Just as she was thinking that she had never, ever seen any place as beautiful as this, the summer house itself came into view. Goggle-eyed, she sat up straight, whacking her head on the window frame.
The coach entered a courtyard flanked by formal lawns and flowering trees. At the end of it, a curved stairway led to the entry of a two-story dwelling, built of yellow limestone and bookended by two round towers.
“A summer house?” Belle whispered in disbelief. “This is a miniature palace!”
The carriage slowed as it approached the stairs. Belle quickly patted her hair into place and put her hat on, tying the ribbons under her chin. The ever-present Mouchard jumped down from his seat next to the driver to help her out.
As Belle alighted, a movement caught her eye. The countess, wearing her customary black, was descending the stone steps, skirts sweeping over them. Her dark hair was pinned up loosely. Ropes of jet-black beads hung from her neck. Four elegant greyhounds followed her.
“My darling girl!” she cried as she embraced Belle. “I’m so glad to see you!”
“Nothing could have kept me away, my lady,” said Belle.
“Come inside,” the countess urged, grabbing Belle’s hand. “There’s someone I’d like you to meet. A special friend of mine, just arrived from Italy.”
The two women hurried up the steps. Belle soon saw that just as with the countess’s château, the summer house was filled with beautiful men and women sipping tea in sumptuously decorated rooms, strolling through the gardens, or fanning themselves on the terraces.
But the countess had no time to introduce Belle to any of them. Instead, she rushed her straight into her study.
The room was lined with floor-to-ceiling bookcases on all four walls. Belle was delighted to see that many of the shelves contained music boxes made by her father. Forgetting that she was supposed to be meeting the countess’s friend, she walked to the shelves and touched one.
It was a small one, modeled after a small cottage. Belle had never seen the music box before. He must’ve made it before she was born. She pictured him leaning over his workbench, placing each of the mill’s shingles so carefully, and tears threatened. As they always did when she was missing her father.
“Belle?”
It was the countess. Remembering where she was, Belle blinked her tears away and turned around, a smile on her face.
“Belle, may I present Professore Armando Truffatore?” the countess said. “Professore, this is my dear friend Mademoiselle Belle.”
Belle dipped a neat curtsy to the professor. As she rose, he took her hand and kissed it.
“The professor is from the Università di Bologna, one of Italy’s oldest universities,” the countess explained. “He teaches the classics there, and I thought he would be the perfect person to help us devise our travel itinerary.” She paused, then said, “That is, if you still wish to go abroad.”
“Yes, of course!” Belle said, trying to put the music boxes out of her mind.
“Come, signorina,” the professor said with a charming Italian accent, gesturing to a settee in the middle of the room. They both sat down on it. The countess took a chair across from them.
“The place to start your trip is Rome, of course,” the professor began. “I think you and la bella contessa should plan on staying in the city for a month at the very least. Then, I would suggest you hire a carriage and make your way north to Siena, Florence, Bologna, then Venice….”
As the elderly gentleman listed all the important sights to be seen in each city, the museums and theaters to visit, the lectures to attend, Belle listened breathlessly, scarcely able to believe that she would soon be standing in the Colosseum and walking across the Bridge of Sighs.
It was almost enough to make her forget about her father. Almost.
The minutes sped by, and then the hours, as the three talked. Mouchard entered the room bearing finger sandwiches on a silver tray. The professor helped himself, but Belle politely declined. She was too excited by her travel plans to even think about eating.
Completely enraptured by what Professore Truffatore was telling her, Belle didn’t notice the countess’s expression darken as she refused the food, and was only dimly aware that the countess waved Mouchard to her, whispered something in his ear, and then dismissed him.
Moments later, however, Belle was forced to tear her attention away from the professor, because there was a loud knock on the study door.
Mouchard opened it, stepped inside the room, and announced a newly arrived visitor.
“Your Ladyship…Henri, duc des Choses-Passées.”
“MONSIEUR HENRI, DARLING BOY! What a pleasure it is to see you again!” the countess exclaimed.
