“Magic,” murmured Ger. “Ah, well.”
Father took another turn around the room—it was too small a room for a man of his size and hasty stride—and paused again. “I shall write to him at once. There will be business arrangements to be made also. Perhaps I should go myself.” He stood irresolute.
“No need,” said Ger, “Callaway is setting out for the city in a few days’ time. He asked me today if there was anything he could do for us—offered to escort Beauty, too, since her aunt doesn’t seem to be providing for her properly. You can trust him with any messages. If you tell him to bring Tucker back with him, you may be sure he will, tied on the back of his saddle if need be.”
Father smiled. “Yes, Nick Callaway is a good man. I’d rather not make that journey again if I can.” Everyone avoided looking in my direction. After a tiny pause, Father turned to Grace. “My dear, six years is a long time. Perhaps you should wait and see?”
“Wait?” she said. “I’ve been waiting six years. Robbie won’t have forgotten, any more than I have. And we’re on even terms now, too; neither of us has a penny of our own.” This was not strictly true; by Blue Hill’s standards, we were very well off. But Grace swept us all before her on the bright, happy look she wore, which we had not seen on her face for six years. “It will be all right,” she said. “I will not wait any longer.”
Ger and Hope exchanged glances and slow smiles.
“Send for him, Father,” said Grace; her tone was that of a queen commanding, with no thought of delay or denial. “Please. I will write to him also.”
“Very well,” said Father.
The next three days crept past me as quickly and secretly as the first three had; perhaps even faster, because after my news of Robbie, we were al! preoccupied with him and with Grace, who could scarcely remember to put one foot in front of the other when she walked; with the sudden, brutal urgency of a long and terrible wait ended. Her letter and Father’s were delivered to Nick Callaway, who after being assured that I needed no escort declared his intention of setting off on the very next day. “I’ve no reason to hang about, and I’m anxious to get back before the weather turns—it’s risky enough, as late in the year as it is,” he said. “I should be there in five weeks, if I’m lucky, and home again in twelve, with your friend, I hope.” He obviously thought there was something a little odd in my arrangements, but he inquired no further after I had reassured him that I was well taken care of. “But my party will be traveling much more slowly than you,” I said.
“All right, miss, and a good journey to you,” he said, and rode away, leaving us to be grateful that he hadn’t asked us where our mysterious information about Captain Tucker’s whereabouts had come from in the first place.
On the sixth night I said, “I will have to leave tomorrow, you know”; and everyone spoke at once, begging me to stay one more day. I sat on the fender, twisting my ring around my finger, listening unhappily. Hope and Grace both started crying. I said nothing for several minutes, and the tumult subsided at last, and everyone was silent, like mourners at graveside. Father stood up and put his hand on my shoulder. “One more day,” he said. “It’s not even been a full week yet.”
I chewed my lip, felt the whole weight of my family’: love concentrated in my father’s hand, pushing me down where I sat. “All right,” I said with difficulty.
I slept badly that night. My sleep had been dreamless these days at home; in the mornings I had felt vaguely cheated, but had each day quickly forgotten it in the pleasure of being able to go downstairs and see my father and sisters, brother, and niece and nephew over the breakfast table. But this night I dreamed in haunted snatches of the castle, of vast empty rooms, of the sinister silence I had feared during my first days there. But now it was worse, because my sixth sense caused it to echo through my mind till my own body felt like a shell, a cold stony cavern with nothing in it but the wind. The comforting if ambiguous presence I had learned to trust during the last few months had disappeared; the castle was as solitary and incalculable as it had been on my first night there. Where was my Beast? I could not find him, nor could I sense him anywhere.
I woke up at dawn, rumpled and unrefreshed, and stared at the low slanted ceiling for several minutes before I could get myself out of bed. f was moody and distracted all that day, and nothing pleased me; I did not belong here, and I should not stay. I tried to hide my impatience, but my family watched me unhappily, and uncomprehendingly, till I could not meet anyone’s eyes. That evening as I huddled by the fire, my hands idle but restless, Father said: “You will leave tomorrow morning?” His voice was a little unsteady.
