With a whoop of delight, Chip dove into the pile.
There was a warm quilt from Mrs. Potts, and a nightcap that Belle had stitched just yesterday. Froufrou contributed a well-chewed, half-frozen bone dug up outside. Lumiere and Cogsworth provided pirate accessories, including a tricorn hat and a red scarf they’d found in the attic. Plumette gave Chip a gold hoop earring, which she hung from his handle.
And from the Beast, there was a beautifully carved wooden chest with brass clasps and hinges.
“What’s in it, master?” Chip asked excitedly.
“Open it and see,” said the Beast, smiling.
Chapeau eased the heavy lid back. A hushed “Oh!” went up as everyone saw what the chest contained: magnificent model ships. There were five fully rigged warships, four merchant vessels, and six brigantines flying the skull and crossbones. There were also painted figures of officers, sailors, and pirates to man the ships, and an enormous map of the world, hand-painted on linen, to sail them upon.
“It’s no fun being a pirate without a few merchant ships to plunder and some warships to outrun,” said the Beast.
Chip, staring at the chest and its contents as if dazed, was speechless.
“Chip, your manners!” Mrs. Potts whispered to her son.
Chip looked up at the Beast. “Thank you, master! Oh, thank you!” he said.
“You’re very welcome, lad.”
“They’re so handsome. Where did they come from?” Chip asked.
“They were mine,” the Beast replied. “I spent many happy hours playing with them. A long time ago. I hope you will, too.”
Belle cut slices of cake for herself and the Beast, and Mrs. Potts poured two cups of tea. Only Belle and the Beast ate. The enchanted servants, objects all, needed no food.
The Beast, meanwhile, watched Chip and Cogsworth pull the map out, smooth it open on the floor, and position the ships across it. Lumiere and Plumette watched, laughing, as they launched into a noisy battle—Chip manning the brigantines, and Cogsworth the warships.
“Why, this brings back the time we cavalrymen watched from the shore as the French navy engaged Admiral Hawke at the Battle of Quiberon Bay during the Seven Years’ War!” Cogsworth declared.
“That’s absolutely riveting, Cogsworth,” said Lumiere. “Now watch out, before that brig blasts you!”
As Belle was eating her cake, Mrs. Potts came up to her. “Thank you, Belle. Thank you so much for making him so happy.”
“It was nothing, Mrs. Potts. Really,” Belle said.
“To my son and to me, it’s everything,” Mrs. Potts said, a catch in her voice. She bustled off to refresh the tea cups.
Unbeknownst to Belle, the Beast caught her exchange with Mrs. Potts. He bowed his head, then quietly excused himself. Belle, turning to put her empty plate and fork down, didn’t see him go. She didn’t see him turn back in the doorway, and gaze at Chip, and then Mrs. Potts, with a look of anguish in his eyes.
Cogsworth and Chip continued the naval battle. Chapeau cleared the plates. Froufrou curled up by the fire. And Lumiere and Plumette made eyes at each other. Eventually, Mrs. Potts declared that it was getting late. Chip thanked everyone, and then his mother bustled him off to bed. Plumette and Cogsworth cleared up, and Belle put the ships back into the chest.
As she was folding up the map, she realized the Beast was gone. Disappointment settled over her. She’d been looking forward to talking to him about the party—telling him what an amazing gift he’d given Chip; asking him if he liked the cake; reliving a fun event after it had ended, as friends did. But he’d left. Again.
“What a lovely party,” Lumiere said as he closed the top of the chest. Then he looked into Belle’s eyes and said, “And it’s all because of you, Belle. You bring brightness and hope to this gloomy castle. Not only for Chip, though he loves you dearly—but for all of us.”
“Most of you, you mean,” Belle said ruefully. “I’m sure he doesn’t feel that I bring him brightness, hope, or much of anything at all.”
“Belle, that’s not true,” Lumiere said fervently. “Your friendship means a great deal to him. I know it does.”
