Archive of Our Own ^beta

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♠  ❛ —— O Romeo, Romeo! 

wherefore art thou Romeo? ❜

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No one ever called Rose by her rightful name. The townspeople, only knowing her by her exterior and ignorant of the other qualities about her, called her “Beauty.” Her family, as most families tend to do, had several names attributed to her. Since Rose's first name was "Elizabeth", her brothers and sisters tended to call her “Lizzie” or “Eliza.” And her father, as the girl was his favorite of all of his children, called her his “Darling Lizzie Rose.” 

        Although the girl never minded so much the latter of these sobriquets, she much preferred to be called “Rose” and “Rose” alone. Rose was simple. The image the name created in one’s mind and the taste it left on one’s lips was who she wanted to be known as by others. With the addition of Elizabeth, or even her surname “Bourne”, other images, tastes, colors, and scents made headway into one’s mind. And these other senses did not reflect her. She was Rose and Rose only. 

        But, as most flowers do, Rose had a dainty delicacy about her. When someone called her with a name that was not her own, she did not have the sharpness to stand forth and correct them. This no doubt was caused by the regular trimmings of her thorns she underwent: Each day, the girl was blamed for the family’s misfortunes by her two elder sisters. 

        “Lizzie should cease all her romantic daydreams of a man, and go ahead and marry one, as we did. Then Father wouldn’t have to worry about her wellbeing or anyone else’s.”

        “If only Lizzie would put down those books of hers, she could have any man she wanted. And if ever a man came along with enough money, he could salvage her, father, the manor, all of us.”

        “If only Father stopped buying her all of those books and paintings and such things, he wouldn’t have had to file for bankruptcy.”

        Of course, they never spoke these words to her face, but she often overheard them speaking through the walls of the gathering room whenever they came to visit the manor. If her two elder sisters, who were wed to respectable—although fortune-less husbands—already thought so low of her, then how could she ever correct them for such a trivial thing as her namesake? Surely, they would scold her for that as well, and then continue to call her “Lizzie,” as they always had.

        And so, Rose came to only dream of being called her rightful name. She settled for such travesties as “Miss Bourne” and “Eliza Dear,” with the hope in the far regions of her mind, that perhaps, someday, someone would pass her by on the street, with the ability to understand her every thought, and know that she had never been anyone but Rose. For, Lord knows, she would never have the piercing courage it entailed to tell them her real name. 

        The young woman, at nineteen, knew it was her time to be wed. Her sisters had been married only a few years before, when they had been eighteen and she, fifteen. But the girl longed for the man who would call her “Rose,” instead of “Miss Bourne” or “Elizabeth.” She was destined to wait for that man on the street, and if he never came, she determined that she would become an old maid. 

        It seemed such an odd thing to everyone else—the most beautiful girl in town, destined to become an old maid. How could they allow such a tragedy to occur? It was the people's moral duty to see that every respectable, eligible maiden in the town be married off to a respectable, eligible gentleman. It was time, and yet, the young woman seemed to not want marriage. Even though she could bring prosperity to the family by batting an eyelash at any fortunate gentleman who crossed her path, she never played such games. 

        Over the past two years, multiple suitors had visited the manor, asking for the young woman’s hand in marriage, as well as offering up their respective fortunes. And even though, with each day that passed the father’s money depleted, more suitors arrived—for Rose’s beauty had only grown. But the merchant turned each one of them away, arguing that his youngest child was not yet ready to be handed off in marriage. Truthfully, the old merchant would miss his daughter’s quiet company in the midst of his two unmarried, rambunctious sons. He also felt that—to be perfectly frank—none of the men were good enough for his daughter.

        Only one man—although no one was quite certain if he could even be called as such—in town, the old merchant was sure, was good enough for his youngest daughter, his Darling Lizzie Rose. And that was the baron who lived at the top of the mountain, high above the rest of the village, across the valley and fields and forest. 

        But hardly anyone had seen this man. Moreover, myths and tales had been passed around town for years that he was deformed, or at the very least, unagreeable. Even so, the merchant had connections with the baron’s mother: the baroness. They had done business together years before when he had sold textiles to the castle, and always remained close friends—even as his business declined. 

        The baroness never spoke of her son’s appearance, but rather, his accomplishments—accomplishments much greater and more varied than any mere feats of Rose's suitors. Each time the merchant visited the grand castle, he became astonished with the most recent round of the baron’s achievements. His Darling Lizzie Rose would have been astonished as well.

        But the man knew it was not meant to be between his daughter and the baron. For, even if he had not lost his fortune and squandered all of his money, he was still a middle-class merchant, with no title and no background. Moreover, since youth, the baron had been engaged to the daughter of a wealthy gentleman who lived the next town over. 

        But, if there were some way, some hope, some chance, that the merchant could marry his youngest, most beautiful daughter off to the accomplished, wealthy—albeit mysterious—Lord Ashworth, he would.

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♠  ❛ —— ❛ Deny thy father, and refuse thy name;
Or, if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love,
And I’ll no longer be a Capulet. ❜

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Chapter Text

“Where did Father say he was off to, Lizzie?” 

        Lizzie. A name that sounded like giggles, maddening childish squeals, and running down the hallways late at night.

        Rose lowered her book from her eyes and turned her head toward her sister, who was at the far side of the gathering room. “I believe he said that he was off to Ashworth Castle, to speak with the baroness. But I can hardly remember, Hattie.” 

        Hattie. A cutesy name. Its flavor palate was simple, but with some degree of bite at the end.

        Rose leaned back in her chair, brought the book back up to her eyes, and continued devouring the words on the page.

        Hattie huffed, smoothing out her blush-colored gown and stamping her feet. She peered into one of the shards of glass from an old broken mirror on the wall, then proceeded to curl a strand of hair with her finger. “I do hope he makes it back soon.”

        “And why is that?” Minnie, Hattie's twin, inquired from the dusty settee. 

        “Oh, you’re always so suspicious of me, Minnie—”

        Minnie. Girlish, gaudy, and gay.

        “—and you shouldn’t be! Haven’t you learned after all these years to mind your own business? Especially now that we’re both married women and not little gossiping girls anymore?”

        “Who says we’re not little gossiping girls still?” Minnie giggled. “I’m as curious as I’ve ever been! Perhaps you have outgrown your girlish ways, but I have not.” She sat back on the settee, lounging. A winning smile darted across her face, and her eyes flashed a vibrant green.

        Hattie stamped her foot again, turned away from the broken mirror, and put her hands on her hips. She stared her twin sister down from the other side of the gathering room. “Well, fine then. I’ll tell you.” Her nostrils flared. “I’m going to ask Father what his plans are to get us out of this horrid debt. Since you clearly demonstrate no concern over this matter whatsoever, and Lizzie has no intention of getting married anytime soon—” 

        Rose stiffened, her eyes stopping on the page. 

        “—then it must be me who makes the inquiries about his financial situation. My nerves can’t take much more of this...” she pressed a palm to her forehead and shut her eyes, “this… sitting about, acting as though nothing could possibly be wrong! We are all guilty of it!”

        Minnie sighed, stretching back even further on the settee, her jewel-green gown and petticoats lifting above her heels. “Oh, Hattie, you’ve got nothing to be worried about.” 

        “It’s so like you to say that.” The woman crossed her arms.

        “But I mean it,” Minnie asserted. “You know our husbands will provide if Father cannot do so anymore.”

        Hattie snorted. “You only say that because your husband is better off than mine. My William is struggling—”

        William. A rather regal name, but so common that one could not even recognize its excellence. Like an expensive wine, but one Rose had sipped a hundred times so that it tasted like bland mush on her tongue.

        “We are hardly able to keep up the townhome. We’ve had to let go of so many servants. You couldn’t possibly understand.” Hattie buried her face in her palms and wailed like a frightened cat. “Oh, what am I to do?!”

        Minnie giggled, rose from the settee, and waltzed over to her distraught sister; as her feet trotted along, the floor creaked. She took hold of Hattie’s arm and brought her to the settee, forcing her to sit down. A dust storm hurled up into the air. 

        “Now, now, Hattie, there’s no use crying and fussing like a child. We know you only want the attention.” Minnie turned to face Rose—who had lowered her book—and winked.

        Rose snapped suddenly at the gesture; she straightened her neck and glared at Minnie. “I don’t believe Hattie is fighting for attention at all. In any case, every one of us should be worried—not only her. Father didn't have the money to continue to pay his servants, so he let them go. He needed the money, and so he sold all of the barn animals except his horse. Most of our belongings have been sold, too, except for your prized gowns and my… books.” Before lifting her head, she ran her hand over the cover and laid her book down in her lap. “What do you think is going to happen next?” Rose gestured to the dilapidated walls of the manor, but then her eyes fell as another thought came to her mind. “And perhaps… I am frightened. Yes, I am. I don't have a husband to provide for me if Father’s situation worsens. And more than that, how do you think Father feels? What’s to become of him—let alone us young ones—when the unthinkable occurs?”

        Both Minnie and Hattie squinted their eyes at their younger sister, their previous dispositions disappearing. They sat beside each other and seemed to be the same entity—a four-eyed beast, rearing its neck and closing in on Rose. A darkness fell over the gathering room.

        “How dare you accuse us of being so selfish,” Minnie sneered, her lackadaisical air dissipating as she turned into a beast. “Don’t you know how selfish you have been, dear sister?” 

        Her shoulders caving, the young girl remained silent.

        Hattie faced her twin, adding: “The only reason she’s blaming us is that we aren’t the ones who are solely dependent on Father anymore; we haven’t squandered his fortune. She’s trying to make it seem like she’s innocent.”

        Minnie nodded, placing her hands on her hips, enlarging herself.

        Rose’s eyes widened; she gripped onto the book in her lap, feeling its sturdy woodenness. If only she could have a bit of the book’s strength. 

        The girl dropped her head. “I’m sorry, my sisters,” she apologized. “I did not mean for my statement to be an accusation, but it seems as though it has been received as such. I do hope you can forgive me.”

        The twins glared at one another, their noses upturned and their heads held high. They exchanged looks, and their eyes raced back and forth between each other and Rose. But soon, their faces softened and the four-eyed monster melted away as they settled upon what to do.

        Minnie turned and faced Rose, a sisterly simper spreading across her lips. “Of course, I forgive you, Lizzie. After all, that’s what big sisters do.” She smirked at Hattie. “I’m not quite so sure about Hattie, though. You know she has a hard time with letting things go.”

        “Oh, hush, Minnie. That’s not true,” Hattie said, swiping her hand at her sister, giggling. But the laugh soon faded and she stared out the window, sighing. “But, alas, it is only partially false. My nerves always bring things back around and I can hardly let the past go… But this? This is merely trivial.” She grinned, biting her lip as she bared her teeth together. “Of course, I forgive you, Lizzie.” 

        Rose smiled slightly, her heart slowing again to a steadier pace. “Thank you, sisters.”

        A low thumping sound alerted the three sisters. They each got up from their resting places and headed for the window to see where it was coming from. The two twin sisters were nearly identical, with tall frames; they towered over Rose. The young girl, with her petite form, stood on her tippy-toes to peer over their shoulders, her book still in hand.

        Across the green front lawn, a dull grey stallion broke through the forest trees, heading down the pebbled lane.

        With a slight tremble in her voice, Hattie cried: “Oh, it's Father!”

        Father. The scent of crushed cigars, the feel of old books that were falling apart at the hem, and the sound of last night’s crackling fire.

        “Have you mustered up the courage to speak with him? Or are your nerves far too great?” Minnie teased.

        Hattie shoved her sister, then backed up as Minnie turned about to deliver a return blow. 

        Rose remained at the window, her eyes trailing along with the trek of the stallion. She leaned over, dropped her book on the windowpane, and placed her hands on top of it. “Please bring good news,” she whispered, trying to read her father’s face as he came into view. 

        The stallion’s gallop slowed into a canter as he neared the manor, before disappearing off to the side of the windowpane, out of view. There was the clopping sound of the horse’s hooves as he slowed once more—first into a trot, and then a walk. 

        Pushing back against the windowpane, Rose lifted herself and then grabbed hold of her book. She moved on through the gathering room, past her quarreling sisters, and out the door. She made headway into the Grand Hall, which was not so grand anymore. Empty spaces, colorless squares where furniture had been, and holes in the wall were all that remained of a once-magnificent manor. 

        Soon, Minnie and Hattie found their way into the Grand Hall, still pushing and shoving one another. But Minnie broke apart from her twin and raced to the door as soon as she heard her father’s footsteps climbing the stairs. The woman grabbed hold of her skirts, lifting them as she opened the door.

        Sunlight burst in and the dark figure of a man stood in the doorway. He took a few steps forward, before announcing: “Hello, my girls!” in a boisterous tone. 

        Minnie squealed with delight, throwing her arms about her father’s shoulders.

        The man patted his daughter on the shoulder, a bit taken aback by the sudden embrace. “Now, now, Minerva—”

        Minerva. The sickening sweetness of honey, and the cakey feel of rouge on one’s cheeks.

        “—I haven't been gone for that long. What is all this affection for?” he laughed heartily, the sound erupting from his belly.

        Minnie pulled away. “Oh, nothing, Father. I’m just so glad to see you.” She smiled with her hands behind her back, a twinkle in her emerald green eyes. 

        “You cannot fool me, girl. I’m your father after all. You want something, don’t you?” he asked, a wise, knowing look in his eye. 

        Minnie grinned, biting down on her lip. “Fine, you’ve figured me out,” she said, looking behind her and catching a glimpse of her twin sister in the corner of her eye. The woman then turned back around to face her father, with a mischievous gleam in her eyes. “Actually… I believe Hattie wants to have a private audience with you first, Father.”

        Hattie’s jaw fell to the floor. “I— Erm…” she stammered, before shooting a glare at her twin. “Minnie!”

        The woman shrugged. “You said you wanted to speak with him as soon as he arrived home, so here’s your chance.”

        “Well, I—” Hattie cleared her throat, perplexed. “I— Erm…”

        Father stopped the woman before she could go any further, putting his hand out. “Excuse me, Henrietta—”

        Henrietta. A name that has to put in an effort at being beautiful and feminine. If only it were “Etta” alone without “Henri”.

        “—but it will have to wait for another time. I wish to have a private audience with your sister.” His eyes fell on Rose. 

        The young girl froze, clenching the spine of her book. Her cheeks flushed. 

        Minnie and Hattie gazed at one another, their brows arched. They both crossed their arms at the same time.

        “Come, we have important matters to discuss,” Father said, perspiration forming at his brow. The man took his hat off and guided Rose into the gathering room, shutting the door behind him. 

        Rose took deep breaths as she slid around the gathering room. It felt as though she were walking through a dream, and she couldn’t quite feel her legs as they moved. She couldn’t quite feel anything. But eventually, the girl found her chair, and she set herself into it. 

        The old man plodded across the room until he plopped down into a larger, bulkier chair next to her round, petite one. He let out a hefty sigh and rubbed his lower back. “Ach, these old aching bones!” he cried, then laughed, teasing the girl. "It's been hurting all day long!"

        Rose giggled, letting some of the tension out of her fingers. She loosened the grip on her book. “Oh, Father, surely you are not hurting that bad, or you wouldn’t have been out journeying today!” she played.

        “An observant girl, you are, my Darling Lizzie Rose.”

        Darling Lizzie Rose. The essences of beauty, childhood, and love all wrapped into one single name. It tasted like a buttery, flakey croissant fresh out of the fiery oven, melting in Rose’s mind.

        The old man’s eyes shone at the magnificent creature he had sired. But that smile and the beam in his eyes fell away, and the wrinkle lines about his brow and temple reappeared. 

        “What’s wrong, Father?” the girl questioned, leaning forward. Her chair creaked.

        The old man bit the inside of his cheek, then reached his large, weathered thumb and forefinger to his temple, rubbing. “Oh, my daughter, you know I would never force you to do something with which you are in disagreement.”

        Rose felt a knot twist in her stomach, as though she was being eaten from the inside. “Of course, Father. I know,” she said, her blue eyes blank and devoid of emotion.

        He winced, his teeth grinding together. “That is why this decision is so difficult for me to make, my Lizzie Rose,” he said. “I do not wish to bring you unhappiness.”

        Rose sighed, shaking her head. “Father, you have always arranged for everything to be of my best interest. And, I’m sure, whatever it is that troubles you so, will be beneficial for my well-being.” 

        The girl smiled reassuringly at the old man, and he perked. “You're absolutely right, Lizzie Rose. And, if you are not in agreement with this, I am not forcing you to do so by all means. It is your choice.” 

        Choice. The word sounded so lovely, so near and yet so far away—dreamlike. But surely it was a curse. She didn't even know what choice was to be made, yet she felt already as though this was the end of her freedom in life. 

        “Alright, Father, I am ready. What is it you wish to ask of me?”

        His brows lifted, and the man’s dusky brown eyes flew about the room. “Oh, my Darling Lizzie Rose,” he said, choking on his words, “I know that you are not wishing to be married—especially to someone whom you have never met—but… might you consider a union with the baron?”

        The baron. People whispering in the town square. Flashes of lightning that might have been evil spirits. And a black castle on top of a hill Rose had only seen in her nightmares. 

        Whispers sounded from behind the door, then shushing noises. The old man squinted in the direction of the noise, then faced his youngest daughter again, whose face had turned a sickening white—the color of frozen lakes covered in snow, with the souls of fish trapped inside for the winter.

        “Oh, he’s quite an agreeable man, my daughter, with many notable accomplishments. Although I haven’t seen him, I’ve heard quite a few things about him from his mother, and you know what a lovely woman the baroness is…”

        The baroness. Round, like the faces of women in paintings. A familiar face, but one Rose would have to squint at to be sure it was her in a crowd.

        “Yes, I know…” Rose said, looking down at her book, running her thumb over the title. Her brows twisted together.  “But I don’t understand, Father. Why would such an accomplished gentleman—a baron, no doubt—want me for a wife? Isn’t he already engaged anyhow?”

        The old man glanced downward and let out a small, hesitant laugh. “Well, about that, dear, you see, the engagement has been called off.” 

        Rose gasped. “But why?”

        “I’m not sure I know the details of that, but…” He looked off into the distance, the wrinkles on his forehead lengthening. “The old baroness is in poor health, daughter. She wants to see her son married before her time comes.”

        Rose shivered, her eyes widening. “I didn’t know she was in poor health…”

        “I didn’t either until our visit today.” He sighed. “This is the only option, so she told me.” The old man laughed suddenly, his worn teeth sticking out of his mouth. “You know, she always found you very agreeable, the most agreeable of all eligible maidens in the village.” 

        Rose remained frozen in the ice.

        His smile fell and he cleared his throat. “My Darling Lizzie Rose,” he took hold of her cold hands, “the baroness has made a plan for me to earn the title of a gentleman if you agree to marry her son. Just think: I am to become a gentleman, and you, a baroness.” He patted her hand, hoping to lift her face with his eyes, but alas, he could not. “I know this is all so sudden, darling, but this could be the only chance we have,” he pleaded. “The baroness knows our situation and is willing to help.”

        Rose ducked her head, and small, fiery red curls fell out of her updo, cascading over her eyes. “Father, you know I would do anything to save us. Even sell all of my books and paintings if I had to.”

        “I would never let you do such a thing. They mean so much to you. Besides," he leaned in closely, whispering, "those don’t cost even half the fortune of your sisters’ wardrobes.” He winked.

        Rose grinned slightly, peering off to the side. “Oh, Father, you’re so good to me. And… Thank you for allowing me to decide on my own what is to be done.” 

        “Of course, darling,” he said. “Do you need some time to decide?”

        Rose looked up at her father and noted his kind smile, but his lips quivered and there were tired wrinkles around his eyes. She then turned her head to face the door. The shadows of her sisters’ feet were under it. 

        Rose winced, clenching her jaw. “I... have heard the tales about him,” she whispered, closing her eyes.

        “So have I, my Darling Lizzie Rose,” he said, his voice deep and grave. “That is my only concern, that you will be unhappy with his outward form. But, my daughter, I have inquired and inquired, and still, the baroness will say nothing, only changing the subject to brag on his character.”

        Lifting her head, Rose looked her father in the eye. She gripped his hands. “Well, I’ve never been one to judge someone by their appearance… and who knows? He may be comely after all.” She breathed in deep, her chest and neck straightening up. “But, if he is of good character and willing to help us… then I shall have no choice but to marry His Lordship.”

        His Lordship. A title as tall as God. Always watchful. He had surely known since the time of Rose’s birth that she was to become his bride.

Chapter Text

The stench of death hovered in the air. It was the rubbery scent of sickness; the droopy feel of old, worn-out flesh; and the sound of someone spraying womanly perfumes, attempting to mask the inevitable. 

        Beast picked apart every minute scent that emitted from his mother’s room—from the doctor’s heavy cologne, to the musk on the old bed, to his mother’s final rotten breaths. His wolf-like ears pricked, twisting back-and-forth at each whisper that took place between the doctor and his mother. 

        Servants shuffled in and out, their faces drawn and gaunt—long and hung like a wrung-out rag. 

        “How is she?” Beast asked.

        The servants only shook their heads in response, carrying out bloodied towels to be washed.

        He sighed, dropping his covered head into his gloves. A large piece of black fabric draped over his head, but he could still see through it.

        The sad, shuffling footsteps of the doctor echoed out of the room. Beast lifted his head, and through the black fabric, he saw the outline of the doctor in white. 

        “She’s not well, Your Lordship,” the doctor said, not looking at the Beast, but instead keeping his eyes on the floor. “I would begin preparations for her funeral. Send immediate notice to friends and family.” 

        “Is there anything that can be done?” Beast questioned, a desperation in his eyes that was concealed by the fabric.

        “I’m afraid not. The illness spread too quickly, and her old body cannot handle it.”

        “But she was walking and talking last night… I do not understand,” Beast said.

        “As I said, the illness spread quickly. It’s possible that she was also hiding how she truly felt from you so that you wouldn’t be worried.”

        Beast’s head dropped again, but he let out a small laugh. “That is highly probable.”

        The doctor backed up at the sound of the laugh—the almost-human sound. “M-may I be of any more assistance, Your Lordship?” He bowed, his legs shaking.

        “No, thank you, doctor.” The Beast rose from his desk chair, growing taller by the second. He cast a long shadow over the doctor. 

        The Beast reached out his gloved paw; the doctor inched his fingers forward, and hesitantly shook it. The small man practically sprinted out of the room, darting down the stairways of the castle. 

        Once the doctor was out of earshot, the Beast took in a deep breath and pulled the black fabric over his head. It got caught on his curved horns once, but he twisted it off of them. He blinked his big, round eyes, adjusting them to the candlelight. Everything was so much clearer, and a maroon hue fell over the room. 

        The Beast then pulled off his gloves and took the custom-made boots off of his hind legs. “Finally,” he laughed, in a haughty, sarcastic tone. “Free from the constraints of humanity.” He brushed his padded paws across his black suit. “Well, mostly.”

        Suddenly, the Beast’s smile faded as he peered into the dark room. He pricked his ears forward, listening as his mother heaved to get a breath. It sounded like the dying engine of an old train, wheezing to turn the wheels even once. 

        “Mother?” he spoke as he pressed against the door with his paw. 

        “Vicky...” her crackly voice sounded. “Oh, my dear son, come in, come in.” 

        Beast took a few steps forward, focusing on the window that led to the lively outside world—where he longed to be. Instead, he had to be in the room of death. Finally, his eyes landed on her canopy bed and her pale figure lying underneath the covers. He froze. She was the same white as the sheets.

        “Oh, don’t be frightened, Vicky. It’s just your old, dying mother,” she joked, letting out a cough. Her face sank into the pillow, practically becoming one with it. The old woman’s eyelids drooped over her eyes like the fabric draping over the canopy. And her silvery hair was pulled around, flowing over her shoulders, straight as a board. 

        “Of course, mother,” Beast said, hunching his shoulders, his bison-like back and chest protruding. 

        “Vicky, won’t you come closer?” The woman reached out a shaky, veined hand. She patted a small chair beside her bed; the doctor’s scent was still on it.

        Beast gulped and then crept forward. He reached the chair and eased himself down into it; the piece of furniture croaked under his weight. 

        “There now, I can see you better.” The old woman smiled, and although her face was dry and cracked, wetness formed in her eyes at the sight of her son. 

        Beast hunched over, his paws clasped together. He winced under the weight of her gaze. “I’m sorry, mother,” he said. 

        “For what, dear?”

        “For…“ He choked, turning his face away from her, leaning over. “For not being what you want me to be.”

        The old woman sighed, staring up at the ceiling. She pressed her palms together. “Now, Victor, you know that there is still time for you to fix all that,” she said matter-of-factly. “It is your choice as to whether or not you grant your mother her dying wish.”

        Beast cupped his face in his paws and his elbows rested on his knees. “I do not want to marry her…” he spoke, his shoulders shaking with indignance. “I do not want to marry, let alone be acquainted with, someone who speaks such dastardly things about me behind my back.”

        “You’ve never even met the girl face-to-face. You don’t know what she’s like," she said dismissively.

        “When she visited the castle, I heard and saw enough from behind the shadows to know what she was like.”

        “I don’t like that you are spying on houseguests, Victor.”

        “It’s the only way to truly get to know people when I can’t show myself to them.”

        The baroness’s chest rose. She flared her nostrils before calming down again. Her eyes fell to the bedsheets. “Well, either way, you will not be marrying her.”

        Beast’s head shot up. His eyes dilated as he focused on his mother’s emotionless face. “What?”

        “You’ll not be marrying her. I called the engagement off.”

        “I… I don’t understand.” He ran his claws through his fur. “Why?”

        “Because I knew you would both be unhappy,” she said. “That engagement was decided long ago, years before I discovered her character. Although I think she’s a fine lady, I do not think she could handle knowing that her fiancé is… well, in a state such as yours.” The baroness scoffed. “She could hardly handle me telling her that you were… deformed. And then the next thing I know, everyone in town believes you’re deformed. I won’t have my son wedded to a gossip. I won’t.” She took in a deep breath, shutting her eyes. “I’ve found you a more suitable prospect in marriage anyway.”

        Beast’s breaths ceased. His ears turned down, falling against his large head and sinking into his fur. Everything in him stopped. “To whom?” he asked, his bass voice echoing through the bed-chamber. 

        The baroness grinned, some color returning to her face. “You remember Mr. Bourne, don’t you? The merchant who once sold textiles to the castle and now has fallen into immense debt?”

        Beast nodded, his hazel eyes pleading with his mother’s blue ones.

        “Well,” the old woman extended her veiny hand once more, taking her son’s padded paw, “his youngest daughter, Miss Elizabeth Bourne, is of the marrying age now.” She sighed, smiling and turning over. The woman cupped her son’s furry cheeks with her other hand. Looking into his eyes, she said, “I had a private audience with Mr. Bourne yesterday, and he has agreed to give his daughter’s hand to you.”

        A wildfire lit in Beast’s chest. His eyes widened, and their usual forest greens and browns suddenly became consumed in red. He snarled, his nose wrinkling. A growl emitted from his throat. 

        “Now, now, Victor, don’t act like that. You’re behaving like a child,” his mother snapped. Her jaws clenched together, and her worn-out teeth ground against one another. “Miss Bourne is a perfectly agreeable lady. I think it will be a good match. Not only is she the most beautiful girl in town, but she is also well-mannered and unlikely to make a scene once she discovers your state. I’m sure it will be a most happy union.” 

        The baroness shut her eyes, withdrew her hands from her son, and crossed her arms. 

        The wildfire in Beast’s chest subsided, and all that was left were little pockets of smoke. He thought to himself for a moment, pondering over the situation.

        Miss Elizabeth Bourne. No doubt the most beautiful girl in town. Every eligible man with a respectable fortune had his eyes on her. At least, that is what Beast had heard from his mother. She had visited the castle once or twice with her father and other siblings, and Beast had sensed them from the shadows: up in the rafters, wrapped up in curtains, behind closed doors. He remembered only a few things about her though: her fiery red hair, like the dying flames of sunset, an explosion in the sky. It curled on top of her head, twirling into an updo. And then he remembered how small she was, compared to the rest of her family. No other scents or sounds came to mind. 

        The most beautiful, demure, agreeable girl in town… engaged to a beast. How tragic. How funny. Hopefully, she would react the same as his old fiancée had upon learning he was “deformed.”

        “Does she think I am deformed?” Beast grunted.

        “I’m sure she’s heard the tales, but I did not explicitly tell her father anything regarding your appearance.”

        Beast narrowed his eyes. “And he still agreed?” 

        The baroness shrugged. “Desperate men do not care if their daughter is married to a beast, as long as he is a wealthy beast.” She sank back into her pillows and exhaled deeply, raising one of her palms to her forehead. 

        Beast’s large brows furrowed together; his eyes flew across the room, and then back to his mother. He fumbled with his words for a moment before sputtering: “A merchant’s daughter? H-how in the world do you think that will be perceived? A baron marrying the daughter of a penniless merchant?”

        “I thought you did not care about what society thinks, Victor.”

        Beast snorted in response.

        The baroness laughed, then coughed. “I’m afraid no excuses will be able to break this union, my son. The deal has already been made. Besides, I have decided to grant Mr. Bourne a hefty sum of money so that he will be penniless no longer. He will also receive the title of a gentleman so that it will be a more balanced union. So, there, you’re not marrying the daughter of a penniless merchant, but the daughter of a gentleman with a respectable amount of money.” She sighed. “I suppose the only thing now that could withhold this marriage would be that Miss Bourne turns down the offer, which I doubt she will.” 

        The fire in Beast’s eyes died. It was useless. He looked at his mother and everything in him stopped working. 

        The baroness shut her eyes, her chest rising and falling in short sputters. “I’m so tired, Vicky…”

        “I know, mother,” Beast said, suddenly focusing on her and wrapping his paw around her hand. 

        “I wish I could live to see you become a man. I so wanted to meet my grandchildren.” The strength of her voice faded, like an orchestra playing in a ballroom far far away. “This is your last chance to become human, my son. Please take it before I pass.”

        Beast winced, his typical strength and aura failing. “Mother, you know I don’t want to be a man.”

        Tears welled up in her eyes and her face distorted as she tried to withhold them. Wrinkles lined her cheeks. “But there are so many beautiful things in life, Victor,” she cried. “You will miss them and I don’t want that for you, my son.” She caught a couple of breaths before continuing: “One day, long after I have passed, you will regret not taking this chance. You will want to be a human when it is far too late. Please, just listen to your mother.” 

        Beast rubbed the back of his neck, his eyes darting about the room. He turned his head back-and-forth, from the small, dying frame of his mother, to the window which led to the outside world. Rain pelted against the window, and the lush, green forest called to him, pleaded for him, sang to him like sirens. The outside world was the ocean and this castle was his ship. But he was not a sailor. He was a sea monster. He belonged in the sea. With its rip-roaring currents and unpredictability and secrets that only sea creatures know.

        “Vicky…” the voice of the old woman called to him. 

        He faced his mother once more. “Yes?”

        “Please… for your dear old mother, marry the girl.” She fought to keep her eyes open. 

        “Mother, I…”

        “Victor, you must. I know you have been a beast your whole life… but there is something greater waiting for you. Some destiny which you do not yet understand.” Her grip on his paw loosened ever so slightly. “It’s what your father would have wanted…”

        Beast’s eyes widened and his breaths quickened at the mention of that man. He laid his head down on her bed, gripping her hand. “Mother, please, don’t make me do this.” His voice rose in pitch as he begged. 

        The wet warmness of his words fell over the baroness, but she remained dry underneath them, like a corpse. Her head tilted back.

        “Miss Bourne is an agreeable woman. She will make a wonderful bride for my boy,” she said, almost as if she were hallucinating or just waking from a dream. With all of her remaining strength, the old woman patted her son’s paw. 

        “Mother… who are you speaking to? Mother?”

        “Yes, she will make a lovely wife. And a wonderful mother.” Her eyes remained closed as she drifted off somewhere else, somewhere beyond the room.

        “Mother?” Beast leaned over, his heart racing as though he were chasing an animal in the forest. “Mother!”

        “My boy… will finally be… human.” 

        The last words were hardly a whisper, barely an echo. They seemed to be coming from another world, another life, another person. A slight smile formed at the edge of her lips, and the woman’s wrinkles melted away as she drifted into a slumber. Her chest rose and fell, slowly, steadily. Pink apples blossomed in her cheeks for only a second, before falling away and returning to the color of a corpse.

Chapter Text

The sound of horse hooves clopping against pebbles echoed throughout the manor. Rose flinched, setting her book down. She turned her head to face the window. 

        Bright white stallions with glittering gold reins pulled a silvery carriage; it could have been made of diamonds with how it twinkled in the sun. A short, plump man sat atop it, ushering the horses onward. The picture was so pretty. It didn’t seem fitting that such a splendid carriage should roll up the driveway to her dilapidated manor.

        “Here comes your chariot, Lizzie!” sounded the booming voice of her brother from the Grand Hall.

        Rose closed her book and tucked a hair behind her ear. “Thank you, Ferguson.”

         Ferguson. A name that sounded like the trumpeting of a horn during a fox hunt. It had the rumbling feel of horse hooves as they pounded into the ground. And the hearty taste of fresh meat.

        He bounded into the gathering room, his boots clambering against the floors. “Well, what’re you waiting for? Come on!” 

        Rose smiled, her eyes falling to the floor. “Oh, Ferguson, I’m so nervous.” The girl shakily rose out of her chair—her favorite spot in the entire manor—and laid her book down on the table. She decided that she didn’t necessarily need to escape into a fantasy world anymore, not when her life was about to begin.

        “I can’t believe you’re getting married already—and before me!” Ferguson shouted, his ruddy face beaming. 

        “Well, it’s different for bachelors like us, don’t you know?” Rose’s other brother, Harrison, spoke from behind the large frame of Ferguson. The smaller man leaned against the doorframe leading into the gathering room. 

        “Ah, there you are!” Ferguson said, slapping a hairy hand across his brother’s back. He then laughed a deep belly laugh. “You know, you’ll probably get married last out of all of us, Harrison.”

         Harrison. Rose saw a sly, furry tomcat sneaking about the manor whenever she heard that name. Its paw prints steeped in the mud.

        Harrison smirked, his trim black mustache curling into his dimpled cheeks. “I’m not so sure, Ferguson,” he said, peeling his brother’s hand from his frame. “After all, which would the ladies prefer: a suave gentleman, or a boisterous buccaneer?” 

        “Well, personally I’d go for the buccaneer myself if I were a lady,” Ferguson boasted, putting his hands in his pockets. 

        Harrison frowned. “You would.”

        Rose shook her head at the folly of her brothers’, grinning. “Now, now, can you both at least quit your qualms for one day?” She walked past the small, slender build of Harrison and then took her other brother’s arm. “Won’t you walk me out, Ferguson?”

        Putting on an air of someone in the ranks of royalty, Ferguson said in an unusually high-pitched voice, “I’d be delighted, mademoiselle.”

        Rose giggled, leaning into his muscular forearm.

        Harrison rolled his eyes, then followed as his siblings made their way to the front door. 

        The sun broke through the tree limbs that shadowed the manor. Rose squinted, her eyes following the carriage as it drew nearer. They walked down the front steps together.

        “Just remember, Lizzie, if he does not treat you in the manner with which you ought to be treated, you just let your ole brother Ferguson know, and I’ll bring my rifle—”

        “I’m not sure that will be necessary, Ferguson,” Rose said, giggling. “My goodness. You are so protective of me.”

        “It’s my job, my duty.” He laughed.

        Rose smiled slightly, but it soon faded. “What if we aren’t compatible, Ferguson?” she said, looking off into the distance.

        Her brother grinned, his yellow-ish teeth glinting in the sunlight. “Now, now, Lizzie, what man in his right mind wouldn’t love to have you as his beautiful bride?”

        “Oh, Ferguson, you’ve always been so kind to me. But I’m afraid my ‘beauty’ alone will not a good wife make.” 

        “But you have so many other good qualities too!” He faced her, and she looked into his muddy brown eyes. “You’re intelligent, you’ve good conversational skills, and you’re understanding.”

        “But I don’t know how to run a house, nor do I know the duties of a baroness.”

        “I’m sure someone will help you along, Lizzie. The baroness will be beside you throughout this entire process. Out of all of the maidens in the village, she chose you to take her place. There is a reason for that, you know.”

        “And what is that?”

        “Well…” he faltered. “I’m not exactly sure. Perhaps you can ask her when you arrive.”

        Rose nodded her head, her eyes falling away from her brother. The carriage closed in on her. This was it. With each step the horses made, the sooner her fate was to be sealed.

        The front door creaked open. Father, Minnie, and Hattie soon came bounding down the steps to send Rose off. 

        “Oh, my daughter.” Father opened his arms wide. “What an exciting day this is. The day of your betrothal! I didn’t think it would come so soon.” He chuckled, taking his handkerchief and wiping away a tear from his eye.

