me Elle,” Severin ordered.

The reflective surface of the mirror rippled like a pond before Severin’s reflection and the study faded to black. After a moment a new image crawled to the surface.

It was the girl, Elle. She was sitting on a couch, playing with the Papillon mongrel Lucien had given Severin when he first moved to Chanceux Chateau.

The loathsome dog barked playfully at Elle before he hopped on her lap—disappearing in the poof of skirts.

Elle patted down her skirts to unearth the mongrel. She picked it up and held it to her chest. The dog wildly twirled his tail, rewarding Elle with a kiss.

“Emele can’t we
please
open a window at night?” Elle asked.

Emele fluttered past her, carrying sewing materials.

“It is sweltering in this room when I wake up in the morning,” Elle added, setting the mongrel down when it wriggled in her hands.

“Enough,” Severin said to the mirror.

The image disappeared to darkness, and within moments Severin’s ghastly reflection returned.

Severin retreated to his desk, thankful for the mirror—even if it hadn’t revealed anything particularly startling about his servant’s false hope.

The magical mirror was a useful tool for an army commander to have. On more than one occasion it had saved Severin from making bad decisions, it was one of the only reasons why Severin was comfortable leaving Lucien unguarded, and it had even saved Severin’s life once before.

It was only because of the magic mirror that the enchantress Angelique was at the palace the day Severin was attacked, after all. She wanted to inspect his mirror—which she got the chance to do after returning Severin to his right mind. She seemed disappointed when she saw it, but thanked Severin for allowing her to see it before she left.

Severin hadn’t seen her since.

Severin grimly tucked himself into his desk and pulled papers towards him. He looked up when he heard the clattering of shoes down the hallway. They didn’t stop outside his door—as he expected—and instead the footfalls continued down the hallway until they disappeared entirely.

Severin shook his head. The intruder girl might not be as stupid and ignorant as Severin first thought, but her presence was not a good thing. It gave his servants hope. False hope.

After all, Severin had tried breaking the curse before, and it hadn’t worked.

The following day Elle was in endlessly high spirits. She didn’t complain even when the footmen loaded her onto her armchair and carried her to another silent dinner.

“Bernadine is a saint. She is a treasure that deserves to be admired and jealously guarded, isn’t that right, Jock?” Elle said. Since the servants couldn’t reply and Prince Severin never bothered to acknowledge her, Elle had taken to addressing all her inquiries to the fat dog—whom she had taken the liberty of naming.

Elle continued, “Her hash is heavenly and her cherry jelly is peerless! It is no wonder you weigh twice as much as you ought to, Jock.”

Jock breathed loudly, watching the piece of buttered bread Elle held.

“And the pastries, don’t let me forget the pastries, Jock.”

At the other end of the table Prince Severin sipped his wine.

“It is beyond me how she manages to secure fresh fruits for every meal,” Elle said before popping a strawberry in her mouth. It was juicy and sweet from the sun of the day. “She even manages to present fruits that are out of season! Then again, I shouldn’t be surprised. The chateau is magical, you know.”

Severin made a noise that sounded like “chuff,” his cat whiskers jutting forward with the sound.

Elle froze, her bread halfway to her mouth. Did the cursed prince just emit the cat equivalent of a
snort
?

Prince Severin nibbled on a grape, ignoring or not noticing Elle’s awe.

Elle looked down at Jock. The dog’s eyes were still glued to her bread. “Did I imagine that?” Elle asked. The dog scooted closer on his well padded butt. Elle shook her head before she spoke at a loud volume again. “You can tell Bernadine cooks only with cow milk. It is superior to goat milk—I have been told so by those with taste.”

Elle paused to sip her tea. “Good food must always been enjoyed to the highest degree,” she said before lunging out of her chair. She almost fell over, but she managed to snatch up her crutches before the manservant who usually kidnapped her crutches could touch them.

Elle rocked back in her chair, holding her crutches with a smile that was considered too big to be pretty. “If we don’t enjoy it, we don’t give proper recognition to all of Bernadine’s work,” she continued, as if she had not just held a wordless scuffle with a servant.

When she looked up Severin was staring at her as he chewed his food. His expressions were difficult to decipher on his feline face, but judging by the quirked right ear and the flat look in his eyes, Elle suspected Severin was measuring her intelligence level and finding it wanting.

“Correct?” she beamed, holding fast to her crutches as a maid tried tugging on them.

Severin furrowed his forehead and returned his attention to his food.

One of the footmen who usually carried Elle stood behind Severin. When he knew Elle was looking at him he clasped his hands together and lifted them shoulder height before shaking them in a gesture of victory.

Elle returned her attention to her meal with a slight grin.

No matter how low Prince Severin held her in esteem, Elle seemed to be gaining popularity in his household.

After experiencing nothing but troubles with her dresses and crutches, Elle knew something had to change.