I looked up at him, around at all of them. “I must. I’m sorry. Please try to understand. I promised.”
Father tried to smile, but didn’t quite manage it. “You were well named,” he said. “At least—I will still dream about you often?”
I nodded.
“As least I know that much now,” he said with an effort.
I couldn’t speak, and soon afterwards I went upstairs. I laid aside the plain clothes that Grace and Hope had lent me, and shook out the creases in the dress I had worn when I arrived; my sisters had wanted to wash and press it for me, but I had refused; there was no need to give them extra work. They acceded to what they were pleased to term my perversity eventually; with great practical knowledge of such matters, they said I would ruin my lovely dress, but I shook my head. I would leave it to Lydia’s and Bessie’s inspired care. There was little packing to do; then I lay down and tried to sleep. But this night was worse than the last, and I tossed and turned and clawed at the bedclothes. I fell asleep at last, but my dreams were troubled.
I dreamed that I was walking through the castle, looking for the Beast, and, as in my dreams of the night before, I could not find him. “I am easily found, if you want me,” he had said. But I hurried through room after room after room, and no Beast, nor any sense of his presence. At last I came to the little room where I had first found him, and where I had seen Robbie in the glass. He was sitting in the deep armchair as if he had never moved since I had left him a week before; his hands lay palm up on his knees, but the right one was curled shut.
“Oh, Beast,” I said, “I thought I would never find you.” But he never stirred. “Beast!” I cried. “Oh, Beast! He’s dead, and it’s all my fault”—and I woke up. The weak grey light that serves as harbinger of red and golden dawn faintly lit my window. I fumbled for a candle, found and lit it, and by its little light saw that the rose floating in the bowl was dying. It had already lost most of its petals, which floated on the water like tiny, un-seaworthy boats, deserted for safer craft.
“Dear God,” I said. “I must go back at once.” I dressed and hurried downstairs, finding my way by touch through the home I no longer remembered; no one else was stirring. I left the one full saddle-bag we had never opened, and picked up the other, which was more than ample for my small needs; the bags had lain undisturbed all this week on the table in the corner of the parlour. I picked up some bread and dried meat from the kitchen and ran to the stable. I had marked the tree beside which I had found Greatheart’s hoofprints the morning after my arrival, and now I led my anxious horse along the border of the forest till I recognized the white knife slash in the bark of the tree. I mounted, adjusting harness as I rode, and Greatheart was soon crashing through the brush.
But we didn’t find the road. This did not disturb me at first; we jogged, trotted, and cantered steadily till the morning sun lit our way for us, and the forest floor showed a patchwork green and gold and brown. “You need only get lost in the woods,” I recalled. The edge of the forest was long since out of sight. I turned to make sure; beyond trees I saw shadows of trees, and then shadows of shadows. I dismounted, loosened the girths, and fed myself and the horse some bread; then we walked on side by side for a little while, till Greatheart was cool. Then my impatience grew too great, and I remounted and we cantered on.
Trees slapped me in the face,
and Greatheart’s gait was uneven as he picked his way over the rough ground. It seemed to get worse the farther we went. It hadn’t been like this on the other two journeys. By noon we were tired and blown, and Greatheart walked without fidgeting to go faster. My father and I had struck the road after only a few hours’ easy riding. I dismounted again, and we walked together, the foam dripping out of the horse’s mouth. We came at last to a little stream; we both waded and drank and splashed our hot faces with the cool water. I noticed the water had an odd taste, a little bitter, which lingered in the mouth a long time after drinking.
We turned and followed the course of the stream, for want of a better guide. The way was a little easier here; the trees and thorn bushes did not grow so closely together near the water, where the ground was softer and covered with low leafy bushes and marsh grass. The stream murmured to itself, but paid us no heed, and the sharp smell of the grasses Greatheart broke underfoot bit our throats. The sun walked down the afternoon sky, and I saw no sign of the road we were looking for. I knew from glimpses of the sun through the trees that we were” still heading in more or less the direction we had started from before dawn; but perhaps this was of no use in this forest. Nor did I know if the Beast’s castle lay at the geographical centre of the forest, nor whether we were heading towards the centre at all. We could only go on. Twilight came upon us; we were lost in good earnest now. I had little notion of woodcraft. I had had no notion that it might be necessary.