        “Father, don’t cry.” Rose let go of Ferguson and headed toward her father, embracing him. “I’ll visit often. I promise.”

        “Are you sure this is what you want?” he asked, pulling away from the embrace and holding her hands. His dark eyes searched her icy blue ones for the truth.

        Rose forced a small smile. “Yes, Father. I’m certain.”

        “Alright then.” He laughed, holding back more tears. “I wish you well, my daughter. My Darling Lizzie Rose.” The old man clasped her hands tightly, but his eyes darted away from hers, looking off into the front lawn.

        Rose spun around, her pale blue gown swirling with the wind. 

        The coachman had ordered the horses to a halt and then plopped down out of his seat. He took a few steps forward, bowing in front of the family. They bowed in return. When he picked his head back up, he eyed Rose. 

        “Miss Elizabeth Bourne, I presume?”

         Miss Elizabeth Bourne. There was something so gentle, so formal, so docile about this name. Yet at the same time, it was not Rose. It was everything she was to the public, to society, and yet it was not her at all. It missed her flowery essence. It forgot life and love. The life and love that only the name “Rose” possesses.

        “Yessir,” she responded, her stomach twisting into knots. “And I presume you are here to take me to… Ashworth Castle.” The words tasted like a poisoned apple on her tongue. 

        “But of course,” he said, beaming. The coachman backed up and opened the silvery carriage door, gesturing for her to enter. “His Lordship awaits.”

        The girl spun about, the color draining from her rosy cheeks; a look of horror spread across her face. 

        Her eyes fell to her sisters, who were fighting back snickers. At once, Minnie and Hattie ceased the inappropriate behavior and pretended to be crying instead.

        “Oh, Lizzie, my little sister!” Minnie wailed. “I can’t believe you are leaving us to become a baroness. We will miss you so.” She ran forth to embrace her sister.

        Rose smiled, gently petting Minnie’s soft brunette curls.

        Hattie followed in her twin’s footsteps, crying out words of nonsense. 

        Rose took their hands.”Thank you both. I am truly glad to have such wonderful, kind, caring sisters.” She winced, forcing a smile. 

        “Of course,” they replied in unison. 

        The girl backed up, almost tripping over a rock, but her father caught her. “Be careful, my Darling Lizzie Rose,” he said.

        “I will, Father.”

        She turned around, facing her brothers. “Harrison, Ferguson, thank you for being such strong and loving brothers. I couldn’t have asked for a better family.” 

        She kissed them both on the cheek. Ferguson turned a deep, ruddy red, chuckling, while Harrison remained the same pale gray color. There was a slight tilt upward at his lips, however. 

        Rose waved goodbye. She then took the coachman’s hand as he guided her up the carriage’s steps. As she entered it, everything was a diamond-encrusted blur. Her head felt foggy; everything was much too bright. But, oh, it was beautiful. A beautiful brightness.

        The coachman flapped the reins and the horses took off. Rose jolted forward. But as they rode off, the girl swore she heard a mocking laugh coming from one of her sisters, and then the words: “I bet those tales about him are true.” 

◜❦︎◞

        The name Ashworth tasted like hemlock on Rose’s tongue. So, surely, Ashworth Castle would be the dark, gloomy place of her nightmares. It would look just like it tasted. Even though she had been there years before, she couldn’t quite remember how it looked. Her memories faded away as her fears came forth. 

        But as the carriage broke through the forest, leading up to the castle on the tip-top of the mountain, something in Rose stirred. The forest wasn’t black, as she had imagined. It was a vibrant green, and it had a little brook that led up to the gardens of the estate. Everywhere, birds chirped and sang love songs to one another. Pretty spring flowers fell throughout the air, dancing in the sunlight that broke through the tree limbs. Fawn-colored deer grazed on some wildflowers next to the stream, but they soon bounded away into the thicket upon noticing the horses and carriage. 

        And then, as she drew nearer to the castle, Rose’s heart stopped. It was… it was the castle of her dreams—not her nightmares. Not a slimy gray color with ooze seeping out of the cracks on the walls and vines swirling up about the sides. But rather, the castle was a dazzling, shimmering white, with silvery details. Suddenly, memories of the castle flooded in, and the taste of the name “Ashworth” altered on her tongue. Initially bitter, with a sweet aftertaste. Like tart blackberry pie.

        Her eyes fell to the gardens. Fountains with mermaids and fish and beautiful men and women spouted out water that looked like diamonds in the noon sun. There were freshly trimmed bushes everywhere; most were just a dark green, but some bore dark red roses. That deep, romantic red coloring was something she always admired about the flower. Neither pink, nor white, nor yellow roses could compare to that shade of red: The color of love and life itself. 

        Surely, if he owned such an arresting, dazzling estate, how could Lord Ashworth not himself be beautiful? 

        Rose leaned back in her plush seat. She felt the knots in her stomach unwind for the first time that day. She breathed in deep, and the fresh air was delightful and pleasing to her soul—as if the wind were saying: “Welcome home, Rose.”

        “Welcome to Ashworth Castle, Miss Bourne,” the coachman said, enthusiastic. 

        Rose leaned forward, widening her eyes. “Thank you, sir. I appreciate your escorting me here.”

        “Of course, ma’am.” He pulled in the reins, and the horses whinnied, coming to a halt.

        The coachman stepped down and the next thing she knew, Rose’s door was opening. Green grass, the bright blue sky, and tall trees greeted her. She crawled out, taking the coachman’s hand while doing so. 

        Another man—tall and lanky and pigeon-toed—waited for her at the side of the carriage. He bowed. “I don’t believe you remember me at all. You were twelve or thirteen the last time we saw each other, Miss Bourne. What a lovely lady you’ve become.” 

        Rose shook her head, smiling. “I’m afraid I don’t remember you, sir. My apologies.” 

        “Well, that’s alright.” He made a clicking noise with his tongue. “Anyhow, come, miss. Let us get you inside before that devilish sun does any damage to your fair skin,” he said, grinning and holding his arm out for her to take. 

        Rose ran her hands over her thin arms, feeling their softness. They were translucent, the colors of ripples in lakes that have been kissed by the sun. Shimmering white. Baby freckles, barely there, had popped up on her arms already. It wasn’t even two weeks into spring.

        The man cleared his throat, and Rose beamed up at him. She pranced over to his side, curtseying quickly before taking his arm. They strolled along, walking through a narrow path in the gardens that led directly to the castle entrance. 

        “Allow me to introduce myself, Miss Bourne. I am the Head of Household, Frederick Irving.”

        Frederick Irving. It was a name that could belong to some great novelist. Someone who writes adventure novels because they wish they could see the world but have no traveling abilities whatsoever—destined to only write about what they wish they could see. The echo of the name as it sounded through the gardens was like the fading voice of an old opera singer. 

         You may call me Mr. Irving if you’d like. Although I’m sure the closer we become, the more you might feel the slightest irk to call me Freddie.”

         Freddie. The dusty, familiar feel of an old book, an old friend. With flaps on the page corners from folding them down as placeholders, and grooves and fingerprints all over the cover.

        Suddenly, Rose felt as if she remembered him. Not because of his looks, nor his voice, but because of the sobriquet. But she couldn’t bring herself to say it when it felt so informal to do so. “I’m sure one day I will have the urge to call you that, Mr. Irving.”

        He winked, his friendly, playful old eyes meeting her youthful, icy blue ones. His pepper hair toppled over onto his wrinkled forehead, sort of like a grandfather. 

        As they traveled through the extensive garden, which was becoming larger than Rose thought it would be, something caught her eye. On the other side of the castle, hiding behind some bushes, a few carriages had been parked. But one, in particular, caught her eye. It was not the deliciously-decorated carriage that had carried her to the castle, but a plain one. Stale white. Like a piece of parchment paper. 

        Rose squinted; the carriage seemed to be from somewhere in the past, somewhere from her early adolescence. She had seen it before.

        “Excuse me, Mr. Irving.”

        “Ah, yes, ma’am?” He leaned in, his hunched back drooping forward.

        “What might that carriage over there be? The plain one.”

        He glanced at it momentarily, before blinking and returning his gaze to the path in front of him. The man cleared his throat and his happy demeanor fell away. “Ah… that would be the doctor.”

         The doctor. Shuffling feet. A white coat. Empty hallways. Slamming doors. A white carriage. Whispers. Bland, rotten food. Green mold on cheese. Death and decay. 

        Rose felt the life as it left her body, but she shook the past away and focused on the dark green bushes around her instead. She focused on life. 

        “Who is unwell, if you don’t mind my inquiry?” she asked, although the girl had her premonitions.

        “The baroness, ma’am.” The old man’s head fell. “She has drifted off into a deep slumber, and is not seeming to wake up.”

        Rose’s thin eyebrows furrowed together. “My condolences, Mr. Irving. She was a wonderful lady.” She sighed, her head dipping. “I—I wanted to see her one last time before she passed.”

        “I’m afraid that will not happen, my dear. The doctor says it is very unlikely she will wake. Only close friends, family, and servants are allowed to visit anyway. Those other carriages you saw belong to them. Although…” he thought for a moment, his forehead wrinkling and his chapped lips pursing together, “you are marrying His Lordship, aren’t you? Perhaps the doctor will make an exception for you.”

        “Oh, no, Mr. Irving. I wouldn’t want to spoil something so intimate. I hardly knew Her Ladyship. I would rather her final moments be spent with loved ones, instead of having to make time for me, too.”

        He smiled, looking at the girl. “You are very considerate, Miss Bourne.” He chuckled. “I think I understand now why Her Ladyship chose you to take her place.” 

        Rose nodded her head awkwardly, hesitantly. “Thank you, Mr. Irving.” 

        They walked in silence for a few moments, soon reaching the entrance of the castle. Mr. Irving knocked on the tall doors that stretched up high and long—many meters in the air—and not long after, a butler opened them from the inside. The man bowed, then allowed the pair to come in. 

        Her eyes flitting around every which way, Rose took in the grandeur of the inside of the castle. Not even the Grand Hall of her manor in its by-gone glory days could hold a candle to the majesty of Ashworth Castle. The insides were all white marble, and porcelain structures of beautiful men and women lined the hallways. They could have been angels. It looked like what she had imagined heaven to be. The high ceilings seemed to stretch upwards forever, disappearing into fluffy clouds and blue sky. 

        Mr. Irving squeezed her hand, then patted it. 

        Rose’s eyes fell back down to earth. 

        “I’m afraid I have to go, Miss Bourne. But the Head Maid is here to assist you.” 

        He gestured toward a lady at the other end of the Grand Hall, around the same age as him. Her hands were wrapped around one another in front of her dress. It was a plain silvery outfit, with a white apron tied around the midriff. She was a little plump, like a plum.

        “Thank you so much, Mr. Irving,” Rose said. “I appreciate your kindness in welcoming me here.”

        “But, of course!” he responded, bowing, before walking away. 

        Rose’s eyes followed him up the stairwell that led to the upper quarters of the castle. But soon, the clickety clacks of the Head Maid’s heals captured the girl’s attention. She turned about and found the stone-cold eyes of the lady boring into her soul. The Head Maid’s nose stuck outward, like a woodpecker’s beak, but it was old and wrinkly, not sleek and shear like a beak. Rose wondered how the lady’s skin had not cracked open with how many wrinkles there were.

        “Good day, Miss Bourne,” the lady said in an old, grandmotherly accent, curtseying. Although she was a servant, she was a high-ranking one, and her accent reflected that. “I am the Head Maid, Mrs. Kensington.” 

        Mrs. Kensington. The name reminded Rose of the streets of London, and little courts where the wealthy lived. She heard the wobbling wheels of carriages as they rolled over cobblestones. One of the wheels on one of the carriages got stuck.  

        “How do you do, Mrs. Kensington?” Rose curtsied as well. 

        “Fine, thank you,” she said, sniffling, sucking air into her sharp, straight nose. “Now, why don’t we go into the gathering room and have a little chat, shall we?”

        “I’d be delighted.” 

        Rose followed the short, fat woman into the gathering room. They were roughly the same height, although Rose was a tiny bit shorter. 

        The room had a similar appearance to the Grand Hall—sporting the same colors and swirling designs on the walls and ceilings. However, it did not obtain any porcelain or marble structures; instead, silvery furniture was scattered about the room. Settees, sofas, and chairs.

        “Please, have a seat, Miss Bourne.” The Head Maid gestured for the girl to sit in a small, round chair. 

        Rose did as she was told.

        Mrs. Kensington set herself down in a larger chair across from Rose and then crossed her ankles together before dusting off her gown. “Now, Miss Bourne, I will try to make this short and succinct. I don’t believe in long, drawn-out conversations when such serious matters are at stake.”

        Rose felt her heart sink into her stomach. Suddenly, the white walls of the room seemed to fall away, sinking into the ground. This was no longer heaven, but hell. 

        “I understand, Mrs. Kensington,” she whispered, frozen. 

        “Good girl.” The old lady seemed to perk up a bit but in a prideful sort of way. “Do you know why Her Ladyship chose you to take her place, Miss Bourne?”

        “That almost seems like a rhetorical question with the manner you’re using,” Rose said, lifting a slender brow. 

        Mrs. Kensington shrugged, smirking.

        Rose’s eyes fell to the floor. “But, I am afraid… I am not sure. Some have told me it's my kindness and ability to care for others that drew Her Ladyship to me. However, I have a premonition that this is not so. I…” she locked her fingers together, “don’t feel so unique in my abilities. Yes, I do care a great deal for others but, there are much kinder and more considerate women out there who would make much finer baronesses.” Rose dropped her shoulders, sighing, before lifting her head again to the Head Maid.

        Mrs. Kensington had furrowed her brows, and her prideful demeanor melted away. “Well, I must say, that was quite a humble response. And you are correct. There is another reason as to why she has chosen you…”

        Hope arose in the girl’s chest. Her eyes twinkled in the sunlight that shone through the windows. 

        “As you have already stated, Miss Bourne, there are many other women out there who would have been more qualified to become baroness of this estate. For instance, the woman he was previously engaged to, Miss Greta Newall.”

         Miss Greta Newall. Rose could hardly taste the name, it was so bland. Like eating wood chips. Chewing on twigs.

        The girl leaned back in her chair and let out a huff of air. “So, if Her Ladyship thought Miss Newall was more apt to become baroness than I, why was the engagement broken off? If it is not my place to ask, feel free not to answer.”

        Mrs. Kensington shook her head. “No, it is your place to ask. You must know who you will be marrying.”

        Rose’s pupils shrunk, falling back into her head. “Of course.”

        “Miss Bourne,” the lady said, her strong gaze faltering, “there is something which you ought to know about your future husband.” 

        The girl clutched the arms of her chair, her nails digging into the fabric. She couldn’t help it and blurt out: “Is he…?”

        “Deformed?” Mrs. Kensington lifted her head and frowned. “That’s just a tale that’s been passed around. We had to tell Miss Newall something to ease her into the shock of her life.”

        Rose sat still, first keeping her eyes locked on Mrs. Kensington, but they soon darted to one side of the room and then the other. 

        “Miss Bourne,” the old lady leaned forward, “he’s not exactly deformed, but he’s also not entirely well-formed either.”

        “What’s that supposed to mean?” Rose said, shooting her neck upward. “Is he homely? Because I would never judge—”

        “No, no, no.” Mrs. Kensington waved her hands in front of the girl and shut her eyes. “Well, actually,” she opened them, “in a way, yes, I suppose. But we’ve grown so used to him I hardly seem to notice anymore. For the most part.”

        Perspiration rose on the girl’s neck. She felt herself shrinking into the chair, becoming one with it. Her legs molded together, she squeezed them so tightly to one another.

        “But, Miss Bourne,” the old lady said, “His Lordship does want to make sure you know that you have a choice—a say in the matter. You do not have to marry him if you do not wish.”

        Almost instantaneously, a greater terror came over Rose. The fear of the unknown, the fear of what her future husband might be, was frightful enough. But, even worse was that her Father remained in debt and had to sell their manor. Death and disease and decay… all because of her. It was too much to bear.

        “I have no choice but to marry him, Mrs. Kensington. I do not care what he looks like or whether or not his demeanor is pleasant, I must marry him either way.” Rose stared into the older lady’s eyes, breathing heavily. Almost appearing as if she were exhausted from nights of no sleep, there was an intense, fiery redness in the white of the girl’s eyes. A desperation. She was almost leaning over entirely, her stomach pressing into her lap. 

        Mrs. Kensington sighed heavily. “The reason that Her Ladyship believes you will be a better bride is that she thinks that you will be able to bear this news, Miss Bourne. She has deemed you a strong young woman, who will not judge people by their appearances, but by their character.”

        The redness faded in the girl’s eyes. They became watery.

        “I only hope she’s right.”

        Rose’s feet shifted.

        “Miss Bourne, you must know… His Lordship is… unhuman.”

        “U-unhu…?”

        “He is a… a beast.”

Chapter Text

Puffs of cigar smoke spiraled into the air, like drops of blood or wine seeping into water. Beast inhaled the tobacco and his eyes rolled back. 

        His first ever cigar had smelled just like his father—that nauseating stench. The same scent of rotting animals on the forest floor, and an old, fat man vomiting. But as he grew older, and his father died, the scent of cigars changed. Beast began to like the smell of animals on the forest floor—the smell of sudden and unforeseen opportunity, of blood. And he no longer sensed that old, fat man, but rather, someone young and innovative. Someone like Judas Morgan Chesterton.

        Chesterton twirled a cigar in-between his fingers, one leg crossed over the other, sitting upright in his chair. The man’s neat, trim hair toppled over nicely onto his forehead. It was a slick black color. Beast smelled the pomade. The pomade smelled almost the same as Chesterton’s dark brown suit. But the suit had a whiff of fresh apples on it. The man held a newspaper in his other hand, his eyes scouring over the tall paragraphs. Every now and then, the man brought the cigar to his lips, puffing out small circles of smoke. 

        “What’s the trouble today, Chesterton?” Beast asked, pointing his cigar at the newspaper.

        “Oh, mostly the same old things, Ashworth,” the man replied. He lifted his ocean-blue eyes from the papers and made eye contact with the beast. “There is one new headline, though, that I am particularly interested in. And you might be, too.”

        “Go on with it.”

        “A radical discovery in the science world.” Chesterton crushed his cigar then flipped the paper around, his long, slender finger pointing to a headline in big, black, bold letters:

DARWIN’S ON THE ORIGIN OF SPECIES CHALLENGES EVERYTHING KNOWN ABOUT THE HISTORY OF LIFE ON EARTH

        “On the Origin of Species? Is that a scientific article?” Beast asked, crushing his cigar and leaning forward. He clasped his paws together. 

        “No. A novel. Published just last November.” Chesterton read some more. His slender, oval-shaped face was focused, and wrinkles rose around his forehead and eyes. “They say that there are many who are skeptical of it, for it challenges not only previous scientific thought—but also religious belief as well.” 

        Beast tilted his head. “Really?” he said. “I must add it to my private collection then. What sort of discoveries has Darwin made?”

        “Well, for one…” Chesterton laughed and cleared his throat. “He states that man descended from apes. Not exactly ‘created’ in the image of God.”

        Beast remained silent. He crossed his large, muscular arms.

        “And you can only imagine how well that is going over with the devout.” Chesterton lifted a brow.

        Slightly smiling at the remark, Beast stood up, pacing toward the window. He folded his paws behind his back as his eyes followed along the trail that trekked from the castle gardens out into the forest. It led to the town, and then from there, one could take a train to London, where all news stemmed from. Where men sat about in rooms, smoking cigars—not unlike him and Chesterton—discussing scientific matters.

        “I wonder what those scientific gentlemen would think of me,” Beast said.

        “Well,” Chesterton’s eyes widened, “let’s just hope they never discover you. Don’t even think about it, Ashworth.”

        “They’d probably lock me in a cage, study me for a little bit, and then put me on display at some zoo. Or—for better or worse, depending on how you see things—they might just shoot me and then dissect my remains.” Beast turned, raising his paw and waving it about. He formed a museum in mid-air. “Soon, my skeletal remains, or my stuffed body, would be on display for all the world to see. They wouldn’t know where to group me when it came to taxonomy.” He chuckled. “Bison? Wolf? Bear? Lion? Ape? Man? A mixture of all of these? They would be so baffled.” Beast thought to himself for a moment and his face lit up. His rich hazel eyes dazzled in the sunlight, like the forest when it had rained and the shrubbery and leaves were all moist—and then the sun broke through the clouds and shone on all of them, accentuating their colors.

        But his grin faded away soon enough. The beast turned about.

        Chesterton made eye contact with him, curled up in his chair, a skeptical, confused look on his face. “I believe you are getting ahead of yourself, Ashworth,” he said slowly. 

        “Nonsense, Chesterton. I know exactly what they would do if they discovered me.” Beast laid his paws on his hips. “They would treat me just as any other beast or freak of nature. No matter how articulate or charming I can be.”

        His eyes widening more, Chesterton looked away. 

        “And that’s why I want to stay here. Alone. Secluded. Here, I am free to go about my business as I please. I can delve into the life of a man if I so desire, but I can also return to my natural ways whenever I want. I have no choice but to do so at night everhow.”

        Chesterton nodded his head. “I only hope it will remain that way, Ashworth. I don’t know what I’d do if you were discovered.” 

        “Ah, you’d go about life as usual. My younger brother would inherit this castle and title, and you’d still reside here with him as your companion. If I died, you’d visit my museum memorial. And if I lived, you’d visit my new abode in the London Zoo.”

        “I don’t appreciate your humor, Ashworth,” the man commented, clenching his jaw. “This is a grave matter, and you know it. Just imagine if Mrs. Kensington had, instead of telling her that you were deformed, told Miss Newall the truth?”

        “Miss Newall be damned, and truth be damned.” Beast walked away from the window, returning to his desk and taking a seat. He lit another cigar. 

        “Well, don’t come crying to me when the London Guard breaks into the castle upon the claims of a wild beast living inside.” The man leaned back in his seat, frowning. He flapped the newspaper and continued reading.

        “Oh, no, Chesterton.” Beast smirked, taking a puff. “When that moment comes, it is you who will be crying for me.”

        As if on command, a harrowing shriek traveled through the cracks in the castle walls, coming from somewhere beyond the master’s quarters. It was the high-pitched wail of a woman.

        “What a dreadful noise,” Beast said, pulling the cigar away from his lips. His wolf-like ears twitched around and around. But his face and composure remained practically the same.

        Chesterton arose, putting the newspaper down in his seat. He raised a finger to his mouth, perturbed. “Do you think it might have been… one of your family members? What if your mother—”

        “No, no, I didn’t recognize the voice,” Beast stated. 

        Chesterton rubbed his chin, then his face lit up. “It must be that young woman who entered the castle today!” he exclaimed. “Miss Bourne.”

        “Well, what the devil could she be wailing about?” said Beast, his cigar bouncing up-and-down in his lips as he spoke.

        The man turned his head slowly toward the beast, a frown upon his lips. He crossed his arms, tapped his foot, and cleared his throat. 

        “What?” Beast reared back, but then a new expression broke across his animalistic features. He laughed, the sound bouncing across the walls of the room. “Ah, yes. I forgot. For a woman, finding out that your prospective partner is not human can be quite an… unnerving realization.” He took the cigar out of his mouth, waving it about in the air triumphantly, like a flag. “Well, this is what we expected and wanted to occur. I can finally go on being a confirmed old bachelor, living my life in glorious… unaltered… peace.” He leaned back, propping his bushy, clawed feet up on the desk, and closing his eyes. 

        Chesterton sat back down, color returning to his cheeks. He laughed at his friend’s antics, then shouted: “Right you are! We shall both go on being confirmed old bachelors together.”

        Beast raised up his cigar as if raising a glass of champagne, and Chesterton folded his newspaper before lifting as well. They both made a toast in the air and laughed together. 

        Several moments of silence passed. No other wails had sounded.

        “I wonder what is happening now,” Chesterton asked. “What if we celebrated too early?”

        “Aren’t you reading your papers?” Beast asked, his arms folded, facing the window.

        “No. I can’t focus. Not when our very lives could be at stake.”

        Beast chuckled. “Trust me, Chesterton. Nothing’s going to happen.”

        “You say that, but you’re watching the window to see if she’s going to go running out.”

        “You don’t know what I’m watching.”

        “I know you, Ashworth. We might as well be brothers.” 

        Beast grinned, chewing on the cigar. “Just relax. If she runs out, the guards will catch her.”

        “I hope she doesn’t,” Chesterton admitted. “She seemed to be calm and collected this morning. At least, that's what I could tell from the window.”

        Beast’s eyes raced around the gardens, searching for movement. He tensed, his fangs sinking into the meat of the cigar, his claws puncturing the soft skin of the chair. “What else was she like?”

        Chesterton squinted, then quirked a brow at his friend. “What do you mean?”

        “I wasn’t watching her when she arrived. What was she like?” he asked, no expression in his voice.

        Blinking rapidly, the man stared, amazed at his friend. “You’ve never asked what someone was like before.”

        “Chesterton.”

        “Alright, alright.” He laid his newspaper on his lap. “Well, she was beautiful.” 

        Beast waited, but no more words came. “Surely, that’s not all.”

        “It’s not. I just wasn’t sure how to word this.” Chesterton winced, licking his lips, deep in thought. “She was… almost off in another world—like all she could think about were beautiful things and clouds. A faraway look.”

        Beast lifted a thick, dark brow. “One of those women? Like the ones in paintings?” He placed his paws under his chin, grunting.

        “Yes, that’s it!” Chesterton said. “Perhaps, if she stays, she could be one of your models for a new portrait!”

        “Hah!” Beast exclaimed. “You know I haven’t painted in years, Chesterton. Besides, a woman like that doesn’t want an artist like me.” He paused, smirking proudly. “My portraits are so unlike other artists' of our time. I show the grotesqueness of ugly people and the ugliness of beautiful people. Whereas other painters make ugly people beautiful and beautiful people god-like.”

        Chesterton frowned. “As if I had somehow forgotten your style,” he said, shaking his head. “You could at least open your mind a little. After all, we’re not entirely certain yet if Miss Bourne has made her decision.”

        “Oh, I’m certain, Chesterton,” Beast laughed, spinning his chair about and facing his friend, “that Miss Bourne wants absolutely nothing to do with me. I know her kind.”

        “You don’t.”

        “I do.” Beast spun back around.

        “B-but your mother.” Chesterton leaned forward, insistently. “She chose Miss Bourne for a reason.”

        Beast’s eyes rose, from the windowsill to the sky. Birds fluttered about. “You’re right. She did choose Miss Bourne for a reason.” He fixed his gaze, focusing on the bars of the window that locked him inside. “But it’s not the reason you think.”

        “Then what is it?” Chesterton folded his newspaper and put his hands on his hips.

        Crushing the cigar between his teeth, Beast’s eyes blazed red. He took the broken stick out of his mouth, twirling it in between his claws. “Some say it’s because Miss Bourne has a kind heart. She would never judge others by appearances, only their character. That’s the seed her father, Mr. Bourne, has planted. And it’s taken root in this castle.

        “But, my mother knows better. The only reason she chose Miss Bourne was that she knew the girl’s situation was desperate. She hoped that—no matter if I were man or beast—Miss Bourne would still marry me to alter the course of her family’s fate.” 

        Chesterton breathed in deep, shocked. “Really? That’s it?”

        “Yes. Well, that and she believes Miss Bourne would not go around spreading rumors, as Miss Newall did.”

        “Did she tell you all of this?”

        Beast shook his head. “Not exactly. I interpreted most of it… As well as overheard some of her conversations with Mrs. Kensington.”

        “I really don’t know why you listen in on so many things. It makes me conscious of everything I do and say,” stated Chesterton, only half-joking.

        “I can’t help it,” Beast replied. “If you had the ears of a wolf, you’d do the same.”

        “I would never listen in on your mother and Mrs. Kensington!” 

        “But you certainly would listen in if your fate was being decided by them.” 

        Chesterton pursed his lips together. He took a breath to say something else, but soon let the air out. “I suppose I can’t argue with that logic.”

        Beast suddenly lifted his nose into the air, turning around. The scent of old womanly perfumes, but not the kind his mother used. An ironed outfit, with hardly any odor on it except for the stench of lemon-and-verbena scented soaps and oils. And then the perspiration of an aging lady—the smell of great oak trees when they let their leaves go. Everywhere was the clean scent of falling leaves and the wind. 

        “Speaking of Mrs. Kensington.” Beast stood at once, pouncing toward the door. He straightened his outfit and buttoned a few loose pieces of fabric together. The size and stiffness of the coat forced him to suck in. He barely fit.

        “Oh, dear. Oh, dear,” Chesterton exclaimed, gasping. He stood, frantically pacing.

        “Gather yourself, Chesterton. No matter what happened with Miss Bourne, one thing we’ll not do is panic.” 

        Chesterton nodded, wringing his hands, but standing in place.

        Beast took hold of the door handle and tugged on it, effortlessly opening the tall, grand doors of his private study. “Good day, Mrs. Kensington.”

        “Good day, Your Lordship.” The old lady curtsied.

        “Won’t you come in?” He gestured for her to come inside, and she did as told.

        Beast smirked as he shut the door, chuckling. “So… has Mrs. Bourne frightfully ran away from the castle?” He stood straight, clasping his paws together behind his back. 

        Mrs. Kensington lifted a suspicious brow as she sat down in the chair next to Chesterton. “If she had, you would know, Your Lordship.”

        Beast frowned. “Yes, I suppose so.” But his air immediately returned. “So her only response to finding out I was ‘deformed’ was a wail?”

        Mrs. Kensington paused for a moment, before taking a breath and saying, “No, not at all.”

        Chesterton leaned forward. Beast unclasped his paws.

        “So then… she knows I’m…”

        “Of course she knows you’re a beast.”

        “That’s it then!” He practically jumped up, clapping his paws. “That was the reason for the wail! I knew it!”

        Mrs. Kensington turned toward him and shook her head. “Wrong again. She did not wail when I told her you were a beast.”

        All of Beast’s snarky, confident air fell away, like leaves falling from trees and then dissipating into the ground, turning to dust. Chesterton looked back and forth between Beast and Mrs. Kensington.

        Mrs. Kensington flicked a speck of dust from her gown. “At first, she thought that you were a ‘beast of a man’. That you had a bad character. She did not pick up that you were…” Her eyes flicked up and down his tall frame. “Well, the way you are. But, once she understood, she wasn’t exactly what you would call delighted. But she most certainly did not wail either.” Mrs. Kensington sighed, gazing down at her palms, before looking Beast in the eye. “Miss Bourne is stronger in character than you expected her to be… than I expected her to be.”

        Beast’s mouth hung open, his eyes fixed on the floor. 

        Chesterton leaned over, his eyebrows knitted together, in shock. “So, then, what did the lady actually wail at?”

        “Well… she seemed to be upset after I informed her of his state. A quiet kind of upset. And I told her she most certainly did not have to marry His Lordship if she did not wish to.” Mrs. Kensington pursed her lips together. “She considered turning down the marriage, but after considering it, her eyes grew a bright red and she couldn’t sit still.” The old woman mimicked the girl’s behaviors, her eyes racing about the room, a horrified look on her face. “That’s when she buckled over, falling to the floor, and wailed.”

        Beast’s ears pricked. He took a few steps back, his arms and paws reaching out and taking hold of both sides of the doorframe.

        Mrs. Kensington continued: “She later told me, after she gathered her bearings, that she wailed not because she was frightened of a beastly husband, but because she couldn’t bear the thought of her destitute family. And the blame being placed on her for not taking the offer in marriage.”

        Beast claws sunk into the door; he gripped onto the frame. 

        “So, there you have it.” Mrs. Kensington patted her hands on her lap. “Miss Bourne was too frightened of the alternative to not take this offer. She’s agreed to marry you, Your Lordship. I told her that you would be in to officially propose soon.”

        A cold, electrifying draft blew into the room. From where, Beast was not sure. It made the fur on his long mane stick up, stretching down his back. On the doorframe, there were puncture wounds from his claws. 

        Through his fangs, a whisper broke out: “Dammit, mother.”

        “What was that, Your Lordship?”

        His body reacted to the sudden cold of the room, building up heat. “Dammit, mother,” he said again, louder. 

        Mrs. Kensington reared back, blinking rapidly.

        Chesterton’s eyes widened. He stood up suddenly. “Now, now, Ashworth. Stay calm. We can fix this.” He reached his hands out. “There’s always another way.”

        Beast hurled the words across the room: “Damn! Damn! Damn!” He growled, retracting his claws from the doorframe and stomping about the room. “Dammit, mother! Damn you!” His hind paws pounding into the floor, he stomped over to the other side of the room, away from Mrs. Kensington and Chesterton. He curled into himself, stooping over, hugging his knees.

        Chesterton walked toward Beast, hesitant at first. He reached out a hand and Beast growled. Chesterton lurched back. “Now, Ashworth, don’t be like that,” he said. “We can fix this.” 

        “How?” Beast’s hazel eyes seared, bright red.

        “Well…” Ashworth lifted his hands to his forehead, looking about the room. “You could just not marry her. Your mother would never know! And— and… why…” The man’s shoulders lifted as he gasped, and his face became fresh again, as fresh as a child’s. “You could just give her the money anyway!” 

        The fire in Beast’s eyes dimmed, turning earthy once more. “I’m not so sure it will be as simple as you say, Chesterton,” he said, a low sarcasm in his voice.

        “But it will work! Listen to me.” Chesterton laid a hand on Beast’s shoulders. The fur on his mane spiked up again at the touch. “You give her the money she needs as an incentive for not telling the world the truth about your form. She leaves the castle, and you do not have to ever see her again. Problem solved.”

        Beast had a faraway look in his eyes, like a forest animal. Not looking at anything in particular, or even thinking of anything at all. A blank stare. 

        Mrs. Kensington stood up. “But, Mr. Chesterton, what about the girl’s family? They believe she is going to be married. What will they think when the marriage is called off and His Lordship gives her a hefty sum of money anyway?”

        “Oh, we’ll think of something.” He dismissed her, waving his hand. “But for now, this plan is good enough. Don’t you think so, Ashworth?”

        Beast slowly nodded, his head barely moving. “Whatever it takes so that…” he raised up a little, straightening his collar, “she won’t make another one of those dreadful wails.”

        Chesterton chuckled. “Now, that’s the Ashworth I know!” The man patted his friend on the back.

        Beast straightened out. The fur on his mane settled, falling back against the rest of his body. 

        Mrs. Kensington blinked, surprised. “I- I’ll be back with Miss Bourne’s reply.” She curtsied, then entwined her fingers and walked out of the room, quietly shutting the door. 

        After the sound of the old woman’s steps disappeared, Chesterton leaped for joy, a childish grin spreading out across his face. He turned around to face Beast. “Well, we did it! After all these years, we did it, Ashworth! … Ashworth?”

        Beast had sat down again, his paw covering his face. 

        “What’s the matter?” Chesterton walked over to his friend. “You should be joyous! Or… at least I think you should.” He rocked back and forth on his heels.

        “Nothing’s the matter, Chesterton.” Beast waved his other paw at the man. 

        “Alright then,” he said, looking off into the distance. But the man soon turned back around. “Aren’t you amazed? I can’t believe Miss Bourne would do such a thing for her family. Not even for her own self, but for her family. I thought we both agreed there were only selfish women left in the world.” Chesterton walked over to Beast’s desk, laughing. He picked a bottle of wine out of the desk drawer and popped it open, pouring himself a glass. “Would you care for some, Ashworth?”

        Beast again raised his paw, waving it. 

        “No? Alright then. More for me.” Chesterton took a sip and shook his head in delight. “We really should have some vineyards planted on the grounds. Get rid of those gardens and—”

        “No,” Beast declared suddenly, lifting his paw. A redness encircled the whites of his eyes.

        Chesterton stopped himself mid-drink.

        Beast caught himself and placed the paw back over his face. “You’d never be sober.”

        Before Chesterton could reply or even continue his drink, footsteps were heard rushing down the hallways. Beast’s ears shot up and he removed his paw from his face once more. 

        The scent of white linens and pungent oils. Of various medicines and heavy cologne. 

        Electricity bolted through Beast’s veins. He got up, sprinted on all fours to the corner of the room, yanked at his black cover-up, and put it on. Strutting toward the door, he fidgeted with the piece of cloth, wrapping it around his body and making sure it covered his beastly form completely.

        Chesterton set his drink down. “Ashworth, who is it?”

        Not a second after the man asked, the doctor burst into the room. His eyes frantically searched about the room, until landing on the black cover-up.

        “Your Lordship.” He quickly bowed, shooting his eyes back up as soon as possible. “It’s your mother. She’s—”

        A gust of wind from Beast’s coverup and cape. He blew past the doctor and ran as fast as he could on two legs toward his mother’s private quarters. As he drew nearer, there was the scent of perfume. Not the same ones his mother used, but—

        There they were. Everywhere. Lining the hallways, creeping next to the door. They glanced up at him, their pale pink faces void and distant. 

