She feels she is going slowly mad.
The court swirls around her as the music plays. Her dress is a deep red, a contrast to her pale skin. The skirt fans out, like the petals of a rose, layers of silk that flow about her with each move. The bodice is tight and fitted with a high collar held in place by a jeweled brooch. It cuts away, bare beneath the collar, to show everything from the hollow of her throat to as much of her breasts as can be displayed in Lord Maurice's court without causing scandal.
Like nearly all her formal clothes, it is Gaston's choice. Only the black dress, a mourning gown no one—not even Lord Maurice—can stop her from wearing once a year on the anniversary of her husband's death is one she chose. It is velvet and swathes her entirely from neck to foot. When she wears it a few weeks from now, her face will be hidden by a heavy veil and even her hands will be concealed in gloves. They will leave her in peace on that day. She will sit in the darkness of the small chapel with no one to care if she smiles or frowns, no one to demand that she speak or stay silent.
There is talk of a marriage for Gaston. She does not know if she should care. She remembers the promises Gaston made when Lord Maurice gave her to him as his "companion." He has kept them. She does not think he will abandon her or throw her away. Maurice had often told her in those first days that, if there had been a child, a son, he would see to it Gaston acknowledged him as his own heir.
But, her womb is a cold, empty thing. Rather like the rest of her. She had loved a man once, long ago (seven years, she thinks, it cannot have been more than seven years, but the gulf between these lives feels like centuries). She had wed him and born him a son.
Maurice frowns when he sees her child. More than anything else in the life before she was brought to Maurice's court, it is the child Maurice most despises. The rest could be passed over and forgotten. It could be spun into a fairy tale, the lost princess raised among peasants till fate intervened and she found her rightful place. All the rest could be forgiven ("forgiven," that was the word Lord Maurice used) if there were not a child to prove her crimes against her.
She bowed her head silently, knowing what Maurice was asking of her, pretending not to understand. She will face torture and death—she has faced torture and death—before she lets anyone take her son from her.
So, noble blood or not, she is no fit wife for such as Gaston, not without an heir of his blood to make him overlook her past. Two years have passed, and no child has come. She does not look for one and thinks Gaston and even Lord Maurice must have given up hope by now.
If Gaston marries, if he pensions her off, as lords do to hirelings who have served well even if they are no longer of interest, perhaps she will be able to live a life of quiet retirement somewhere with nothing but her own thoughts to trouble her at night.
But, if he abandons her, if he casts her out after Lord Maurice dies. . . . She shudders. She knows only too well what that can mean. She would sooner Gaston killed her than send her back to that.
But, if he does, what will become of her son? Maurice may look askance at the boy, but he has not stood in the way of his education. Her hope is for him to become a clerk or secretary in Gaston's court. Her son, she knows, dreams of being a soldier or a knight.
His father died in the wars. She remembers when word at last was brought to their village of the terrible slaughter. Word travelled slowly from the front. She had been a widow for a year before she even knew her husband was dead. She does not want her son to become a soldier yet knows she may have no choice. His fate, after all, will be decided by whatever Maurice or Gaston decides is best for him. Maurice was raised from a mere knight to a lord by the king for his deeds in battle. In his kinder moods, he might give the boy the chance to follow in his footsteps. Gaston, who knows how Lord Maurice gained his title, might stop the boy from doing the same.
Gaston is the one she must please, then, to save her son—her son who, someday, when he understands, may never forgive her for saving him. So, she wears the dresses Gaston picks for her, she fixes the false smile on her face and dances. Later, when they are alone, she will force herself to smile and dance again.
Or she will try to. With each passing day, it grows harder. She feels as if she is turning to stone inside.
And it should not. She knows what Lord Maurice rescued her from. She knows that, if Gaston will never love her son, he will not use him as a weapon against her. If Lord Maurice gave her like a prize to Gaston with barely a thought as to her wishes, at least he treated her as something valued and worthwhile—and Gaston accepted her as such. Life could be worse. It has been worse. She has no right to grieve it isn't better.
But, she is relieved when the dance is over and Gaston moves onto another partner. She cannot escape the ballroom floor yet. It is her duty to dance with other lords. But, they are content with forced smiles and some careless conversation. Tonight is a night of celebration. No one presses her to put a word in Gaston's ear or ask what secrets she knows of Lord Maurice.
The war is over. They are safe. Why does it feel as if she has done this a thousand times before? Why does safety, so freshly won, taste like the dust of years in her mouth?