Greatheart strode doggedly on. We had been traveling for over twelve hours, and even Greatheart was nearing the end of his strength; we had stopped to rest infrequently and briefly. I couldn’t rest. I dismounted and we walked. Greatheart stumbled occasionally, more often as the shadows grew up around us, I didn’t notice if I stumbled or not, although when I stood still to look up at the sky my feet in their soft slippers took advantage of the pause to tell me that they were sore and bruised. Greatheart stood still, his big head hanging, “This will help a little,” I said, and took off his saddle and bridle, and hung them neatly on a convenient tree-limb. “Maybe we’ll be able to come back for them.” I took what remained of the food I had brought, then hung the saddlebag over the pommel. After a moment’s thought, I pulled off my heavy skirt, added it to the pile, and tied my cloak over my petticoats and twisted it tightly around me with a ribbon. “Come along,” I said. Greatheart shook himself gingerly and looked at me. “I don’t know what’s happening either. Come along.” And he followed me. The absence of that skirt made a big difference to my feet.
The last bit of daylight was fading and leaving the silver water black when I saw something pale glimmer through the trees to my left. It was long and low, too still and too straight for running water. I caught my breath, and began to struggle through the suddenly dense undergrowth, Greatheart snorting and crashing behind me. It was the road. It stretched out to my right, and ended a few feet to my left, in ragged patches of sand and stone. It did not run as smooth and straight as I remembered, but my eyes were blurred and tired. My feet touched the road just as the last light died, leaving the road a grey smudge in the blackness.
“We’ll have to wait rill moonrise now,” I said fretfully. After standing, looking uselessly around me for a few minutes, I went back to the side of the road and sat down under a tree. Greatheart investigated me, then wandered out into the sandy road and had a good roll, with much snorting and blowing and waving of legs. He returned to drip dust on me, and I fed him some more bread. He ate a few leaves off the tree I was under, then settled down on three legs for a nap. I sat, hands around my knees, waiting till the moon climbed high enough for us to make out our way. It seemed like hours, but it wasn’t long; the moon rose early, the sky was clear and cloudless; even the starlight was bright enough to cast a few shadows through the tangled undergrowth. The road was a dim pale ribbon, leading farther into the forest, promising nothing. I sighed, then walked over to the horse and thumped his shoulder. He opened his eyes and looked at me. “Do you think you might be ridden?” I rubbed some of the dirt off his back with a corner of my cloak, and mounted with the aid of a low-hanging branch. I had first taught him to respond to my legs and voice when he was a yearling, before he had ever worn any harness; but that was a long time ago, and I felt very insecure on a back as broad as his was now, without a saddle. But he stepped onto the road and broke into a gentle trot, little more than a shuffle, and I clung to his mane and managed fairly well. I found myself falling asleep as I rode. All that kept me awake at all was the horse’s changes of gait, walk to jog, a brief canter, and walk again, as he set his own pace. His head was up and his ears pricked; I concentrated on not falling off—and on not thinking what might lie ahead of me. First we had to find the castle.
Any number of nights may have passed without my knowledge or comprehension, Greatheart shifted from a jog to a walk, and then stopped altogether. I opened my eyes and looked around vaguely. We had come to the big silver gates, but they remained closed, even when Great-heart put his nose out and touched them. I kneed the horse around till I could reach out and push them with my hand; the surface was smooth and slightly chilly to the flat of my palm. Then it quivered like the skin of an animal, and seemed to flush with a warm grey light like the earth’s first dawn. It swung open slowly with the sound of someone breathing. I did not wonder at this long; Greatheart broke into a gallop as soon as the gates opened wide enough to let us through. I dug in with my hands and legs and held on.