        “She’s calling for you,” they said.

        Beast paused. He sniffed and pricked his ears toward the door. He pushed past the hoards and masses of friends and family, slinking his way around hoops and gowns. 

        Finally, the scent of his mother’s perfume. And the stirring of her blood within her veins. “Mother!” He ran to her side, taking her palms within his grasp. 

        Shuffling footsteps. Most everyone left the room. The candlelight flickered, painting the room maroon. 

        Her eyes were crusted shut, but his mother soon opened them, breaking through the crust. Her pupils dilated, landing on her son. She searched through the veil, trying to find his eyes. “Vicky…” 

        “Mother…” He held her hands tighter. “The doctor said you wouldn’t wake but…”

        She brought a hand toward his face, touching his high cheekbones through the cloth. “Well, I have one more thing to ask. I can’t leave just yet.” Her lips quivered as she attempted a smile. Her whole body shook. 

        “Of course, mother.” Water built up in Beast’s eyes. His knees locked. “Anything.”

        She turned away from him, her eyes lifting toward the top of her canopy bed. In a soft tone, with crackles in her voice, she asked slowly: “Did Miss Bourne say yes?”

        The smell of candle wax and the sound of crackling, flickering flames—domesticated fire.

        The water in Beast’s eyes drew back in. He loosened his grip on his mother’s hand. The urgency on his face, the wrinkles on his forehead, disappeared. A blank stare. 

        “She said yes… mother.”

        The baroness grinned, her yellowed teeth breaking through her cracked lips. She shut her eyes. “Good girl…” 

        Beast felt her pulse slowing.

        “You’ve been such a good son, Vicky…” She gasped, fighting to breathe. “My son. A human.”

        And finally, her smile faded away. Her mouth slightly opened. Her eyes barely shut. Heartbeat, gone.

        Beast circled his gloved claw around her palm, tracing a heart. He then closed her stiff, bony fingers over her palm and put both of her hands together over her stomach. 

        The death of his mother smelled like a birdcage. It was the cold, stiff scent of metal bars. The stench of rotten bird food and waste. And the fresh, natural scent of the bird flapping its wings. Freedom trapped in a cage.

Chapter Text

Beast. The suffocating darkness of black. Not the black of the night sky, which had little holes to breathe through—the stars and the moon. But the black of the inside of a closed coffin, trapped under pounds and pounds of black earth. It was the black of being choked to death, stones pressing against your throat. Of fainting, falling, the darkness closing in around you. One word turned the whole world black.

        “Miss? Are you alright? Miss Bourne?”

        The faint sound of a door shutting. 

        Rose lifted her head. Mrs. Kensington shuffled into the gathering room.

        “Yes, I’m fine.” Her reddish-pink eyes fell to the floor once more. 

        Mrs. Kensington took a seat beside the young woman. She laid a hand on her lap. “I come bearing news. The baron has proposed another solution besides marriage. One which you might find more agreeable.”

        Rose’s thin, strawberry brows knitted together. “What do you mean? I thought the purpose of my being here was for marriage…” 

        “Ah, yes, well it was. But…” The old lady’s lips pursed together, wrinkles forming around her chin. “His Lordship does not want to be married.”

        “To me?”

        “To anyone.” She looked away, tossing her hand around in the air lackadaisically. “He would much rather be a confirmed old bachelor living life as he pleases. And now that his mother has passed…” Her hand fell to her side. She gazed out the window. “He can do precisely that.”

        Rose gasped. Her fingers drew up to her mouth very quickly without her realizing. “Her Ladyship is…”

        “She has passed, I’m afraid. God rest her soul.” Mrs. Kensington’s head fell. Her eyes became gray and old. “Her whole life was devoted to ensuring her firstborn son was married, but now it is in his hands. And he has chosen to go against his mother’s wishes.”

        The stiffness Rose had felt earlier around her neck began to loosen. Little pockets of air seeped through, and she could breathe again. 

        Mrs. Kensington took a deep breath, straightened up, and continued with a business-like attitude: “His Lordship has agreed to still give your family a fair amount of money—a testament to the business and friendship Her Ladyship and Mr. Bourne sustained over the years. No marriage required.”

        Rose blinked several times, followed by a blank stare. Tears swirled around in her eyes; she shut them and leaned over, drizzles of water sliding down her face. The breath she had been holding forced itself out. 

        “There is one stipulation, however.” Mrs. Kensington crossed one leg over the other.

        Rose’s eyes opened once more. She picked herself back up, sniffling. “Of course.”

        “You must—not ever, to no one—speak a word about His Lordship’s true form. Understood?” Her eyes were fierce and predator-like. 

        Leaning back in her seat, Rose nodded. Her lips parted and the little droplets of salty tears reached her mouth. 

        “If any word should spread outside of this castle about a beast residing here, all money will be cut off. You will be expected to pay it back to His Lordship in full, and then some. Does that sound fair?”

        Again, Rose nodded—a child obeying her strict nanny. She pressed her fingers against one another and her wet, pink, pouty lips trembled.

        “Very good.” Mrs. Kensington smiled, dusting her apron off and standing up. She clasped her hands together behind her back. But then her eyes suddenly widened. “Oh, before I forget. There is one last thing: You may stay at the castle for as long as you like. Her Ladyship’s funeral will be in a few days. You may stay until then, or longer if you so wish. We always love having visitors at the castle.” 

        Rose’s legs fumbled underneath herself as she stood up. She felt the blood leaving her face and it turned a ghostly white. “Thank you for your hospitality, Mrs. Kensington,” she said, finding her bearings. “I—I suppose I could stay. At least until the funeral.” 

        Mrs. Kensington’s eyes flashed and her smile widened. “I’m so very glad to hear that. I’ll lead you to your room then.” 

        Trailing behind the stout little woman, Rose kept her head down. She watched as Mrs. Kensington’s heels kicked up; they had dark blue soles underneath. And the floors were white marble with a clear, pearly finish. After several minutes of walking, the marble floors gradually turned darker—a silvery-gray color instead of white. The hallways became shadowy, but it was a pretty sort of shadow, like soft rain clouds blocking the sun. 

        “Here we are, Miss Bourne,” the older woman said, the clickety-clack of her heels ceasing.

        Rose’s head shot up. A small, round door. Not unlike the round architecture of a quaint cottage. It was hand-carved and polished, made of dark, beautiful mahogany. The walls surrounding the door were a pale yellow hue. It all reminded Rose of a brisk, early morning in the forest. 

        Mrs. Kensington opened the door, holding onto the knob, and gestured for Rose to go inside the room. She took several steps forward, her head lifting to the ceilings. Everything was so natural and lovely—little green trimmings all across the furniture and walls could have been vines from a forest. Like the hallways, the room was a pale yellow with mahogany furniture. It was the largest bedroom she had ever been in. 

        “Your maid—hopefully—will not be too much longer.”

        Rose turned around, facing the door again, where Mrs. Kensington stood. “My… maid?” The word seemed so strange in her mouth. Like she shouldn’t have said it—like she shouldn’t have a specific servant to tend to her and her alone. Even during her youth, when the Bourne family was fairing well, she had never had a maid to only take care of her. Yes, they had a nanny, but she took care of all of the children—not just Rose.

        Mrs. Kensington gave the girl a strange look. “Yes, your maid. It was intended that she would be a lady’s maid to the future baroness. But since the engagement has been called off, Miss Carter will merely be taking care of you for the next few days, or however long you wish to stay.”

        Rose realized how silly she must have sounded. “Yes, of course. Thank you, Mrs. Kensington.”

        “You’re welcome.” The old woman curtsied and went about her way. 

        The door closed, and Rose was left inside the room. It felt strange and awkward being alone. But when she turned around again, an excessive amount of light broke across her face. Her naturally pink skin became basked in light from the sun and turned gold. Her reddish-orange hair gleamed, glinting like firelight. She walked over toward the balcony, where the light was coming from, and opened the French-style doors. Stepping out, one foot at a time, Rose felt a sudden breeze envelope her. It was as though she were at the hem of a ship—the winds tugging at her hair and her dress. She took another step, leaning her head over the railing.

        A vast landscape had been painted for her. The mountains from the north, the nearby villages, the great forest that blanketed everything. She saw the changing of the seasons from up high. There were still some dead trees that littered the landscape, but most everywhere, new life had sprung and bright green leaves caught her attention.

        For a moment, Rose forgot about the baron—the beast. She gripped onto the railing, shut her eyes, and let the wind take her hair and do with it what it pleased. Her curls waved about wildly, breaking loose from her up-do. Fresh-tasting air filled her nostrils and familiar splotches of pink returned to her cheeks. She had almost forgotten what health and vigor felt like. That she could even feel alive at all. 

        “Miss Bourne? Miss Bourne?” the voice of a woman called from inside the room.

        The breeze ceased. Reality sunk in. 

        Rose let go of the railing and spun about. 

        A middle-aged woman—no older than forty—stood in the mahogany doorway. Once she caught a glimpse of Rose, she gasped, shooting toward her at lightning speed. “Oh, dear, what’s ‘appened to your ‘air?” she exclaimed in a thick Cockney accent.

        Rose stared at the woman, pulling her fiery red curls over her shoulder and petting them. “The wind got to it, I suppose.”

        “I’ll say!” The woman put her hands on her hips, before gasping. “‘Scuse me, Miss Bourne. I’ve yet to introduce myself.” She curtsied hastily, her plain gown rubbing against the marble floors. “Miss Lucille Carter. At your service.” 

        “How do you do, Miss Carter?”

        Miss Carter. A name that felt so formal, like the stiff feel of a suit that had been pressed and tailored to perfection.

        “Oh, I’m positively peachy, Miss Bourne!” she said, a lilting rhythm in her speech. “But, you know, you don’t ‘ave to call me ‘Miss Carter’.” She leaned in, cupping her mouth. “I much jus’ prefer ‘Lucy’ anyway. But don’t let Mrs. Kensington ‘ear you call me that.” She cackled, but it was not the cackle of an old hag, but of an old friend. 

        Rose smiled. “If you so insist, then I shall call you Lucy.”

        Lucy. The sound of the woman’s cackle echoed in Rose’s ears while she spoke the name. The name and the cackle were one and the same.

        “Yes, yes,” Lucy said. “Now, ‘ow can I ‘elp prepare ya for dinner? A new do, I ‘spose?”

        Rose’s eyes widened. “D-dinner?”

        “Why, yes. You’re expected at dinner, soon, miss. Did Mrs. Kensington not tell ya?”

        “No…” Rose felt a catch in her throat. “Will His Lordship be there?”

        “No, miss, ‘e’s with—” The woman’s head fell and her brunette bun leaned forward. “With ‘er Ladyship. May God rest ‘er soul.” 

        “Oh…” A sudden relief came over Rose. 

        Lucy perked. “But I imagine some of ‘is family will be there. And maybe even Mr. Chesterton! You’ll like Mr. Chesterton.” 

        “Who’s that?”

        “One of the longtime residents ‘ere in the castle. Been a friend to ‘is Lordship since they were both youngsters.” She laughed, hugging her stomach, then stopped herself. “But listen to me! Jabberin’ on when I’ve got to get ya presentable for dinner. Come on over ‘ere and sit down, won’t ya?”

        Lucy motioned toward the vanity. Rose walked over and sat down at the stool in front of it. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror once, but for the most part, looked down at her hands. 

        Even though Lucy was quite brash in her tone and manner of speech, she was exceedingly gentle with Rose’s hair. The young woman hardly felt a thing as the maid’s skillful fingers glided through her curls. 

        “What I wouldn’t do to ‘ave ringlets like these!” Lucy said. 

        “They can be such a handful. You wouldn’t want them.” Rose giggled, burying her face in her palms.

        “Oh, pish-posh! The last lady I tended to ‘ad ‘air straight as a board—like mine—and it was so much trouble to curl it! Those blasted ringlets never stayed.” 

        “But I would almost certainly guess that her hair never had knots in it. Am I correct?” Rose smirked a little, looking in the mirror at her facial expression. Not long after, a frown replaced it, and her eyes fell away.

        “Now, that, Miss Bourne, is somethin’ which I can’t say for sure. She always brushed ‘er ‘air out before I could get my ‘ands on it.” Lucy laughed as she put the finishing touches on the updo. She pressed a small, decorative hair comb with a pretty yellow flower into the top of the bun; two braids encircled it, and then curly ringlets framed Rose’s heart-shaped face. 

        “Well, what do ya think?” Lucy asked, her hands falling to her side. She grinned at her work. 

        Rose forced herself to just look at her hair and not her freckled face. She touched the soft ringlets and then moved her hand up to the firm braids. “Oh, it’s lovely, Lucy. Thank you.”

        “You’re welcome. Now, ‘ow about we move on to the cosmetics?”

        Flinching, the girl said, “Cosmetics?”

        “Yes, yes. We ‘ave all sorts ‘ere at the castle.” She pulled open one of the drawers of the vanity and took out a box full of products. “Right ‘ere we ‘ave—”

        Rose put her hands up, stopping the woman. “I’m sorry, Lucy, but I’m not interested. I’ve never worn cosmetics before.” 

        Lucy’s thick, dark eyebrows came together, forming a wrinkly line. “You ‘aven’t?” The older woman’s eyes scoured across Rose’s nose and cheeks, pausing on each freckle she found. “Well, if you ever wanna try ‘em, let me know. I’d be ‘appy to ‘elp.” 

        “I’m not sure that will be necessary,” Rose said. “But thank you.”

        “Of course. Let’s go on and get you dressed then.” 

        Lucy undressed Rose—a process which was slightly uncomfortable for the girl, as she had not had someone undress her since she was a child. The older woman then laced up her corset to be slightly tighter than before.

        “Let’s see what we ‘ave in the wardrobe,” Lucy said, walking over to a large piece of mahogany furniture. She opened one of the drawers and then pulled out a sleek gown—pale yellow, like the walls. “This matches the comb I put in your ‘air, miss.” 

        Rose smiled, her eyes trailing up and down the dress. “It’s beautiful.” 

        “Is this what you’d like?”

        “If it’s what you think would be best.”

        Lucy looked back and forth between Rose and dress. “I… think that per’aps it would work if we got one more color in there.” She pondered for a minute, before shouting: “Blue! Say, a light blue necklace, some blue earbobs, and a blue sash or ribbon. That’ll add some variety. It’ll match your eyes, too.” 

        “Splendid idea.” Rose giggled. “Whoever stayed in here before me must have liked yellow.”

        “Oh, this is merely a guest room, miss. It’s ‘oused a revolvin’ door of ‘em. But, if you’re wonderin’, ‘er Ladyship chose the colors for in ‘ere.” 

        “Then… Her Ladyship must have really liked yellow.”

        “She must have.”

        Lucy pulled a hoop skirt up over Rose’s hips, then fluffed it out, making it poofier. Next, she fitted the gown over Rose’s petite frame, shimmying it down her body. After it fit her like a glove, Lucy tied a pretty blue ribbon around Rose’s waist, creating a bow in the back.

        “There we are. Pretty as a picture! Let me go get that jewelry box.” Lucy shuffled out of the room.

        Rose breathed in deeply, looking in the mirror. She wasn’t quite sure what she thought of the brightly colored gown. It was something her sisters would have worn, not her. 

        The jingly-jangly sound of the jewelry box, as necklaces and earrings shuffled about, crescendoed. Lucy shuffled back in. “I’ve got a selection for ya, Miss Bourne. Let’s ‘ave a look-see.” She sat the jewelry box down on the settee and flipped up the glass top.

        Glittering jewels dazzled, reflecting in Rose's eyes. She was immediately drawn to the box. 

        Lucy picked up a long necklace, with a light blue pendant in the middle. She then opened up another section of the box and selected a pair of blue topaz earbobs from it. “Let’s try these.” She wrapped the necklace around Rose’s neck, setting the pendant in-between her collar bones. Rose insisted on putting the earbobs in herself. 

        A moment later, just before dinner, Lucy picked out a tiny pair of yellow slippers. As Rose slid into them, the older woman primped up the gown a bit. She then took a few steps back, smiling at her creation. “There now. You’re all ready.”

◜❦︎◞

        The dining hall was empty. A white and cream-colored table stretched out long across the room, with Rose directly in the middle. But no one sat near her. No one even attended to her after she had been seated. She turned her head back and forth, from the swinging door that led into the kitchen, to the fireplace, to the entrance of the Grand Hall. The girl folded her hands in her lap and focused on breathing regularly. 

        Again, like the rest of the castle, most everything was white marble. A true spectacle, a vision, to behold. It was heaven, but without angels. Just Rose all alone in the white and silvery mist. 

        No doubt this was caused by the baroness’s passing, she concluded. Rose did not mind these circumstances. She would much rather the servants tend to other areas and people of the castle. But, even though she did not mind this, the girl still felt as though something was wrong... She did not belong here, she was out of place amidst the death and grief for a woman she hardly knew. A woman who was meant to be Rose’s mother-in-law, but now had hardly any connection to her at all. 

        And what of the beast? The beast that was almost her husband… How could she go back to her home, back to her family, with the knowledge of this monster? How could she keep this dark secret of a gruesome creature she hadn’t even seen yet? 

        She hadn’t even seen him. Perhaps they wouldn’t meet at all. And perhaps it was all just a myth, a fabrication to deter her from marrying him. Just as the “deformed baron” had been a myth. 

        Rose’s thin, strawberry eyebrows unfurled. She glanced at the silverware in front of her, noting its ornateness and the impeccable placement of each utensil. Surely, a beast could not be in charge of such a grand estate that housed such a lovely dining table with such precise tableware placements.

        But then again, Rose would never truly know whether or not he was a beast. For she would not be meeting him. No, not at all. She would go home after the funeral and wait for her true love, one of the men in her books. The one who would rescue her from this nightmare. What a perfectly agreeable idea! 

        As the wonderful thought whirled about in Rose’s mind, hurried footsteps sounded behind her. She turned around, and much to her surprise, a young man—no older than thirty—stood at the other side of the room, right in front of the opening that led from the dining room into the Grand Hall. He stooped over a bit, breathing heavily, a few strands of slick hair protruding out over his forehead. 

        “Excuse me, Miss Bourne,” he said, catching his breath. 

        “Oh, sir, are you alright?” Rose began to back out of her chair.

        He reached out a hand, stopping her. “Stay seated, miss. I’m quite alright. I just didn’t realize how long you had been waiting here, so I came as soon as I could. No guest shall eat alone, not in this castle.” The man laughed a little, giving her a reassuring smile.

        Rose scooted the chair across the floor, back underneath the table. “If you insist.”

        The man’s facial features were soft and youthful, not totally unlike a woman’s, but he had a man’s figure. Slim and trim, nice to look at. 

        What a sleek fellow, Rose thought. 

        “Allow me to introduce myself.” He placed a hand across his heart, bowing elegantly, grinning. “Judas Morgan Chesterton.”

        Judas Morgan Chesterton. Flashes of quickly turning pages from a tome, in a dimly lit library somewhere in the heart of a city, candles flickering. Droplets of rain pattered against the window panes, and the smell of baked goods wafted in from the local bakery.

        Rose’s face lit up. “Ah, so you are Mr. Chesterton!”

        The man lifted his head, a smirk tracing his features. “So, you’ve heard of me? Depending on who you got your information from, you may not want to have dinner with me.” His chest rose as he laughed. 

        “Oh, no, no, not at all. I would be delighted to have dinner with you, sir. Lu— I—I mean, Miss Carter told me the bare minimum about you, so I shall have to learn for myself what you are like.” Rose batted her lashes, drawing attention to her icy blue eyes.

        “Well, I can believe that she only told you the bare minimum, as you say. Or else you wouldn’t want to even be in the same room as me.”

        Rose shook her head. “I’m sure I’ll find that not to be the case.”

        “You put too much faith in my character, Miss Bourne,” he said, pulling out the chair across the table from her and sitting down. Mr. Chesterton stretched his hands out and wiggled his fingers as he looked at the silverware before him. “I can’t believe they haven’t brought any courses out yet.” He looked at her, a more intense glare in his eyes this time. “No one came to your service at all, you say?”

        Rose shrank in her chair slightly. “No, sir—but it’s quite alright! Circumstances being what they are, I completely understand.”

        Mr. Chesterton’s eyes faltered a little. “I suppose you’re right. Typically, the cooks are so attentive to guests, but… today is different.” 

        For a moment, Rose had forgotten about everything, while in the charming presence of Mr. Chesterton. She sank back into reality, slowly seeping back into the ground. 

        “Were you close with Her Ladyship?” she asked, her voice low. 

        Mr. Chesterton stared at the silver plate before him, choking on a hesitant laugh. “Close? More than close. She was like a mother to me…” He took the handkerchief out of his pocket, wiping his eyes, but keeping his gaze straight in front of him. 

        “I’m sorry to hear that,” Rose said, her eyes narrowing. “I wish I had known her better.” 

        Suddenly, the man put away his handkerchief and looked Rose in the eye. “But I digress. We shouldn’t have to talk about such matters. You’re a guest after all.” His warm smile thawed out the silvery-white room. “It is the intention of both Ashworth and me that you feel welcome here for the duration of your stay.” The man scooted his chair back and excused himself to the kitchen.

        Not too much later, several cooks broke through the swinging door, coming to attend to Rose. They had a solemness about them, a sad look in their eyes, but they smiled nonetheless and spoke with such happy tones. 

        “I’m famished,” Mr. Chesterton blurted out, re-entering and sitting back down in his chair. “It’s been such an exhausting day. No one ever said that being the confidante to a baron who is grieving the loss of his mother would be an easy job.” 

        Rose lifted a brow, but soon let out a small laugh at the macabre humor. “I can’t imagine that it would be easy.” 

        A servant brought out a glass of water and the first course—a small salad and soup. 

        “Thank you,” she said, before turning to Mr. Chesterton. “You sound like a wonderful friend and confidante, sir.” The girl sipped on her soup; its warm richness trickled down her throat.

        “Oh, that I am!” he insisted. “We’re practically brothers, though Ashworth would never want to admit such.”

        Rose squinted her eyes, pondering over the very human way that Mr. Chesterton spoke of Lord Ashworth. But he did not speak of the fallen-through engagement, and for that, Rose was thankful. 

        “Speaking of brothers,” Mr. Chesterton put down his small spoon, pulled out his napkin, and dabbed the corners of his mouth before laying it back down, “Ashworth’s real family should be arriving shortly. They’re joining us for dinner.”

        Rose’s eyes widened. “Oh, they are?” 

        “Yes, I’m afraid.” He turned toward the Grand Hall, squinting. All of his previous charms fell away, and his eyes grew to be dark. “Something to note,” he whispered, his eyes fixated on the entrance, “Ashworth’s family are only here to collect their portions of the will and leave. If any of them actually cared about Her Ladyship, they would have visited before now.”

        “You mean, they never visited their mother?”

        “Not since each of them moved out, no.”

        “How awful!”

        “Yes, but—” Mr. Chesterton’s eyes shot back to Rose. “Ashworth is generous, and he will give them their portions of the will—perhaps even more.”

        Small wrinkles popped up on her forehead for a moment. “But why?”

        Mr. Chesterton shrugged. “That is his business. Not mine.” He leaned in closer to Rose. “Though my theory is that he wants them to leave him alone, so instead of them begging for money, he’ll just give it to them all at once. Then he never has to worry about them again!”

        “Did he never like his siblings?”

        “Oh, no, not at all. Not with the way they treated him.”

        “Did they treat him poorly?”

        “Yes. I can attest to that.”

        “Why?”

        “Sibling rivalry, I suppose.” He picked up a piece of bread and tore a chunk of it out with his teeth. “After all, aren’t most siblings jealous of the firstborn?” Mr. Chesterton asked through chews. He bounced the rest of the bread around in the air as he thought, looking up at the ceiling. 

        Rose lifted her brows, amazed at this suave man who dined so casually, so naturally. She did not mind his manner of eating, and in fact, watching him was rather amusing for her. It was as if they had been friends for so long he did not mind eating comfortably around her—eating without performing. It reminded her of Ferguson almost, but if Ferguson looked more like Harrison, of course. 

        Just as the first course was being taken away, a hoard of whispers broke out in the Grand Hall. Mr. Chesterton rolled his eyes, then put on a forced smile. 

        Rose whipped around, her eyes landing on a crowd of people, all dressed in dark clothing. They had a sort of look of pity—not grief—but pity and sorrow as their eyes met hers.

        One of the older men stepped forth, clearing his throat. Perhaps an uncle of Lord Ashworth? 

        “You must be Miss Bourne.” He took off his top hat, holding it over his chest and bowing. “Welcome to the family.”

Chapter Text

Beast growled, a deep rumble emitting out of his throat. His face collapsed into his paws. “Why did you ask her to stay?

        Mrs. Kensington sighed. She clasped her hands together in front of her. “Well, for one, Your Lordship, it would be good so that the girl may learn to trust you. The more time she spends with you, the more she will see that you are a man, not a beast.”

        His ears twitched and pressed back into his fur. He snarled.

        “If she knows that you are a man, then she won’t go telling the townsfolk or her family about the monster who lives in Ashworth Castle.”

        “Isn’t the money incentive enough?” Beast groaned.

        Staring off into the distance, Mrs. Kensington replied, “Not if she doesn’t know you fully. If she discovers your character, then she will feel more compelled to keep the secret than with money alone.”

        Beast shook his head like an animal, his fur tossing about wildly. His paws moved to the sides of his face and he gripped onto his fur in frustration. “I wish you would have consulted me first, Mrs. Kensington.”

        “Well, I knew you wouldn’t mind,” she said, a slight laugh in her tone. 

        He huffed, rolling his eyes.

        “Besides, the girl loves the castle.” 

        “How would you know?”

        “I can see it in her. She loves the estate, the servants, her room. She wants to stay here.” Mrs. Kensington’s eyes flashed.

        “Pfft.” Beast leaned back in his seat. “If only the master weren’t an animal, she would.”

        The old lady shook her head, wiping her hands on her apron. “That is why you must show her that you are not one. She hasn’t even met you yet!”

        His eyes trailed over to Mrs. Kensington, challenging her. “Well, if you haven’t noticed, I’m not exactly in the optimum position to be delighting houseguests.”

        “You don’t have to dine with her, but at least exchange a few words at the funeral,” she countered.

        “In front of her family?” Beast grunted.

        “No, wearing your cover-up, before her family arrives.”

        Beast snarled, his bottom lip protruding, his nose wrinkling. He leaned over to one side, putting his face into his palm, while his other arm gripped the chair. “I wish I had never got involved in this nonsense,” he said, his dark voice painting the room black.

        “I know, I know. But this is all that can be done.”

        Beast remained silent for a moment. His ears twitched as he heard the doctor in the other room, shuffling about, preparing his mother’s corpse for the funeral that would be in a few days. Suddenly, Beast sighed and he shut his eyes. 

        “Fine. But if this little plan of yours backfires, I’m placing the blame on you. You’ll have to answer for it.”

        Mrs. Kensington put her hands on her hips and raised one of her eyebrows. “And just what sort of consequences am I going to face?”

        “If I’m still alive and well after this whole ordeal, I’ll dock your pay for a year. How does that sound?”

        The old lady’s eyes sunk into the back of her head; she crossed her arms. “Fair enough. But I really don’t think things will go awry. Miss Bourne would do anything to save her family. And once she discovers at the funeral that you’re a gentleman—”

        Beast scoffed.

        “—she will want to stay.”

        “But what if I don’t want her to stay? Did you think of that, Mrs. Kensington?” A small fire lit in his eyes.

        She smiled intently. “But what if, after you meet her, you realize you do want her to stay?”

        Beast squinted his eyes and bared his teeth together. “I wish that you would leave my mother’s wishes in the grave. I don’t want to love a woman and I never will.”

        “Not with that attitude.”

        He growled. “Oh, be gone already!” He waved his paws for her to leave and then buried his face in them. “You’ve outlasted your stay. Go tend to some business around the castle. Lord knows there are things to be done.”

        “That there is.” She curtsied, a faint curve on her lips. “I’ll leave you be, Your Lordship.”

        As the woman exited, Beast’s tail swished around on the floor. His massive form sulked over. 

        Suddenly, he heard footfalls approaching—a man’s shoes clanking as whoever it was sprinted down the hallway.

        “What now?” Beast groaned as he lifted his bloodshot eyes from his paws. 

        The door to his study burst open, and in came Chesterton. He breathed heavily, a worried look plastered across his pale face. He shut the door behind him and leaned back against it, his chest heaving.

        “What the devil is the matter, Chesterton?” Beast exclaimed, straightening up.

        “Your family, Ashworth. They’ve practically begun rioting.”

        Beast, suddenly amused, cackled. “Riot? You don’t know the meaning of the word ‘riot,’ Chesterton. There’s no way the lot of them could possibly be rioting.”

        “Practically, I said. Practically.” He placed his fingers upon his temple, shutting his eyes and sinking into the doorframe. “Oh, dear. They—mainly the women—were nearly about to cut off my head with all of their questions!” His demeanor changed and he spoke with a high-pitched, mocking tone: “‘Well, why isn’t he marrying her? Why isn’t she marrying him? What would his mother think? Why would he go against his mother’s wishes? Why did he lie to her and tell her he had already proposed to the girl and she had agreed to the marriage?’” He flailed his arms about. “As if I could tell them what you were thinking! Yes, of course, I know some things. But it’s as if they were speaking directly to you when they were asking me these things! Taking all of their blasted anger out on me! I don’t know the answer to everything and I certainly don’t—”

        “Oh, hush for a moment, Chesterton.”

        “Of course, of course.” The man collected himself.

        “Where and when did all of this take place?” 

        “Just now! In the dining hall!” Chesterton cried. “I was enjoying a pleasant meal with Miss Bourne when—”

        “You were?” Beast’s brows lifted, surprised.

        “Why, yes. I couldn’t let her dine alone. Now, moving on. Suddenly, your family came in—the whole lot of them. And one of them—one of your uncles, I think—had the audacity to say ‘Welcome to the family, Miss Bourne’. And then I could see it all over her face—the blood draining from her pretty pink cheeks. You’d never seen such horror. The girl stammered for a bit before saying: ‘Why... I thought I wasn’t marrying His Lordship.’ And that’s when the whole dining room erupted. They were asking me questions left and right. I didn’t know what to do! I had to excuse myself, leaving poor Miss Bourne there to fend for herself—and now, when I think about it, that may not have been the most gentlemanly thing for me to do—but I couldn’t stand it there any longer. I had to leave. They were just too uproarious, blaming it on me, as though I were the one going against my mother’s dying wishes!”

        Beast frowned, his large lips curving into a look of disdain.

        Chesterton sucked in air, correcting himself. “Oh, not that that’s a bad thing at all!” He waved his hands in front of his chest. 

        “You’ve not offended me, Chesterton. At least, not as much as these money-hungry, scraggly alley rats have.” He humphed. “They could care less whether or not I marry Miss Bourne, become human, and fulfill my mother’s dying wishes. They only want their damned money and to feel as though they have some moral superiority over me. They all despise me.” His tone darkened at the final words and his eyes grew black and cold. 

        Chesterton rubbed the back of his neck, his eyes fluttering about on the floor. “Well, if you really feel that way, you could just ask them to leave?”

        Beast shook his head, his mane flopping from side to side. “No, they want to feel included in this whole funeral affair. They want to feel as though they were there for her up to the end of her life—and then they want their money from her and from me as a ‘Thank you,’ for being such a profound part of it.” He snorted, crossing his hairy, muscular arms. “I’ll give them what they want so they don’t come back.”

        “Well, Ashworth, you really are a generous man. And for no good reason, too.” 

        Beast lifted his head, his eyes following Chesterton as he swept around the room, heading toward his little chair. 

        “I feel as though most people would just withhold such finances and find another solution to the whole thing.”

        “I’ve been left with more money than I know what to do with.”

        “Ah, yes. You know, most men would just squander that money, using it for their own selfish intentions. But not you, Ashworth!” He laughed, smiling, a twinkle in his young eyes. “Not you.”

        “Well, I have no human desires for them. I feel no need to use my money for things I want when I only want most of what I already have. It’s the things that I don’t want in my life that keep pestering me—and if I can use money to get rid of them, I’ll gladly do so.” 

        “What a man you are, Ashworth.” Chesterton nodded his head.

        “Not a man at all, really.”

        Chesterton sucked in his tongue.

        “For if I could, I would sell this whole estate. But the livelihoods of too many people are at stake. I wouldn’t want them to work under a man who did not care about them and give them adequate pension and treatment. And who knows what would happen to the grounds, the forest, and my mother’s gardens? Of course, I wouldn’t really want to live in the castle, per se, but the woods.”

        Chesterton’s eyes faltered. “But wouldn’t you want to stay here in the castle at least some times? For the library and books and… and me?”

        “Oh, yes, my companions.” Beast laughed heartily. “Well, I stay for them, too, of course.”

        Chesterton smiled.

        “If only I could just be left alone by everything and everyone else I’d be perfectly content.” Beast opened one of the drawers at his desk and pulled out a large tome. “But of course, someone in this world—this universe—has cursed me. Perhaps that is the true blight. I’ve found happiness in being half-beast and half-man—but the true curse is man being unhappy with the fact that I am content.” He opened the tome and began shuffling through the pages until one of his dark black claws landed on a bookmark and ribbon.

        “Yes, yes,” Chesterton said, nodding in agreement. “What nagging, pestering fools some people can be.” 

        “Now, now, Chesterton. Be careful there.” Beast smirked, picking up his glasses and putting the tip of them in his mouth. “My own mother was one of those nagging, pestering fools.”

        “Ha, ha! Yes!” Chesterton practically toppled over laughing. “You know, perhaps it isn’t necessarily man that bothers you so, but one sex in particular.”

        “I know exactly what you mean.” Beast’s ravenous eyes lit up as he listened with joy.

        “And that’s why you—and me—shall never marry one of those fiends!”

        “But of course!”

        “Never!”

        “Never!”

◜❦︎◞

        Even in death, Beast could hear his mother’s thoughts echoing from the casket. 

        Marry the girl. Marry the girl.

        But he wouldn’t do it.

        The funeral took place that Sunday. It was raining outside and the skies hung low and gray. The walls of the church were a deep red, almost the color of blood. And the pews were dark mahogany. Beast stayed up in the rafters, draped in his black cover-up. He hadn’t spoken with Miss Bourne before the service, as he was supposed to. He would certainly be hearing from Mrs. Kensington about it. But alas, he watched every move that anyone made from down below—from the priest, to the guests, to the servants, to the pallbearers, to his family, to Chesterton, to the Bournes.

        Beast captured Miss Bourne’s image for the first time while inside for the funeral service. Her hair was the color of the morning sunrise and the evening sunset. That reddish-orange glow. It was the texture of natural curls, not the artificial ringlets that her sisters and many women in his family had. It was long and textured and lovely. He didn’t really capture much else about her, but for some reason, the image of her fiery hair stayed with him. She hadn’t changed much since he last saw her as a young adolescent. Perhaps her figure had become more womanly. As if he would notice such things.

        But what he did notice were the conversations that took place amidst the service. Miss Bourne was mostly quiet, but he listened in as she explained to her family the circumstances of their engagement.

        “He wasn’t ready for marriage, and so the engagement’s been called off. But he has still agreed to give us the money anyway, as a testament of good friendship and comradery between you, Father, and Her Ladyship.”

        At least the girl kept her word. He didn’t have to worry about that.

        But after the joyous yelps and whoops echoing from her family—particularly her father—Beast noticed something else. Certain whispers crept up to his wolf-like ears. Whispers between Miss Bourne’s two sisters, with smirks on their faces and snickers sounding from their mouths.

        “I’d be willing to bet that he called off the engagement not because he wasn’t ready to marry, but because he didn’t want to marry her. What man in his right mind would want to marry such a poor, plain thing?” They sniggered.

        Beast scoffed. By all accounts, the two of them seemed much plainer—even with his limited understanding of feminine beauty standards—than their sister. But it’s likely they only were envious and said such things to elevate their own egos. He rolled his eyes. 

        As he listened in on other conversations and watched other people, however, Beast could not help but feel the slightest twinge of pity for the girl and what bullying she likely had to endure her entire life at the hands of her own two sisters. He could certainly relate to such.

        His mother was buried in a mausoleum outside of the castle. Hardly anyone remained for the burial even though it was protected under a large, dark black tent from the rain. Most left the church and went back to their own homes. The Bournes came, however. Beast watched and listened to them from his black and silver carriage.

        Again, he heard certain whispers while his mother was being buried:

        “What does he look like, Lizzie?”

        “I don’t know. I never saw him.”