She is relieved when, at last, she manages to escape. Claiming fatigue and heat, she goes to one of the side rooms. Unconsciously, she finds herself reaching for her locket. It is bright gold, a gift from Gaston, though that is not why she always wears it. She is going to open it when she realizes she is not alone in the room.
Startled, she looks up, aware that something is wrong, though she cannot say why. It is as if this day is a pattern, set in stone and inviolate, though she cannot say why she is so sure of this. She knows what is supposed to happen next, and this man is not supposed to be here.
Yet, he is here, a figure in the shadows, watching her with contempt. He moves forward, his face hidden by the hood of his cloak. "Lady . . . Belle?" he asks. His voice is strange, high pitched and mocking. He makes her name sound like an insult, as though it were something dredged out of the gutter.
Well, he is not the first one to address her so. She has grown used to disdain. "Not lady," she says calmly. "I am Madame Belle."
"Ah, yes. Lord Maurice's little pet?"
She hears the jab in those words, too, though she is less sure of his meaning. Maurice has never been more than fatherly to her. "I am given to understand it was Lady Rosamonde who requested her husband summon me to court," she told him, still tranquil. Lady Rosamonde, Lord Maurice's sickly wife. Even tonight's festivities have not drawn her out of her rooms.
"Indeed? And does she find you as poor a payment for her efforts as I do?"
She has not seen him in the court before. She doubts a commoner would speak so of Lady Rosamonde. Perhaps he is a visitor from some other land? An ambassador for one of the ladies they hope to betroth Gaston to? That would explain his animosity. He sees her as a threat. How laughable.
But, if that is what he is, it would be wrong of her to do anything that could harm the negotiations. Besides, it has been a long time since she was able to feel pain at the words whispered about her.
"You are right that I can never repay Lady Rosamonde's kindness to me," Belle says, pretending to misunderstand. "But, I would never stand in the way of her best interests."
The man laughs. The sound is eerie, higher than his voice and inhuman. "Oh, wouldn't you? I—"
But, just then, Baelfire comes running up to her. "Mama? I have a message for you. I—" He stops abruptly, seeing she is not alone.
Belle pulls her son towards her, part affectionate embrace, part effort to shield him from this malicious stranger. For all his bravery, he is such a small child. Only six years old. "Bae, what are you doing up? I sent you to bed hours ago!"
Bae looks shyly at the hooded man, who (thankfully) stands quiet and absolutely still. "Lady Rosamonde wants to speak to you, Mama. She wants to speak to both of us."
Belle frowns. This is unusual. Lady Rosamonde's health has been poor for years. Belle has been in her presence only twice before. She hopes it isn't bad news.
"Perhaps she merely wishes to hear how the ball is going," the stranger says.
Belle's frown deepens. "A ball? It's been a long time since we had time for such things," she says. But, she knows there is something wrong. The Ogres are winning this war. She knows it. There is nothing to celebrate.
Yet, there is the ghost of a memory, a red dress and terrible weariness, as if all their dancing and merrymaking is only a prelude to this moment, trapped in the dark.
"Is that so? Well, perhaps times are changing." The stranger laughs again before vanishing into the shadows.
Belle looks down at her dress. For some reason, she is surprised to see it is pale gold, not deep red. There have been no balls, but Gaston expects her to always appear like a great lady. There are already too many who would like to forget any claim she has to being one. Like all the dresses he gives her, the neckline plunges far too generously for her comfort. It was one thing to appear like this in court where Gaston puts her on display, but Lady Rosamonde has been almost motherly the few times they've met. Belle wants to run back to her rooms and find a shawl to cover herself up.
But, if Lady Rosamonde has summoned her, there may not be time. She turns quickly, still holding onto her son. This is what must be done. She knows it.
It as if she has done this a thousand times before.
X
Lady Rosamonde lies in her bed, propped up by several pillows. Her face is so pale, Belle wonders if even this is too much of a strain for her. But, the lady smiles when she sees her. Belle does not think she is dying, not tonight. Her eyes, meeting Belle's, are the same bright blue. Her hair is the same deep brown tinged with red.
"My Lady Belle," she says.
Belle starts to demure, but her ladyship stops her. "Let me call you that, tonight. It should be your title, you know. Your mother was my sister, and your father was—is—a lord."
Belle looks at her, almost daring to ask, but she bites back the words. "I—I promised Lord Maurice I would never ask my father's name, my lady," she says instead. "I will not break that vow. I owe him too much." And, if there is any truth to whispers she hears, Bae is safer if she never knows.