“Emele I have a confession to make, the clothes you dress me in—while beautiful—are making it impossibly difficult to walk,” Elle said over afternoon tea. She twirled a parasol Emele had lent to her above her head, even though they were indoors.

Emele looked at Elle and shook her head before topping off her cup of tea.

“No, I am not being silly. I cannot fit my torso through the space between my crutches because the skirts are so large. I also live in fear that the already low cut neckline with fall further if a sleeve happens to slide off my shoulder.”

You dress in the height of fashion.

“Perhaps, but I have no desire to shackle myself because the aristocrats think women who resemble cakes are attractive,” Elle said.

Emele ate a cookie and ignored Elle’s plea.

Elle flattened her lips as she thought. If Emele would not change her wardrobe, who could she petition for help?

“Emele,” Elle cautiously started. “I need to speak to His Highness Prince Severin. How would I—,” Elle cut herself off when Emele excitedly clapped her hands.

The ladies maid curtseyed elegantly before sweeping out of the room, a bounce in her step and a smile on her lips.

Elle twirled her parasol as she watched Emele go with growing curiosity. She shrugged at Jock, who was seizing the opportunity to try to crawl his way onto Emele’s abandoned chair, aiming for her forgotten pastry.

There was a crash in the hallway.

Elle twisted to look over her shoulder, but no one entered her room. She was almost finished with her tea when Emele returned, flanked by four footmen with Elle’s usual chair.

The footmen bowed and waited by the chair.

Elle blinked. “What, now? He will see me now?”

Emele nodded eagerly as she plucked the parasol from Elle’s grasp.

“It wasn’t too short of notice?”

Emele shook her head, her smile still wide.

Elle frowned. “Are you certain?”

Emele sighed and glided to Elle’s chair. She took her hand and tugged on it.

“Alright. I’m coming,” Elle said, positioning her crutches beneath her before she hobbled to her chair. She barely had time to arrange her skirts before the footmen hefted her up into the air, making her yelp at their sudden movement.

They trooped out of Elle’s room and down the hallway at a hasty pace. Elle clutched the arms of her chair as the footmen carried her. Her heart stopped when one of them tripped, but the other footmen corrected him, and in a much shorter span of time than Elle would have liked the footmen set her down in front of an immense door.

Emele helped Elle stand, hovering at her right elbow as Elle shifted her weight on her crutches. Elle set her shoulders and inspected her skirts, settling them into place.

She was shocked when Emele knocked on the door before Elle was ready. The ladies maid jumped backwards, cutely tipping her head and tucking her clasped hands beneath her chin.

Elle frowned at her friend, but returned her attention to the task before her when she heard a commanding, “Enter,” through the door.

Elle swallowed as Emele eagerly opened the door for Elle, stepping aside so she could hobble through.

Elle cautiously entered, her eyes taking in the small, cozily lit study. There was a large, full length mirror on one side of the study, which was flanked by a wall covered in maps. The other lengthy wall was covered with bookshelves—which housed an inch of dust and enough paper to run a printing press for a year.

Prince Severin was seated behind a massive desk that was piled high with papers, writing utensils, a compass, rulers, scales, and, oddly enough, a vase of roses.

Prince Severin looked up for a moment when Elle paused in front of his desk. He returned his gaze to his work as Emele closed the study door.

“I was told you wished to speak to me,” Prince Severin said, making a notation on a map.

“Yes, Your Highness,” Elle said.

“State your business, Intruder,” the prince said.

Elle eyed the prince for a moment over the nickname before she looked at the ceiling as she considered the problem. Perhaps she should have thought this through before asking for an audience with Severin, because really there was no elegant way to tell the prince that her petticoats made it impossible to walk.

“Well?”

“I am having trouble using my crutches,” Elle started.

“Tell Duval and he will have a new pair made,” Prince Severin said, pushing himself away from his desk.

“No, the crutches aren’t the problem,” Elle said.

Prince Severin stood and stalked to the map covered wall. He studied it for a moment before selecting a map and tearing it off the wall. “You just said you were having trouble using them.”

“Yes, but the problem does not lie in the crutches,” Elle said.

Severin’s ears briefly flattened. “Please stop speaking in circles and tell me what you need,” he said before he sat down again.

Elle shrugged. “Very well. My skirts are too wide.”

Prince Severin looked up and stared at her with his oddly pupiled eyes.

Encouraged that he hadn’t covered his ears, Elle plunged on. “The way everyone explains it I’m supposed to swing myself between the crutches and set my foot down, but my skirts are too wide and thick. I can’t seem to land between my crutches and sort of bounce off them instead. I have to lean forward on the tips of my foot—which is quite awkward and rather painful. I keep stumbling like a fool, but Emele refuses to give me a less elaborate dress. Can you
tell
her to give me something less…,” Elle held her hand out, grasping for the right word as she passionately looked to the ceiling again.