        After his mother’s casket was shut away, beside his father, concealing her forever in a stony tomb, everyone left. Mrs. Kensington had invited the Bournes to stay for a couple of nights if they wished—and, of course, they delightfully agreed. They all headed to the castle’s entrance, into the warmth of the indoors and away from the cold, harsh rain.

        Beast checked his surroundings before leaping out of his carriage. His paws smacked hard against the cold, wet ground. His paws sloshed around in the mud. Mists hung around him. He usually liked the scent of rain—that fresh scent—but not on the day of his mother’s funeral. The rain on his mother’s funeral was old and rotten, the stench of green and yellow lightning that streaked against the black and purple sky. It was like a festering sore, a rotting corpse—all the different colors and smells of decomposition were displayed in the evening sky, that hellish spring storm.

        Even the crows and birds knew it was time to leave. He heard them cawing and saw them fluttering away, heading to hide in the forest, for the storm would only become worse. He wished that he could join them in the forest; his heart longed for solitude, shelter, and comfort there. 

        But another part of him wanted this time with his mother, this time alone that he could not have previously at the church. He listened to this other part of himself.

        Beast trekked up the marble steps, leaving his muddy pawprints and residue on the white stone. He opened the door, its hinges creaking. Thunder clapped outside. 

        But, even though he had expected it to be fully dark, a small bit of candlelight erupted from inside the mausoleum. He shut the door behind him, making sure to keep his cover-up on.

        “Hello?” the shaky voice of a young woman called, echoing against the marble walls.

        Beast’s dark, yet soft, voice crooned in response: “Hello, miss. Excuse me for intruding.” He took a few steps forward when suddenly, he was met face-to-face with the fiery curls of the woman he had been spotting before—the woman who had almost become his bride.

        A look of terror came across her face as she took in his giant form. He hadn’t realized just how small she was. There were tears that hung off from her chin before dropping to the floor. Her cheeks were pink and her eyes red. The redness around her irises only made them an even icier blue. Her lips were wet and pouty. Her skin was gleaming with the wetness of the tears and the mists and rain from outside. 

        “I’m sorry…” she whispered, her lips barely moving as she spoke. Her face fell to the ground after her eyes searched through his cover-up for a few seconds. The girl picked up her candle on the floor. “I’m sorry. I’ll leave you be. I just wanted to stay for a few more minutes.”

        “Oh, no, it’s quite alright.” His voice was somehow gentle and soft, even if it was considerably dark and low compared to hers. “I wasn’t going to stay for long.”

        “Well, alright then, if you insist.” She tucked a loose strand of fire behind her ears. 

        They remained in silence for a few moments. Beast tried to keep his eyes on his mother’s tomb, but he couldn’t help but take in the small frame of Miss Bourne. Her curls covered up her face but he still glanced at the dark black and silvery gown she wore. They both faced the tomb, although stood a good bit apart from one another. He could smell her fear. That enticing, intoxicating scent.

        “Do you know who I am?” he asked suddenly, his eyes on her.

        “Yes…” she said. She shook a little before speaking: “I’m so sorry for your loss, Your Lordship.”

        He took a step back. It was the first time someone had ever said anything like that to him. Of course, he was usually covered and in hiding during most funerals—so if someone did mean the sentiment, they certainly were never able to express it to him. 

        “Well… thank you, Miss Bourne.” He looked at his mother’s tomb and suddenly, he felt the weight of her death on him. It came so quickly. He winced and his eyes drew close together. There was a funeral procession in his heart, the pounding of the funeral drum.

        “I should likely retire for the evening now.” The girl interrupted his dark, black thoughts.

        “Oh.” His head shot up. “Would you like for me to escort you back to your room, Miss Bourne? It’s beginning to get dark out.”

        “I-” Something caught in her throat. “I suppose that’s fine, Your Lordship. Thank you.” 

        “Of course, miss.” 

        She wouldn’t like it if he extended his arm out to her, even if it was what he was supposed to do. And so he kept his arms at his side as the two of them walked out of the mausoleum together. 

        Rain snuffed out the candle. Beast couldn’t tell the difference between Miss Bourne’s tears and droplets of rain pouring down her cheeks. But the girl quickly drew out her umbrella, and so he could not see her face anymore. Beast took longer strides until he was walking a few paces ahead of her, leading the way. 

        The mausoleum was at the back of the castle and so he escorted her through the rear entrance. A few servants were there to attend to him and Miss Bourne as they each arrived up the steps. A few surprised looks were cast his way. He knew why. It was such a strange occurrence, but Beast couldn’t quite grasp why he was doing it. After all, he could have just left her there, or he could have let her leave and he could be alone beside his mother’s grave. He could have left to go to the forest afterward and find solitude there. 

        But something about Miss Bourne—with her fiery locks—drew him to her. Why? He couldn’t quite put a claw on it. But behind the musky smell of the rain that doused her gown as well as perfumes that masked her natural scent, he smelled something that he liked. She smelled almost the way he had expected an elven forest to smell.

        He was even drawn to speak to her. “I hope you like it here, Miss Bourne,” he said as they walked from the lower quarters of the castle, through the hallways. “I hope your stay is delightful…” He snickered a little. “Even if you did not have the most joyous beginning: A gloomy funeral.”

        Suddenly, Miss Bourne hesitantly giggled. A sound he’d never heard from a young woman before. Especially not a sound directed at something he had said. It sounded like magic, and fairies beating through the forest. Like the ringing of bells as their wings fluttered about, leaving trails of dust.

        “I’ve actually really enjoyed my stay thus far.” Her voice was like a song in his ears. “It’s such a lovely estate.”

        “Thank you, Miss Bourne,” he replied. “I quite like it as well, or I wouldn't be living here.”

        Again, she giggled—the ringing sound of fairies flying.

        They walked in silence for the rest of the way to her room. Once they arrived at the round, wooden door, Miss Bourne thanked him for escorting her and curtsied.

        “Of course.” He bowed and opened up the door. She slipped on by him, and although she kept her head down, he noticed that her eyes fell on him for a moment, before they faltered and fell to the floor. He smelled that same fear again—a scent separate from the one of nymphs and fairy dust, but nonetheless intoxicating. 

        Beast shut the door and stood, peering at it for a few moments. 

        It was like she were a nymph, and she lived in another world, and this was the door to that other world.

        She wasn’t like the romantic paintings of Grecian women at all—like he had been expecting—but rather, a forest nymph from the woods outside of his castle. She had been from here all along and he had never known it.

Chapter Text

The casket was open and the church empty. Rose’s quiet sobs echoed throughout the building—overpowering the sound of the rain pattering against the window panes and rooftop. She wrapped her arms around her chest, rocking back and forth in the pew. Her face was embarrassingly red and so she was glad no one was there to see her. 

        The church looked like Hell. The suffocating red of the walls closed in on her. It was cold and hot at the same time. 

        The casket was calling to her; she couldn’t keep her eyes off of it. Through tears, she took in its blurry form—long and narrow and intimidating. 

        She hadn’t seen the baroness in years. She recalled a portrait she had seen of her once,   with plump, pink cheeks. Only, Rose wasn’t sure she even looked like that at all. 

        As the girl got up from the pew, it felt like she was treading through water, walking with chains on her legs. The church grew quiet. The sound of the rain ceased. It was silent everywhere. Even her heartbeat was inaudible.

        The casket grew in size as she got closer. Suddenly it was the only thing she could see—outlined in black, like a vignette. 

        And what did a corpse look like? Rose shivered at the thought. Was the baroness still herself as a corpse? Or was a corpse just a dead thing—an inanimate object made of earth and dust? 

        Rose hadn’t seen a corpse in years either. Not since—

        Thunder clapped, shattering the church windows. Rose let out a shriek. It was her own mother lying in the casket. The woman’s face was gaunt, with high cheekbones and greenish-gray skin. Her long brown hair framed her face, and Rose couldn’t see all of it but knew it went down to the woman’s ankles. Her eyes were closed but she did not look at peace; she looked disturbed, as though her work were unfinished. As though she had more to say to her daughter. 

        Rose jerked back. She fell to the floor, sobbing and screaming. She felt the black swallowing her now. The blackness tore into her soul, cursing her with a single proclamation. 

        She would die. She would, just as her mother had. Her mother was coming out of the grave to curse her own daughter. Rose’s life was at its end. 

        All the torches and lights in the room died, snuffed out by the wind and the rain. Green and yellow lightning struck her heart. The crows came in from outside, whirling around the church interior. Flashes of lightning revealed her mother’s hollowed face. This was surely death.

        But just then, there was the scent of cigars, wafting in from behind her—wrapping around her, saving her. That homey scent of tobacco, and the warmth of the hearth. The smell of old books that her father read to her at night when she was a child. 

        Rose felt a gentle touch on her shoulder, but yet, the grip was still firm. It was the steady hand of her father. He had come to rescue her. The curse was broken and she breathed in a sigh of relief. 

        The girl turned around, away from the casket, lifting her head up. 

        But it was not her father. 

        A dark figure, clothed in a black cover-up. It didn’t have a face. Or if it did, she couldn’t make it out. It stood tall above her, much taller than her father. It extended its arm out to her. 

        At first, she thought it was the Grim Reaper—but the figure smelled too much like home to be the Grim Reaper. And its hand wasn’t cold, but warm. 

        Rose shivered as she took the hand of the tall, dark figure. It wrapped its cloak around her, and for the first time in her life, the color black was warm and inviting. 

        The Beast was warm and inviting.

        The shattering claps of thunder turned into persistent knocks on the door. And the black that had enveloped her became the black of the back of Rose’s eyelids. 

        “Miss! Miss Bourne, are you in there? Miss Bourne?” Lucy called out in alarm.

        Rose opened her eyes, focusing on the canopy of her bed. She felt stiff, as stiff as the mahogany wood in the room. And she found that she couldn’t move her eyes; they stayed in one spot. She tried to move them, but it hurt to do so. 

        The girl opened her mouth, took in a breath, and out came a raspy voice she didn’t recognize: “Yes, Lucy. I’m in here. Do come in.”

        “Oh, my dear!” Lucy’s voice grew in sound as she opened the door and entered. “You sound as though you’ve caught cold! I told Mrs. Kensington it weren’t no good for you to be out in the rain yesterday like you were.” 

        “A… cold?” Rose lifted her aching arms up to her neck, feeling it. There was a lump there where her throat was swollen. 

        “Yes, dear. Now let me see about you.” Lucy appeared above Rose, her ruddy face drenched in perspiration. “Oh goodness me,” she said upon looking at the girl, and then felt her forehead. “Yes, I do believe you’ve got a temperature. That’s no good at all, is it?” 

        Rose moaned, her arm falling back down beside her on the bed. “Were you calling for me for long?”

        “Oh, what does it matter ‘ow long I was standin’ out there? My mistress caught cold and now I must take care of ‘er. I’m just glad I got ‘ere when I did to wake you up. What if you’d been left to sleep all day long? I know some folk leave their mistresses to just sleep the day away. Well, I’m not about to let such a thing ‘appen. No, not at all.” Lucy gathered up her skirts, a determined look in her eye, and went over to the doorframe. She rang the bell for assistance from other servants. 

        “Do you know the time?” Rose asked, shutting her eyes and shivering. 

        “Yes, ma’am. Six o’clock,” she declared, turning around, a prideful gleam in her eye. “The time I wake up all me mistresses I’ve ever ‘ad. I’ll wake you up earlier or later though if you so please.”

        “No, this time is just fine.” Truthfully, Rose had always slept a bit longer, but she did not want to disturb Lucy’s schedule. 

        A few minutes passed, and soon enough, several maids—including Mrs. Kensington—arrived. Rose winced at the thought of so many people helping her.

        “What happened?” Mrs. Kensington’s strict, stern voice sounded. 

        “Miss Bourne’s caught cold,” Lucy said. 

        Rose heard the sound of water sloshing in a bowl, and then the sound of someone wringing out a towel. 

        “I had a feeling something like this might happen,” Mrs. Kensington said. “Your family told me you had asked to stay at the mausoleum—by yourself—for a few minutes. Just how long did you stay?”

        Rose opened her eyes and turned her head to face the woman. Mrs. Kensington’s arms were crossed and a disapproving look spread across her face.

        “I did not stay for very long, Mrs. Kensington.” She felt the crackles in her throat as she spoke. “It wasn’t very long until His Lordship came and—”

        The air in the room stiffened. The rustling sound of each of the maid’s bustles ceased; everyone stopped and stayed in place. Rose felt her breath catch in her throat. 

        Mrs. Kensington took a few steps forward. The look on her face changed. It was the same look that she had on the day when she told Rose about the Beast. “His Lordship was there?”

        Lucy walked around to the other side of the bed, a worried look in her eyes. She laid a towel down on Rose’s forehead, glancing back-and-forth between the girl and Mrs. Kensington. 

        Rose faltered. The events of the night before filtered back in through her mind, coming all at once like a long-lost memory that had somehow been captured. “W-we happened upon each other by mistake. He entered the mausoleum while I was alone. I likely would’ve stayed longer if he had not come. And then—he walked me back to my room.” 

        “I see.” Mrs. Kensington cleared her throat. She uncrossed her arms and put her hands behind her back.

        The girl turned her head from Lucy to Mrs. Kensington; she still couldn’t move her eyes. “I know I should’ve had a chaperone, but I only intended to be by myself for a few moments. And my father agreed to let me alone—”

        “No, no, Miss Bourne. That is not an issue,” Mrs. Kensington said. 

        Rose felt her muscles ache and her chest draw up. “Was I not to have seen His Lordship? He did have his cover-up.”

        She received silence in return for her question. The girl tried to sit up a little but immediately fell back down into the bed. 

        Suddenly, Lucy blurted out: “Oh, goodness me! Don’t do that. Just stay like you are.” The maid pulled the covers up over Rose’s shoulders. She then stepped back, surveying the room, hands on her hips. “Well, why don’t I just come out and tell the girl what we’re all thinkin’?!” She turned again to face Rose. “Miss Bourne, we just weren’t all expectin’ to ‘ear that you ‘ad met ‘is Lordship is all.”

        “Really? I thought word would’ve spread throughout the whole castle.”

        “Not a word.” Lucy turned to face the older woman. “Did you know about it, Mrs. Kensington?”

        “I had no idea.” Mrs. Kensington’s eyes were far away and distant, cold. “Excuse me, Miss Bourne. Miss Carter and the rest of the maids will take care of you. I have my other morning duties to tend to.” She walked toward the door.

        “Oh, yes, of course,” Rose said sincerely. “I wouldn’t want you to leave all of your other duties alone just to take care of me. I’m quite alright.”

        The older woman left without another word. 

        Lucy waited until Mrs. Kensington’s footsteps echoed down the hallway and then disappeared before piping up: “Now what do you think that was all about? Leavin’ so suddenly?” 

        “I’m sure she had other affairs to tend to. It’s not like I’m the only other guest in the castle.” Rose smiled.

        “Oh, you’re quite right!” Lucy’s eyes bulged out. “And your family doesn’t even know you’re sick yet! Oh, dear me!” She frantically searched around the room before her eyes landed on two younger maids. “You two, go and inform the Bournes at once of the lady’s state.”

        They curtsied and made headway out the door. 

        Rose sank deeper into the covers, and the remaining maids as well as Lucy bustled and hustled around her. Soon enough, wet towels enshrouded her entire face. The morning light began to rise over the mountains. It steeped into the room, lighting up the place. She tried to turn her head toward the doors leading to the balcony, but the towels clouded up her vision. 

        “Lucy?”

        “Yes, dear?” the lady replied with utmost concern.

        “Are all of these really necessary?” She pointed to the towels around her face and neck.

        “Of course they are! Don’t you want your fever to break?”

        “I suppose…” Rose moaned, her body still stiff and achy. She felt like her throat had dead, crinkly leaves in it. They were scratching and scraping across her throat, making it itch. “What a fool I am…” she whispered. 

        “Why do you say that, dearie?” Lucy ladled a glass of water and then some hot soup down Rose’s throat.

        She swallowed before speaking: “Oh, Lucy. I know I shouldn’t have been out there yesterday.” Her voice instantly sounded better, smoother.

        “Well, we all make mistakes sometimes. There’s no need in worryin’ yourself anymore over it.”

        “You’re right, Lucy.” Rose’s eyes gleamed as she saw the morning light streaking into the room, falling over her canopy bed and painting it a warm golden brown. “You’re absolutely right.”

        Just then, the rounded wooden door to the room burst open. Rose twisted her head around. 

        “My Darling! My Darling Lizzie Rose!” Father exclaimed. He marched over to the bed, knelt down, and picked up the girl’s hand. His face was covered with worry, his wrinkles more pronounced than usual. And his eyes were intense and focused, taking in her frame.

        “Father.” Rose’s eyes smiled. She touched his old, wrinkled face with her other hand. “I’m so glad you came to check on me.”

        “I just heard the news that you were sick. Tell me, what do you think is the matter?”

        Lucy piped up: “Nothin’ more than a cold, sir. She should be well in a few days.”

        “Well, that’s a relief.” He sighed, resting his face on her hand. “I came to be so worried just now.”

        “You needn’t worry about me, Father.”

        He shook his head knowingly. “Lizzie Rose. Always the selfless one.” He pushed a few fiery curls out of her face, revealing her crystalline eyes. “I was planning on all of us going on home today but I suppose now that—”

        Suddenly, a gasp escaped from Lucy’s mouth. All heads turned to her. “Oh, oh, sir—” She caught herself, smiling. “Excuse me.” She laughed and cackled for a bit, her plump cheeks rounding out. “Miss Bourne, I assure you, is quite alright in our care. I’m sure you ‘ave business to be tendin’ to at your own ‘ome. Why don’t you go on then? We’ll take good care of ‘er.” Lucy forced out a grin, her teeth showing.

        Father looked back and forth between the maid and Rose, unsure. He cleared his throat then swallowed, and Rose smelled the tobacco scent on him—the same one from her dream, the same one from the Beast the night before. “Well, I—” He looked into his daughter’s eyes.

        Rose sighed, her hand falling away from her father’s face. “I know you need to go home, Father. I wouldn’t want you to miss any more days that you could be working just because of me. When I feel well enough, I’ll come on home.” 

        “Are you sure, darling?” he asked earnestly.

        “Yes, I’m sure. Lucy’s taken good care of me, anyhow.” Rose rolled over onto her side as best she could, grinning at the maid.

        “I trust your judgment more than anyone. Very well then.” He clasped his hands together. “I hope to see you back home and in good health in a few days.”

◜❦︎◞

        “And just when were you going to inform me?”

        Beast turned around to face the door, where the old woman had just barged in. He put his cigar up to his lips and puffed out a ringlet of smoke. “Inform you of what, Mrs. Kensington?”

        She put her hands on her hips and knitted her thin eyebrows together, so thin they only looked like crinkled folds of skin. “You spoke with her. Alone. And not even before the funeral, like I asked you.”

        “Ah, you mean the girl.” Beast chuckled, low. “How did you find out?”

        “I heard it straight from her lips.” The woman lifted a brow. 

        He paused, twisting his cigar in-between his claws. “Really?” 

        “Who did you expect me to hear it from?” 

        Beast kicked up his feet on top of the desk, leaning back in his chair. “I thought perhaps one of the servants who saw us coming in had told you.”

        “And I am curious now why I did not hear from them first.” She squinted at him. “You did not ask them to keep such information away from me, did you?”

        “And what if I did?”

        “I am the Head Maid of this castle, and I expect to know—”

        Suddenly, Beast leaned up and took his feet off of the table. “And I am the master of this castle, and if I should not wish you to know all of my affairs, then you need to accept that, Mrs. Kensington.” 

        The woman uncrossed her arms and unknitted her eyebrows, her steel-gray eyes faltering from their usual strength. She took a few steps back. 

        Beast continued, though with a cooler attitude: “And if a qualified young maid who has never been in consultation with my mother should happen to suddenly rise in the ranks, do not be surprised.” 

        Mrs. Kensington bowed her head. “I understand, sir. I apologize for my impertinence.” 

        Beast searched the woman’s eyes then sat back in his chair. He put his cigar down and rubbed the back of his neck before speaking softly: “It’s quite alright, Mrs. Kensington. I only hope that you will understand and respect my position here.”

        “Of course, sir.” 

        “You’re free to go if that’s the only issue you wanted to talk about.”

        Mrs. Kensington’s eyes suddenly grew in size, back to business as usual. “Actually, Your Lordship, I’m afraid it’s not.”

        “Oh?” Beast lifted a brow, taking another puff of the cigar.

        “Miss Bourne has come down with a fever.”

        Just as soon as the words were out of her mouth, Beast began couching up puffs up smoke, the cigar falling to the floor. 

        “Oh, Your Lordship, are you alright?” Mrs. Kensington asked, leaning forward.

        “I’m fine. I’m fine.” He held up a paw, clenching his throat with the other one. He looked up to the older woman, meeting her eyes. There were so many questions and pleads in his earth-stained eyes. “Miss Bourne is unwell?”

        “I’m afraid so.” Mrs. Kensington sounded earnest and concerned, but in her eyes, there was the slightest hint of a smile as she watched Beast fumbling around, not knowing what to do with himself at the news.

        Beast collected himself, clearing his throat and dusting off his morning robe. His eyes followed the trail of the cigar but he did not move to pick it up. 

        Just then, the doors to the study opened. A messenger boy briskly paced to the inside. He bowed before Mrs. Kensington and Beast. “Your Lordship. I come with a message from the Bourne family.”

        Beast held his breath and his claws tensed around the armchair. 

        “Yes, young man?” Mrs. Kensington spoke up after peering over at Beast.

        The boy continued: “The Bournes have decided to go home today, as planned. Mr. Bourne has business to tend to in town. However, since the youngest Miss Bourne is sick, she has decided to remain at the castle for a few more days until she is well enough to go home. Is this suitable with you, Your Lordship?”

        Beast remained dumbfounded, a faraway look in his eyes. 

        The corners of Mrs. Kensington’s lips curled upward. “Perfect.”

Chapter Text

Three days passed where Rose remained in the bed, with round-the-clock care from Lucy and the other maids. Her family had already left and she thought to herself, How strange—that I am in a stranger’s castle, in a stranger’s bed, with no family nearby? She became familiar with the room during that time. Its wallpapers were yellow and brown, but she noticed there were small green details on the wall, like sprouting leaves. So small she had to squint to find them. All the furniture—the canopy bed, the dresser, the drawers, the vanity—were made out of lovely, dark mahogany wood, with intricate engravings and markings. She could tell no one had ever lived in this room before, as there were hardly any traces of human life at all. Everything was pristine and clear, with no scratches on the mahogany. And there was no dip in the bed where anyone had lain previously. 

        Her most favorite part of the room was the double doors leading to the balcony. Every morning, the light would shine in, growing slowly over the mountains, reaching in to wake her gently up. That is before Lucy came banging on the door. But before that, the golden-yellow light was lovely, and the birds twittered from outside, and the room awoke, teeming with life. Rose would stretch her arms out on the silk-linen duvet, each day growing in strength, until finally, on the fourth day, she felt well enough to sprout from the bed. 

        The young woman arose, walking straight to the double doors, as they were calling her. The light shining in the room was more silvery than golden, as it was still the earliest part of the morning. She saw the black mountains far off in the distance, and the sun peeking out over them. The acres and acres of forest that led up to the castle. The castle itself was on another mountain, with a magnificent view of the valley and forest below. 

        She opened up the doors and tip-toed out into the fresh morning air. She shivered in the chill but soon the sun’s glow came to warm her up. As she exhaled, mist formed. She could see winter turning to spring before her eyes. The last snows of the summer thawed out in the mountains far off in the distance, and sprouts on the trees near the castle grew greener every second. Of course, the evergreens in the forest stayed the same, though. The snow fell off of them. 

        Rose was so glad winter was over. She smiled and hugged herself, warming up. She wished there was a chair out on the balcony where she could enjoy a cup of tea. Ah, yes. Tea. She still felt a small bit of soreness in her throat, but with a nice, steaming cup of tea, she was sure it would go away. 

        But just then, the coos and twitters of the birds faded away into the morning air. She watched as they flew up into the trees. The land and valley seemed to grow a little darker—like a cloud had passed over the morning sun and mountains. The sound of rustles escaped out of the forest near the castle. Rose leaned forward, grabbing the balcony’s bars. She squinted, noticing the black shadow of something large coming out of the forest. An animal. No, a man. But what man could be that big? She followed the shadow as it traveled through the woods, coming out of the canopy and closer to the castle. Her heart beat faster and faster with each step that the creature took. But all she could make out was that shadow—no details, no face, nothing. The world clouded around the focal point of the black figure in the forest. 

        Knock. Knock. 

        “Miss Bourne, are you awake?!”

        Rose flinched, flinging back from the balcony. She caught herself but was nonetheless disoriented. She turned to face the rounded door and spoke up: “Yes, Lucy! I’m awake.” Yet, the girl turned straight back to the balcony, grabbing onto the bars and leaning over, peering off into the forest. But the black figure was gone. The birds returned and so did the sun. Almost as if nothing had happened. As if Rose had imagined it all. 

        Her brows scrunched together in frustration. How could it have been there one minute, and gone the next? Was she seeing things brought on by her illness? But her fever had broken nearly two days before….

        The cracking sound of the doorknob turning, and the squeak of the hinges. 

        Rose pirouetted on her heels. 

        Lucy stared, dumbfounded, her mouth agape. “Miss Bourne…” She gasped in amazement. “You-you're up!” She tossed her hands in the air, a slow smile spreading across her ruddy yet comforting and motherly features. 

        Rose grinned. “Yes. I feel much better today.” Her voice was softer now, not hoarse and full of crackles. It was as smooth as the thin, silky drapes framing the doors leading to the balcony. “Without your care, I’m afraid I would have never got over this ailment.” Her eyes turned suddenly sad. “I’m always the caretaker at my own home. I don’t know what they would do if I were sick…” 

        Lucy’s brows knitted together, her lips pursing. “Well, dear, if’n you’re ever ill again, you just come straight back to the castle and ole Lucy’ll fix you up.” 

        Rose sighed slightly then a small smile grew. “Thank you, Lucy. You’ve been so good to me.” The girl walked through the silky drapes, looking almost like an ethereal angel or spirit in her nightgown, and sat down at the vanity stool. She dipped her hands down into the porcelain water basin before the cries of Lucy echoed throughout the room.

        “Oh, dear, dear! That water’s no good at all. Let me draw you some that’s fresh.” 

        Rose looked back and forth between Lucy and the water that was dripping through her fingers. In her opinion, one-day-old water was perfectly fine for washing one’s face. But this was not so at the castle, where water was in better supply and some could be wasted. 

        Lucy scooped up the water basin and carried it into the bathroom, her skirts bustling all the way. Rose heard the water as it sloshed down the sink. Soon, the older woman came back with a steaming water basin and a few towelettes. “‘Ere you are, miss!” She laid them down on the vanity.

        “Thank you, Lucy.” Rose took a towelette and dipped it into the basin, before applying it to her face. She felt her skin opening, waking up. 

        “Shall I take a brush to the miss’s hair?”

        “You can if you want to. I enjoy doing it myself but I know you love fixing my hair.”

        “That I do.” She chuckled, coming around to Rose’s backside and unbraiding her hair. When she was finished, she took the golden fine-tooth comb off of the vanity and commenced the long process of combing Rose’s hair, beginning at her fiery tips. 

        While Rose finished washing her face and started to put cream and ointments on it—at Lucy’s recommendation—the older woman grew quiet. Much quieter than she tended to be in the morning. She had a somber tone to her and caressed Rose’s hair so softly as if it was the last time she would be seeing such lovely locks. 

        “What’s the matter, Lucy?” Rose peered into the lady’s eyes through the mirror.

        “Oh, nothin’ dear,” she replied, sniffling slightly.

        Rose gave a knowing smile. “Oh, come now. You’re not usually this way.”

        Lucy combed out a few more strands, not daring to look Rose in the eyes, before revealing: “I ‘spose it’s that… It’s just that, I’m gonna miss this.” She sniffled and straightened up, poking her nose in the air and trying to keep composure.

        Rose slumped. 

        “I’ve ‘ardly even gotten to know you, and yet, ‘avin’ a mistress for even just a few days ‘as brought me so much joy. Even if you was ill, I still treasured every minute of it. I’ve been so lonely and this ‘elped to relieve that loneliness.”

        The girl could not help but sigh, and though there were no tears in her eyes, there was the sign of crying all over her pale yet freckled face. She gulped and said, “I’ve enjoyed it, too. I never quite noticed it but, I’ve been lonely at home. I do love my family, but, I’ve lost so many dear friends and people I once knew so well since my father’s gone into debt. Nothing is the same anymore and the house is so distant and cold. It doesn’t feel like home at all.” She wrung her hands together as Lucy continued to comb, making her way up to the top of Rose’s head. The girl looked off into the distance, her eyes drawing together as she winced. “For the first time in so many years, I’m somewhere that feels like… home.”

        Home. The word in her mind was shifting from a fireplace-filled mansion, with plenty of houseguests, servants, family, and fortunes from a memory of years before but was now no more—and becoming someone combing her hair in the morning, invitations to a small, private dinner, and people taking care of her when she was sick. 

        Lucy stopped brushing her hair for a moment.

        Rose sighed. “I’ll admit, it’s taking some getting accustomed to—with all of this treatment I’m receiving, as well as… His Lordship.”

        His Lordship. The title tasted now like almost-ripe elderberries. 

        Her eyes raced around the vanity before resting on Lucy in the mirror. “But Lucy, I simply could not be happier with my stay. I’ve felt so welcome, and it’s been quite a long time since I’ve felt truly wanted anywhere.”

        “Oh, my dear.” Rose thought she saw a tear in the woman’s eyes. “I can’t imagine anyone anywhere not wantin’ you as a guest! It’s practically impossible! But just know you’re always welcome ‘ere. I’m not sure what day you plan on leavin’ now that you’re back to ‘ealth, but if you wanted to stay longer, you most rightfully can.”

        Rose faltered. “But would His Lordship approve?”

        Lucy’s eyes changed; they tilted upward at the end corners. A thoughtful, cunning smile spread across her old, chapped lips. “Well… You could just ask ‘im tonight at dinner.”

        Rose’s eyes bulged out of their sockets. Her heart sped up faster than when she saw the black figure in the forest. “Have I—have I been invited to dine with him?!” she asked, panicked.

        “Yes’m. I was told to tell ya, on the first day that you felt better and were up and about, that your presence would be requested at dinner. ‘is Lordship and Mr. Chesterton’ll both be there,” she said cheerily with a certain spark in her voice.

        The girl felt relief at the mention of Mr. Chesterton’s name. “Oh, alright, of course.” She took a deep breath and crossed her hands in her lap. “You must be overjoyed to help me prepare for tonight then,” she joked, trying to calm herself.

        “You’ve no idea!” Lucy exclaimed, combing the girl’s hair again but with more enthusiasm. “I’ve already begun makin’ plans in me ‘ead for what you’ll wear and ‘ow you’ll look!”

        “I can’t wait.” Rose winced slightly but did not want to spoil Lucy’s fun. 

        In the back of her mind, though, the girl could not help but wonder: If His Lordship does not want me for a wife—or no wife at all, for that matter—why am I being treated in such a manner?

◜❦︎◞

        Rose ran her fingers over the deep red fabric. The gown was made of fine silk with ruffles on the skirt and ruby jewels decked around the bodice. It just might have been the most lavish thing she had ever worn. She probably would not have cared too much for the gown and found it too extravagant for her taste, if not for the fact that it absolutely, positively looked like her namesake—a rose. The ruffles were all in a circular pattern and motion, forming the flower. And then the bodice with the jewels was like little droplets of dew that had fallen on it from the early morning mists. 

        Lucy had done her hair up in an elaborate do once again, although this time she left a few straggling curls to frame the girl’s face. Rose quite liked that detail, as she loved her hair and wanted it better displayed. The red of her hair was similar to the color of the gown, but it had a certain orange tint to it, like fire, whereas the gown was a deeper ruby red. 

        The girl found herself twirling about in the mirror, looking at every inch of herself. She even looked at her face. Some of her freckles had disappeared from staying inside for several days and also from putting the creams and ointments on her face. 

        Two knocks sounded at the door and re-entered Lucy. “I see you’re gettin’ acquainted with the gown. I just knew you’d love it.” She lifted a wide necklace, the same color as the jewels on the bodice. “I brought some jewelry for ya.”  

        The older woman wrapped the necklace around Rose; it draped all across the girl’s collarbones and sprawled out all across her chest, leading downward in a “V” shape. The woman then gave Rose a pair of ruby tassels for her ears. 

        Lucy stepped back, viewing her creation. She gasped, her hands covering her mouth.

        “What is it?” Rose asked.

        There were tears in her eyes. “This might be… No. This is the most beautiful outfit I’ve ever put together. And it couldn’t ‘ave looked better on anyone else but you, dear.”

        “Oh, surely you don’t mean that.” Rose’s eyes fell away from her face and instead, she looked down at the floor. She moved away from the mirror.

        “Oh, but I do!” Lucy exclaimed. “Just imagine what ‘is Lordship will think when the most gorgeous woman in all of England comes to dine with ‘im.”

        Me? The most gorgeous woman in all of England… Rose stopped for a moment, and slowly inched her head back until she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. Is it true? Or just one of Lucy’s exaggerating compliments? Most certainly the latter, she concluded. When she saw herself, she did not see the most beautiful woman, not even a pretty woman at that. Just plain, with freckles. And although she loved her fiery red curls that bustled up on top of her head, not everyone thought the same. 

        “I used to be bullied for my red, curly hair and freckles…” Rose spoke plaintively, almost a whisper, with a far-away look in her ghostly blue eyes. 

        “Oh…” Lucy removed her hands from her mouth. “Well, I—” She cleared her throat. “I’m sorry to ‘ear that, Miss Bourne.” 

        Before Rose could reply, an abrupt knock sounded upon the door. Mrs. Kensington opened it, her head sticking out, her eyes as stern and focused as a hawk. “His Lordship awaits your presence, Miss Bourne. Are you ready?”

        “Oh, yes. Quite.” Rose hastily picked up her skirts, adrenaline suddenly coursing through her veins. 

        “Good.” Mrs. Kensington pursed her thin lips and straightened up. “Follow me.” 

        Rose trailed behind the small yet stout woman. She glanced back at her room once, finding Lucy’s eyes, but she soon turned back around.

        Thoughts pervaded her mind as she traversed down the white marble hallways. The porcelain structures of Greek and Roman gods and goddesses stared at her, some even jealous of her immense beauty. But all that she could think of was how to behave in front of Lord Ashworth at a dinner party. Would he be as agreeable as he had been at the funeral? What would he think of her rosy gown, a gown that was daring with its low, “V”-shaped cut? Was Lucy making a suggestion with the choice of it? Rose was not so sure. And then, those words came back to her. Just imagine what His Lordship will think when the most gorgeous woman in all of England comes to dine with him… Rose knew the words were not true in the slightest, but what if they were? What would he think? She had not dined formally with anyone in years, not since Father had ceased his extravagant dinner parties. And even then, she had just been a young girl, the last ones being when she was fifteen or sixteen. She had not practiced formal etiquette in years, and surely she had not practiced her conversational skills in years either. Would he think her awkward? 

        And what would he say when she asked him for a longer stay? How long would he permit her to live in his grand castle, too grand for the likes of her? She knew she did not belong in such an estate, for she was a destitute merchant’s daughter who had curly red hair and freckles, whose hands were dry and cracked from scrubbing dishes and clothes all day long, from tending to the garden to get vegetables and fruit for her family. Even though it was not a perfectly apt fit, her two sisters Minnie and Hattie would have fared much better in the castle than she. Rose was fitter to be a maid than an honored guest. And with the treatment she was receiving, she might as well have been the lady of the house—which she was most certainly not meant to be. To even think the late baroness had considered it… 

        But then again, neither Minnie nor Hattie would have stayed after hearing their potential fiancé was a beast. They would have flung themselves out of the castle doors and into the carriage, squealing the whole way. Rose almost giggled at the thought, her lips curling up at the sides. Her sisters could be silly handfuls, but she loved them nonetheless. And even if her sister Minnie were not always in the right, Rose longed for her strong heart, her courage to say what she meant and thought at all times. Perhaps that is why the baroness had chosen her. Not only because she would see past Lord Ashworth’s exterior, but because she did not have the fire in her heart to say no, especially at the expense of her family. 

        Rose could not deny, however, staying at the castle was a lovely and unexpected departure from her life as she had known it for the past several years. Even if it was strange and new, she enjoyed everyone’s presence that she had encountered. Mrs. Kensington could be stern, but Rose sensed a good-hearted, caring woman under all of that stony exterior. Lucy was the only person Rose had ever considered to be a true friend in years. The girl truly had grown fond of her. Mr. Chesterton, even if they had only met and dined together once, had captured Rose with his natural charm and humor. All of the staff were superb and tended to her every need. Not to mention the castle was staggeringly beautiful; its white marble walls had arrested the girl. And she had not even seen half of it yet.