Rosamonde frowns. "You don't owe him as much as you seem to think, my dear. Had my sister not fled, I would have claimed you as my own. Scandal averted, and you would have had your birthright."
Belle shakes her head, but says no more. She could demure that the lands and title belong to one of Maurice's blood, but she is afraid how Lady Rosamonde might answer that, afraid she will say something that Belle cannot pretend not to hear or understand.
Her eyes, her hair, her small build are all marks of Lady Rosamonde's family. But, there is something in the squareness of her jaw that is not unlike Lord Maurice.
"Let me see this son of yours," Lady Rosamonde says. She smiles as Belle pushes Baelfire forward. "Baelfire," the lady says. "That is the name you gave him?"
"It was a name of my husband's people," Belle says. "A strong name. I had to choose it while he was at war, but I thought he would approve."
"Your husband," Rosamonde repeats. "You know there are those who say he was no such thing."
Belle puts her hand to her locket. "Then they are mistaken."
"It might be better," Rosamonde does not sound as if she is trying to persuade her. If anything, she seems resigned. "A child of noble blood whose father is unknown is not the same as a peasant's son."
Belle bows her head. "I know," she says quietly. "And, for Bae's sake, perhaps I should." And, if she truly loved Bae—loved him more than a ghost—wouldn't she give him this? But— "I cannot. He's all I have left of Rumplestiltskin. I can't deny him."
Rosamonde, to her surprise (except, she is not surprised. It as if she has had this conversation over and over again instead of saying these words for the first time), does not argue. There is a weary sympathy in her eyes. "I understand. Forgive me for suggesting otherwise." Then, she manages to smile. "I am glad you found your way back to us, even if we have not made matters easy. I am glad to know Elise's child lives. Will live. That is what I wanted to tell you, Belle. You will live. You and your son."
Lady Rosamonde is ill, her mind wandering. Belle will not take away her comfort with cold, hard facts. But, the Ogres surround them. Avonlea has fallen. There is no hope (just as there are no balls for their deliverance, their victory).
"You don't believe me, do you?" Rosamonde says. "It doesn't matter. Tomorrow night, you will be dancing, celebrating the end of this war. And every night thereafter."
Belle humors her. "I will be glad to dance again, my lady."
"Call me Aunt," Rosamonde says. "This one night, call me Aunt."
"Aunt. Aunt Rosamonde. You must come see me dance, then, when the Ogres are defeated."
"Oh, my child, I wish I could. But, there is a price to be paid."
"My la—Aunt? I don't understand."
"There is magic," Rosamonde says. "A curse. Time will stop. Nothing that is not already within our borders shall cross them. And, within those borders, everything will be as it should." She sighs. "Or as close as Maurice can imagine. I love him dearly, despite it all, but his mind is not as creative as it might be. . . ."
"Aunt Rosamonde?"
"It's no matter," Rosamonde says. There is a knock at the door. Lord Maurice enters. He is startled to see Belle and Baelfire.
"What are you doing here?" he demands.
"Hush, love," Rosamonde says. "I sent for them. She's my sister's child. And he's her son. I wished to speak to them tonight. Can you blame me?"
"No, no, of course not." Maurice is troubled. There is a heavy burden in his eyes as he looks first at Belle then Rosamonde.
"It's all right," Rosamonde says. "I've said what I needed to. Belle, dear niece. And Baelfire. Know I love both of you. But, you must go. Now. Lord Maurice and I have other matters to deal with."
"Rosamonde. . . ." Maurice says. Tears swell up in his eyes. Belle, seeing them, looks at Rosamonde's pale face. The lady has been ill for years, but Belle wonders if matters of come to a head. Rosamonde's summoning her, her strange words. Belle fears she is dying.
"It's all right," Rosamonde repeats. "There is no other way." She smiles and reaches out, taking Maurice's hand and pressing it against her lips. "I know I am what you love best. And it is not as if I am going away. This moment will play out, again and again, each night as time repeats itself."
Belle, uncertain what is happening, takes Baelfire and hurries out of the room. She glances back once before the door closes. Lord Maurice can no longer hold back his tears. In his hand, he holds a long knife.
The door closes. The stranger is standing near her again.
"Just like you remembered it, dearie?" he asks, and the world shifts again.
"He's going to kill her," Belle said. "I—I don't understand. I know this. How do I know this?"
"Oh, she's been dead for centuries. It's about time someone noticed."
"No. She's alive. When we have the ball—" She stopped, confused. "There's going to be a ball—there's been a ball—It hasn't happened. But I know. How?"