Belle shook her head. She thought of the countess, and Henri, and the easy way she had with each of them. “But friends talk, Lumiere,” she said. “They share confidences. They trust each other, even with difficult things—especially with difficult things.”
“Sometimes, Belle, our troubles are too deep for words,” Lumiere said. “It’s at times like those when we need our friends the most.”
“Lumiere! Can you come? Chapeau opened the kitchen door and the wind blew all the candles out. We need you to relight them!”
It was Plumette, calling from the kitchen.
“Never a dull moment around here. Good night, Belle,” he said.
“Good night, Lumiere.”
Belle left the dining room and made her way upstairs to her room. She washed her face, brushed her teeth, and changed into her nightgown, but instead of getting right into bed, she sat in the window seat and looked out at the snowy night.
Never had she felt so torn.
Lumiere said that Chip and the others cared for her, that she made them happy. He said that even the Beast valued her friendship, and that he needed her. But how could that be? All she did was make him angry or sad. How many times had he walked out on her when the discussion took a turn he didn’t like? How many times had she asked him for answers, only to be left with more questions?
The Beast was a creature filled with sadness, haunted by a pain Belle didn’t understand and couldn’t name. Life with him was like the endless winter outside her window, with no hope of spring.
Nevermore, however, promised her an endless summer. People were fascinating. Life was beautiful. Everything was beautiful. The countess and Henri and the professor were there, and they clearly wanted the best for her.
And if the countess’s magic succeeded, her father would be there, too. And he needed her more than anyone.
Belle watched as the snow came down, the heavy white flakes swirling through the black night.
If she left the Beast’s castle, if the countess found a way out for her, Belle knew she would break Chip’s heart. And Mrs. Potts’s. Maybe the other servants’ hearts, too. Maybe even the Beast’s.
But if she stayed, and missed the chance to be reunited with her father, she would break her own.
“What do I do?” she whispered to the darkness.
But the darkness gave her no answer.
COGSWORTH, HOLDING A wooden ladle, served Belle and the Beast their morning oatmeal.
As he bent toward Belle, his hand shook, then stiffened.
“Oh, dear. Oh, my,” he said. “A sticky gear. I shall have to oil it.”
Lumiere looked up from the hearth, where he was trying to coax life into the sputtering fire.
Chapeau sped to Cogsworth’s rescue, taking the ladle from him and setting it down, then giving his arm a good rub.
“Ah! Much better. Thank you, old man,” Cogsworth said.
He reached for the ladle again, ready to resume his duties, but as he did, a terrible grinding was heard. A groan escaped him. His hands went to the small of his back.
The Beast, concerned, glanced first at Cogsworth, then at Lumiere. He expected to see cheerful exasperation on Lumiere’s face, or hear a teasing comment. Instead he saw a look of profound sorrow. It broke his heart.
Things were getting worse every day for his servants; he could see it. Soon, their movements would become even stiffer. Then their ability to move and speak would cease. The light would go out of their eyes. They would become lifeless candlesticks, clocks, teapots…forever.
“If you would pardon us a moment, master,” Lumiere said.
“An old war injury,” said Cogsworth apologetically. “Acquired during the Battle of Hastenbeck alongside my old friend, général Chevert. We were to drive out the Hanoverians, you see, but the devils were dug in—”
“Is
that so?” said Lumiere. “Come into the kitchen, mon ami. I’m sure Cuisinier is dying to hear all about it….”
The Beast watched Cogsworth hobble off with Lumiere’s protective arm around him. He glanced at Belle to see if she’d noticed. She hadn’t. She was gazing at her oatmeal. Not eating it, just listlessly stirring it with her spoon.
Normally, another’s distress would have shaken Belle from the torpor she was in. Today, however, it seemed only to deepen it. Something was wrong—very wrong. The Beast could feel it.
“Why aren’t you eating, Belle? Are you not well?” he asked.