        And then Beast… Rose struggled to find the words to describe how she felt about him. It was like—when she was a child, and she had had a nightmare, soon jumping up out of her bed, running down the hallways to her parents’ room. Everything was dark and black and cold. But then, her father would put his arms around her, and Rose would close her eyes, and everything was dark and black but not cold. She would nuzzle into Father’s chest, her eyes shut tight, the faint scent of old weathered books on his fingers from where he had read before falling asleep. That’s what the Beast was like in her head. He was both the nightmare and the comfort that came afterward. He had been there to save her when she was so distraught over the funeral, the funeral that was somehow both for the baroness and her mother simultaneously. He had been there for her to pull her out of that deep darkness, even if their interaction lasted for but a few minutes. 

        But would he prove to be this way again?

        “Here we are, Miss Bourne.”

        Rose came to a stop, taking in her surroundings after being lost in her head. The tall white doors leading into the dining room rose high above her. She gulped.

        Mrs. Kensington leaned in and whispered, with an uncharacteristically caring tone: “Are you nervous?”

        The girl nodded.

        “Well, don’t be.” Mrs. Kensington shot her nose up in the air suddenly and laid her hand on the doorknob. 

        The words were not comforting in the slightest, but without further warning, the doors that seemed to lead up to the heavens opened. Rose’s face turned awfully pale and she shut her eyes, clasping her hands together so tight that her hands and fingers turned bright red. The shuffling sound of the door against the marble. The clink and clatter of silverware. The chitter-chatter of two men’s voices, one significantly deeper than the other. 

        Rose opened her eyes, and all sounds stopped. She took a few steps forward until she stood in the doorway. Mrs. Kensington walked off to the side of the room, joining other servants.

        But a single focal point beckoned to her. The long dining table led up to it, and the walls of the room closed in on it. That single black focal point. Her eyes darted about, trying to find anything else to look upon.

        But then, she could not avoid it, when that dark voice called out to her: 

        “Good evening, Miss Bourne.”

        Miss Bourne… Her surname, in his mouth—it was like dark, overly-rich German chocolate cake, with bitter undertones.

        Her eyes finally fell and focused on the black drape. And the black drape focused back on her. It was at the end of the dining table, on the other side of the room. Such a contrast to the white of the room. The Beast.

        Before she could stumble over her words awkwardly, a loud tenor voice shouted out over the rest of the dining room: “Ah!” Mr. Chesterton called, in a feigned French accent, “Mademoiselle Bourne, delighted to ‘ave you with us zis evening!” The dapper man, with his black and white suit and tailcoat, got up from his seat and came around, swirling about the room until he reached Rose. He bowed before her and reached out for her hand, kissing it. Rose’s cheeks flushed, but then her eyes drew upwards, above Mr. Chesterton, until landing on the black figure. Lord Ashworth stood in her presence.

        She needed to say something. “Mr. Chesterton, I—” she pulled her hand away from his mouth, “I do not remember you being French.” She allowed a small simper to grace her features. 

        “No, no, you’re right,” he said, his true voice returning and his head falling. “But can’t I have my fun every now and then?” He picked his head back up, smirking.

        That dark, rich, yet crisp voice again: “I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse Chesterton, Miss Bourne. He likes to have all eyes on him and so he makes a fool of himself, especially when he’s had a few glasses of wine.”

        “I do not!” Mr. Chesterton retorted, spinning about to face Lord Ashworth, with his hands on his hips. “Don’t listen to a word he says, Miss Bourne.” 

        Rose could not help but smile at their friendly banter. “I’ll try not to.” Although she said those words, the truth was she listened very carefully to every word that Lord Ashworth had to say. He spoke so cooly, so eloquently; he had command of the entire room when he spoke with his deep crooning tones. He did not have to yell for attention at all, as Mr. Chesterton apparently did.

        “I trust that you are feeling better?” Lord Ashworth inquired in a cool tone.

        “Oh, yes, much better, thanks. With the care of your lovely staff, of course.” She glanced over at Mrs. Kensington, who kept up a mostly blank stare.

        “I’m glad to hear that. Won’t you sit down, Miss Bourne?” It sounded more like a command rather than a request. 

         A servant pulled out the chair at the foot of the table. “Of course, Your Lordship.” Rose gathered her skirts up and took her seat.

        “‘Your Lordship’! Bah!” Mr. Chesterton chortled as he plopped down in his chair. “It sounds so strange to hear you call him such a thing. That title doesn’t fit him at all. Much too silly and formal, don’t you think, Ashworth?” 

        Rose turned to face Lord Ashworth. His drape flowed as he shook his head back and forth. He lifted a black glove, arising out of the drape, motioning to Mr. Chesterton. “This is what I have to put up with every time he becomes intoxicated.”

        “Oh…” Rose fumbled with her fingers, her cheeks flushing once more. 

        Mrs. Kensington rubbed her temples and sighed. 

        “You’re embarrassing me, Chesterton,” came Lord Ashworth’s aggravated voice. “And don’t you think it’s perfectly fine for Miss Bourne to call me as such since we have only met once before?”

        He lifted a glass of wine. “Well, then hurry up and get more acquainted with her so she can call you other such…” His words were drowned as he downed the drink.

        A slight laugh echoed from the black drape on the other side of the room, before Rose turned her head toward him, and Lord Ashworth stifled it. “Well,” he cleared his throat, “I suppose we should… become more acquainted then.”

        Rose’s face turned pale. “I suppose we should,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. The girl felt herself shaking in her seat, her heels clicking up and down on the floor.

        What a lovely impression I’m making, she thought. If only I had the strong heart of my sister… Then, she sat up a little straighter, lifting one of her eyebrows. What would Minnie say?

        Suddenly, Rose put another simper on her face, breathing in deep. She forced herself to look at the black drape. “And what should I call His Lordship once I’ve become acquainted with him?” She took a sip of tea.

        All heads in the room turned to face Lord Ashworth, who sat still. A moment later, he reached out a glove to the wine glass in front of him, picking it up and swirling it about, inviting the air in. That swirling sound was the only one in the dining room. He lifted a small part of the drape, just above his chin and mouth, though Rose could not make much out as it was all shadowed over with black—and took a sip. 

        “Ashworth, I suppose,” he replied, a bit sarcastically, his drape facing Mr. Chesterton. He then cocked his head slightly, the bottom of the drape becoming uneven as he turned his focus toward Rose. “And what shall I call you once we’ve become more acquainted?” 

        Rose lifted her eyebrows. Suddenly, all the heads in the room—Mrs. Kensington who stood against the wall, Mr. Chesterton who sipped on his wine, the servants who were in and out of the kitchen—landed on her. Her eyes dropped from the black figure across the table to her palms in her lap. “Well, you already refer to me as ‘Miss Bourne’, so I feel there is no other name to call me by except—” She bit her lip. “Rose…”

        The taste of it in her mouth was the light, airy sweetness of rose water. A dusting of perfume. A pink, dewy flower in a garden. One footprint in freshly fallen snow, mist in the air, straight out of the mouth. It was the last snow of spring when the pink roses bloomed.

        “Rose... Rose, it is then.”

        But her name in his mouth was a deep red, even deeper than the jewels on her gown. It tasted like thick red wine, felt like expensive silk, sounded like the low notes of a clarinet, and smelled like ashes as they flicked up out of the fireplace or off the end of a cigar and flew, flaming in the air.

        She liked her name in his mouth.

Chapter Text

“Well, have you made your decision?”

        Beast stared out the window, his eyes following the descending droplets of rain, his paws clasped tightly behind his back. “No. Not yet.”

        Chesterton rolled his eyes, throwing his hands up in the air. “You’re impossible. I can’t believe you.” 

        “Well, what am I supposed to say?! I don’t want to turn her down completely. That would be awfully rude.”

        Chesterton pressed his palms into his forehead to keep it from exploding with frustration. “You’re supposed to say ‘No’! Don’t you remember our little conversation we had earlier? About how we would never let women into our lives?” 

        “I’m not letting her into my life, Chesterton. All she asked for was a longer stay in the castle.” A tiny smirk fell across his lips. “I thought she would have been scared away by your antics last night. But it seems your… charms only made her want to stay.”

        “Ugh…” he groaned. “I still have a blistering headache from last night.”

        “I still can hardly believe you did that,” Beast said, stifling a laugh. “Even if it’s not totally out of character for you.”

        Chesterton pursed his lips together. “Well, I still can hardly believe that she asked to stay for a longer period of time! What’s next? Will she be bringing her wardrobe to the castle? Moving in with us?”
Beast lifted his brow and crossed his arms, turning away from the window and pacing toward Chesterton. “And would that be such a devastating turn of events?” 

        The man squinted. “You’ve been having more audiences with Mrs. Kensington as of late, haven’t you?”

        “Who has been having more audiences with me as of late?” suddenly the high-strung voice of the older woman called out from across the room. 

        Chesterton looked back and forth between her and Beast. “You knew she was coming? And you didn’t say a word?!” he whispered. 

        Beast shook his head and laughed, his mane flowing from one side to the other like a lion’s. “Do come in, Mrs. Kensington. What’s the matter?” he asked, taking a seat at his desk. 

        The woman walked in, shutting the tall doors behind her. “It’s Miss Bourne, Your Lordship.”

        “Changed her mind about staying, I presume?” Beast pulled a business paper out of his desk and put on his reading glasses. 

        Chesterton’s eyes darted back to Mrs. Kensington. 

        “No,” she replied. 

        Beast lifted a brow, looking up at the woman. “Says she wishes not to dine with Chesterton anymore?”

        “Ashworth!”

        “It’s a possibility, my good man.”

        “Ahem,” Mrs. Kensington cleared her throat. 

        Beast and Chesterton settled down.

        She lifted her head and stuck her nose up in the air. “Miss Bourne wishes to have a private audience with you, Your Lordship.”

        Beast rose out of his desk chair. “What the devil for?”

        Mrs. Kensington shrugged. “I’m not entirely sure, but I heard she wants to know more about your many accomplishments.”

        “‘Accomplishments’.” He scoffed. “What a load of overheated puffery from my mother.” His eyes faltered and fell to the floor as he spoke the last word. 

        “Miss Bourne does not seem to think so. I showed her one of your paintings, and she wanted to see more.” A mischievous gleam arose in her otherwise calm and collected eyes. 

        “You did, didn’t you?” he said with a sour tone. Beast paced around the room, his ears pressed down against his head. He snarled and sneered but then the fury lifted, his face morphing into a puzzled and pondering look. He gripped his chin, tipping his head downward, thinking.

        “You know, this might not be so bad, Ashworth,” Chesterton commented, his tenor voice breaking the silence. 

        “And why is that?” Beast replied in his dark bass.

        “Well, once she sees all of your paintings…” he smiled smugly, “they might be just the things to scare her away.”

        “Die.” Beast rolled his eyes and crossed his arms. 

        “So, what will it be, Your Lordship? Shall I tell Miss Bourne you’re coming to the atelier or no?” the older woman asked.

        Beast’s ears pricked and then fell slowly; he rubbed the back of his neck, glancing between Chesterton and Mrs. Kensington. 

◜❦︎◞

        Upon entering the atelier, Rose felt as though she were in a forest. But not the bright, yellow, birdsong part of the forest, like her room. It was the dark, deep part of the forest, with evergreens so thick that the whole ground was in a black shadow. With branches that twisted all along the ground floor, making it impossible to trudge through. And mossy and covered in thickets.

        The dark green wallpaper had small engravings in it, with swirling designs. But there were white columns leading up to the ceiling that broke through the green wallpaper. They went all around the room. Rose’s eyes shifted to the curtains at the far side of the atelier, where large, dark green—almost black—curtains covered what she presumed were French doors and windows leading to a balcony. 

        And then, there was the art—unfinished pieces just left sitting there on easels, in addition to finished pieces hanging up in frames on the walls. 

        But there was something off about them. It was so stuffy in the room and dark that she could hardly see. But through the layers of dust on each painting, and even without any sunlight, she knew that the paintings were nothing like she had ever seen before. A skull peeped out at her from one of them at the end of the room. And in another one, two bright yellow eyes watched her; they seemed to follow her as she traversed around the room. 

        Oh, why did Mrs. Kensington have to leave her here alone… 

        She had shown the girl one painting before she left: a lovely little Romantic piece. A landscape painting of the grounds around the castle. Full of flourishing details of the forest. She noticed how careful Lord Ashworth’s eye and hand were. He had observed and depicted every living detail of the forest: every falling leaf, every skittering squirrel, even the motion of the branches as they swayed in the wind. It was all there, captured in one piece. 

        Surely, only a man could do this, Rose thought. 

        But these other pieces… it almost seemed like another artist had done them. The same attention to detail was there, but the mood and tone of the pieces were entirely opposite. 

        Was the artist of these paintings coming to speak with her any minute now? Or would he even come, a possibility that Mrs. Kensington had forewarned her of? Was he man, or beast? Or something in-between, even? Rose furrowed her brows. She tiptoed over to one of the easels, lifted her slender fingers up to it, and traced the lines on the unfinished work, searching for any signs. Any claw marks, scuffs from a hoof, a tuft of fur, anything that would let her know. But he may not even resemble an animal… she thought. The girl sighed, her fingers falling to her side. 

        But he had been so kind the night before. A most generous host, and one she felt surprisingly comfortable with. His dark, rich voice had growling undertones every now and then. A kind of voice she had never heard before. Almost as if from a wild animal.

        How was it that he was a gentleman and a wild animal at the same time? 

        She looked at the painting once more. The painting was man and beast at the same time. It had perfectly-sketched lines, done by the neatest hand, and yet, it was the portrait of a nightmarish figure. A tall, slender man clad in black who had cloven feet and a deer skull for a face, with endlessly-black holes for eyes. His antlers pierced the leaves of the trees above him, drawing blood from the branches. 

        Was this a self-portrait? Rose shuddered at the thought. Surely, such a horrific figure was not her host, the lord of this castle, her almost-fiancé.

        She knew he was something, though. Or else he would not wear the cloak. A part of her still wished and hoped that he was merely deformed. But Mrs. Kensington assured her time and again this was not so. 

        Perhaps he would reveal to her his true form today…

        A gnawing feeling arose in Rose’s stomach, hungry and yearning for the truth beneath the black cloak. Should she ask him? Or would he voluntarily reveal himself? Or, if he did not reveal himself, should she ask anyway? 

        Rose’s cheeks blushed and a flush flew across her chest as the image of a Devilishly-handsome man flashed in her mind’s eye: Lord Ashworth lifting his black cloak, only to reveal the face of a god. Her eyes widened and her lips lilted at the corners. Such a sight would make anyone else faint, but she could handle it. She had read enough books where such a thing happened; she had imagined such a sight in her mind for so long that she knew she could withstand it. 

        Rose wrapped her arms around herself, swiveling back and forth, her skirts swishing along the black-and-silver marble floors. And then, since she was the only woman to ever withstand such a sight without fainting and without tattletaling to nearby villages, to take the god seriously, why… why, he would—

        “Oh, dear…” The girl pressed her fingers to her forehead, shutting her eyes. “I can’t let myself get carried away,” she whispered, serious at first, remembering the words of her mother—but then she giggled at her girlishness, her foolishness. 

        Her eyes then darted back to the painting, and her smile faded. Was this the work of a god? 

        Suddenly, there was the sound of a creaking door. Rose jolted and turned to face it as light filtered into the room. The silhouette of Mrs. Kensington’s frame stood in the doorway. 

        “Hello again, Miss Bourne,” she greeted. “His Lordship is on his way.”

        Rose’s heart fluttered and then sank immediately with fear. 

        “I’ve other business to tend to,” the older woman said, cuffing her hands together and glancing down at them before looking Rose in the eye, “so Miss Carter will be chaperoning for this evening. She will likely be chaperoning you from now on, seeing as you need a lady’s maid since you will be staying longer in the castle.”

        A lady’s maid. Rose had never had one before. She had often dreamt of becoming some lovely rich man’s wife, elevating her status, but she did not think of all the things that would come with it. A lady’s maid…

        “O-of course,” Rose said. 

        Following Mrs. Kensington, in came Lucy. Rose smiled. “Oh, Miss Carter, how glad I am to see you.”

        “You jus’ saw me this mornin’. It weren’t all that long ago.” Lucy laughed. 

        “I hear that you will be my lady’s maid from now on.” 

        “Yes!” Lucy exclaimed. “I’ll be tendin’ to you for as long as you stay ‘ere, Miss Bourne.” She curtsied consequently. 

        “And just how long do you plan on staying?” Mrs. Kensington asked, squinting her eyes and lifting her chin. 

        Rose faltered. “I-I’m not so sure, Mrs. Kensington. His Lordship and I haven’t really discussed that yet. He hasn’t even made up his mind yet.”

        Lucy put her hands on her hips. “Well, he needs to hurry up. I need to know ‘ow much time I’ll be spendin’ with me mistress so I don’t get sad when ya leave.” She grinned playfully. 

        “Oh, come now, Miss Carter,” Mrs. Kensington spoke up. “You know that if Miss Bourne wishes it so, you may remain with her as her lady’s maid whenever and wheresoever she pleases.”

        Rose furrowed her brows, looking between the two women. “Is this true? You can come home with me?”

        Miss Carter’s smile faded a little. “Yes, dear, I can! Isn’t it wonderful? I’ll be your lady’s maid for as long as you wish.”

        “His Lordship wouldn’t be upset with you for leaving?” Rose asked.

        “No, no, no. ‘E probably don’t even know I exist.” She cackled. 

        “I’m sure that’s not the case. Anyhow, he’ll know you after this evening.” 

        “I ‘spose you’re right.” She stuck her hands in her dress pockets. “Besides, I was only ‘ired to be the lady’s maid for the future baroness, so I won’t even be needed ‘ere anymore.”

        Rose’s eyes fell to the floor. She wrapped her arms around herself. “Quite right.”

        Mrs. Kensington backed up, turning around to face the doorway. “I’ll be taking my leave then,” she said. “Good evening, Miss Bourne, Miss Carter.” Her footsteps echoed down the hallway until they dissipated into nothing. 

        Lucy broke the silence: “Oi! It’s quite stuffy in ‘ere, innit?” She marched over to the dark green curtains and pulled them open, whirlwinds of dust swirling up into the air. The sunset filtered in, painting the room orange and red and gold. “This room could really use a dustin’. Especially since people are gonna be in ‘ere again.”

        “Again?” Rose questioned.

        “Yes, Miss Bourne. No one’s been in this room to my knowledge for a good long while. ‘Is Lordship stopped paintin’ a couple o’ years ago.”

        A somber look fell across Rose’s face, her eyebrows knitting together as she lifted them in an inquisitive, yet plaintive, manner. “I wonder why…”

        “Ask ‘im. I’m really not sure,” Lucy said, swiping her apron across a table and two lounge chairs in the corner of the room. 

        Rose’s face drew up, gaunt. “Will we be sittin’ there?”

        Lucy glanced up at her mistress, a strange look on her face. “You and ‘is Lordship will be.” She laughed. “Why else would I be dustin’ ‘em off?”

        “So close together?” Rose took a step back.

        “Well,” Lucy stopped, in thought, “I can separate ‘em a lil’ if’n you so desire.”

        “That would be very kind of you.”

        “As you wish, Miss Bourne.” The stout woman moved the two lounge chairs farther apart from one another until they were at a comfortable-enough distance for Rose. 

        “Are ya plannin’ on askin’ ‘is Lordship ‘ow long you’ll be stayin’?”

        “I suppose…” she winced, “I suppose I shall have to. We need not waste any more time before deciding what to do with our peculiar situation.”

        “Peculiar, indeed!” Lucy hollered, standing up straight after bending over and stretching out her back. “I’ve never experienced anythin’ quite like this lil’ predicament you’ve got goin’ on with ‘is Lordship.”

        Rose giggled. “I’m sure you haven’t.” She looked out the French doors and long, tall windows, drawn to the balcony. “It’s not often one finds herself engaged to a man, only to find out he’s a… individual who does not wish to be married.”

        Lucy let out a long and large belly laugh. Rose liked the sound of it, as it reminded her of Ferguson. “If that’s ‘ow you wish to put it.”

        The girl indulged in their quiet comradery for a few moments longer, before a few knocks sounded upon the door. Insistent, yet gentle and firm knocks. 

        Rose’s throat caught; she looked over at Lucy for guidance. 

        “It’ll be fine, dear. You’ll see,” the woman whispered reassuringly, holding out her hands. She then walked over to the door and opened it presently. 

        Rose pretended to be admiring one of the ghastly paintings.

        “Your Lordship. Welcome.” The rustling sound of the bustles of Lucy’s skirts as she curtsied.

        “Thank you kindly, Miss…?”

        “Carter, sir. Miss Bourne’s lady’s maid.”

        “Ah, yes, of course.” 

        Rose knew she needed to turn around but—

        “Miss Bourne.” It was the first time she’d ever heard his footsteps—long strides, pounding against the marble floors, the loudest steps she’d ever heard. And yet, he walked so gracefully. Like a large, muscular ballet dancer leaping across the stage floor. “Admiring my work, are we? It’s been quite some time since anyone has bravely stepped foot in here.”

        Rose took her eyes off the work, facing His Lordship. “I can tell,” she giggled. “How do you do, Your Lordship?” She curtsied, lowering herself, but when she tilted her head up, she noticed he was right there before her: His tall, menacing black form, wrapped in a slightly-different cloak than yesterday. There was a hint of purple on the cape. He was impossibly tall. Rose tilted her chin up when looking at him. She felt her heart catch in her throat.

        “Perfectly well, now that I’m in the presence of a lady.” He bowed, gently bending down before her.

        Rose blushed. “Oh, dear.” She kept her composure though. “Do you always say such things to ladies?”

        “Now that I think about it, no. I’ve never really been in the presence of a lady long enough to woo her with my words,” he said with some amount of fervor.

        The color then left Rose’s face. Did he really mean to woo her? Surely not. This was all just playful banter anyhow. 

        He cleared his throat. “So, what do you think of my pieces?” He gestured toward the many easels and paintings on the walls, his drape lifting up slightly and black, bejeweled gloves coming out. Rose looked closely at the tips of his fingers, trying to see if there were claws or nails through the gloves, but they were too thick to tell. 

        “Oh, erm…” she stumbled, turning around. “Well, I really loved the one Mrs. Kensington showed me. The one with the…” she faced him, “landscape—of the castle?”

        “I remember that one!” he exclaimed. “One of my first. It’s displayed in the drawing-room, isn’t it?”

        “Yes, Your Lordship. Mrs. Kensington pointed it out to me, saying that it was one of your pieces. I had absolutely no idea you were an artist!”

        “‘Artist’ is a bit of an overreach,” he said smugly. 

        “I don’t think so. You’ve a great hand and attention to detail.” Rose smiled, then looked around at the other paintings. She winced. “If I may, what… style are these paintings in here exactly?”

        “Gothic. Although I’d like to believe I developed my own style after a while.” 

        “They are unique indeed. I’ve never seen anything quite like them in my life.” 

        “Is that a good or bad thing?” 

        Rose giggled, cutting her eyes back and forth between him and the paintings until finally settling on him. “Well, I wouldn’t want to get on the baron’s bad side, now would I?” 

        Lord Ashworth let out a deep, rumbling laugh. “Ah. I’m used to having such criticism. But,” he sighed, “I continued my paintings anyway.”

        “They meant that much to you?” Rose asked, intrigued.

        “I suppose so. I had so much I wanted to say, and even if no one else listened, I told the stories in the paintings myself.” 

        Rose drew her brows together. “Why did you stop?”

        Lord Ashworth turned to face Rose, his drapes rustling. “I suppose I ran out of stories to tell,” he said rather plaintively.

        “Oh.” The girl bit her lip. “Do you think you’d ever start back up again?”

        He became silent until suddenly motioning to the lounge chairs. “Why don’t we sit down?” 

        Rose peered behind her. Lucy stood at the wall, waiting to attend to them. The girl gulped. “Oh, yes, of course, Your Lordship.” She took a seat at the smaller, rounded lounge chair. Although hers at home was lighter in color, it reminded Rose of her reading chair back home in some ways. Which was the dustiest, however, she could not say.

        Lord Ashworth took a seat in the larger, darker-colored—almost black—chair. It looked as though it had been specially made for his inhumanly large frame. 

        “You know, you do not have to call me that.” 

        Rose almost gasped. Her skin froze. “Call you what, Your Lordship?” she whispered.

        “‘Your Lordship’!” he cackled. “The title does not bother me, but I thought perhaps you might like to refer to me as ‘Lord Ashworth’ instead.”

        “Oh… Oh, yes, of course. What would you prefer?”

        He leaned forward, the black drape coming closer to her. “What would you prefer?”

        Her eyes fell. She glanced behind her chair at Lucy, who had a blank stare. Rose turned back around. “N-no one has ever asked me what I would like to call them.” She nervously giggled, pushing a curly lock of fiery-red hair behind her ears. “Oh, dear, I don’t know. Lord Ashworth is more palatable, I suppose. I like the way it tastes better.” 

        As soon as the words left her mouth, she bunched the folds of her dress up in her fists and her shoulders lifted.

        Lord Ashworth’s cloak rustled and seemed to grow in size. He sat up. “The way it… tastes?”

        Rose grimaced and shut her eyes. “I apologize, Lord Ashworth.”

        “You said it.”

        The girl sat up. “I did, didn’t I?” 

        “So, what is this ‘taste’ you speak of?”

        “Oh, Lord Ashworth, don’t listen to me. Forget I ever said such a thing. I do hope you will.”

        “I’m not sure I can. I’m intrigued now.”

        Rose bit her lip again, sucking her cheeks in. “I’m not even sure I can explain it. I’ve never been able to explain it to anyone, and if I tried, they wouldn’t listen—or they wouldn’t believe me.” 

        He cocked his head. “Why is that?”

        “Oh, no one ever listens to me.” She smiled, turning her head to the side. “Only Pa, really, but he didn’t believe me when I told him.”

        Lord Ashworth remained silent and still. He kicked up one leg over the other, just staring at her. “So, tell me then. You can… taste names?”

        Rose let out a sigh, before nodding.

        “Fascinating.” 

        “Is it really so?”

        “Yes! I’ve never heard of such a phenomenon.”

        “So, you believe me?”

        “You sound convincing enough.” He knitted his gloved fingers together, pressing his clasped hands under what Rose presumed was his chin. 

        Her icy blue eyes gleamed. 

        “Now tell me,” he said, in a practical, matter-of-fact tone, “what exactly does my name taste like?”

        Rose blushed. “Oh. Well,” she clenched her teeth together, “like elderberries.” She moved her tongue around in her mouth, trying to taste the word as she fixated on it. “The tartness of elderberries, but a sweet finish. And then,” she shut her eyes, “I see… a dark ocean. Dark blue. With a deep green forest behind the rocky shore. It’s gray and cloudy.” She opened her eyes. 

        Lord Ashworth undid his legs and sat back in his chair, aghast. “You can see names too?”

        Rose held a hand up to her mouth, her eyes twinkling. “At times, all of the senses at once.”

        “Really?” He sounded ravished, amazed. “That’s really quite amazing, Miss Bourne.”

        “Now, now, that’s overreaching,” she said, copying his earlier words. 

        She was sure he was smiling. 

        A faint, bright red light reached into the room. Rose turned her head, looking out across the balcony. It was the dying red light of sunset. 

        “Would you care to go out on the balcony? The view is much better from out there.”

        Rose jerked back to face him, and then her eyes fell to her lap. “Oh, of course. I would be happy to.” 

        As she was about to get up, Lord Ashworth arose and walked over to the side of her chair. Rose lifted her head. He cast a shadow over her. She gulped as he extended his arm. The girl looked, dumbfounded, for but a moment, before taking his arm and standing up. 

        His arm was… strangely warm, almost hot. She could feel his muscles even through the gloves. Rose blushed again, the blood rising in her cheeks and chest. 

        Lucy opened the French doors for them, and they both stepped into the whipping winds of the outdoors. 

        “Is it too cold?” Lord Ashworth asked.

        “No, no. The beauty overtakes the cold.”

        He nodded. 

        “I just love balconies,” she said, letting go of his arm and going to perch on one of the rails. The sun was low and red in the sky, going back behind the mountains. Burgundies, scarlets, and wines streaked across the sky. 

        “Why is that?” Lord Ashworth questioned. 

        “I don’t know…” She backed away from it for a moment. “Perhaps because it’s the greatest view of all the beautiful forest and mountains and land. And I can admire it here without anyone judging me for wanting to go into the woods.” She sighed. “My sisters used to make fun of me all the time, and still do, for always wanting to be out in the woods.” Rose winced. “I’ve said too much, haven’t I?” She rubbed her thumbs together.

        “No, not at all,” he said, slowly and calmly, before leaning over toward her. “You like the forest?”

        She smiled and nodded.

        “I never would have imagined.”

        “No one ever does. Most ladies like staying inside, don’t they? At least that’s what my sisters say ladies should like doing.” 

        “I love the forest myself,” he said. “Perhaps I can take you out on my nature walk one day.”

        Her eyes lit up, the reflection of the glowing red orb in them. “Really? You have a nature trail?”

        “Oh, yes. It is a bit overgrown, but I’m sure I can get the groundskeepers to clean it up before we use it.”

        “I should like that very much,” she said. 

        “Perhaps tomorrow, when it’s not so late.”

        “Smashing idea!” she exclaimed. 

        Her call echoed across the hills. Rose shriveled up within herself and wished she had not been so loud. A silence grew between them. She turned back to watch the sunset, hoping he would not say anything. She leaned over slightly onto the balcony, putting her hands under her chin. At first, she thought Lord Ashworth was watching the sunset too, but she noticed his drape was facing toward her. She shuddered under his gaze.

        “Miss Bourne, I must ask you something.” 

        Her eyes fell away from the sunset and landed on the black figure in front of her.

        “Of course.”

        “Before I make up my mind, I must know—just how long were you wanting to stay in the castle?”

        Her lips parted and her eyebrows lifted. She leaned up and clasped her hands together over her dress. Lord Ashworth did the same, towering over her. “I-I’m really not sure. I thought perhaps a month or two, or just until you no longer wanted my presence in your castle.” 

        “Such a thing is merely impossible,” he replied. 

        She grinned. “You’ll soon grow tired of me.”

        “Never.”

        “So, then, would a month or two be alright with you?”

        “However long it must be for me to get to know you better, and understand your certain connection between names and senses.”

        “That might take some time.”

        “Then some time you shall stay.” 

        Rose beamed at first, but then, thoughts filtered into her mind, weighing her down.

        “What’s the matter, Miss Bourne?” He leaned in, reaching out a gloved hand, before drawing it quickly back in under his cloak.

        “It’s just that— What would my Father say? And my sisters? Once they found out I was staying here for longer than a few days?”

        “Do you think they would be opposed to it?”

        “Oh, Father can hardly get along without me. I’m the one that takes care of everything around the house. Ferguson and Harrison—my brothers—take care of the grounds, of course, but housework is left up to me. And Father will be so sad in my absence.”

        “Why can’t your servants take care of the house?”

        “Oh, Lord Ashworth…” she bit her tongue, “we haven’t had servants in years.”

        “Really?” He sounded astonished, in disbelief. 

        “Yes. We haven’t been able to afford them.”

        He backed away from her, turning around. He paced for a few moments before shouting, “Then you shall have new servants! Why don’t I send a few more pounds over for him to hire new staff?”

        “Oh, that’s really not necessary, Lord Ashworth.” Rose walked over to him.

        He turned around. “Of course it is! I shall write a note in the morning.”

        “Well, if you insist,” she said. “Thank you.”

        “And two to three months? At the most?”

        “That sounds reasonable.”

        “I hope you enjoy your stay.”

        “I’m sure I will.” 

        The sun had already set below the mountains, and the stars hovered above their heads. The land was still caked in a purple hue, but it was practically night. Rose shivered.

        “Would you like to go back inside?”

        Rose lifted her eyes, but when she looked at the cascading black drapes before her, she thought she saw a strange glimmer beneath them. A greenish-yellow glow emitting from two focal points. She stared straight at them.

        Lord Ashworth jolted a tiny bit, taking a step back away from her.

        “Lord Ashworth? Are you alright?”

        “Yes, yes.” He clasped his gloved hands together in front of him. 

        Somehow, she felt comfortable enough with him to press on. “What are—”

        “My eyes.”

        Her jaw dropped ever so slightly, and she blinked. Her heart stopped. “Your eyes?”

        “Yes, Miss Bourne.”

        “Why do they…?”

        “Glow?” He looked out over the balcony. “Much for the same reason a cat’s might at night.”

        A cat. Was he…? “Are you—”

        “Did Mrs. Kensington explain nothing to you?” he said, his tone the slightest bit snappy. But he returned to his usual calmness soon enough, straightening out his suit underneath the drapes.

        “Well, she did, but…” Rose gripped onto the balcony. She turned to look for Lucy, who stood at the windows watching them with intense, focused eyes. “She said you were a…” the girl faced him once more, and focused on the glowing orbs, “a beast.” 

        “That I am.” 

        Rose’s brows furrowed and then fell. Her heart sank into the pits of her stomach and everything grew dark and cold. The image of the god broke away, disappearing into the misty night. 

        “Are you… displeased with this? The knowledge of my true form?” he asked, with a more caring tone rather than a snippy one.

        The girl gripped the balcony, digging her nails into the stone. “Oh, no, no, not at all. Erm…”

        The shape of the orbs shifted, and she understood that he had quirked a brow at her. 

        “But you are a man at heart, correct? What I mean is… you seem like such a kind gentleman.”

        He undid his brow and his eyes returned to normal. “We have much to learn about each other, Miss Bourne. And I hope to reveal my true form to you one day, if you shall permit me to.”

        “I–” The girl’s eyes crossed momentarily at the thought, and a slight ache tore into her head before she collected herself. “One day. Perhaps.” 

        Her thoughts returned to the antlered figure in the painting. But, judging by what she could tell by his form under the drapes, he did not seem to have antlers that stretched to the sky. So, perhaps he did not look like that. 

        “I apologize if I seem insensitive, Your Lordship,” she said, bowing her head. “It’s just that, this is a lot to take in all at once, and I’ve never met anyone before who has an appearance such as yourself, so… I will need time to adjust.”

        “I understand. Everyone is ignorant and small-minded at first. They must adjust to what they do not comprehend, and even then, some do not fully accept who I am beneath the drapes.” 

        “Well, I do accept you—”

        “How can you accept what you have not seen?” 

        “I– Well, I—” She fumbled with her words, taken aback.

        “You can’t.” He flipped his cape around himself, whipping the chilly night air. 

        “I suppose you’re right,” she said. “Then I will just have to learn.” 

        Rose thought she saw the orbs squinted ever so slightly, as if lilting upward into a smile. Her heart fluttered like butterfly wings at the thought of pleasing him, at the thought of him smiling at her. He had such human expressions in such inhuman eyes.

        “Shall we?” He extended his arm out to her again, facing indoors.

        Rose smiled, gladly taking his arm. “I would like to know more about your paintings.”

        “What would you like to know?” He led her inside.

        “Besides that one landscape painting, do you have any that aren’t in the Gothic style?”

        He laughed his dark laugh and his chest rumbled. Rose felt them emitting from him—deep, low vibrations that tingled her skin and caused the hair on her arms to prick up. 

        “I do.” He let go. “I’ll show you.”

        Rose followed him as he circled about the room, and thought about how strange it all was—and yet, how content she was with such a strange set of circumstances. He talked what seemed endlessly, and yet she hung onto every word that came out of his mouth as though they were the final ones he would ever say or she ever hear.

Chapter Text

“Perhaps I talked too much…”

        “Knowing you, you likely did.”

        “You’re not helping, Chesterton.”

        “I’m not trying to.” The man sipped his tea and set it back down on the table, flapping his newspaper.

         Beast rolled his eyes. “I’m just worried I disinterested her.” He walked over to the far end of his study, near a row of bookshelves.

         “What are you so worried about? Why do you suddenly care so much about what she thinks?” Chesterton said, bouncing his leg up and down as he read.

         Beast shrugged and sighed. “To be quite frank, I’m not entirely sure… Perhaps it’s because for the first time in a long time an outsider has wanted to get to know me, or shown interest in my works.”

         “Novelty.” Chesterton snapped his fingers. “That’s it.” 

         Beast turned around and faced the man. “What do you mean?”

         “Novelty. She’s novel. You’re bored out of your mind, and lonely after the passing of your mother. This new girl has ‘brightened up your days’, so to speak.”

         “I suppose that might be a cause.” Beast clasped his paws together behind his back and bowed his head. “Do you think that this could be dangerous?”