He grinned. "Because it has happened. And will happen. Again and again. That—" He waved his hand towards Rosamonde's door, "—shouldn't be part of it, no matter what she said. The curse began just after. But, she's your aunt—Sorry, she was your aunt. I suppose that's why you get to relive this. Lucky you." He giggled.
She feels the malice radiating off him. No one, not even Hordor when she humiliated him before half the village, has hated her like this. "You're angry with me," she said, knowing that is too light a word for what she feels. "Why? What have I done to you?"
"Let's just say you remind me of someone. I had a wife once, did you know it? No, of course, you didn't. And you won't know it a day from now, which may be when I'll come back. Lovely thing. Faithful. So I thought. Till I came home and found she'd run off with another man. Of course, she got bored of him, too. Or was just ambitious. She'd worked her way up to a lord by the time I found her."
The numbness Belle wraps herself in vanishes. She feels as if she'd been slapped. She remembers Hordor coming to her after the news of the deaths of all the men the village had sent to war had come to them. She'd been a widow a year, he said. It didn't matter that she hadn't known. Her time of mourning was past. She was free to remarry, if she wanted. Or if she didn't want.
He said he'd send Baelfire away. He would have given him to the foundling home in Longbourne, a baby only three months old with no mother to nurse him. It would have been a death sentence. Hordor hadn't even waited for her reply before grabbing her by the shoulders and pulling her towards him.
A madness had come over Belle. She had beaten Hordor off, driving him out of her house and into the street. Worse, she had done it in view of half the village.
Assault was a crime, a breaking of the Duke's peace. And the man she'd attacked was an officer in the Duke's army set up as ruler over their village. Hordor had been within his rights when he sentenced her to twenty lashes and a fine of thirty silver pieces, more than she could possibly pay.
A debtor who couldn't pay her fine could be auctioned off as a servant, bound like a slave to her new master till she paid back what he had given for her.
She thought Hordor meant to buy her himself. He had made a few bids. But, it was a ship's captain, just in at port and who had laughed and jeered during her whipping in the village square, who had bought her. Despite how the man used her—and sometimes let his crew use her—he'd let her keep Bae. And, he had finally made port in the Marchlands.
Belle's mother had given her a ring before she died and told her, if she was ever desperate—truly desperate, with no other hope—to send it to the lord of the Marchlands or his wife. Belle still remembered the gut clenching terror of hoping her mother had been right and the ring would bring her rescue.
It had in its way. Lord Maurice had freed her and taken her to his court.
Or not freed her. He had given her a place—a better one than Belle had had. Gaston was a better man than Captain Jones had been. He wasn't cruel. He never beat her. He didn't force Belle to come to him when she was too tired or ill, and she couldn't imagine him tossing her like a bone to one of his men.
But, he had tried to get her to send away Baelfire more than once. Not to an orphanage where he would starve. Gaston was better than that. He offered apprenticeships, wellborn foster families, lives that could be good and comfortable. Perhaps it would be better. Perhaps, as Gaston said, she was standing in the way of the life Baelfire could have as something more than the misbegotten child of a lord's misbegotten mistress.
Gaston might be right, too, when he said it was only her selfishness that made her cling to him. Protecting Baelfire, letting him know he had a mother who loved him and would do anything to keep him safe, sometimes, that seemed like the only reason she could face each day. Take him away from her, and she would lie down on the ground, unable to even make the effort to take a breath.
She was used to the insults. Even those who spoke pleasantly to her face, asking secrets or begging favors, whispered the stories behind her back. Lady Elise's secret child. Born in a midden, they said, and let herself be bedded by some peasant pig she'd found wallowing in the mud. But, she reeled under this strange man's words. Yet, the cold and emptiness inside her rant too deep. Voice calm, she answered him, showing only polite curiosity, "So, what did you do when you found her?"
He grinned. His teeth were discolored, jagged fangs. "Punished her, dearie. What else?" He looked at Baelfire, and the humor went out of him. "She had taken my greatest treasure with her when she went. How could I forgive her?"
The last ghosts of her pain and anger faded. Belle was only tired, so tired. "I suppose you couldn't," she agreed. The world began to blur.
They are safe, she remembers. The Ogres are defeated. Lord Maurice's lands are safe. Forever. He has decreed there will be a ball to celebrate their deliverance.
If it was deliverance.
Wearily, Belle takes Baelfire by the hand. "Past time for you to be in bed," she tells him.
She should be happy. They are safe. The danger is past. But, the knowledge brings no peace. She feels as if she has faced this a thousand times before, as though deliverance is just another trap.
She feels she is going slowly mad.