Prologue

The young duke was in a foul mood; he stormed through his castle with a desperate urge to hit something. He couldn't find what he'd been looking for--never mind that it had been hours since he'd forgotten what it was he was trying to find. He refused to admit that he had forgotten and shouted angrily at his servants whenever he caught so much as a glimpse of them. Having seen their master's rages and wild tempers before, they wisely tried to stay clear of his path. They huddled together and watched surreptitiously from a side door as he mounted the grand staircase. And when they heard the crash of a huge vase being thrown to the ground, they rightly guessed that he still had not found what he searched for. Glancing at each other in fear they began a hasty retreat to the kitchens.

"The Duke has lost his mind this time, I'm sure of it." The head cook whispered to the steward. "He usually has at least some reason for his fits of temper." The cook was interrupted as another crash was heard. A mirror had followed the vase down the stairs. Some of the younger kitchen maids began to visibly tremble when they heard his loud footsteps coming toward the kitchen. Nearly tearing the door off its hinges, he inspected the frightened group of servants; seeing their looks of terror merely fueled his temper.

"So you've congregated here to laugh at me, have you? Well, it saves me the trouble of gathering you together. You can all go to hell." He began to turn around, but when he saw that they weren't moving, he shouted, "Get out! Get out all of you!" They still remained where they were, unsure of what to do. Drawing himself to his impressive full height, he slowly, terribly repeated himself "Get out…NOW!" The kitchen maids fairly flew from the room, followed more slowly and cautiously by the older members of the staff. When the door had closed behind the last maidservant and the duke was sure alone, he heard a voice behind him.
"Was that quite necessary, your Grace?" The duke whipped around, but could see nothing.
"Who said that?" He asked suspiciously.
"I did," the same female voice replied. "You can't see me, unless I chose to let you and right now I don't chose."
"What do you want?" He asked nervously, his anger quickly dissolving into fear.
"What do I want?" The voice replied. "Compassion, mercy, dare I say, even...love?"
"I don't understand." He shivered, though he wasn't cold.
"Of course you don't." She chuckled. "But you will, Antonio. I have been watching you and, frankly, I do not like what I have seen. In fact, I am ashamed to be called your godmother." The duke was visibly scared now. "I am developing a very bad reputation among the other godmothers. So you're going to shape up, all right?" She sounded very sure of herself.

"And what if I don't agree?" He asked warily, a spark of bravery glimmering over his words.

"It doesn't really matter if you agree or not. It's high time I took matters into my own hands. I am going to make sure that you understand kindness and mercy. Smashing breakables and kicking your servants out was not necessary was it, your Grace?"

Antonio remained petulantly silent, but his godmother didn't seem to notice as she continued. "First, since you seem to like acting like a beast you shall look like one, too." For a moment there was silence, and though Antonio could still not see the speaker, a prickling sensation told him she was still in the room. Suddenly, he doubled over in pain. He felt as if his insides were pulled out and his insides pulled in. He fell to the ground, writhing as his body spasmed. He curled himself into a ball and tried to stop himself from crying out. But it was all too much; he heard his own voice screaming with pain. And then as suddenly as it had begun it was over. Antonio tried to calm his now ragged breathing. Shakily, he stood up. He went to run his fingers through his hair, and as his hand passed before his face he paused. There was no hand, it was...it could only be called a paw. He ran from the kitchen and stopped in front of the first mirror he saw. Instead of his usual handsome face looking back at him, he saw only the muzzle of a vicious beast.
"What have you done to me?" He shouted, growling even against his will. He hoped more than anything that his instinct was correct and that his godmother had followed him.
"I have turned you into what you truly are, a beast." She replied, smugly.
"But why?" He was still shaking, unsure what to do or say. He kept glancing at the mirror, hoping to see his familiar face and shuddering each time he was rewarded with a sight of his now hideous visage.
"Because you deserved it. Not just because of your despicable behavior tonight, but because of all the nights like tonight, when you have thought of no one but yourself." She sounded very self-satisfied.
"Will I be like this forever?" He asked desperately.
"So long as you remain a beast on the inside, you will remain as such in outward appearance."

Grasping for an argument, anything that could make her change her mind, he stammered, "But what of the village, the people who know me and who visit this castle?"

His godmother laughed, "You never cared so much for those people before your transformation. They seem to be doing quite well at taking care of themselves. They will not remember you, and this castle will appear deserted. I have even grown a wood around the castle, cutting it off from the world. It's quite a pretty bit of magic, if I do say so myself." She took a moment to reflect on her own skill. Remembering herself, she continued, "So that you will not be completely helpless here, I will grant you two servants, but if you do anything so rash as to kick them out as you did your servants this evening, you will be left utterly alone." Suddenly a small gust of wind passed by either side of him, ruffling his fur. Then, in front of him, materializing as if from thin air were an elderly woman and a sober looking man.

"These are Apple and Alder; do not attempt to turn them against me. I have given them human form and a bit of my magic, but I can take it away again just as I please. They will be your companions and your help and be glad I am so generous."

Antonio swung around, desperately trying to locate his godmother, but she seemed to be everywhere and nowhere.

"But how can you do this to me? I am a duke, what of the people of the wider world? There are folk outside the village who will remember me!" For one shining moment he thought he might have stumped her. But she replied immediately,

"Are you so sure? In a year, two at the most, who at court will remember your name? Is there anyone so dear to you who would make inquiries? I think you have lived among your peers long enough to recognize that much. One fewer duke is hardly something to be remarked upon." This brought him up short. He wanted to believe that he would be easily remembered—that someone, anyone, would be disturbed by his disappearance. The fact that he could think of no one served only to make him angry. And his godmother, apparently, could tell.

She clicked her tongue, "Now, Antonio, you must learn to control that temper. Anger will not help you. If you had thought of others maybe you could expect them to think of you. But as it is…" She trailed off, but then seemed to find an inspiration. "I have an idea. For your first lesson, you will have to care for something outside yourself. I am going to fill your gardens with roses. If they die, then you will too." And with a laugh and crack, she was gone.

Antonio scrambled through his castle, slashing at furniture, mildly intrigued by the power in his claws. But everywhere he looked, he caught his horrible reflection and it was his repulsiveness which he could not bear. After satisfying himself that his godmother was gone and that he was alone except for the servants she had left behind, he retreated to his bedroom. There he shattered the mirrors he'd once been so proud to look into; no longer could he serve his vanity that way. He tried to scream and was disturbed, but somehow satisfied, when a deep roar was all that emerged from his throat. He found that his bed had been turned down, and in his frustration he tore the plush red velvet bed hangings and covers to ragged strips with his claws. He settled down to a restless night of sleep, dreaming only of roses and disembodied voices.

The next morning, he woke to find the torn velvet of the bed completely repaired. He couldn't even see any traces of seams. The shards from the smashed mirrors had vanished, and although the mirrors hadn't been replaced, Antonio began to wonder if he had dreamt the events of the previous night. A single look at his paw removed his doubt. His anger sprang to life once more. But he had no idea of what to do. And for long weeks and months thereafter, Antonio nursed his anger. Forgetting everyone and everything, occasionally even forgetting his own name, he wrapped himself in a cocoon of misery and loathing, emerging only long enough to curse his godmother's name.