Beauty and The Beast by _Ix_

Between the darkness of the forest and the foreboding of the house, there was a garden of extraordinary beauty. Though it had clearly been cultivated with some skill, it was not overly pruned, nor sculpted. Nature had not been tamed, but rather invited within the boundary of the high stone wall and gently coaxed to display its most vibrant colours and playful, sprawling shapes. In every direction, flowers of all forms and hues competed for the admiration of the observer. The air was alive with the humming of bees and the sweet fug of lavender and honeysuckle, undercut by the insistent sharpness of rosemary and pine. And everywhere there were roses, each resplendent in dashing crimson or virginal white.Through this scene there walked a girl no less beautiful than her surroundings. Slightly built and lacking society’s trained grace, she was dressed simply in a cotton dress and jacket, covered over by a plain riding cloak, its hood thrown back. She was carrying an old leather travelling bag. Any lady of good breeding would have been quick to mock her rustic appearance, the better to conceal their gall at the impossible perfection of her face. It was a face to draw the interest of both predators and protectors. Her cheeks had a faint blush that made one want to quicken her breath and see their colour deepen. Trusting eyes and delicate pink lips were painted upon the flawless canvas of her skin, all framed by a tumble of dark brown hair that hung in a pattern of gentle waves more luxurious than any tapestry.

She was not smiling as she made her way up the path to the house, which was an old fashioned building that might once have been grand, but now appeared merely ostentatious and sullen. Instead, her expression mixed weariness, determination, and nervousness into a stiff mask that almost resembled anger. She arrived at the front door of the house, an implacable slab of black wood, and reached up to lift the heavy iron knocker and bring it down three times.

A short eternity later, a monster opened the door. He was taller than any man, but unlike the tallest men, his height was matched by the muscular breadth of his torso and limbs. His posture was straight and imperious, his shoulders broad, and his charcoal-grey hands large even in proportion to the rest of him. He was dressed in a suit of what once might have been fine cloth, but it had been inexpertly tailored with irregular, ugly stitches. His head was partly a man’s, partly a dog’s, and partly some other thing, unimagined except in the fevered nightmares of sickly children. Beneath his stern brow, eyes of pure emerald were slit vertically by obsidian pupils. His mouth was thin-lipped and unnaturally wide, the area around it protruding slightly in the suggestion of a muzzle. His nose was little more than a shallow ripple in his face, his nostrils rough punctures from a blunt spike. His ears were a wolf’s and his short mane a hyena’s. Apart from his hands, all his visible skin was covered by ebony fur that glistened like ink.

Staring down at the girl, The Beast spoke in a deep, clear voice that carried a hint of aristocracy. “Ah, the merchant’s daughter,” he said. “Marguerite, was it?”

“No sir,” said the girl, keeping her voice level and polite. “That’s my sister. I’m Rose sir. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

“And am I to presume that you are not, as the deal I made with your father specified, his eldest daughter?”

“In fact I am the youngest, sir. Marguerite regrets that she is unable to fill her role in entertaining you as a suitor, but as the rose my father picked was a gift for myself, sir, it seemed only fair that I should come in her stead. I trust my presence is enough to dissuade you from pursuing my father through your magic mirror, as you threatened.”

The Beast glared down at Rose with an air of disdain. As he spoke, she saw that he had a thick, round tongue that tapered to a sharp point. “Rose, let me make one thing clear,” he said. “If you call me ‘sir’ one more time, I shall ensure that you regret it enough that you never do it again.”

“Understood, si—” Rose caught herself just in time. “Err… What should I call you?”

The Beast shrugged. “It has been a long time since I had need of a name. If you wish to attract my attention, then a simple ‘excuse me’ will suffice. Otherwise I will assume that any comment you make is addressed to me, since there is no-one else here for you to speak to. Now pray tell, little Rose, who presumes to substitute herself for her elder, how old are you?”

“I saw my eighteenth year two months hence,” Rose said, “Which is more than old enough to pay court to, if the boys in my town are any judge.”