         Chesterton leaned back in his seat. “It very well could be. I don’t know her well enough to know if she will keep our secret, even if she seems trustworthy.”

         “She has a sound mind and a strong head on her shoulders,” Beast said, nodding. “I just wish I knew what she really thought about me, behind the façade of gentility and ladylike falsities.”

         “She thinks what every other woman thinks, Ashworth.”

         “No, no. She’s different. I feel it. I can smell it on her.”

         “You can… smell it on her?”

         “Yes.”

         Chesterton blinked rapidly a few times and then shook his head. “Very well then.”

         “I can. I know when people are comfortable and when they’re not, and she’s not as uncomfortable with me as other outsiders have been. She’s even less uncomfortable with me than some of my own servants I’ve known for years.”

         “The way you say ‘less uncomfortable’ makes me skeptical of this conclusion you’ve drawn.”

         “Well,” he shrugged and moved his head from side to side, “everyone has a degree of discomfort when they are around me. All except you and perhaps Mrs. Kensington… Even Mother was uncomfortable sometimes—or, at least, disappointed.”

         Chesterton paused. “Miss Bourne is dangerous for another reason, too, you know.”

         “And why’s that?”

         “Don’t act like I don’t remember what a Romantic you used to be.”

         “Oh, hush!” Beast growled, albeit a little playfully. “That was years ago. I was a young boy, or… beast.” He furrowed his large brows.

         “You wanted romance just as much as any of these squealing little lady-servants about the castle.”

         “I never wanted marriage though, and besides, who said I wanted a romance with Miss Bourne?” he snapped.

         Chesterton put down his newspaper in his lap and held his hands up in a gesture of feigned innocence.

         “At the very most, all we would be are acquaintances.”

         “No friendship?”

         “I doubt a three-month stay would elicit a lasting friendship. You’re truly the only friend I’ve ever had and plan on keeping.”

         “Then why are you so worked up about pleasing her?”

         Beast breathed in deeply and puffed out his chest. “You know, Chesterton, you’re right. I’ve no reason to be so worked up over a simple house guest.”

         “Now there’s a good lad!” Chesterton exclaimed. He picked his newspaper back up, shook it out, and began reading again.

         Yes, yes, everything would be fine, Beast thought. He just needed a cigar to calm his nerves.

        But why was he getting so nervous all of a sudden?

        Of course, he had nerves when his mother suddenly declined, but that was to be expected. But now? Over a simple young woman who was staying at his castle? She had her head on straight, she promised not to tell anyone his secret and seemed trustworthy enough, she had a lovely temperament and was respectful of his condition, she hardly was uncomfortable around him.

        And yet, when Beast caught a whiff of her scent—forest pine, chirping birds, the passage to the world of the fae, elven trinkets—something ignited within him. His fur stood on end, his heartbeat sped up, and he wanted to be closer to her. No one had ever smelled like that—no one that looked like her, of course, or was a proper lady like her. Maybe some weary traveler—who may or may not have been a fae creature—that Beast had sensed in the woods once, perhaps they smelled like her.

        But Rose was different even still… She was like a fae queen or princess, or a forest nymph. No one had ever smelled like that before, for as far back as he could remember. He knew he had smelled fairy dust in the forest, but as for a person smelling that way? Much less a woman! A woman who belonged in gathering rooms and foyers rather than the deep, dark heart of the forest. A woman who grew up in a servant-filled mansion instead of in a quaint, chimney-puffing cottage in the middle of an overgrown wheat field. How could it be possible that she smelled such a way?

         And when she looked into his eyes… He felt a tingling down his spine, a bolt of electricity coursing all through his body. No one had looked into his eyes so earnestly and so curiously. No one had ever found his eyes behind the veil at all, and even then, he and Chesterton were so comfortable they didn’t have to look into one another’s eyes when speaking. And even though it should have been the other way around, Beast always felt he had to bow his head in front of Mrs. Kensington, never looking into her eyes. Even when they did look at each other, her gaze was always so stern and cold. Then his mother… His mother was always so sad whenever she looked into his eyes, like seeing the one human part of him that was shrouded in the filth she hated. His eyes made her sad.

         But when Rose looked into his eyes, he could sense her uneasiness but at the same time her curiosity. As though she had found the human element of him she had been searching for. After all, to her, he was just a shadow, and a voice.

Perhaps he was just novel to her in the same way that she was novel to him, Beast thought. A mystery to solve. And as soon as he solved her, and she solved him, they would go about their lives pretending the other had never existed. 

◜❦︎◞

        Rose combed her long red hair at her vanity, committing to the hundred strokes routine until her hair was merely wavy rather than curly. She hummed along to a tune in her head and watched the birds as they flew by the balcony. Then noticed that two birds were making a nest outside, just above the French doors. Smiling at the soon-to-be parents, Rose hummed with a little more cheeriness. 

        Just then, knocks sounded upon her door. 

        “Come in, Lucy,” Rose called. 

        Lucy opened the door and shuffled in. “I see the missus is up bright ‘n’ early. Any particular reason why?” she asked with some degree of suspicion, hands on her hips.

        “Not at all. It’s just such a lovely day and I, for once, woke up feeling well and rested. It might just be the spring sun coming out and greeting me earlier than in the winter.”

        “Maybe.” Lucy crossed her arms. “Nothin’ to do with you goin’ out in the gardens with ‘Is Lordship today?”

        Rose stopped mid-stroke. She turned around on her stool to face Lucy, who had a smug smile on her face. 

        “News sure does travel quickly at this castle,” Rose concluded, facing the mirror again and yanking the comb down her hair. 

        Lucy laughed. “Well, don’t you think I should be one to know? After all, I’ve got to pick your outfit for today.”

        “I suppose that makes sense.”

        “I know jus’ the one.”

        Lucy shuffled through the wardrobe for a bit before picking out a pale green day dress. It came with a matching cloak and boots. 

        “This is perfect for goin’ ridin’ or walkin’ through the woods. I hope you’ll like it.”

        Rose rubbed the fabric between her fingers and felt how coarse it was, compared to the silky and satiny evening gowns she had become used to wearing. This dress was meant for wear and tear. It reminded her of the dresses she wore at home. 

        “I quite like it. Thank you.” 

        A few maids brought Rose’s breakfast to be enjoyed in the privacy of her room, while Lucy did the girl’s hair into a simple up-do that could easily be fixed if it fell. After breakfast, Lucy helped Rose get into the day’s outfit. 

        “Well, now,” Lucy patted down Rose’s skirts, “I’m glad to see you’re excited to be goin’ out with ‘Is Lordship today.”

        “Oh, yes. The grounds are so lovely and I can’t wait to tour all of them. I’m sure there’s much more besides what can be viewed from my balcony.” 

        Lucy half-smiled. “‘Ow do you feel about spendin’ time with ‘Is Lordship?”

        Rose paused. “I enjoyed spending time with him last night. He’s quite the gentleman, and artist.”

        “You think so?” Lucy chuckled. “Some don’t.”

        “I mean, his paintings were a bit… unusual, but his technical skill cannot be denied.”

        “I meant some don’t think ‘e’s a gen’lemen.”

        Rose furrowed her thin brows. “They don’t?”

        “I shouldn’t be sayin’ it—and I admire ‘Is Lordship myself o’course—but there are some out there that’d disagree with you.”

        “Well, he hasn’t done or said anything to me that would make me think such a thing. Perhaps those people are just… misunderstanding of him.” 

        “Yes, per’aps.”

        As Rose traveled down the castle’s pristine white marble hallways, heading toward the Grand Hall, she could not help but mull over what Lucy had meant. Just who had said Lord Ashworth was not a gentleman—and why? Rose thought back to his family and how greedy they were. She also thought of some of the servants she had seen shudder around Lord Ashworth whenever they served him at dinner. Surely he was a gentleman, and those who said otherwise were either afraid or ignorant—or both. 

        There were, of course, a couple of times when he had seemed to be a little bit insensitive toward certain subjects, but that did not bother Rose. She quickly forgave him. Other than that, she enjoyed his company and was eager to see more of him. 

        Stepping into the Grand Hall, Rose’s eyes caught sight of the great black figure of Lord Ashworth. Her heart sped up. Even though she could not see his face, she could tell his back was to her; he faced the tall doors at the entrance of the castle and he had his gloved hands clasped behind his back. 

        “Lord Ashworth!” she called, waving without realizing it. 

        He turned about, and there were pretty dark red and purple details encircling his otherwise black cloak and veil. “Rose.” He swung his arms around and bowed before her.

        Hearing her name sent chills down her spine. When he said it, it was like tasting rosewater—rosewater with the thickness of blood, or some deep dark wine.

        Rose lowered herself into a curtsey, and when she came back up, Lord Ashworth was already standing over her, casting his great shadow. She felt the heat emanating off of him and heard his deep breaths that rumbled in his chest. She blinked rapidly, still amazed at the height difference between them. At just how tall and intimidating he truly was. But she soon calmed and reminded herself there was nothing to be afraid of. 

        He reached out one of his clothed arms. “I have a lot to show you today. Shall we?”

        Rose took it, beaming up at him. “Yes, let’s.”

        Lucy and a few other servants who would be tending to them trailed not far behind. 

        They moved out the doors that stood much higher than even Lord Ashworth, and the sun bore into Rose’s eyes. She squinted. Even if it was not at its highest point in the sky, the sun was well above the mountains now and bright as ever. 

        She felt Lord Ashworth twist and turn his neck and head toward her. He then snapped his fingers back at the servants. Lucy hustled and bustled up to them, handing Rose a pretty pink parasol.

        “Is that better?” Lord Ashworth asked as she draped it over her shoulder.

        “Much better.” She giggled. “My eyes are so sensitive.”

        “And your skin, too, Miss Bourne!” Lucy interjected, before falling back into line with the rest of the servants.

        “That, too,” Rose said. 

        They walked through the grass and wildflowers a ways before coming upon a pebbled trail. 

        “This is where the trail begins,” Lord Ashworth said. “It’ll take us to the maze first.”

        “Maze?”

        “Yes, we have one. But don’t worry. I’ve been through it enough to know the way.”

        “If you say so. We’d better not end up lost,” Rose said playfully. 

        “We won’t. I’d only let you get lost if you wanted to be.”

        “That sounds promising.” She quirked a brow at him. 

        Rose had assumed the trail would take them straight to the forest, but Lord Ashworth was right. It twisted around to the side of the castle and soon they came upon tall hedges that formed a kind of labyrinth. 

        “The entrance is just ahead.”

        “I trust you won’t be getting us intentionally lost just to toy with my nerves,” Rose said, smiling slightly at the corners of her lips. 

        “You sound like my mother.” Lord Ashworth scoffed.

        Rose’s smile fell. She knew he was only joking, but… something about the joke did not sit right with her. Or perhaps it was the topic of mothers that did not sit right with her. She shook the thoughts from her mind. Today was going to be a delightful day, and nothing was going to spoil it.

        They eventually reached the entrance: two enormous hedges coming together to create an arch of sorts. Lord Ashworth barely fit under the arch. Rose found herself amused as he ducked under the leaves and branches. 

        When they came out from under the arch, it was almost like being transported into another world. Gasping, Rose let go of Lord Ashworth and stepped forward, looking about the maze. Several trails were leading to the right, some leading toward the left, and one going straight forward. It truly felt like mythical times. Something out of a storybook. And there would be a great beast in the center that must be slain—

        She caught herself, peeking back at Lord Ashworth. How strange it was to have the beast here with her, guiding her through the maze, instead of being at the center of it. 

        “It’s quite impressive, is it not?” he said. She had not noticed it before, but Lord Ashworth stuck a cane out from underneath his cloak. He leaned on it. What a gentlemanly gesture, she thought. 

        “Yes, quite,” Rose said as she debated which path would be the right one, or if there was more than one way. 

        “My mother asked for it to be made. She was very fond of it. I’ve been going through these walls ever since I was young.” There was a certain softness in his voice now as he reminisced. Rose had never heard him speak so softly. 

        She wondered what he must have been like as a young lad. Was he just a small beast, or a human boy? Had he been cursed at an older age? Or perhaps did he transform as he came into pubescence? These questions and more whirled about in her mind, but she knew it was not appropriate to ask. At least, not at this point in their acquaintanceship. 

        “So, which one is it?” she asked, twirling her parasol around in her fingers eagerly.

        “Which one do you think?”

        “Hah! I haven’t the slightest idea, Lord Ashworth.” She laughed. 

        “Why don’t you try one and see where it leads?”

        Rose whipped around. “I thought you would be showing me the way…”

        He crossed his arms, and she watched as his cane lifted above the ground. “I thought it might be more entertaining to watch you fail miserably.”

        Her eyes widened. “Lord Ashworth! Oh, I can’t possibly—”

        “Prove me wrong,” he said devilishly, temptingly. 

        “I— I suppose I can try.” She gripped the handle of the parasol tight. “We might be here all day long.”

        “So be it.”

        Rose turned back around and debated which path to take. She heard pebbles sifting as Lord Ashworth came up behind her. 

        “I think…” she pointed to the trail on the far right, “I’ll go with that one.”

        “Any particular reason why?”

        “Well, it’s the one on the right, so it must be right.”

        “I think your logic is flawed.”

        “It’s worth a try,” she insisted. And soon, all of them were trudging through the wildflowers and overgrown hedges of the trail on the right. 

        Noon came sooner than it seemed. Lord Ashworth and Rose kept a conversation going, mostly about the beautiful flowers they passed on the way. Rose would admire them and remark about how stunning they were, and Lord Ashworth told her their scientific names, as well as a few facts about them.

        “You sure know a lot about flowers.”

        “Just these in this hedge. I’ve been studying these particular ones nearly my whole life.” 

        They then came upon a hedge with bright red roses blooming all over it. 

        “Roses!” She trotted on over and immediately began smelling them. They had only just bloomed.

        “Ah, yes. The chinensis and damascena hybrid.” 

        Chinensis and damascena hybrid. The scientific name did not taste like rosewater, it did not even look like roses in her mind’s eye. It looked like galaxies, and tasted like stars. Bubbling champagne.

        “What an odd name for just a little flower,” she remarked. “I feel like Rose suits it better. Rose. Just Rose.” She sniffed it again, bringing the flower close to her nose, careful not to touch the thorns. 

        “I suppose. It is difficult to keep up with all of the species though if you just call all of them ‘rose’.”

        “I would call them by their color. Red rose, white rose, pink.”

        “There are other red species of rose. I think they should be classified by other names.”

        “A rose by any other name would smell as sweet.”

        Lord Ashworth paused. 

        I must have caught him off guard, she thought, smirking slightly.

        Finally, he said, “You have a point there. For the unscientific, a rose is just a rose.”

        “You’re deeming me unscientific?”

        “Well,” he seemed taken aback and cleared his throat, shaking his head. “Well, you have given me no reason to deem you otherwise.”

        “You have a point there.” Rose smiled, turning away from the hedge and facing him, a tiny bit of light glinting upon her face. She pulled the parasol over to get rid of the light.

        “No, no. Don’t.” He reached out a hand, stopping her.

        Rose’s smile dropped and her cheeks flushed as red as the rose behind her. “Pardon?”

        “I’m sorry,” he said, taking a few steps back, apparently embarrassed with himself. “It was nothing.”

        Lucy must have sensed the sudden awkwardness and piped up from behind them: “Your Lordship, Miss Bourne.” She curtsied. “It’s nearly lunchtime. Might you both care to picnic out ‘ere?”

        Rose’s heart fluttered. “How exciting! Yes. I would love to have a picnic.” She turned to face Lord Ashworth as if asking for permission.

        He shrugged and crossed his arms. “I would not mind eating outside. There are some trees not far away. We can dine there.”

        They walked on while a maid went back to retrieve the picnic baskets and blankets. Soon, Rose could see the tip-tops of three English oak trees. They were not the largest she had ever seen, and so she decided they must not have been that old. 

        When the maid returned, she and the other servants flapped out a lovely spring-colored blanket with floral patterns. They then spread it across the ground beneath the oak tree offering the most shade. 

        Rose lounged out on the blanket and Lucy fixed her skirts. She put up her parasol and fanned herself with a lace fan she had kept wrapped around her wrist. “I’m parched. Aren’t you, Ashworth?” 

        He turned to face her suddenly. She had snapped him out of deep thought. “Oh, oh yes. Parched.” 

        Some servants brought them glasses of water. Rose gulped hers down as quickly as a lady could. But Lord Ashworth just stood above her, not even looking her way, without taking a sip. 

        Was he nervous about sitting with her? she wondered. Now that she thought about it, she was nervous for him to be sitting with her as well. But she didn’t want him to have to stand the whole time. She looked down. There was room on the blanket for both of them, but…

        “Won’t you ‘ave a seat, Your Lordship?” Lucy insisted.

        Oh, Lucy, Rose thought, wincing. Why must you always be so kind?

        “Y-yes. Quite right,” Lord Ashworth handed his glass to Lucy and then tucked his cloaks under himself. He awkwardly sat down beside Rose, as far away from her on the blanket as possible. She could feel the heat emanating off of him again. Could almost feel the tension in his shoulders. Even sitting down, he was much, much taller than her. She observed, too, that his torso was considerably long. 

        He took deep breaths. Quite loud ones too. But something was soothing about them. Rose listened intently; the breaths reminded her of a cat’s purrs and breaths as it slept. She even caught herself watching the rhythmic movement of his abdomen and shoulders beneath the cloak. He was so big that even the slightest movements he made—such as breathing—were noticeable. 

        They ate in silence, with a few comments now and then on the cheeses, meats, and grapes on which they feasted. It was all fresh and good, as was all of the food at the castle. By the end of the meal, Rose was satisfied. It was a nice rest after the morning quest. 

        Remaining in a peaceful silence after eating, Rose stretched back, putting her hands behind her. She soaked up the tiny rays that poked through the tree’s limbs. The wind rustling through the leaves was like a song, a language. It sounded like people whispering or singing softly. She listened to try and understand what they were saying.

        But soon, she felt like she was being watched. Opening her eyes and turning her head, Rose found that Lord Ashworth’s cloak was facing her. 

        He reared back. “I—I was just wondering what you were doing.”

        Rose leaned forward and grinned. “Enjoying the breeze on this lovely, lovely day.” 

        “I suppose it is lovely,” he said. “I prefer the nighttime though.”

        “You do?” 

        “Yes. The breeze during the day might be a welcome relief, but the one at night carries the spirits and voices of the forest with it.”

        “Really?” Rose turned her body to face him. “I didn’t know you found beauty in such things. I thought you were a scientist, not a poet,” she toyed.

        “Who says I am not both?”

        Rose shrugged. “Fair enough.”

        “I am an artist, after all. Remember?”

        “Ah, yes! How could I have forgotten?” Her shoulders rose and fell in laughter. “You’re just a Renaissance Man, aren’t you?”

        “That’s what my mother always said. Though I never really believed it. She made any meager talent seem like a gift from the gods.”

        Rose’s eyes lifted at the corners. “Your mother told my father how accomplished you were. And he would always report back to me.” A sudden pang in her chest. She had not even thought of her father in days, it seemed. There was a hole in her heart from his absence.

        “Did she now?” Lord Ashworth leaned forward, surprised. “I wonder what all lies you heard.”

        “I don’t believe I heard any.”

        Rose noticed how they had closed in on each other now. Truthfully, she had never been on a picnic with anyone except for her family. And such an intimate closeness while sitting down was frightening, yet enthralling, at the same time. But they were not touching, at the very least. 

        It was not long before the sun started moving in the sky once again, stretching farther to the other side of the world. The servants began packing. Lord Ashworth placed his hands down on the ground and hoisted himself up. He was certainly large, but not clumsy, Rose thought. 

        Lord Ashworth stretched out his gloved hand. Rose took it and felt a bit of his immense strength as he pulled her up off the ground. 

        “Thank you kindly,” she said.

        He tipped his head slightly, as a “You’re welcome” of sorts. 

        Not long after, they were back on the trail. Rose had no idea if she was going in the right way. Rather, whatever pretty flowers caught her attention, that is the direction she went in. Many of the hedges were overgrown of course, and a couple had even died. But there was something she liked about this domesticated wildness. This return to the Natural. The overgrown hedges and vines that swirled around were beautiful in a way. And as the sun went farther and farther, and the colors of the sky darkened, the haunting beauty of the vines only grew. Each vine was a snake until it wasn’t. Each breeze whipping through the hedges was a ghost until it wasn’t. 

        Rose found herself becoming slightly weary, however. She was glad for the short breaks they took now and then, but she had not been on her feet for so long—all day nearly—in quite some time. Not since her childhood. And even though the servants were young and able, she knew that they longed to go back inside the castle’s protective walls.

        “Are we anywhere near the exit? Where does it even let out at? Or is it just the middle we go to and then turn back around?” Rose questioned.

        “There is a center, then we will have to turn back around.”

        One of the servants groaned.

        “So are we anywhere near it?” Rose asked again.

        “No.”

        More groans. 

        Even Rose herself, for all the excitement the day had brought, felt that she only wanted to get this over with. “Can we come back another day and finish this?”

        “If that is what you wish,” he said. 

        They soon turned around and headed back. Lord Ashworth led this time, at a quick pace. “I know a shortcut to get back to the entrance,” he said. 

        Rose practically had to jog to keep up with him at his side. “When I said I would take all day to make it through this maze if I had to, I did not literally mean all day,” she complained. 

        “Hah!” he roared with laughter. “This maze stretches across almost the entirety of the grounds—at least the part of the grounds not covered in forest. It’s quite extensive, and one can get easily lost. At least you know better now. It will most definitely take a first-timer more than a day to make it through these hedges.”

        “Why didn’t you tell me this earlier?”

        He lifted his shoulders. “I wanted to see you fail, remember?”

        “Hmph.” A part of Rose had wanted, and still wanted, to prove him wrong. But, to be honest, she had not had a competitive side in years. And so, she let it go. “I would rather wait until another day. I’m awfully tired, and I know Miss Carter and the rest are, too.”

        “Very well then,” he said, moving faster. But Rose could hear the slightest bit of disappointment in his tone.

        “I guess I proved you right, didn’t I?” she said, trying to lighten the mood.

        “You did.” He paused. “But I hoped you would prove me wrong.” The way he said it sounded like he was truly disappointed. “Me, too.” Was he perhaps upset with her lack of determination? After all, she was only trying to do what she thought best. But she couldn’t tell what he was thinking, not with him walking in front of her now and also with the cloak masking his face of course. Surely, she was just overthinking—which is what she did best. 

        The sun was about ready to set as Rose recognized the arch at the entrance. She sighed with relief as they neared it. 

        Then, Lord Ashworth did something unexpected. 

        “Miss Carter. Ladies. I would like to have a private audience with Miss Bourne for a few moments. Could you please excuse us?”

        Lucy stepped forward, her ruddy face lined with suspicion. 

        “Miss Carter, you may wait at the entrance of the maze if you wish. It will only be for a moment.” 

        Lucy bowed her head and curtsied before exiting with the rest of the maids.

        Rose’s heart caught in her throat. It was beginning to get dark, and though she could see him, she definitely could not see him as well as at high noon. Something about him being shrouded in darkness frightened her. Her heart sped up, faster and faster and he closed the space in-between them. What was he intending to do?

        “Rose, I— I must ask you something which has been on my mind.”

        “Oh, of course.” She was certain he could hear her heart thumping it was so loud.

        Lord Ashworth started pacing back and forth. Her eyes followed his erratic movements until he stopped and turned to look at her. Through the veil, she could see his glowing green eyes once again. He finally spat out with raspy desperation: “Are you frightened of me?” 

        It seemed a reasonable enough question, but Rose was still hesitant to answer. “Well— I… Oh, Lord Ashworth, must we really discuss this?” She wanted to continue being around him and near him, but she did not want to think of who, or what, he was beneath the veil. 

        “Yes. I need to know what you think of me.”

        “Well, if it will give you peace of mind, I suppose I can let you know.” She took in a deep breath. “I enjoy your company. You do not frighten me, but…”

        “But?”

        “But… I must admit— I am apprehensive, yes, apprehensive of what you might look like.”

        Silence. He stood perfectly still. 

        Rose winced. “I cannot deny that I do wonder what you must look like under the veil, Lord Ashworth. But I know that, however you look, that does not detract from how I feel about our acquaintanceship. I think you are a fine gentleman.” 

        He nodded. “I knew it.” He sounded agitated.

        “What?”

        “You are afraid of me.”

        Rose’s face dropped. The sunset behind the mountains and everything grew dark and cold. Lights from the castle filtered into the maze, but they were very dim. 

        “Lord Ashworth, that is not what I said. I—”

        “How I look is a part of who I am. I am not a man inside of a monster. I am a monster.”

        “Oh, will all due respect, I quite disagree—”

        “I know you do. But I have accepted myself. And,” he inched closer, “I only hope that one day you might accept me.”

        Rose furrowed her brows. “Accept you? Of course, I accept you.”

        He shook his head. “There is no use,” he spoke, his voice low, as if talking to himself. 

        Rose’s eyes faltered and fell. She clasped her hands together. So this is what he had been thinking all along… “I apologize, Lord Ashworth. I never intended to make you feel this way.”

        “No need to apologize,” he said. “You know now how I am… for the most part.”

        “For the most part?”

        He sighed. “You still have not seen me. And I’m not sure I will show you.”

        Her stomach tightened into a knot. She clenched onto the fan that hung on her wrist. 

        “Unless, of course, you want me to.” 

        Did she want to? Rose was not sure. The thought of the astonishingly gorgeous god crept back into her mind, but she knew that is not how he looked. But, truly, how horrible could he be? His eyes were almost magical in a way. Could the rest of him be otherworldly, too?

        “What if I did want to see you?” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. She knew she must be so weak and feeble-sounding to him. 

        He stepped forward. “Then I would show you.”

        Looking up and down his form, something wild writhed within her. She wanted to see him. Even if he was great and terrible, she wanted to see him. 

        “I want to see you.”

        “When?”

        “Now.”

        Perhaps she was just tired and irritable after a long day, but Rose wanted to see him then and there. She felt a mixture of impatience and curiosity and wild excitement she had not felt in years. Not since childhood.

        Lord Ashworth slowly inched his gloved hands to the veil. And she saw that he was shaking slightly. She did not know he could get that nervous. Before today, she did not even think it possible for him to be nervous at all. He lifted the veil slowly but surely, and Rose’s eyes followed every slow movement he made. 

        The first thing she saw was fur. Mounds and mounds of thick, dark brown fur. It looked neat enough and combed, but fur nonetheless. Not hair. 

        But then, a mouth. Large and full lips with fangs protruding out from the top row of teeth. The blood left Rose’s face as she flushed a ghostly white. 

        His nose was like that of a lion’s. It was wide and covered with fur. But he didn’t have a snout, as she thought he might. His face was mostly flat, although much more protruding than the average person.

        And then there were his eyes… 

        They were the most human part of him, and yet, they weren’t human at all. Bright green, glowing orbs, mesmerizing in the dim light. They shone through the night mists. They were enchanting, mystifying, and horrifying all at the same time. 

        He pulled the rest of the veil off to reveal bison horns and a mane full of dark brown fur. She could tell now that he had a ridge on his back. 

        She had not even seen the rest of his body, which was covered in gloves and a cloak and boots. What did the rest of him look like?

        Altogether he was not the most frightening creature she could have imagined. Certainly not as frightening as the skull creature he had painted. But… he was no handsome prince either. 

        When she pulled back from analyzing his features, she saw a scowl draped over his face. And it was this snarl and scowl which frightened her the most. She took a few steps back.

        “Well?” he barked. 

        Her eyes cut quickly to the ground in fear and embarrassment. But she mainly felt a tremendous amount of discomfort and awkwardness, as though he were standing naked before her. 

        “You are not as frightening as I had imagined,” she said, gulping. “But… If you could, I’d rather you put the veil back on.”

        He did as she asked. 

        She thought he would be more human. She wanted him to be more human. But even his eyes, the most human thing about him, had an element of otherworldly-ness that was as beautiful as it was fear-inducing. Through the veil, his eyes were palatable, even lovely. But without the veil, they were just gleaming orbs of light—like the sun—without a pupil, without thoughts or feelings behind them. 

        That’s what frightened her the most. She could not read him. He was emotionless, thoughtless. And all that she saw, when she just looked at him straight, was an upset and angered animal. An animal she had upset. An animal she had angered. 

        She bowed her head even more. “I apologize if I offended you, Lord Ashworth. But—” She curtsied. “Thank you for showing me.”

        “Do you still want to stay here? Knowing now who I truly am?” he asked, sincere. He did not seem as upset as before. 

        Rose shook her head and mustered a smile. “You are still the same as before. You may look a certain way, but that is not who you truly are.”

        Lord Ashworth seemed taken aback. He stayed silent, until snarling again. And then made a grunting noise much like a bison or buffalo before storming off to the entrance of the maze. “Goodnight, Miss Bourne,” he snorted.

        Rose reached out a hand, but before she knew it… he was gone.

◜❦︎◞

end of part i

Chapter Text

♢···✽···♢···✽········································

♠  ❛ —— ❛ ❛ 'Tis but thy name that is my enemy;
Thou art thyself though, not a Montague. ❜

········································♢···✽···♢···✽

Chapter Text

He should have known better.

        He should have known that she would betray him in such a way, even if he did not want to believe it at first.

        Well, perhaps “betrayed” was a bit of a reach. But still, just when he had thought that maybe she understood him—just when he had begun to hope that somebody besides Chesterton accepted him for who he was—she said the words he had heard time and again from his mother and countless others. It struck him right in his heart.

        And so, hope was the worst killer of all, he decided. It made disappointment much more agonizing than if there were no hope at all.

        Beast stormed around his study room, knocking over books and papers. The room was a mess. He grabbed onto his head and horns, yanking them down in frustration.

        “Finished with your tantrum yet, Ashworth?” Chesterton called from his seat. He swirled a bit of wine around in his glass.

        Beast snarled, furiously opening one of his drawers and frantically pulling out a cigar and lighting it.

        “Maybe that will calm you down.” Chesterton bounced one of his legs.

        “I just don’t see how it is possible!” Beast sucked in and let out a huge puff of smoke. “I almost had her. Almost! I was so close to making her understand. And then she blew it, just like the rest of them. Damned fools.” He banged his fist on the nearby table.

“Maybe you shouldn’t try so hard. Just let it occur naturally.”

        Beast whirled about to face Chesterton. “Do you even know what I’m talking about?” he roared.

        Chesterton grimaced. “Something about Miss Bourne...?”

        He grunted, marching over to Chesterton, pointing one of his meaty, furry claws at the man. “I’m talking about last night. How she... how she—tricked me!”

        “Oh please, Ashworth. You’re being overdramatic. I told you not to expect so much from a simple woman.”

        Beast’s thick brows unfurrowed slowly. The fire in his eyes subsided. “You’re right.” He took another puff of his cigar. “I just thought perhaps she might be something more...”

        “I told you not to get your hopes up, Ashworth.”

        Beast sighed, facepalming. He opened up his claws, peeking at the damage he’d done to his private study. Books, papers, trinkets... all strewn about everywhere.

        “I’ll go fetch a servant,” Chesterton said, rising from his chair.

        Beast sighed and sat down at his table. He propped up his legs and breathed in the intoxicating scent of the tobacco.

        Not too much later, Chesterton returned with a servant behind him. The young boy had his cleaning supplies and immediately began tidying up.

        Chesterton flopped back down in his chair and sipped on his wine. 

        “Are you going to listen this time?” Beast asked, irritated.

        Chesterton flicked his wrists at Beast. “I suppose.”

        Beast was used to this kind of nonchalant, seemingly uncaring behavior; it was something he usually admired about Chesterton. This time, however, he felt a brief flicker of fury rising in his stomach.

        Beast ground his fangs together as he spoke, enunciating each word: “I was trying to tell you... Yesterday, in the garden, I showed myself to her.”

        Chesterton lurched forward and spat out his wine all over the floor. The servant boy muffled a whine.

        “You what?!”

        “I took off my veil, and she saw my face.”

        The man’s eyes widened and he suddenly seemed the soberest Ashworth had seen him in quite some time.

        “What in the world were you thinking, you fool!?”

        Beast twisted the cigar around his claws. “Perhaps it was an irrational decision. But she seemed to want me to…”

        Chesterton flitted his eyes about the room as if to ask the walls: “Am I the only one here who thinks he’s gone mad?!”

        Beast put his large head into his paws and shook it side to side. “I just thought she might accept me...”

        “Well, of course, she wouldn’t, Ashworth!” Chesterton set down his wine glass on the table next to his chair and stood up. “How did she react?”

        “Well, she seemed... intrigued at first. I could sense her curiosity. But then, as I took the veil off bit by bit...” Beast stopped, defeated.

        “It frightened her, didn’t it?” Chesterton asked, hands on his hips.

        “I believe so. She asked me to put it back on almost immediately.”

        “And then what?”

        “She... she told me it didn’t matter what I looked like.” He squinted. “That I was different on the inside from the outside.”

        Chesterton nodded, then chuckled under his breath. “I wonder what she would think if she ever found out about what happens at night.”

        “She would surely never want to see me again,” Beast said, removing his paws from his face. “I just thought she would be the one to understand. The one besides you, of course.”

        “Well, what’s wrong with me?” Chesterton laughed.

        “You don’t always listen,” Beast smirked. “And you’re never sober.”

        Chesterton opened his mouth and lifted a finger to protest, but stopped mid-breath. He looked down before beginning again: “Be that as it may... who really needs anyone else?” 

        Beast groaned, leaned forward, and rested his head on the desk.

        “You just need your ole pal, ole chum—Chesterton! Not a prissy who can’t even bear to stand the sight of you.”

        “Thanks, ole chum,” Beast said, rolling his eyes.

        “You’re welcome, my good man.” He bowed flamboyantly, then corrected: “Or—my good monster.”

        Beast shook his head. “What would I do without you?” he grumbled, his deep voice rumbling the room.

        Chesterton picked up his wine glass again and plopped into his chair. “Who knows?”

        As Beast puffed on his cigar, he leaned back and fell into deep thought. The initial rage brought upon by her words and rejection of his appearance filtered out of his system. The cigar helped with that. Everything was smoky now, a thick forest fog of tobacco in his mind. He knew it was uncharacteristic of himself to have a temper. After all, he was mostly good-natured and even-tempered if just left alone, if given his time out in the woods each night, if in the company of like-minded men.

        But let a woman in his life... and everything fell through. He could not think straight, he had outbursts and hurled his things across the room. Perhaps he should have never even let Miss Bourne stay at all! That was what his mother and Mrs. Kensington and his family and countless others wanted. They wanted him and her to be friendly and amicable together so that they could marry and he could be human. And the only reason they wanted him to be human was so that they could more easily exploit him and his money and power. And he had fallen for it. He had fallen for all of their tricks just because Miss Bourne had shown an interest in him, whereas other women had not even dreamt of such a thing. It was the fact that she was kinder and more accepting than any other woman had ever been. She accepted that he was human when he wasn’t.

        But he wasn’t about to be fooled by their tricks. He was going to stay a beast whether they liked it or not.

        Beast crossed his arms, letting out a defiant “Hmph.” He turned around in his study chair to face the window. Outside, some birds flew by and swooped down below, landing in the gardens. He leaned forward and caught a glimpse of the arch leading to the maze. A part of his heart sank.

        He thought about her fiery red hair, almost the color of the sunset. And how her icy blue eyes glinted in the sunlight that broke through some branches of the shady oak tree.

        He sighed. It wasn’t her fault that she was swindled into this. It was all his mother’s idea. She had practically used the girl. He furrowed his brows and thought deeply... In a way, both he and Miss Bourne were tricked into this.

        Of course, he was foolish for believing she might accept him for him. His hopes were too high. And Chesterton was right. The Romantic in him had hoped for too much from a simple woman. But that did not mean she could not still be his acquaintance.

        His brows unfurrowed and his eyes widened. He picked his head up and looked off into the clouds outside the window.

        He wanted her to be his acquaintance... He wanted her to stay.

        Beast put his palm up to his forehead. But she would never want to stay after how he had behaved the night before. He would have to apologize for his words and behavior if he ever wanted to show his face around her again.

        “Chesterton,” Beast called suddenly. 

        “What is it, Ashworth?”

        “What drinks do you have?”

        “Wine and brandy. Why?”

        “I’m going to need them if I’m going to do what I think I’m about to do.”

◜❦︎◞

        Rose had cried herself to sleep the night before. She woke up with a strange feeling in the pit of her stomach, like she was empty again. Like something was missing in her life again.

        Moments later, before she had time to gather herself, knocks sounded at the door.

        “Come in,” Rose groaned, turning on her side and pulling the covers over her head.

         Lucy barged in. “’Ow’d the missus sleep?”

        “Fair.”