We didn’t see the castle till we were almost upon it. It was dark, darker than the shadows around it; even the moonlight shunned it. The lights in the garden were few and dim, and blocked to us as we galloped through the meadow and the stand of ornamental trees. Greatheart went straight to the stable and stopped. I slid off his back, my legs almost folding under me when my feet touched the ground. The stable door didn’t open. I put both hands against it, and it shuddered, as the gate had; but it remained shut. I pushed it in the direction it usually opened, and as slowly and wearily as Sisyphus I forced it open. One or two candles lit wanly as we went in. I opened a stall door and sent Greatheart in, hot as he was, threw a blanket over him, gave him a swift pat and word of thanks, and left him. I would tend him later. I had to find the Beast.
The great front doors to the castle were open, to my intense relief. I ran inside. A lantern lit, its wick nearly guttering. I picked it up and adjusted it; it was plain hammered copper, with a glass bubble to protect the flame. I carried it with me down the corridor. The dining hall was cold and still, like the parlour opposite, though both the doors stood wide. I went upstairs.
It was much worse than my dreams had been. I was tired, deadly tired, and sore and hungry, and so filthy that the creases of my petticoats chafed me when I moved; and my feet hurt worse with every step. I was too tired to think; all that my mind held was: “I must find my Beast.” But I couldn’t find him. I was too tired even to call aloud to him, and too numb to hear even if he had answered. All my senses were dull; I could catch no feeling of his presence. The castle had never been so large. I crossed hundreds of halls, passed through thousands of rooms. I didn’t even find my room, nor did I hear any rustling that might have been Bessie or Lydia. The castle was deserted, and as chill and dank as if it had stood empty for many years. Some of the thicker shadows might have been dust and cobwebs. It was fortunate that I carried a lamp with me, because few of the candles lit at my approach, and many of them winked once or twice and went out again as if the effort were too much. My arm ached with holding my lantern aloft, and its light trembled with my arm’s shivering; its faint glow spilled around me, but none of the shadows held the Beast. My stumbling footsteps echoed in solitude.
More time passed. I tripped over the edge of a carpet and fell sprawling; the lamp turned over and went out. I lay where I was, too exhausted to move, and found myself weeping. I dragged myself to a sitting position, disgusted at my weakness, and looked hopelessly down the long hall in the direction I had been going when I
fell; and in the darkness I saw a tiny puddle of light. A light. I got to my feet and went towards it.
It was the room I had found the Beast in on the first night, and the room I had dreamed about last night. A dying fire in the hearth cast the dim light I had seen through the partly open door; it creaked on its hinges when I pushed it farther open. He was sitting in the wing chair, his closed right hand on his knee, as if he hadn’t moved since I had left him over a week ago. “Beast!” I cried, and he didn’t move. “You can’t die. Please don’t die. Come back to me,” I said, weeping again, kneeling down by the chair. He didn’t move. I looked around wildly. The bowl of roses still sat by his elbow. The flowers were brown, and petals lay scattered on the floor. I pulled the white handkerchief from his breast pocket and dipped it in the water, then laid it across the Beast’s forehead. “My love, wake up,” I said.
With a motion as slow as centuries he opened his eyes. I didn’t dare move. He blinked, and some light returned to his dull eyes, and he saw me. “Beauty,” he said.
“I’m here, dear Beast,” I said.
“I thought you had broken your promise,” he said; there wasn’t a shade of reproach in his voice, and for a moment I couldn’t answer. “I started late,” I said, “and then it took me a very long time to find my way through the forest.”
“Yes, it would,” he said, speaking with pauses between the words. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t help you.”
“It doesn’t matter,” I said, “as long as you’re all right. But will you be all right now? I’ll never leave you again.”
He smiled. “I’ll be all right. Thank you, Beauty.”
I sighed, and started to get to my feet; but I staggered, and saved myself only by clutching the arm of the chair. The world splashed around me like black water in a bilge, and I couldn’t find my feet. The Beast reached out a hand, and I sank onto his lap. “I’m sorry,” I said.
“You’re very tired, you must rest now,” he said. “You’re safe home.”