“I’m fine, thank you. Just not terribly hungry,” Belle said, giving him what was clearly a fake smile. She laid her spoon down. “I didn’t sleep well last night. In fact, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll take my leave.”
The Beast raised an eyebrow. “Where are you going?”
“To the library.”
“Would you like to go for a walk through the grounds instead? The brisk air will put some color back into your cheeks. You look so pale this morning. Surely you’ve noticed.”
“How could I?” Belle asked. “There aren’t any mirrors here.”
“True.”
“Because you broke them all.”
The Beast cleared his throat. “Also true,” he said. “Personally? I like books better than mirrors,” he added, trying to lighten the mood. “Mirrors only show us what we are. Books show us what we can be.”
“I agree completely,” said Belle. “Which is why I’m going to the library.”
“But Belle, the servants…they tell me you’re in there all day. Don’t you think a bit of balance is needed? An escape can become escapism before we even know it. Books are wonderful things, but you can’t live in someone else’s story. You have to live your own story.”
Belle looked up at him with deep pain in her eyes. What she said next broke his heart for the second time that morning.
“But what if you don’t like your story? What then?”
BELLE WAITED FOR AN ANSWER from the Beast.
But as usual, it didn’t come. He had put his spoon down, a stricken look on his face, but he didn’t speak.
Belle felt a familiar frustration rise inside her. She told herself that soon the Beast’s unwillingness to talk to her wouldn’t matter. She was going to Nevermore today. It was quite possible that she would not be coming back.
But as she sat looking at the creature she’d tried so hard to befriend, she decided that there was something she wanted to say before she left.
“You know, one question haunts me more than all the rest. Do you remember that night when you found me in the West Wing? After you’d told me not to go there?”
The Beast broke her gaze. He looked out of the window. It was snowing. Still. The wind moaned, swirling white flakes through the castle’s turrets and towers.
“The night you ran away?” he said at length. “And nearly got yourself killed by a pack of wolves? That night? Yes, I do seem to recall it.”
“The wolves nearly killed you, too. You managed to drive them off, but they wounded you badly. You collapsed in the snow. Philippe and I got you back to the castle.”
“I know this already, Belle. I have the scars to remind me.”
“What you don’t know is that I looked at you while you were lying on the ground. Unconscious. Your blood seeping into the snow. And I almost didn’t help you. Because a voice inside me was shouting, ‘Run! Hurry! This is your chance to escape!’”
“But you didn’t run.”
“I couldn’t. You were helpless. Defenseless. I would’ve been leaving you to die.”
The Beast turned from the window and met her eyes. “Why are we doing this, Belle? Why are we reliving such an awful night?”
“Because even though I didn’t get all the answers I wanted that night, I still learned something. Do you know what it is?”
The Beast shook his head.
“I found out that you were willing to die for me, and that I wasn’t willing to let you.” She laughed sadly.
A silence fell then. It was like a wall between them, hard and impenetrable. The Beast was the first to break through it.
“I have something for you, Belle. It’s only a small thing. I came across it last night. In a drawer in my study. I thought you might like it.”
“You’re changing the subject,” Belle said.
“I’m certainly trying,” said the Beast, with the hint of a smile.
“What is it?” Belle asked.
The Beast stood. He walked to Belle, pulled something out of his coat pocket, and handed it to her. Belle saw that it was a glass heart dangling from a gold chain. The heart was cut so that it sparkled with light no matter which way she turned it.
“It belonged to my mother,” the Beast said.
“It’s truly beautiful. But I can’t take it. It should stay in your family,” Belle said, trying to hand it back.
But the Beast shook his head. “I want you to have it.”
“Would you put it on for me?” Belle asked.
The Beast shook his head. He held up his large, clumsy paws.
Belle fastened it around her neck herself.
“It suits you,” the Beast said.
“Tell me about her.”
“She was smart. Beautiful. Graceful. And kind. The kindest creature I have ever met.” He raised his eyes to Belle’s. “Well, one of them.”