“I do not for a second entertain the proposition that they are,” retorted The Beast, “But I suppose it makes no difference. Welcome to my home, Rose. If you come in I will show you your room.”

The Beast turned and walked into the gloom beyond the door, and after a moment’s hesitation, Rose followed.

The house’s indoor aspect was no more favourable than its exterior. Its walls were panelled with elaborate woodwork, but the effect was dulled by dust. Its once-vibrant carpet was worn and faded, and despite the luminous day outside, the hall was lit by candles. As Rose followed The Beast through the entrance hall, she saw through the doors on either side of her that the heavy curtains in each room were closed.

The Beast led Rose past an ancient grandfather clock, up a staircase and across a landing where he pushed open a door and gestured for her to enter. “I trust this is adequate,” he said.

Stepping into through the door, Rose found herself in a high ceilinged bedroom complete with dresser, clothes chest, wardrobe, chaise longue and four-poster bed. “More than adequate,” she confirmed. “Indeed, it is far more than I have ever owned for myself.”

“Excellent,” said The Beast, though his tone failed to convey any enthusiasm. “Make yourself comfortable and dress for dinner. You may wear any of the garments in the wardrobe and chest for the duration of your stay. I will expect you in the dining room at seven. The clock in the hall will chime the hour.”

And with that he left, closing the door behind him before Rose could find her tongue to ask where in the house the dining room could be found.

Alone in her new bedroom, Rose put down her bag by the bed and opened the wardrobe, which was filled with expensive gowns in an old fashioned style. Holding one against herself, a green and gold affair with lace at the neck and cuffs, she found that it was far too long for her to wear without it dragging on the floor and tripping her up. Glancing at the chest of the garment, she saw that it was cut for a lady with much larger breasts than her own modest endowment. She returned the dress to the wardrobe, where a quick search confirmed her suspicion that it contained not a single garment that would come even close to fitting her. A rummage through the chest revealed a few shifts that were a little longer than her own, but useable. She smiled. It would be a luxury to have more than two undergarments.

Returning to her bag, Rose took out a carefully folded dress, her very best. It was a plain thing compared to the gowns in the wardrobe, but it was printed with the flowers from which Rose took her name, and she loved it. It smelled faintly of soap. She changed into it and found a comb on the dresser, which she pulled through her hair before pouting experimentally at the mirror. “Well, plain or not, that will just have to do,” she told the girl who looked back.

Rose returned down the stairs and began to search for the dining room, not wanting to be late when the clock struck seven. Exploring the house, she found many rooms that, judging by the extensive cobwebs, had not been visited in some time. Having never been in a rich man’s house, it was easy for her to see why. How many rooms were needed that had no obvious purpose other than lounging about? She also began to notice that the rooms, clearly designed to impress with their grandeur, were strangely bare of ornaments, as if a thief had made off with everything small enough to carry. Remembering her purpose, Rose retraced her steps back to the entrance hall, and this time she chose her route by looking at the floor to see where the carpet was most worn and the dust had not settled. By this method she found the dining room just as the clock began to chime behind her.

Stewed meat, potatoes and vegetables had been laid out in painted china tureens. It was a lavish meal for two people, but it looked small sitting at one end of the vast banquet table that filled the room. There were two place settings, one at the head of the table and one just beside. From the other end of the room, The Beast entered carrying an open bottle of wine. “It’s good to see that you are not tardy,” he commented, crossing the room and setting down the wine. “Please, sit.”

The Beast pulled out the high-backed, cushioned chair from the second place setting and motioned for Rose to sit down. She complied, reaching down to pull the chair under her, but The Beast deftly pushed it in behind her so that she found herself seated at the same moment that her hands touched the seat. With a silver serving spoon, he took food from each tureen and arranged it carefully on each plate, a modest portion for Rose and a much larger amount for himself. Then he poured them each a glass of wine the black of rubies before pulling out a large, sturdy-looking, iron-bound trunk from under the head of the table and sitting down on it.