“Madame Comtesse!” Henri, said, striding across the room to take her hand. “And Mademoiselle Belle, too? This is my lucky day!”
He bowed to the ladies, and then the countess introduced him to Professore Truffatore.
“You will be interested to know, Professore, that our young duke here is also a scholar. He’s a student at the Sorbonne,” the countess said.
Belle inclined her head, impressed. She’d had no idea Henri studied at France’s most prestigious university.
“You are enjoying your studies, Monsieur Henri?” the professor asked.
Henri nodded. Proudly, but shyly, too. Belle was touched by his humility.
“Monsieur Henri is studying both economics and science,” the countess continued. “He wants to learn how to become a better steward of his land and find ways to help the people of his region prosper.”
“That’s very admirable,” said the professor.
“Not only that, he’s at the top of his class,” the countess said knowingly. “I happened to be at a dinner with one of his professors recently.”
Henri, coloring slightly, looked at the floor. “Madame Comtesse, you are making me blush,” he said.
“Nonsense! Your modesty is very becoming, Monsieur Henri, but I wish more sons of the nobility would follow your example. Rogues and wastrels, most of them,” the countess sniffed.
Henri laughed. He shot Belle a Help me! glance.
“Sit with us, Monsieur Henri!” the countess said. “You must be hungry after your trip. I’ll have Mouchard fetch you something to eat.”
“I’d love to,” Henri said, with a grimace. “But I’m afraid I’m rather dusty from the carriage ride, and I don’t want to dirty the furniture,” he said. “I’ll go and change my clothes, shall I?”
“I have a better idea,” the countess said. “Let’s walk outside. You can shake the dust off, and we can all stretch our legs.” The countess rose from her chair. “Come,” she said, taking the professor’s arm. “Let’s go to the orchard. I want to show off my prize pear trees.”
Henri offered Belle his arm, and they followed the countess and professor out of the summer house and across the lawns. Belle was glad to see him. He was funny and smart, and it was nice to have someone of her own age to talk with.
“You look so lovely today, Belle,” he observed. “Have you had a nice morning with the countess?”
“Thank you, Henri,” said Belle. “I have had a nice morning. We’ve spent it planning a trip to Italy. I’m so excited, I can’t even tell you. It’s something wonderful to look forward to, of course, and it also…” She hesitated. “Well, it…it takes my mind off things.”
Henri looked at her, his forehead furrowed with concern. “What things, Belle?” he asked.
“My…my situation,” Belle said, wishing she could take her words back and turn the conversation from the morose direction it was taking.
It was all the fault of the music boxes. They’d reminded her of her father. And now she was desperate to tell someone about her feelings. To pour her heart out to a friend.
“The thing is…well, it’s my father. I—I haven’t seen him for quite some time. And I used to see him all the time. And I—oh, Henri, I miss him so much,” she said, squeezing Henri’s arm. And then
she couldn’t say any more, because of the giant lump in her throat.
Henri covered his hand with his own. “You don’t have to explain, Belle. I understand. I know it’s been hard for you lately,” he said.
Belle nodded, grateful that he’d listened, and grateful that he was doing the talking now so she didn’t have to.
“I must confess that I didn’t come up to the country only to see the countess. I was hoping you’d be here, too,” he said. “I’ve missed you, Belle. It’s not every day that I make a friend who can rattle off Hamlet in its entirety.”
“I doubt that very much,” Belle said, in control of her emotions again. “You’re a duke, Henri. You live in Paris. I bet you have dozens of friends, and I bet they’re all terribly clever and entertaining.”
Henri gazed off into the distance. “Yes, they are,” he said with a sigh. “That’s the problem. My life…so much of it is nothing but dances and parties, hounds and horses.”
“That sounds truly dreadful,” Belle teased. “How do you stand it?”
Henri reddened. He smiled bashfully. “I sound pompous, don’t I? Who complains about parties?” His smile dimmed. “It’s just that sometimes…” His voice trailed off.