        “Just fair?” Lucy came to the girl’s side and sat down at the edge of the bed. “What’s wrong? You can tell ole Lucy.” She put her motherly hand on Rose’s head and stroked her curls.

        Rose pushed back the covers and looked up at the woman.

        “Oh, dear!” Lucy cried. “Your eyes!”

        “What is it?”

        Rose bolted up out of bed and went straight to the mirror, preparing herself for the worst. When she looked at herself, she saw that her eyes were puffy and red from the night before.

        “Oh...” Her shoulders slumped. “It’s nothing, Lucy. Don’t worry.”

        The woman was already halfway into the bathroom when she called: “Let me go get some warm water and rags.”

        Rose sat back down on the bed, her hands in her lap, her neck and head drooping forward.

        Lucy shuffled back in. She set a bowl of water down on Rose’s nightstand and wrung out a rag. The girl pulled back as the woman tried to bring the rag up to her eyes.

        “I gotta fix you up, Miss Bourne! I want my missus lookin’ ‘er absolute best.”

        Rose complied and winced as the warm, wet rag pressed against the sore skin around her eyes.

        “Now, tell me. What ‘appened?”

        “Nothing, Lucy.”

        “Were you cryin’?”

        Rose’s silence spoke for itself.

        Lucy sighed and pulled the rag away from the girl’s face. “I know a cryin’ face when I see one. Now tell me. What upset you so? The Master?”

        Rose nodded, squinting her eyes. She sucked in her breath to keep from crying again.

        “I ‘eard all of it. I’m very sorry that ‘appened, Miss Bourne. ‘E’s usually not like that and I don’t know what came over ‘im.”

        “Was this the ungentlemanly side of him you spoke to me about?” Rose lifted her head, and her bright blue eyes stuck out, contrasted with the red puffiness surrounding them.

        Lucy grimaced, sucking in her cheek. “I’m afraid it was, Miss Bourne. I just didn’t think ‘e would show it to you.”

        Rose leaned back on the headboard of the bed and brought her knees up to her chest. She wrapped her arms around her legs. “I don’t even know what upset him so terribly.” A single tear streaked down her splotchy red face. “I do not mind that he looks like a beast, and I told him that.”

        She remembered back to the night before. While his appearance was gruesome, she told herself that it was not the real him. That he was just under a spell or curse. But his animalistic snarl, the anger, and unearthliness in his shimmering green eyes, the fangs that protruded out of his lips... they told her otherwise. She tried not to think of what he could have done to her if he hadn’t left before he got any more furious.

        Lucy laid the rag down in the bowl of water before sitting beside Rose on the bed. She smelled of cleaning salts and Rose could feel the cool sweat on her arms. “I ‘aven’t been workin’ ‘ere for all that long, Miss Bourne, but—” she laid her hand on top of Rose’s, “from what I’ve ‘eard, ‘Is Lordship is very... particular. ‘E doesn’t like for people to call ‘im a ‘uman.”

        Rose’s thin brows knotted together. “I wonder why...”

        “According to the rest of the staff, ‘e believes that ‘e’s really, truly a beast. And ‘e doesn’t want anyone convincin’ ‘im otherwise. The only one that ‘e tolerates is Mr. Chesterton because Mr. Chesterton accepts ‘im as a monster.”

        Rose’s eyes bugged out in defiance. “But Mr. Chesterton is such a fine gentleman! I can’t imagine how he could view his own friend as a monster.”

        Lucy shrugged. “I only know what I know. You’ll ‘ave to ask the Master or Mr. Chesterton about that.”

        Rose lifted her face to the canopy above her. “I’m not sure I even want to see Lord Ashworth ever again.”

        Lucy gasped and laid a hand on Rose’s. “You mean, you’ll be wantin’ to leave so soon?”

        Rose put her face in her hands. “I don’t know, Lucy... Truly, I don’t want to leave. It’s been so wonderful, but if my interactions with Lord Ashworth continue to be anything like they were last night…"

        “I understand what you mean. Per’aps you should talk to ‘im.”

        “After last night? Oh, I couldn’t possibly!”

        “Lord Ashworth is a understandin’ man... for the most part. Give it a try.” Lucy wrapped her motherly arm around Rose’s petite shoulders.

        “I’ll think over it. Thank you, Lucy.” Rose patted her lady’s maid’s shoulder.

        “Of course, dearie.” Lucy shuffled off the bed to the wardrobe. “Now, then, what shall we dress you in for the day?”

        Rose felt herself sinking into the sheets, only wanting to remain in the comfort of the bed. A part of her wished that she was in her own bed back home, even if it was only half as luxurious as her canopy in the castle.

        Lucy sifted through dresses in the cabinet. “Hmm?”

        “Any will do,” Rose said, hugging her knees to her chest. “Whatever you think would look best.”

        “Oh, everythin’ looks the best on you, dear. Any drab ole dress would become a fine evening gown if’n you only wore it.”

        Rose smiled, looking down. She tried not to revel in the compliment—no matter how much she wanted to believe it was true for only a fleeting moment. She knew Lucy said such things only because she was her lady’s maid, and that it was her job to make Rose more confident in herself.

        As Lucy picked out a pale green and white dress, three knocks sounded on the door, followed by an old woman’s voice:

        “Mrs. Kensington. May I come in?”

        “Oh– Erm… Of course!” Rose stammered, startled. 

        Lucy straightened up, making herself professional.       

        The door opened and Mrs. Kensington walked in. She glanced about. “Getting ready, are we?” 

        She always has to be so suspicious… Rose thought.

        “Yes, ma’am,” Lucy said, holding out the dress. 

        “Very good, very good.” Mrs. Kensington clasped her hands together. “Then I presume it shan’t take you long to get your bearings together and come to breakfast?”

        Breakfast? 

        Rose looked at Lucy, who appeared just as baffled. 

        “You mean, I won’t be taking it in my room this morning?” Rose asked. 

        A small smirk inched along the wrinkled, thin lips of the old woman. “No, not this morning. His Lordship has requested you join him for breakfast.”

        Rose gasped and she felt her chest tighten as her heart beat wildly. “Oh– Oh…”

        “Is there a problem?” Mrs. Kensington said. 

        “No, no ma’am. Not at all.” Rose brushed her loose curls back out of her face, running her hands through her hair. 

        “Good. I’ll tell him you’ll be down presently then.” She shut the door. 

        Lucy waited until Mrs. Kensington was out of earshot, and the clickety-clacking sounds of her shoes disappeared down the halls. “Always so pertinent.”

        Rose started breathing heavily. “Oh, dear. Lucy, what could he want?” She put her face in her palms. “What if he tells me to leave? To pack my things immediately?”

        Lucy’s eyes flittered about the room, deep in thought. She laid the dress down on the end of the bed. 

        “I don’t want to speak to him—not now when I’m so disheveled and out of sorts!” 

        “Miss Bourne, Miss Bourne,” Lucy said, calming her down. “Listen to me.”

        “Yes?”

        “Do you wanna stay in the castle?”

        “Well, I suppose so, but— I just don’t know if I can speak to him this morning. Not after last night. I don’t know if he’s going to apologize or expect me to apologize to him. Or if it’s just going to be the end of things…”

        “Just answer me, Miss Bourne. Do you wanna stay in the castle, yes or no?”

        “Yes, I think I do, but—”

        “Then we’ll make it ‘appen.” Lucy marched over to the dresser drawer and dug around in the cabinets.

        “How?” Rose pulled the covers up, overcome with dread. 

        Lucy pulled out a tube of lip paint from a drawer. “We’re gonna give the Master a offer ‘e can’t refuse.” 

◜❦︎◞

        Beast had already drank one splendid keg of wine—with due credit to his alcoholic friend, who insisted on having his own private stock in the wine cellar. 

        There was no denying he felt wonderful. The best he had felt in quite some time. The tension in his shoulders melted away, and all the troubles of the world lifted. He could hardly even remember why he was so upset at Miss Bourne in the first place. 

        I really should drink more often, Beast thought to himself. 

        He ushered his thoughts away as the door to the breakfast room creaked open.

        “Master,” Mrs. Kensington called, curtseying. “Miss Bourne will be with you shortly.”

        “Ah, thank you, Mrs. Kensington.” It took all of the power within him to keep a straight face. Thankfully, the black veil covered his idiotic grin. But how he longed to burst out laughing for no reason at all. 

        Mrs. Kensington cocked a brow at him before exiting the room.

        Suddenly, panic flooded him. Would he be able to keep it together in the presence of Miss Bourne? Would she be able to tell he was inebriated? Heavens, he hoped not.

        It wasn’t too much later that a servant opened the door and…

        Was it even her? How had he not seen before that she truly was such a magnificent specimen? Something about her eyes was different, or had they always been that electrifying shade of blue? Perhaps it was her dreamy day dress—midnight blue, ocean green, with gold embellishments—that complimented and accentuated her eyes. Or maybe it was something else…

        And her lips, his heart skipped a beat at her lips. They were a deep rose color.

        Something was definitely different, but he could not tell what. 

        He shook his head. It’s only the drink that’s making me see her differently, he assured himself.

        “Good morning, Miss Bourne,” he said. “I didn’t know a lady could look so elegant so early in the morning. That dress could almost be an evening gown.”

        “Good morning, Lord Ashworth.” She curtsied, before taking the seat the servant had pulled out for her. “I always attempt to look my best, even in the early mornings. And especially in the presence of a baron.”

        He laughed, finding it hard to cut off the laugh before it lingered a little too long. “Well, I must say I’m flattered, but I hope that soon you’ll find I’m not so much of an intimidating figure that you must dress to the nines in my presence. Let us become good, well-acquainted friends.”

        She seemed to smile, at least a little. “Yes, let’s.”

        As their steaming meals were brought out fresh from the kitchen, Beast couldn’t help but notice Miss Bourne twisting her head around, looking in every direction of the little round breakfast room.

        “Is everything alright, Miss Bourne?” he queried.

        She seemed caught off guard. “Oh, yes. It’s just I’ve never been in here before. I usually take breakfast in my room. But it’s so lovely and quaint.”

        “We should dine together more often in here then.”

        “Yes, we should.” He couldn’t tell if she was being sincere, or if it was just pleasantries.

        “It’s much more intimate than that long dining hall, don’t you think? I actually prefer this space for private audiences,” he commented as he cut into his meal.

        “Really? I can see why, although I think I would prefer the dining hall for a private audience.”

        “Why?”

        “It would provide more space for clear thoughts. I don’t think I would feel as intimidated by the other person.”

        “Are you easily intimidated?”

        “I try not to be, but I can’t help that I was born with a rabbit heart.” She spoke so softly.

        “Interesting.” He took a bite. “There’s no need to be intimidated around me though.”

        “No, I suppose not.”

        He finished chewing. “A rabbit heart you say?”

        “Yes, but what I lack in confidence I try to make up for in good judgment, and perhaps, a soft wit.”

        “We need more of that in the world, I should think.” He hadn’t thought about it before all that much, but in her own way, she could be witty. She was at least pleasant and interesting to converse with.

        Surprisingly, he didn’t feel all that intoxicated when speaking with her now.

        “So, what was it you wanted to speak with me about?”

        Ah, yes, now he remembered why he had gotten drunk in the first place. 

        He smiled, noticing how the thoughts in his head were floaty and light. The dark, angered thoughts from the night before and early this morning had sailed away. 

        “I’m glad you mentioned it, Miss Bourne. I wanted to speak with you about last night.”

        He couldn’t fully tell, but it almost seemed like she flinched. 

        And then, without any forewarning, both of them simultaneously—Miss Bourne more nervous and high-pitched, and Beast more low and sincere—called out: “I want to apologize.”

        He caught her eyes through the veil and kept her gaze. Miss Bourne could not have been anything else but shocked, her eyes widened all the way—while Beast tried to keep himself together, but instead just let out a large belly laugh. His voice practically shook the small breakfast table. 

        In his booming voice, he shouted out, laughing, “Should you go first, or I?”

        “P-perhaps, I should go first, if you need a moment to collect yourself.” Her voice was so tiny and mousy compared to his. 

        “Oh, yes, of course, of course,” he coughed and cleared his throat, attempting to collect himself. “Go right ahead.”

        She looked at him seriously, while he just continued with little hiccups of laughter every few seconds, not to mention the idiotic smile that he knew must have been on his face—thankfully, she wouldn’t see that. He knew it must have been so embarrassing for her, but he honestly could not stop himself.

        “Well, I, I suppose I—” She clasped her hands together in her lap, looking down. “I shouldn’t have asked you to show yourself to me in the first place. It was out of place for me to do so, and I know it must have made you uncomfortable. I should not have been so eager to ask something so improper of you.” 

        She made no eye contact with him, but part of him wished she would.

        “That is quite alright, Miss Bourne,” he said, hardly even remembering the previous night at all. “All is forgiven.”

        “More than that,” she urged, glancing up for but a moment before lowering her head again, “I shouldn’t have made such comments to you about what I think you are. I see now you are completely comfortable in who you are and I should not be the one to tell you otherwise, even if I disagree.”

        The night before suddenly came flooding back to him: “That is not who you truly are…” He felt a welt of anger and hurt rising up before the alcohol subdued it and he felt the wave of calm again. 

        “As I said, Miss Bourne,” he smiled through his sharp teeth, “all is forgiven. Truthfully, I should not have been so forthcoming about my appearance. I should have gotten to know you better before revealing myself to you… I just thought…” He shook the words away. I just thought perhaps you’d be the one to understand.

        “I sincerely appreciate that, Lord Ashworth,” she said, looking at him again. The color returned to her cheeks. 

        “I hope one day you might be comfortable enough around me to tolerate me in my natural state. But I understand if that might be difficult for you and our relationship never quite reaches that point.” 

        She looked down at her hands again. “Perhaps one day…”

        He almost forgot. “I also apologize for snapping at you,” he said hurriedly, as though if he didn’t get the words out then, they would never get spoken. “I quite dislike it that you got to see that side of myself.”

        She remained motionless.

        “I understand if you… do not wish to remain in my presence anymore, or at the estate in general, after my loss of self-control. But—I do wish you would stay.”

        Her eyes seemed to lift after that, the glow returning to them. 

        “I do enjoy being in your company, Miss Bourne.” The most serious words he had spoken all morning.

        “Likewise, Your Lordship.” 

        It still seemed as though something was wrong. She was far too reserved.

        “Is there anything else I can do to make your stay more comfortable?”

        Rose looked out the window longingly. He knew instantly.

        “I hadn’t realized it until this morning, but—” she turned to look in at him, her eyes almost pleading, “I do miss my family.”

        His heart sank. “You wish to go home then?”

        “No, no, not necessarily. I do miss my home to an extent, yes. I’ve never spent this much time away from it, but— I can do without that old house. It’s my family I miss much more.”

        Beast thought for a moment, scratching his chin. “Would you want to arrange a visit with them? I would be open to that.”

        “You mean, them coming here?”

        “Of course. Why not?”

        It seemed the thought of a visit hadn’t occurred to her, as her face lit up immediately—all her troubles washed away. 

        “Really? Oh, thank you, thank you!” Almost embarrassed at her slight outburst, Rose crept back into her shell. “I would greatly appreciate that, Your Lordship. That is such a kind gesture.”

        “Oh, of course,” he said. “I should write a letter to your father later today then.”

        “That would be really wonderful.” She beamed up at him. “Thank you.”

        “You’re most welcome, Miss Bourne.” 

        Although he was sincere, Beast couldn’t help but wonder: Would that have gone any differently without the wine?

Chapter Text

——— ⋆ ❖ ː ❛  Truthfully, Rose hadn’t approved of Lucy’s plan in the first place. Turning her into someone who was supposedly “irresistible”? It was an impossible feat, not to mention a silly idea. Ashworth was not interested in her by any means, she was sure. Even if he found her slightly more agreeable because she painted her face up, it would in no way sway his mind to let her stay. Ashworth was a mostly steadfast gentleman—if he could be called as such—who would not be persuaded to change his mind over the attractions of a woman. And she wasn’t even attractive. She was the last woman who could possibly sway his intentions.

        But Rose most certainly hadn’t expected him to apologize and behave the way he did at the breakfast table. He hadn’t seemed… interested in her, the way Lucy kept insisting. But there was certainly something different, a lighter and more humble air about him she never could have imagined possible. 

        “I told you it’d work, dearie.”

        Rose ran the pretty golden brush through her hair. She slouched on the vanity seat. “I really don’t believe the cosmetics alone changed his entire demeanor, Lucy.”

        “Oh, nonsense! Those dinky little things work wonders. What else could’ve been so influential?

        “Perhaps he was overcompensating at his attempt to be a gentleman.”

        “That could be it. But I don’t think ‘e would’ve apologized and changed ‘is entire personality for just anybody. He changed it for you, apologized for your sake.”

        “But why he would do that, is something I cannot comprehend.”

        “That’s what I been tryin’ to tell ya! The Master can’t turn down such an exquisite lady as yourself!”

        Rose gave Lucy a side-eyed glance. She laid the brush down at her vanity. “I’m just… positively embarrassed. I should have never shown myself to him like that.” She buried her face in her hands, flushing redder than the rouge that had coated her cheeks.

        “Why not?” Lucy came up behind Rose.

        “It was so… improper. Uncalled for.”

        “Most all ladies do it, Miss Bourne. I know it's frowned upon by some, but that's why I put on just enough to accentuate your lovely features without being too loud and noticeable.”

        “But it was loud and noticeable, Lucy. Don’t you see? I don’t want to be noticed!”

        Lucy backed up at the girl’s sudden snap. 

        Rose immediately hung her head. “I’m sorry, Lucy,” she wrung her hands together, “I suppose this topic is just sensitive for me.”

        Lucy came around to Rose’s side, and the girl turned her head. The older woman made eye contact and studied Rose’s icy blue eyes, searching for an answer.

        “Miss Bourne, is there another reason why you don’t wanna be noticed?”

        Rose faltered, her eyes shaking under Lucy’s steady gaze and thorough searching. She broke eye contact and down went her head once more. 

        “No.”

        Lucy sighed. “Well, if you ever wanna chat, jus’ know ole Lucy’s always ‘ere to listen.”

        “Thank you, my dear friend. I don’t know what I’d do without you. No one’s ever taken the time to listen to me before…” As soon as Rose spoke those last words, she immediately regretted them, wincing at how Lucy might respond.

        “Really?! I assumed your family…? Did they not ever…?”

        Rose shook her head. “Only Father, sometimes. Most of the time, our chats weren’t necessarily about me, but always somehow revolved back around to him or the family as a whole. It never genuinely felt about me… But I knew he cared. He just didn’t always have the time to take the time to listen to me.”

        “What about your sisters?”

        “They especially did not listen to me.” Rose stifled a laugh.

        “I’m dreadfully sorry to ‘ear about that, Miss Bourne. But— I ‘ope in some small way, my bein’ ‘ere ‘as ‘elped.”

        Rose patted Lucy’s hand. “It has, more than you know.”

        “I’m glad.” Lucy smiled, then sighed, looking off into the distance. “When I saw the postin’ for this position in London, I wasn’t sure what to expect. I ‘oped my lady weren’t too spoilt, and still knew ‘ow to act the way a lady should. I came to the castle to be interviewed, and what a shock it was to find out about the Master! I almost got up and left! But everyone was so kind and dear, and—” she leaned in to whisper, “it was the best payin’ job I’ve ever been offered—I ‘ad no choice but to accept.” She paused, frowning. “When I first met Miss Newall—you know, the Master’s ole fiancée—I gritted and bared my teeth tryin’ ta put up with ‘er. She was so spoilt and headstrong and just did not know ‘ow to act. I thought after she went up outta ‘ere, I’d just pack my bags and make my way back to London, lookin’ for another line o’ work. But then…” Lucy grinned at Rose, “I got another chance. And she’s turned out ta be the best lady I’ve ever tended to.”

        Rose smiled. “Aww… Lucy, that’s so sweet of you.”

        “And I mean it. You’re not spoilt rotten the way so many others are. Now, you could be a little more forthcomin’, but I believe that will come in time as you age.”

        Rose’s smile fell a little. Forthcoming. Was that her problem? She was not forthcoming enough? 

        Lucy suddenly piped up. “Nevertheless, we’ve got lots to do today. Got to prepare for your family’s visit. And I ‘ear rumors about the castle that the Master wants to see you again before their arrival.” She winked and arched her thin brows into a smirk, before exiting the room. “I’ll be back soon, dearie!” her voice echoed from the halls.

        Rose winced and bit her bottom lip. She was not fond of the way Lucy acted as though Ashworth was still planning on courting her. Not after their altercation in the gardens that night… And especially not after she had embarrassed herself in front of him with pounds and pounds of caked cosmetics on her face. 

        “My daughter will not wear those things. She has no business toying with such improprieties.”

        The girl whispered, without realizing it: “Mother…”

        Mother. The word hurt in a way that no other words did. It felt like a bite from an animal. The initial impact, the bite itself, was quick, over within a second. But the wound remained—it bled, got infected, festered, scabbed over, and left a scar that remained forever. The pain dulled over time, but the wound never fully healed.

◜❦︎◞

        Sure enough, Lucy was right. 

        Not long after Rose finished breakfast, a young maid knocked on her door, announcing that Lord Ashworth wished to see her in one of the castle’s gathering rooms. 

        Rose’s coloring left her face and the world drew in close, everything around her thinning. Why did he want to see her? She knew that he wasn’t going to banish her from the castle, but she also knew they were still not on the best of terms. At least, to her, she felt they still had not resolved their conflict, but merely put it aside for the moment. 

        Upon hearing the news, Lucy was as joyous and giddy as a child receiving a puppy for Christmas.

        “Oh, we gotta put you in the most elegant day dress! Let me see what we ‘ave!” Lucy shuffled through the drawers and wardrobe excitedly, then laid out several gowns, all of which could’ve been evening gowns save for the way they were cut at the top.

        “I appreciate the help, Lucy, but I really would rather wear something simple.”

        “But are you sure? The Master couldn’t take ‘is eyes off you—”

        “Lucy.” Rose gave her a look.

        “Fine.” The woman went back to the dresser drawers, then pointed her finger. “But you’ll ‘ave to compensate for it by wearin’ the best, most extravagant evenin’ gown later.”

        “Deal.” 

        Lucy picked out a much simpler outfit: a lovely little pale lilac gown that didn’t have hardly any trimmings at all. It didn’t fit Rose exactly as she would have wanted, as it was a bit tight, but she wore it anyway.

        “We’ll have to get you fitted and measured for some custom gowns, dearie,” Lucy said while smoothing the ruffles out. “We’re runnin’ out of ones that fit.”

        “Wouldn’t that be rather costly?”

        “Nothin’ the Master can’t take care of.” 

        Rose flushed. “He’d pay for a new wardrobe, for me?”

        “But of course,” Lucy insisted. “It’s no trouble at all for ‘im. All ‘e’d ask in return is to oversee the designs of one or two of ‘em.”

        Rose’s head fell. “I can’t imagine he’d want anything to do with the designs of the gowns.”

        “You’d be surprised.”

        Well, if there was one thing Rose knew about Lord Ashworth, it was that he was full of surprises. 

        Lucy and Rose made their way out of the room and into the castle’s vast hallways. 

        “Did the girl say which one of the gatherin’ rooms it was?” Lucy asked.

        “Not at all.”

        “Well, we’re both newcomers to the castle. I’m ashamed to say it, but I don’t know where everythin’ is myself.”

        “Lucy, I’m surprised at you,” Rose teased.

        “I know, it’s just awful—” 

        She cut off suddenly.

        “You ‘ear that?”

        Rose stopped in her tracks, pausing to listen. There was indeed the faintest sound, like someone humming far, far away. 

        “Let’s go check it out.” Lucy practically ran in the direction of the echoes, lifting her skirts.

        “Lucy. Lucy!” Rose was amazed at the woman’s youthfulness. She wasn’t old by any means, but she could act so like a child at times. It was something Rose admired about her. “Slow down!” The girl took off, trailing behind the middle-aged woman.

        As they closed in on the sound, the echoes turned from faint hums to fully fleshed-out notes. Rose’s senses were suddenly overwhelmed by color. A deep bluish-purple—the hue of early night, right after the sun was set. The color was all she could see, perceive, and think about. The white marble hallways of the castle turned blue and purple; it was almost like what she imagined an enchanting fairytale evening to look like. 

        “Rose!” Lucy whisper-yelled. 

        The young woman snapped out of her trance. Lucy was quite a ways away, poking her head around a corridor, with an impatient, insistent look upon her wrinkled face. 

        “Coming!” Rose picked up her skirts and trotted along. The music continued to play. The colors were everywhere. She found it rather difficult to not get caught up in their magic spell.

        Rose cramped up next to Lucy and both peered at a room farther on down the hallway. The door was open, and light, and music, spilled out of it, painting the floor and walls. 

        “That is one o’ the gatherin’ rooms, I remember now.”

        “But surely that’s not him playing.”

        Lucy shrugged. “I was told ‘e ‘ad many talents.”

        “So was I, but— I thought they were just part of a ploy to get me to marry him.”

        And then, the music ended, and the colors dissipated into the air—nothing more than a memory. Rose and Lucy looked at one another, biting their lips in hesitation. Just as Rose was about to suggest they turn back, his booming voice rattled the air around her:

        “Ah! I see my little experiment went accordingly.” 

        Lord Ashworth, impossibly tall and imposing in his all-black garb, exited the gathering room. He faced Rose and Lucy, then bowed. The women followed his gesture with curtsies. 

        “'Experiment', Your Lordship?” Rose queried.

        “Yes, yes, come in and I’ll enlighten you.”

        Rose tiptoed nearer. It seemed that every time they met, he was somehow even larger and more unreal than she had remembered. Her head spun as she tried to take in his entire form—to try to comprehend all that he was. She closed her eyes as she shifted past him into the gathering room.

        It was not silvery, as the other gathering room had been. In fact, it was not in fashion with the rest of the castle’s design at all. The room was mostly mauve, as well as other shades of red, purple, and deep pink. The drapes and furniture were adorned with all sorts of intricate flowery designs. It reminded Rose of her manor when it was in its prime. There was a kind of messiness and over-decorative quality about the room that meant only one thing: home. This room had been lived in.

        She was so taken away by the decorations that Rose hardly noticed the grand piano at the far side of the room. She gasped as her eyes fell upon it, and him. Lord Ashworth leaned against the magnificent instrument while he observed her. 

        “I was trying to see if you would be able to find me on your own. I thought I might lure you in with this.” He patted the top of it. 

        “So it was you playing,” Rose said, astonished. 

        “Of course it was me. Who else could it have been?” He seemed almost offended.

        Rose hesitated, looking down. “I suppose I don’t understand how you can play…” She glanced up for just a second, catching a glimpse of his bulky paws. He did not have his gloves on.

        “Precisely why I wanted you here. To show you how it’s done.”

        Rose smiled slightly. “I suppose I’m not the first to be suspicious.”

        “Not in the slightest.” 

        He turned around, swept back his cloak and cape, and sat on the bench. It croaked under his weight. He looked rather silly in her opinion. Most pianists were long and lithe, with dextrous and somewhat feminine hands. He did not fit the image in her mind. 

        “Do you play?” he crooned, his dark voice dotted with an air of light mischief.

        Rose felt her mouth run dry as the blood left her cheeks. Her breath caught in her throat.

        “I presume that means yes.” Lord Ashworth laughed, a deep rumble building up inside of him. Rose would never have thought that laughter could be monstrous, almost growl-like. “Don’t fret. I won’t make you play if you don’t want.”

        The young woman breathed a deep sigh of relief. 

        “At least for today. I cannot promise what I might do in the future.”

        “You really are an imp.” She giggled, then immediately broke her smile, afraid of seeming coy.

        “It would not be the first time I’ve been compared to a daemon.” 

        Rose cringed. Was he offended by her calling him as such? Or was he playing along with her? If only she could remove his veil for a moment… No, if only he were human—with human expressions she could easily read. Then there would be no need for a veil.

        The thought drifted through her mind for but a second: If he were human, would they already be husband and wife? No. He would be married to some countess, not the daughter of a merchant. She shook the thoughts away.

        “Now then,” he declared, “allow me to showcase what I’ve summoned you here for.”

        “Oh, yes, of course.” Rose backed up, stumbling over the nearest chair before sitting down.

        Her eyes were glued to his paws. He stretched them out over the keys, and she noticed as he retracted his claws. 

        The colors returned as soon as he began playing. The white keys turned purple and blue, like a pristine river reflecting the dying sunset. Rose could hardly focus on what the song sounded like, for the colors were too overwhelming. The colors were the sound, were the song. It was how she experienced music. 

        And then, her eyes moved from the keys and his paws to the rest of Lord Ashworth’s body. It was enshrouded by the veil of course, but the veil didn’t appear black anymore. It was the deep blue-purple of everything else. Iridescent, like the wings of a jewel-toned butterfly. He moved back and forth, swaying with the swells of the music. He shimmered like evening stars. In a way, he was quite dazzling. Rose was mesmerized. 

        The song soon came to a close, ending on a rather ominous chord. The sound dissipated, and the world came back into view. 

        Rose clapped. “Bravo! That was marvelous, Your Lordship!”

        Lord Ashworth turned to face her, and the endless black of the veil sucked her in. For a moment, the memory of his monstrous, snarling features flashed before her eyes. She turned away, ceasing to clap. Rose cleared her throat and tucked a curly strand of hair behind her ear. 

        “Well, did the music cause your senses to flare up?”

        Rose’s shoulders tensed. She practically shot up out of her seat. 

        Lord Ashworth’s low rumble of a laugh broke out through his veil, and the vibrations made her spine tingle. 

        “My little experiment was a success then,” he gloated.

        “How did you—”

        He cut her off: “In the mind, language and music are connected in some way, shape, or form; which is why those who are musically inclined may also have a natural inclination toward language and storytelling as well. As I was pondering over your abilities, I wondered if perhaps your senses would also flare up if exposed to music.”

        Rose sat in astonishment, her mouth gaping wide open. She was positively at a loss for words. Blinking a few times, she gathered her thoughts, before speaking: “You know, you could’ve just asked me.” 

        “Yes, but what’s the fun in that?” he grumbled playfully. “Now tell me, what did you experience while hearing me play?”

        “Well,” Rose pondered, “everything turned blue, and purple. Even yo—” She blushed deeply, remembering how magnificent and dazzling he had been. “Just everything. The room, the piano keys… They all turned a different color.” 

        He leaned nearer to her, the bench creaking. “Fascinating.” 

        His voice caused her to shiver. It was so charged with electricity. She could feel the intense curiosity emanating off of him, and it intimidated her. No one had ever been this intrigued by her or her condition before.

        “Is there anything else besides names, certain words, and music, that cause this little phenomenon?” 

        Rose furrowed her thin, strawberry brows. “I would say that certainly, those are the most common causes. But…” she remembered back to the heat of the fireplace of her childhood home, “sometimes when I feel a physical sensation, like heat, it can cause other senses to flare up. I’ve had it happen before where, if I’m exceedingly warm or cold, I’ll begin to hear certain things.”

        “Like what?”

        “Well, I’m not sure how to describe them without sounding mad.” Rose giggled.

        “No, no, don’t think that at all. Pray continue.”

        “Well, they sound like voices sometimes… Little ones that I can’t really make out what they’re saying. And then, too, many times, when I’m reading, I can feel what the person in the story is feeling. The words on the page… they are alive in a way for me. I feel the words deeply. Each word I read has a smell, a feel, a sound, a voice.”

        Lord Ashworth seemed to almost fall off the bench with enthusiasm. “Extraordinary.”

        Rose smiled and blushed, looking away. “I suppose it is, isn’t it? If you don’t think me positively mad.”

        “Not at all. Tell me, does it ever become overwhelming for you?”

        She sank in her chair a little. “At times, yes. But not for the reasons you might think. I… feel things very deeply. If you must know, I believe this is one of the reasons I’m so sensitive.” She stroked her hair bashfully.

        “Yes, that is—” Lord Ashworth broke off mid-sentence. “Well, that is one of the things I have noticed about you.”

        There was a noticeable shift in his demeanor. As though his fascination with her had fully gone away and was replaced with a judgment of her character. 

        Rose knew that she was sensitive and rabbit-hearted… and that he was not. Lord Ashworth likely did not want an acquaintance who was as faint of heart as she, but… he kept talking to her. He kept asking questions. If her rare and unique condition was the sole reason for his interest in her, then she would continue to be his little experiment. Whatever kept her in his company, whatever kept her in the castle where she was treated with dignity and respect, whatever kept her family out of debt. 

        And, she did enjoy his company. Even if he now and then caused her heart to skip a beat with his sudden erratic movements and sounds—not to mention his general enormity—she liked being with him. He made her feel as though she were not just a simple-minded, foolish-hearted girl, but someone who had a gift and who experienced the world differently from anyone he had ever met before. No one had ever made her feel so special before. She decided then and there to try to keep his interest as long as she could. One day she knew she would have to leave the enchanting castle and its eccentric master, but today was not that day.

        “You know, Miss Bourne, while we may not experience the world in the same way, I do believe there are some commonalities in our perceptions.”

        “Really!? How so?”

        “I also feel deeper sensations than most, due to my—well, condition.”

        “Oh…” Rose’s excitement faltered. But she did not want to seem rude. “Pray tell me more.”

        “My sense of smell is especially developed. I can smell nearly everything from miles around if the wind brings the scent my way. And, I can even sometimes smell or sense what someone else is feeling.”

        Rose tensed. She thought she might faint. 

        “So you can…?”

        “Sense your discomfort? Yes.”

        “Oh, Lord Ashworth, I—” Her face turned bloodred. She raised her hands to her cheeks; they were as hot as the heat from fireplaces.

        “It is alright. As you said, you are a deeply sensitive person.”

        “Yes, but— Oh, please do not think that I am not wanting to be in your presence. I get so nervous because, well, because…”

        Rose heard Lucy breathe in deeply from across the room. The room began to turn a bright red. Her senses bled into each other.

        “Go on.” Lord Ashworth rested his arm across his knee.

        “Well, I’m not quite sure.” Her heart raced against her chest. “I just am afraid that…” And then the truth came to her. She bowed her head. “I am deeply afraid that you will dismiss me from the castle.” 

        Lord Ashworth seemed taken aback. He even leaned backward. “Why on earth would you think a thing such as that?”

        “Well, it’s just… ever since that night in the gardens, I feel as though I’ve been fighting for my chance to remain here. I thought I had offended you so, and that you did not want me here anymore. I suppose I know deep down that I will not be dismissed, but that does not mean that my presence is wanted. You could be doing all of this just to be hospitable….” she trailed off, fearing she had said too much, off down a rabbit trail of thought.

        Lord Ashworth remained silent for a moment. Rose just stared at her hands in her lap. 

        “Miss Bourne,” his voice rumbled throughout the small room, “I do want you here.”

        A flood of relief washed over her body. She untensed her shoulders, but still had not the confidence to look up at him. 

        “I thought that I had already made that clear enough in our last audience.”

        “Oh, yes, you did, Your Lordship! It’s just— My anxious mind. It tells me things that are not true.”

        “I see.” He nodded. “Well, I will make it very clear and plain. While you did offend me… I also—misbehaved, for lack of a better word. I should have told you beforehand how I feel about myself and how I expect to be treated. I should not have expected you to know and understand fully just because of our mutual cordiality.”

        “Of course,” Rose said. “I know now that it is a sensitive topic for you, and I respect that wholly and sincerely, Your Lordship.” She bowed her head. “I do not wish to displease you in any way.”

        “And I do not wish to displease you either, Miss Bourne,” he said, unexpectedly. 

        Rose smiled lightly. “Our situation is quite… awkward, is it not?” She stifled a small laugh.

        “I suppose it may seem that way, but what others may find awkward about a certain situation, I do not find particularly worth caring about. Our potential engagement never meant anything to me.”

        Rose’s heart dropped. His words were a deep blow to her entire being. But why? Had she not known all along that the engagement meant nothing to him? Perhaps it was just harder to hear the truth aloud.

        “That does not mean I find our current acquaintanceship meaningless, however,” he admitted. “There is still much I wish to learn about you and your condition.”

        “Yes, likewise.” Rose deeply regretted the words after they exited her lips. A part of her did want to know more about his condition but… another part of her just wanted him to remain concealed. The illusion of being human.

        “Truly?” he questioned, sounding skeptical. “You would care to know more about what I am?”

        Rose bit her tongue. She had to say something. “Y-yes. I would like to know more. I’ve— never met anyone like you.” It was mostly a lie, but if it kept her in the castle longer, then so be it.

        “Very well then. All in due time.”

        “Yes, in time.” Rose nodded, relieved that she would have more time both to get used to Ashworth and to stay in the castle.

        “For now, I hope that your family’s visiting will now at least provide some comfort to your sensitive nature.”

        Her family. She had forgotten all about them.

        “Oh, yes. I think that their visit will make me feel much more comfortable here. I’ve missed them so.”