Belle’s eyes sought the Beast’s. “Why, Beast? What does this mean?”
The Beast looked away.
Belle held her hands up, resigned. “I know, I know,” she said wearily. “You can’t tell me that.”
The Beast looked at her for a long moment. Then, with the saddest smile Belle had ever seen, he said, “I just did tell you something, Belle.”
“I don’t understand,” Belle said.
The Beast nodded at the heart hanging from her neck.
Belle looked down at it. She closed her hand around it. When she looked up again, the Beast was gone.
What did he mean by that? she wondered.
Had she missed something in their conversation? There were so many things he hadn’t told her.
And now, she realized, there was something she’d never get to tell him.
“Good-bye,” she whispered.
Then she rose and made her way to the library.
FOR ONCE, Belle beat Mouchard to the door.
She was out of the carriage in a flash, before he’d even jumped down from his seat. She raced up the staircase to the summer house, taking the steps two at a time.
The countess met her inside the foyer.
“My father…is he—” Belle started to say.
The countess answered her with a smile.
Belle’s hands came up to her mouth. She shook her head, not able to believe her good fortune. Her father was here. He was here!
“Where is he?” she asked.
“He was sitting in the gazebo with his sketchpad and pencils, but I believe he’s now on the terrace, admiring my roses.”
Belle ran across the foyer, deliriously happy. But then she stopped dead and turned around, an anxious expression on her face.
“What’s wrong, Belle?” the countess asked.
“I’m…I’m almost afraid to go to him,” Belle replied. “I almost don’t want to see him, because I’ll only have to leave him again.”
“You may not have to leave him, child,” said the countess.
“Is that…is it possible?” asked Belle, not daring to hope.
“I’m very close to making it so,” said the countess.
“Truly? I’ll be able to stay here?” Belle exclaimed. She ran back to the countess and took one of her hands. “My lady, how did you bring this about?”
“Later, my child, later. There will be time to explain everything after you’ve seen your father.”
Belle released the countess’s hand, ready to dash off again, but the countess tightened her grip, sto
pping her.
“Darling girl, wait….”
“What is it? What’s wrong?” Belle asked, worried by her cautioning tone.
“He doesn’t know you’ve come. I didn’t tell him in case you…well, in case you changed your mind. I didn’t want to break his heart. I only told him he was coming to a magical place. You will be a surprise to him, Belle. He may be startled. It might be wise to proceed gently,” she advised.
Belle’s own heart swelled with gratitude. She had never met anyone so totally unselfish, so thoughtful, so good.
The countess finally released Belle’s hand, but instead of racing off, Belle threw her arms around her neck and kissed her alabaster cheek.
“You are so kind,” she said, her voice husky with emotion. “To me. To my father. I will never be able to repay you for all that you’ve done for us.”
“Go, child,” the countess said, patting Belle’s back. “Go to your father. He’s just through there.” She broke the embrace and pointed at a pair of doors that led out to the terrace.
Belle raced across the foyer and dashed through the doors.
The foyer had several inner doorways, too, all leading to different parts of the summer house. As Belle’s footsteps faded, a figure stepped out of one of them and joined the countess.
“You found a way,” Henri said.
The countess laughed. “I’ve had a way all along…my way. Let them have a bit of time alone, then go to them. Nevermore needs two more things. See that they are given. Do not fail me.”
Henri bowed, then left the foyer.
The countess watched him go, her green eyes glittering, a smile on her bloodred lips.
BELLE STOOD ON THE TERRACE, her hands clenched.
Her father was only a few feet away from her. He had his back to her and was bending down to admire a white rose.
She couldn’t believe her eyes. Was he actually here? Was he real?
“Papa?” she called.
Maurice froze at the sound of her voice. Then, slowly and stiffly, he straightened, looking all around.
The countess is right. He has aged, Belle thought. From grief. From loneliness and worry.
“Papa, over here!” she called out.