“What?” Belle asked.
He met her eyes. “Sometimes it’s nice not to have to say clever things. Sometimes it’s nice to have a friend with whom I can be myself and talk about things that really matter. Like Shakespeare. Or school. Or things that trouble me, like the future of my estate.”
His eyes were warm and deep, and Belle felt as if they could see inside of her—straight to her heart. Like the truest of friends could.
“Or like fathers whom you never see,” she said, holding his gaze. “Because you live in an enchanted castle where it snows all the time. With a strange, unknowable beast. And talking teapots. And roses slowly dying under heavy glass cloches.”
Henri nodded. “Yes. Or that. I struggle with that a lot,” he assured her.
Belle gave him a sidelong look. “I’m serious, Henri.”
“I am, too!” Henri said. But Belle could tell he was teasing her. “I have the same problems in my enchanted castle, only worse,” he insisted. “My chamberpot talks. All night long. It dances, too, often when I’m trying to use it. Very inconvenient, let me tell you.”
Belle burst into laughter. “Why do I even talk to you? You’re horrible!” she said.
“It’s true, I am,” Henri admitted with a grin. “But I got you to laugh, Belle. And that’s half the battle with one’s troubles—learning to laugh at them. You looked so sad a moment ago, I couldn’t bear it. Now you’re smiling again.”
Belle’s smile deepened. It was so nice sharing her feelings with someone who shared his, too. It made a change from the Beast, who refused to ever share his feelings.
“I think of you as my friend, Belle,” Henri said. “And I hope you consider me yours. And friends are there for each other no matter what, good or bad.”
“I do, Henri. Thank you,” Belle said.
“Belle! Monsieur Henri! Where are you?” a voice shouted.
It was the countess. She and the professor were already in the orchard. Belle and Henri were almost among the trees themselves; Belle hadn’t realized how far they’d walked.
“Coming!” Henri shouted back.
Belle looked at the rows of perfectly pruned, glossy-leaved pear trees. There wasn’t a dead limb, a spot of blight, or a patch of rot to be seen on any of them. It was unlike any orchard she’d ever seen. It was perfect and lovely, like everything else in Nevermore.
Henri offered her his hand. “Let’s find them. And maybe a pear, too, while we’re at it,” he said. “I’m starving.”
But Belle hesitated. “Henri?” she said tentatively.
“Mmm?”
“It’s strange, this place. Nevermore. Don’t you think so?”
Henri raised an eyebrow. “And your enchanted castle situation…that’s perfectly normal?”
“Hardly,” Belle conceded. “But that’s not this…” She gestured at the lush gardens behind them, the perfect orchard in front of them. “This is all so pretty, so perfect. Too perfect. Sometimes I’m afraid it won’t last. That it can’t last. I’m afraid I’ll try to come back to it one day, and it won’t be here anymore. I keep reminding myself that it’s not real. But I want it to be, so badly.”
“Monsieur Henri! Belle! Come and get a pear! Quickly, before the professor eats every single one in the orchard!” the countess trilled.
She sounded farther away now. Belle could just glimpse her black dress through the trees, and the deep russet of the professor’s jacket.
“Coming!” Henri called to her. “Come on, Belle, let’s go. Forget your worries. You’re here with us. Right now. With friends who care about you. Nothing’s more real than that.”
And then he dashed into the orchard, shouting to the countess that he would find the best, most perfect pear of all.
Belle decided to take Henri’s advice. She would forget her worries. At least for now. Smiling, she ran after him. He’d gotten a head start on her and was nowhere to be found. Neither was the countess, or the professor.
She heard an exultant shout, then laughter.
“Henri?” she called. “Madame Comtesse?”
No one answered, but she saw a flash of movement in the trees just ahead.
“Belle? Where are you?” Henri called.
“Over here!” Belle shouted.
“Monsieur Henri? Professore? Where on earth have you gone?”
That was the countess.
They were all lost in the orchard now.