        Ashworth tilted his head to the side. “You do wish to stay here, yes? You may return home to your family at any time, you understand?”

        “Yes, I understand. But I do want to stay here, Your Lordship. It’s just— All I’ve ever known is the home I’ve lived in my whole life, with my family I’ve lived with my whole life. This new environment is just… a bit overwhelming—” 

        “Due to your sensitive disposition?”

        Rose recognized the slightest bit of a demeaning tone in his deep, rattly voice. She was ashamed to say so but, “Yes.”

        “I see.” He leaned back to face the piano. “Well, then, we’ll do what we can to make your stay as comfortable as possible in the meantime.” He struck a happy chord and the room turned a bright, vivid yellow. “How does that sound?”

        Rose grinned. “Wonderful.”

Chapter Text

——— ⋆ ❖ ː ❛ Rose awoke to the taste of cherries on her tongue. There was the sensation of crisp and sweet excitement that laid heavy in her mouth. She jolted up and out of bed, ready to begin the day. 

        Everything about the outfit that Lucy laid out for her was pink and lovely and little. From the little pink blossoms on the toe of the shoe, to the flowers adorning her hair. 

        It felt good, and right. To be little and quaint, to be lovely and dainty. To just be a pretty adornment from a grander tree. That’s all she needed to be to be content. 

        For what much difference was there between a rose and a cherry blossom? 

        She mused these thoughts and others while on her way to the Grand Hall to receive her family. 

        In his letters, her father had seemed more than fine. But was he merely lying to curb her worries? A pang of fear and dread swept through her heart at the thought. If he needed her, she would absolutely return at once home. 

        But, she wanted to stay. Oh, how she wanted to. For once to not be blamed for anything, for nothing whatsoever to be expected of her. At first it was jarring and she was quite uncomfortable with people tending to her every need, but now, it felt as though she was receiving relief from all she had been through. 

        And even though Lord Ashworth kept her on her toes, she appreciated his company, his honesty, and his unique way of thinking. She hadn’t imagined his lifestyle or the way he presented himself even possible! For someone to be so comfortable and carefree in who they were… 

        But first and foremost, she had her duty as a daughter. Indulgences and fantasies—relaxation and relief—would all be put aside if her father needed her. 

        At least, that’s what she should be thinking. 

        Her mind continued to wander on all the pretty dresses and the garden maze and Lucy and her wonderful bed with the canopy above it and Lord—

        And then, the sound of clopping horse shoes up the driveway. Rose’s mouth ran dry. Why should she be so nervous? They were only her family. She should be excited, as excited as she was when she woke up with the taste of cherries in her mouth. 

        But what would they think when they saw her indulging in the grand castle, leaving them in the dilapidated mansion? Rose tugged at her dress, just knowing how Hattie would want to yank it off of her the moment her eyes landed on it. This wasn’t the Rose her family knew. She wasn’t even sure if this was herself. She just tried to be whatever the people of the castle seemed to want her to be. 

        But this was her family. She wanted to see them. That was why they came to visit after all, was it not? They, out of everyone, would surely understand. They would understand that she was happy here, being treated as a baroness, even though she was not one, even though she did not deserve anything that was being freely given to her…

        “My lady, are you quite alright?”

        Rose jolted. She opened her eyes to find Lucy staring directly at her, the older woman’s lips pursed and thin brows wrinkled together in concern.

        “Yes… I’m fine.”

        “You grew pale all o’ sudden.”

        “It’s nothing.”

        Lucy shifted her weight and crossed her arms. 

        “Are you sure?”

        But before Rose could reply, the tall doors opened. Rose hardly waited a moment once her family was announced that she jumped into her father’s arms.

        “Woah, woah there!” he called out, taking off his traveling hat and letting it fall to the side. Rose took a huge whiff off of his jacket—the familiar scent of his tobacco she so missed. They hugged each other tightly. 

        “Oh Father, I can hardly believe how long it has been—” Rose exited the hug and looked upon his face. All of his wrinkles had mostly gone; he looked almost just as he had before the bankruptcy. He looked like the father she remembered from her childhood. A jovial quality about him, like a happy grandfather. She hadn’t seen him like that in so long she almost forgot he had existed.

        And his clothing… It was not old and worn out. But brand new! 

        “Do you like it?” He tugged on his collar and then brushed off the coat. “Fresh from London.”

        “Very much, Father,” Rose gleamed. “But how?!”

        “Why, dear daughter, have you forgotten!? Lord Ashworth in all his generosity gave us enough money to be rid of that horrid debt, and to establish life anew! I’m a proper gentleman now!”

        Rose looked her father up and down, in disbelief. She knew all of the facts. She knew what had happened. But to see it before her plain, to know the effects of what had happened. It did not seem real. Was it true? Was their suffering finally over? Were all of her Father’s troubles so easily solved?

        She smiled. “That is wonderful, Father. You do not look yourself!” 

        “Ah,” he waved a finger, “I only do not look myself to those who do not remember who I truly was.” Father gestured to his full outfit—a fine brown traveling outfit, fit for a man of his new status. “This is who I really am.”

        Rose shook her head and giggled. “I do not remember you being so haughty.”

        “Yes, that could be new,” he mused. “But alas, I have every right to be! I am happy after being so long denied. I will boast my happiness and good fortune to the ends of the earth!”

        Rose giggled at how silly and foolish her new Father was. He danced around like a young schoolboy. 

        And then, voices from beyond the doorway:

        “Oh, dear, this dreadful weather! I can hardly stand this heat. Don’t you know my condition, dearest brother?!” Rose recognized Hattie’s complaining from miles away.

        She turned her head to find Harrison, appearing most amused, holding a parasol for her seemingly-out-of-sorts sister.

        “Hattie! Harrison!” Rose couldn’t help but smile upon seeing them, even if they were the less delightable of her siblings and did not smile back.

        “Ah, Lizzie,” Hattie said, out of breath.

        Rose cringed at the name. She hadn’t heard it in so long. The taste in her mouth had begun to spoil, turning sour, like spoiled milk that was once so fresh and sweet.

         “I must get inside immediately if I am to withstand this weather. Won’t you help me up these stairs?”

        Rose reacted immediately, bracing herself to fly down the stairs to her sister in need, but then felt a tug at her shoulder. The girl whipped back to find Lucy giving her a look. The older woman cleared her throat.

        “What is it?” Rose asked.

        “Allow the young able men and servants to aid ‘er, dearie,” she whispered so only Rose could hear. “You don’t ‘ave to if’n you don’t want to.”

        Suddenly, a few servants whipped out, sweeping past Rose, all going to aid Rose’s sprawling sister.

        “Now that is service,” Hattie commented. “Why can’t you be more like them, Harrison?”

        “I’m not your servant, Hattie,” he snapped, letting go of the parasol and crossing his arms. 

        Exiting the carriage last were Minnie and Ferguson. Minnie sauntered her way to the footsteps of the castle, keeping a sharp eye on Rose’s dress. Or so it seemed that is what she was staring at.

        “Lizzie!” Ferguson’s booming voice rattled through the air, shaking it. He bounded across the lawn and up the stairs to his sister.

        While he only took her hand, it felt as though Rose were being smacked in the face by a large bear. She had forgotten how large and abrasive her brother could be, without knowing it. Like a gentle giant dog that leapt on top of people and knocked them over out of love instead of hate.

        But even for all of her brother’s height and breadth, she knew now of true enormity. Lord Ashworth crept up out of the back of her mind. She imagined him watching her family from somewhere high up in the tallest rooms of the castle. How pitiful he must think they all were… How undeserving of his charity. 

        But then again, Lord Ashworth was of the strange and eccentric sort. Perhaps he would find a kind of odd charm in her family’s behavior—or if not that, some outlandish reason to be fond of them Rose couldn’t possibly imagine—and so give them even more money. But then again, he could just be annoyed and irritated at their display of vanity and unruliness. 

        Or was she worrying over it too much? Rose loved her family and, if need be, she would list off the admirable qualities of each of the members to prove to Lord Ashworth that, deep down, they were all worthy of receiving his charity…

        Rose turned her head toward the elaborate, golden-rimmed new chariot that her family had ridden in. She then caught a glimpse of Minnie’s new dress, with all of its bows and ribbons and elegant jewels. It was much more complex and ornate a gown than she had ever thought possible. 

        “Hello, Minnie,” Rose said, curtsying.

        “How do you do?” Minnie did not seem to be her normal proud self. She did not make eye contact with her piercing green eyes, and instead just stared at Rose’s dress.

        Rose’s chest tightened at the thought of what her sister might be feeling, but she soon twisted on her heels and pushed the fears aside. 

        “Do come in, everyone,” she said. They all entered into the Grand Hall and Rose tried her hardest to not astutely observe and worry over what each of her family member’s reactions were.

        As to be expected, Ferguson gaped at the inside of the castle, his mouth wide open, like a child staring up at the stars and noticing the constellations for the first time. He even let out a “My God!” every few moments.

        Father’s reactions were not far off from Ferguson’s, although he soon found a mirror at the far side of the Grand Hall and went to admire his reflection.

        Hattie, of course, never caught a breath.

        “No, no, don’t take that! I’m awfully cold now that I’m inside.”

        “Lizzie, when will dinner be done? I’m starved.”

        “Don’t you know what a condition I’m in?! How dare you insinuate such a thing!”

        But Rose could hardly pay attention to Hattie on account of her other sister. No matter what she did or where she moved, there were Minnie’s eyes, following her, looking her up and down. Even when they moved into the dining hall, Minnie remained completely silent, slowly sipping her tea, never once moving her gaze. 

        It felt so strange, like a mixture of spoiled colors that had fallen on the floor, not quite one color and not quite the other. Uncertain. As though something was missing—all that was needed was one more drop of paint to create a hue that was definite and defined. It was her. Minnie was missing. Her opinion, always front and center, always present. Her constant need for attention and assertion of dominance in the hierarchy of siblings. What could have possibly happened to silence her?

        Her father’s voice snapped Rose out of the troubling fog of spiraling thoughts:

        “I propose a toast,” he said, standing up, “to our mysterious host, Lord Ashworth, who has changed all of our lives for the better.”

        Everyone around the table piped up in agreement, except Rose, and Minnie. Her sister glared at her from across the table. 

        Rose shriveled up inside. Had Lord Ashworth changed the two of their lives for the better? 

        “Well Lizzie Rose,” Father called out, “how has castle life been treating you?”

        Jolting up, Rose gaped at her father.

        “How has it been…?” She trailed off.

        “Why, yes, we’re all dying to know.” Her father rested his hands under his chin intently.

        Rose’s eyes flitted to Minnie, and then back to the rest of her family. Ferguson and Father seemed eager enough to hear what she had to say; Hattie and Harrison could care less. 

        “Well, I—” Her mind went blank. What was it they wanted to hear? Would they bash her if she told them how absolutely wonderful her new life was? Would they even believe her if she told them the truth? What was the truth?

        “You look happier,” Ferguson spoke up.

        Rose flushed. “Really? You think so?”

        “There’s color in your cheeks now!” Father said.

        “Oh.” She almost wanted to apologize. But why?

        “Surely life here must be wonderful, is it not?” They both inquired.

        “Oh, it is!” She felt compelled to agree.

        “Well, life back home has been on the uphill as well.”

        “Really?” Rose smiled warily. “How so?”

        Father beamed ear to ear. “Well, Lord Ashworth’s recompense has allowed us to live life anew. Entirely new furnishings for the manor! All up-to-date!”

        Rose’s brow fell. “You mean, all the old furniture is—”

        “Thrown out, my dear!”

        Rose’s heart fell. Her body went numb. 

        Though they were old and dilapidated, falling apart… they were still the furnishings and objects from her childhood. Her little self, what seemed a lifetime ago, had confidently ran through those halls—sat in those chairs and read her fairytale books, kicking her feet up in joy. 

        Was that all gone now? 

        “Yes, my dear, we’ve all new wardrobes, too, as you can see! And new servants.  I no longer need you to tend to me. It’s all taken care of now!”

        Rose’s heart shattered into a million pieces. Her eyes grew watery and red. 

        “What’s the matter, dear?” Father asked. “Aren’t you happy with how everything has turned out?”

        She shook her head, closing her eyes and blotting away her tears. “Oh, nothing, it’s just, I’m so overwhelmed. This is… this is such wonderful news!”

        “Yes, I know! No more working away your youth tending to your old father when you should be here, treated properly, like the lady you are!”

        Rose smiled through the heartache, using every ounce of strength she had to merely hold herself together.

        She didn’t pay attention to the rest of what was said at dinner. Merely nodded her head when anyone laughed or said anything in her general direction. The room became a haze; she went into a stupor. 

        The men soon retired to the parlor to smoke and laugh about how all of their problems and anxieties were solved. Rose and her sisters traveled to one of the quaint ladies’ rooms. 

        Hattie fanned herself profusely while scrounging down some sugar tarts. When she was done with one plate, she would always demand a servant bring her more. Rose was particularly sensitive to the grotesque monching, and found it rather distasteful.

        But the only other company in the room, of course, was her other sister’s seering gaze. Minnie had not taken her eyes off of Rose the entire time.

        Funny, she should prefer company with a literal Beast than her own two sisters.

        Suddenly, Hattie leaned in, and Rose could smell her breath from feet away. “Now Lizzie, I’ve got something very important to tell you,” she said, mid-bite. 

        Minnie piped up for the first time the whole day: “Yes, yes, Hattie, we’re all very aware of your condition. I’m sure Rose is too.” She rolled her eyes and crossed her arms.

        Rose turned back to her apparently-stricken sister and inquired, “Dearest Hattie, what’s the matter?” She instinctively shot her eyes down at her sister’s protruding stomach, but pulled them back up to her face immediately. 

        Hattie scooted toward Rose, leaned in, and whispered in a voice hoarse from shouting all day: “I’m with child.”

        Child. Multiple images and senses flooded Rose’s mind. She recalled her mother forcing peas into her mouth, telling her that they were good for her and she would love them someday. The icky mushy taste. Peas were what babies ate. With their goblin green hands rolling around in the stuff. 

        “Oh!” Rose exclaimed. “Oh, Hattie, how marvelous!”

        Hattie’s eyes beamed brighter than Rose had ever seen. A genuine smile, not a smile because she had gotten her way, not a bragging grin—but of pure and genuine happiness and contentment. 

        It would be the first child of this generation. Father’s first grandchild.

        “Yes, yes, thank you. William and I both are thrilled beyond belief,” she said, rubbing her belly. 

        “You both ought to be mighty proud. Congratulations.”

        “How does it feel to be an aunt?”

        Rose chuckled and gave her sister a look. Aunt was such a funny word. A title she felt that only went to older women who rocked in rocking chairs and decided younger people’s futures and fates since they were not content in their own. It did not describe her. 

        Auntie Lizzie. She shook her head at such a blasphemous title. Certainly she would never allow herself to be called such a thing. But then again, there were many things which she did not want to be called that eventually she grew to tolerate. 

        Rose and Hattie discussed the child’s potential name and the preparations. It was the most engaged conversation they’d had in years. 

        And Rose, she couldn’t help but feel as though she had a part in this sisterhood once again. Even if Hattie was ultimately selfish, she did seem to care about her future child. Rose smiled at her sister’s enthusiasm and pride. Perhaps, if Rose wasn’t needed as a daughter anymore—as she feared was the case—she could be an aunt. The thought encroached upon her and she despised it, but if it was the only way she was needed or wanted in the family, then she would gladly take the role.

        But there was always that lingering gaze—piercing in the back of her head from across the other side of the lounge. A spiteful gaze that said to Rose, ‘You do not belong.’

        As the conversation between sisters died down, and Hattie continued to partake in the castle’s neverending refreshments, the hole burning in the back of Rose’s head only became more and more intense. Several times Minnie even took a breath as though she were about to speak.

        The servants offered both Rose and Minnie refreshments, but they declined. An agonizing silence pervaded through the room. 

        Rose tensed up as Minnie’s voice, almost sensuous, cooed, “Well, Lizzie, I’m dying to know what castle life has been like.”

        Rose turned around, facing her other sister, who now rested one of her hands under her chin. Her whole demeanor had changed. She now wore her simper that Rose knew all too well. Was this some kind of trick?

        “Oh, well, it’s been… fine.”

        “Just fine?”

        “Yes,” she answered curtly.

        “It seems to me that you’re doing more than fine, dear sister. Receiving the royal treatment you’ve never had before.”

        Rose tried to look away. “Oh? I hardly noticed.”

        “Oh, don’t be so meek, Lizzie. I can tell you absolutely love it here. I am your sister after all. Don’t I know you better than anyone?”

        Rose wanted to say, ‘No, you don’t know me at all,’ but she didn’t have it in her feeble heart to declare such a retort. 

        “I guess you can see through me then,” she giggled hesitantly.

        “Oh, most certainly,” Minnie leered. “So, tell me, how do you really feel about this place?”

        Rose pondered over it for a minute. She processed her thoughts outloud: “Well… I, I mean it was rather overwhelming at first. The service, the food, the atmosphere. But now, I can’t help but feel I’ve become comfortable in it.”

        Minnie grinned, and Rose couldn’t determine if it was true or if she had ulterior motives. “You know, I was surprised when you did not send for any of your books. I thought, perhaps there are books at the castle she’s reading now. Then another thought came over me. Perhaps she’s living her fairytale so she doesn’t have to read them anymore.”

        Rose’s eyes widened. She hadn’t thought about her books in so long. She honestly had not picked up one her entire time at the castle, even if a library was available to her. Minnie—somehow—was right. 

        She creased her brows. “You might be right, sister.”

        “Well, of course I am! I knew that you never actually loved reading for reading’s sake, or for knowledge sake. You wanted an escape. And who wouldn’t want to escape from our previous dreary existence?”

        Rose nodded, facing the floor. 

        “And now you have it. Servants tending to your every whim. Three or more fabulous meals a day. Beautiful grounds, an exquisite bedroom, the most shining estate you ever did see. And all the money your family could ever want or need.”

        “Did he really give you all the money you could ever want?”

        Minnie lifted a brow. “Yes, I suppose. Or at least he did to Father, and Father gives us allowances.”

        “I see. And has it been helpful?”

        Minnie sighed, but immediately picked back up her previous tone. “Yes, most certainly.”

        “That is good to hear. Lord Ashworth is… a most generous man.” 

        “He must be. For you to be treated as a baroness with all of its perks and benefits, without actually having to be his wife.”

        Wife. Her world turned pure ghostly white. The word stunned her. It was like the stench of pure alcohol. Cleansing, stripping. 

        “Certainly you must be overjoyed about that. I remember how timid you were.”

        “Y-yes. I— It was quite a relief.”

        “I can only imagine.”

        Minnie leaned in. “Is it true?”

        Hattie, still chomping, also leaned in, eager to hear Rose’s response.

        “Is what true?”

        “Is he, you know?”

        Rose’s eyes flitted about the room. She knew what they wanted to hear.

        “He is a most perfect gentleman, and that is all I can say.”

        “So you have not seen him then? His true form, I mean.”

        “No, I have.” The words slipped out. She should have denied it. Rose cursed herself under her breath.

        “Come then, sister!” Minnie got up and sat down beside Rose, putting her arm through her own. “You can tell me. You do not have to keep face here. I won’t tell anyone if the rumors are true.”

        Rose knew that wasn’t the case, but— Minnie had never put her arm around her before. She had never seemed so genuinely interested in what Rose had to say. 

        Perhaps she had a place. Not as a daughter, or an aunt. But as a sister. 

        And sisters confided in one another and told the truth, did they not?

        “Minnie, you cannot tell anyone I told you this. I know you, and I know that you love gossip.”

        “Nonsense! We’ve all changed, can’t you see? I’m not who I once was. There are more things to life besides gossip now, I’ve come to realize. I’m just curious and want to know who my beloved sister in staying with in this castle. I care about you, Rose.”

        Rose. 

        Rose.

        Rose.

        She had called her, by her name.

        Perhaps she had changed. They all had. Minnie, who never once cared for anybody but herself, now cared for her. And knew her by her name. Rose.

        “Well, he… He is…”

        Minnie and Hattie closed in around her.

        The servants held their breath.

        In the tiniest whispering voice, Rose uttered, “The rumors, they’re all true.”

        Minnie gasped. Hattie nearly choked on her pastry. 

        “Tell me, tell me. Was he burned, born deformed, does he have abnormal amounts of hair??”

        “Shh, shh!” Rose winced, calming her sister. “This is between us and us alone. That is all I can tell you. I am sorry.”

        Minnie let out a witchy laugh. “Hahahah! So, my sister avoided a most horrid husband, and yet reaped all the benefits from it! How lucky are you! The most timid and mild of us all, what could you have possibly done to earn a life such as this!?”

        Rose wasn’t sure if she should laugh or cringe.

        Minnie patted her on the back. “I’m proud of you.”

        Rose’s eyes lit up, burning blue.

        “You've finally put down your books and come into the real world. You’ve taken hold of life by the hand. I never thought I’d ever see this day.”

        Rose smiled. “Really?” Her stomach fluttered with glee and disbelief at how kind her sister was.

        “Yes! You’ve masterminded your way around this and saved your family in doing so. I could not have done it better myself. I must admit, I am a wee bit jealous, but proud. Oh, so proud. My little sister’s become a true woman.”

        Hattie chimed in, mid-bite, “Yes, quite right! I would not be as I am now if it weren’t for you, dear Lizzie.”

        “Oh, thank you, sisters.” Rose blushed. They had never been so kind and gracious to her in all her life. “I suppose it was rather ingenious of me.”

        “Most indeed!” Minnie declared.

        “I get to be treated like a princess, like I always wanted.” She leaned her head down, beaming. “But without the dreadfulness that comes with being his wife.” 

        Hattie and Minnie toppled over with deep belly laughs. 

        “Oh, Rose, I never knew you were so funny!”

        “I see what money and status has done to you!”

        “So bold!”

        “So charming!”

        Rose felt so good about herself. Her heart had never felt so full before, her mind and wit so emboldened. Perhaps her sisters were right all along, and she was the one who should have gotten her head out of the clouds. Perhaps she had a place amongst her sisters all along, but never allowed herself in.

        After an hour or so of reminiscing back to their childhoods and commenting on how much had changed, it was decided that they should all retire to their bedrooms. Her family had been provided with some fine guest rooms. 

        Rose smiled contentedly, almost giddy with delight, as she made her way back to her room. She had never been so proud of herself before. She had never even been proud once in her life. Is this what the feeling was like? It was no wonder Minnie found it so addicting.

        As she was about to turn the knob to her great wooden, fairytale-esque door, a low voice crooned vehemently:

        “So, this is how you have chosen to repay me.”

        All of her previous feelings were shocked out of her system. She froze in place, and saw the great shadow of him over her door. 

        “Come, let’s discuss this further, in private. I will decide you and your family’s fate from there, Miss Bourne.”

Chapter Text

——— ⋆ ❖ ː ❛ Beast never minded not being human. 

        Especially as a child. He could always outrun his playmates—the servant boys of the castle—and he could climb trees better than any of them. 

        Of course, the servants who tended to him never quite knew what to do with his form. It was always a hassle to get him dressed, so most of the time he ran around shirtless when he played outside.

        As he got older, being a beast started to take more of a toll on him. Not that he loathed his body or capabilities—quite the contrary. But he was often lonely. His servant boy playmates developed a disdain for him for whatever reason. And of course, no outsiders could ever know about him, so he spent most of his time with the older staff who attended him and sometimes his mother. He hardly ever saw his father, who detested his form and was ashamed of what he had created.

        Beast began venturing out into the forest more often, and found a sort of presence there that kept him company. He also took up painting and music, and read more. Reading especially made him feel not so alone.

        From childhood, he was often reminded that he was betrothed and would one day marry Miss Greta Newell. And subsequently, he would turn human. He should look forward to it, they said. His life would finally begin, they said. 

        He did not think much of it as a child, since it seemed so far away and he did not understand the dire consequences of turning human yet. Nor did he understand the consequences of marrying a dull, nosey, close-minded woman who would run from the altar as soon as she saw him. But upon reading a few romances as a young adult, something changed in him. The betrothal now seemed closer, daunting, civilization encroaching upon his forested sanctuary. His childhood that had at once seemed endless was now running dry, and he needed to make a decision.

        It was determined that Beast in his loneliness needed a confidante. And so—one of the final decrees he made before deserting his family, title, and estate—the late Lord Ashworth, Beast’s father, took in the son of a local gentleman. Judas Morgan Chesterton, whose parents had passed away and who at the time was too young to run an estate by himself. 

        Chesterton was debriefed on his new companion’s predicament—which, although he had his suspicions, he could not really turn down the offer he was made just because he was afraid of an awkward young man who happened to be some sort of animal-human hybrid. Life at the castle—being treated practically the same as his strange new companion, and with far less expectations held over his head—was too tempting.

        Chesterton, frightened at first, soon adjusted to Beast’s form. They talked of what their futures might look like. How Beast desired a loving wife, someone he could choose on his own. Chesterton scoffed at the adolescent notions of the nightmarish monster he had been tasked with advising. Why marry at all? He suggested. For then he could remain a beast and not have to bother with the silly follies of women.

        Beast considered the proposition for a while, before ultimately declaring to his parents that he would not marry. His father was disappointed in a quiet way, not even making eye contact with his son before retreating to another room. His mother was livid.

        It was not long after that his father began spending less and less time at the castle, each departure longer than the last. And then one night, never returned. 

        In the spirit of saving face, Lady Ashworth declared her husband dead to the public. But Beast knew the truth. His father, although he was a lord and lived more than comfortably, could not face his son. He would rather spend his days as a beggar than the father of a monster.

        Beast had little time to resent his father and wallow in hate and hurt before taking on the daunting title of Lord Ashworth. Soon, he was too preoccupied with running the estate and tending to the affairs of the surrounding areas to wonder whether he would find a suitable companion in life, or if his father might return someday.

        In fact, for the past decade or more, he was too preoccupied. 

        The betrothal to Miss Greta Newell crept up on him like a predator creeping up on a harmless animal in the woods. And his mother’s death hit him like a bullet.

        Everything had been choking him lately. His mother’s death, Miss Newell’s rejection, the growing realization that he might become human against his will. 

        And then there was Rose. 

        Rose with her little rabbit heart, and strange affinity for names, and intoxicating scent of an elven forest. Her hair was so fiery, and her lips so red, that it was odd for her to be so delicate. The epitome of a rose, he thought. 

        They had known each other for such a short amount of time, and yet he felt that she had always been there, walking around his castle, delighting in his gardens, admiring his music and art. 

        But he felt there was something more to her, some mystery yet to be unraveled. How did she actually feel about him? Why was she so seemingly nice to him? He found the ways she saw the world around her to be fascinating—if only she would view those observations in kind. To her, they were far too insignificant or inappropriate to matter to anyone in the topic of conversation, least of all not to him. Who was she then, when not shrinking in shame at the smallest opinion or impression? 

        Perhaps that is why he insisted she stay. Perhaps he thought he could change her. Mold her personality into something as bold as her signature color. 

        What?  

        Did he want to change her? Was it wrong of him to think such a thing? He had always wanted a forthright woman, hadn’t he? Then why did Rose have such a hold over him? Did she have a hold over him? Perhaps “change” was too strong a word…

        But perhaps Rose was in a chokehold as well. The engagement, moving into the castle, being away from her family. 

        It’s why he had allowed them to come visit her for a few days. So that she could revive her spirit, come out of her shell, remember who she was—all so that she might be more attractive and interesting to him. 

        Is that where he had gone wrong? In hoping she would somehow overnight display a newfound confidence if only her family visited, had he jinxed himself?

        In truth, his theory worked. From behind the curtains of the gathering room, hiding in one of the castle’s secret passages, he observed as Rose’s nerves melted away and she transformed into a beautifully effervescent creature at the approval of her sisters. 

        Her beauty astounded him, she shone so bright, that he almost at first did not comprehend the detriment she had caused.

        He had his answer now. What she truly thought of him. A grotesque creature whom she would never marry.

        Perhaps he might have let it go, brushed it off, as he usually did. 

        Except that she continued to insult him, to make quips for her sisters to laugh at, openly admitting to taking advantage of the paradise he had offered her—he had shared with her. 

        Not only that, but she discussed his form with what he could only assume were two of the worst gossips in town. 

        His mane spiked up and there was a bubble in his throat. He knew he had to get out of there as quickly as possible.

        Beast had never quite felt a sensation like it before in his life. It almost felt like the intense fear and panic the night his mother had fallen ill, but far worse. He could not control his shaking, just like that night. But it was more than just anxiety.

        Anger. Seething rage that exploded through him. He shook violently, keeping his eyes closed and trying to calm himself, but to no avail. His breaths came out in barely-controlled spurts. No matter how hard he tried to keep it in, this sickening feeling in the pit of his stomach would not fade away.

        He was so angry he could vomit, he could cry even. Each time he closed his eyes, her laughter burned in his brain. Her mockery stung him in his side. 

        To think, someone he trusted and shared his time and art and home and money with—even for such a short time—would… betray him. And it was a true betrayal this time. Not merely a misunderstanding between the two of them. She had broken the one stipulation he gave regarding her family’s money.

        And then he realized what it was he felt. It wasn’t just anger at her betrayal, and it wasn’t just the fear of his whole existence being leaked to the public by these gossipping girls. 

        It was hurt. Hurt that he had finally opened up and trusted someone just for her to blow it at a moment of weakness. 

        The cold inner sanctums of the castle were no comfort for him. Spider webs hung around him, and a draft blew in, rustling his spiked fur. He tried to calm his breathing in the dank musty space. He wanted to go back to his room, but could not move if he tried. 

        The walls closed in around him. He clenched onto his heart.

        He needed release. Would he go to the forest? Run away like he had all those times before? Like his father?

        His eyes narrowed suddenly, a small fire growing within them. 

        No. 

        He picked himself up from the wall, marching straight toward one of the secret passageway’s exits. The one nearest her bedroom. 

        And then there it was, her scent, wafting through to him. It only fueled his anger, like alcohol to a blazing fire. He marched forward, breaking through the cobwebs, before landing at the exit. He pushed hard against the door disguised as a wall; it flipped around and he slipped out. His blood boiled within him, each step he took down the marble hallways faster than the last.

        And then, there she was, around the corner. His heart stopped for a moment, skipping a beat at the intensity of her beautiful hair. His stomach sank. Was now the right time to do this?

        Yes, yes it was. 

        He flipped his veil over his head and stalked up behind her.

        “So, this is how you have chosen to repay me,” he growled.

        Her body stiffened. She was completely still, like his prey right before he attacked. But any attempts to hide and shrivel away this time would be futile.

        “Come, let’s discuss this further, in private. I will decide you and your family’s fate from there, Miss Bourne .”

        He spun around, whirling his cape in the process. 

        After a few seconds, he could hear the pitter-patter of her dainty little feet struggling to keep up with his pace. He could smell the perspiration trickling down her neck. The sound of her rabbit heart pounding against her chest rang in his ears. 

        Her scent was absolutely intoxicating when she was so afraid, and he found himself falling once again into her haze, but he immediately shook it off, focusing on the task at hand.

        Beast led her into a gathering room and shut the door. 

        “Please, have a seat, Miss Bourne. I wouldn’t want you to be uncomfortable,” he said, his words seething through his fangs. He motioned for her to sit on the chair across from him. 

        She stared at the floor, and did as told. Her entire face was flushed, completely gaunt, sickeningly white. As the seconds ticked by, Beast’s sneer only grew. Just by watching her, it began to dawn on him that such a meek and miserable young woman was not the love he wanted. And on that note, he truly did not want a romance at all, despite letting himself believe so for the past few weeks. Only her scent still grasped him, but he fought the urge to whiff it in like cigar smoke.

        “Do you know why I’ve called you in here?” he asked.

        It seemed an eternity before she shakingly replied, “N-no… Your Lordship.” 

        “Don’t lie,” he spat. “Let us both agree to not lie to one another, is that understood?”

        “Of course, Your Lordship.” She dug her nails into her forearm. Tears welled up into her eyes.

        “Good.” He crossed his legs and leaned back into his chair. “Now then, do you remember the one stipulation I had for your family to receive my money, Miss Bourne?”

        “Y-yes.”

        “Recite it.”

        She sucked in a huff of air, removed her fingers from her arm and clutched the hem of her dress. “Never discuss your true form.” Her voice quivered with fear. He loved it, feeding off of it.

        “Did you have a wonderful time with your family today, hmm?” He leered. “Tell me, what did you talk about? I should like to hear all about it.” 

        She remained silent. 

        “Oh come now, Miss Bourne, only moments ago even your sisters couldn’t silence you.”

        She looked up at him for the first time, her eyes wide. “How did you–?”

        “Don’t you know I have eyes and ears all over the castle, Miss Bourne? Did you really think you could break your stipulation without me finding out about it?”

        “But I didn’t, I swear!”

        “Lies!” He banged his fist on the table next to him, a crashing thud echoing throughout the room. 

        Rose’s face scrunched up, her eyes suddenly red and puffy. She became almost ugly. 

        “I want the truth. Did you or did you not discuss my true form with those two girlish gossiping maggots you call kin?!” 

        “I swear, I did not tell them you were a beast!”

        “But you called me grotesque, did you not? ‘All the rumors are true,’ yes? So ugly and deformed in fact, you would never want to be married to such a creature!” 

        “But I did not say you were a beast!” she cried, tears streaming down her splotched cheeks. 

        Beast slowed his interrogation. It was true, she did not explicitly state what he was to his sisters. Should he continue to push her? 

        “Perhaps I should have set clearer boundaries. I did not want you to discuss my form at all with any outsiders! I thought that was understood.”

        “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry!” she wailed. 

        “Everytime someone in the town gossips about my form, even just to say I have abnormal hair growth, it finds its way back to me!” He stood up at once, flinging his chair back. Pacing maliciously around the room, he sneered, “I lose benefactors. Villagers interrogate the staff each time they venture into town. I am sent exhaustive letters from important gentlemen with whom I have struck business deals asking me to show myself in front of them. I cannot under any circumstances have people barging into the castle to try and find ‘The Beast’. There are too many issues I need to take care of.” He waved his hands in front of Rose and she sank back into her chair. “The servants who need their jobs, the townspeople who require money and infrastructure, the damned forest I tend to and the animals I watch over so that we can have a sustainable amount of meat in the castle.” After the eruption, his voice went into a low growl. “And as much as I would like to, I cannot disappear if someone finds out who I truly am. The castle and town would go to waste. Do you have any idea of what you have possibly sabotaged!”

        Her face fell into her hands. Her body was wracked with heaving sobs. “I– I only wanted my sisters to be happy with me.”

        “Your sisters are the most ignorant and selfish women I have ever had the displeasure of hosting. They do not care about you, and you are obviously too immature to see that. They used you.”

        Rose began to tremble. 

        He lowered his face down to hers. “So, now that the truth is out, where shall we go from here?” Beast shot up suddenly, whipping around. “I expect the money I have given to your family to be paid back in full within the next six months. Perhaps that will teach you and your sisters a lesson.”

        She started to plead, her eyes red with fear. “Perhaps I can speak with them! Tell them—tell them not to reveal the truth to anyone. Or else the money will be taken away. There. They have an incentive now.”

        He stroked his beard, thinking. “I am a kind and generous soul who would agree to such a proposition.” He turned back around. “However, I do not think your sisters are the trustworthy sort.”

        Rose faltered, stopping mid-breath. She covered her face with her hands again. 

        “What can be done?” she whimpered. “Is there anything that can be done besides giving the money back?” 

        “So that is what this is about.” He rolled his eyes. Behind that irritatingly feeble façade of hers, she only wanted one thing. “I suppose you could earn it all back yourself.” 

        She perked. 

        “Marry into money. Earn it that way.”

        She shook her head. “No, I couldn’t possibly!”

        “Why not? Are there not hundreds of men laying themselves down at your feet?” he jeered. “Or does the prospect of marrying a rich, filthy man only to pay back your family’s debt not sound like a good proposition to you? I’m afraid you’re running out of options, dear. Unless you just want to be married to a horrid husband like me.” He laughed, shaking the room with his booming voice. “Although I can assure you, Miss Bourne, I would be much more devastated than you if I were to marry a villainous snake such as yourself.”

        Rose shook as she stared into the void. He had never seen her so expressionless before.

        “I’ll work.” 

        Beast’s smirk faded, becoming a sneer. “What?”

        “You–you heard me,” she spoke, trepidation lining her voice. “I’ll work to pay you back.”

        He knitted his thick brows together in frustration. “And what job could you possibly get that would pay enough to get the money back in time? Not to mention, one that wouldn’t mar your pretty hands, nor jeopardize your family’s social standing.”

        She pondered for a moment. He thought he saw the tiniest flickering flame in her eyes before she looked up at him once more.

        “I’ll work as your secretary.”