Belle hurried toward the trees where she’d glimpsed someone moving. She soon discovered that it was a woman, but it was not the countess. The handle of a basket was looped over her arm. She was wearing a serviceable white linen dress with a white pinafore. On her head was a plain straw hat. In her hand was a pair of silver fruit scissors. As Belle watched, the woman snipped a pear from a tree and caught it in her basket.
She must be one of the countess’s servants, Belle thought. She’s probably picking pears for the cook.
“Hello!” Belle said as she drew close to her.
The servant turned. She raised her face to Belle’s.
Belle took a stumbling step backward. Her hands clenched into fists.
She recognized the green eyes. The white hair. The dark skin.
It was the madwoman.
“BELLE? CHILD, where are you?” the countess shouted.
“I’m over here, my lady!” Belle yelled back, her eyes trained on the madwoman…and the sharp scissors she was holding.
“She’s nearby,” Belle warned. “They’re all nearby. If I scream, they’ll come running.”
The madwoman cast a wary glance in the countess’s directions, then put a finger to her lips. Belle sucked in her breath, not sure if she should stay where she was or run. If she ran, she would have to turn her back on the woman. And turning her back on someone holding a pair of scissors, even small ones, didn’t seem like a smart thing to do.
The madwoman stopped. She held out her basket, then put it on the ground. “Look, child!” she urged.
Belle peered into it, expecting to see freshly picked pears.
Instead, she saw pomegranates.
With a shiver, Belle recalled that they were the food of the dead. Hades had tricked Persephone into eating them so that he could keep her with him in the underworld.
“Belle? Have you tried a pear yet?” The countess’s voice was louder. She was closer.
The madwoman cast another glance, this one frantic, in the countess’s direction. She was still holding her silver scissors. All at once, she lunged at Belle.
Belle had no time to scream.
But instead of plunging the scissors into her, as Belle feared, the madwoman grabbed her hand, put the scissors into them, and closed her fingers over them.
“Keep them! Hide them!” she urged, her eyes large in her
face.
Belle stood frozen.
“Did you hear me, girl? Put them in your pocket!” the madwoman demanded.
Belle, unnerved, did as she was told.
The madwoman backed away, her finger to her lips, her gaze on the approaching countess. She looked at Belle one last time, a heart-wrenching sadness in her eyes, then she turned and ran.
She disappeared through the trees like the morning mist, and Belle, who was still holding her breath, finally let it out.
“THERE YOU ARE!” the countess said to Belle. Henri was with her. “My word, child, how flushed you look! Is anything wrong?”
“No,” Belle said, forcing a smile. “Nothing at all. I was…I was running and got a bit winded, that’s all.”
Belle surprised herself with her denial. She’d been about to tell the countess of her run-in with the madwoman, but the memory of the woman’s eyes—the look of desperate sadness in them—stopped her. The madwoman had held a finger to her lips. She had not wanted the countess to learn of her presence.
Why? And why had she handed Belle scissors and told her to hide them? Why had she stolen the hat full of coins from the little boy at the Palais-Royal?
“Monsieur Henri, you ran too fast for Belle!” the countess scolded. “She’s a young lady, not a racehorse!”
But Henri didn’t hear the countess. He was looking up into a tree. The professor joined him, and they both marveled at its heavily laden branches bent under the weight of hundreds of golden pears kissed with blushes of pink. The fruits’ perfume, with its rich notes of vanilla and honey, was intoxicating.
“I’ll find you a perfect one, Belle,” Henri said.
The madwoman’s basket was on the ground where she’d left it. Belle peered into it again. It was full of pears, not pomegranates.
Am I losing my mind, too? she wondered.
“Here you go!”
It was Henri. He was at her side now, offering her a flawless pear.
Belle took it. The madwoman’s creatures had warned her against eating anything in Nevermore. Yet she’d eaten a sweet at the ball, and another at the Palais-Royal, and she’d been perfectly fine. Nothing had happened to her. They’d warned her against leaving things in Nevermore, too, but she hadn’t left anything here.