Author's note: For this piece, folks, I'm ditching the idea that Beast doesn't know how to read. That always seemed odd to me—yeah, he was a spoiled brat as a kid, but he was still a prince. It would have been extremely odd for royalty to be unable to read. Also, sadly, Beauty and the Beast is not mine. Alas. Enjoy!!
Still slightly breathless from my snowball fight with Beast, I quickly step into a dry dress and pull my damp hair back off of my face, digging for a new ribbon to tie it with. When I'm finally cleaned up—it doesn't take long—I tumble back out the door and run down the hall: somehow, for reasons I can't quite articulate, I'm excited about finding and being with Beast again. The dangers of rushing quickly become apparent when I nearly trip over poor Mrs. Potts, almost losing my balance as I swerve out of her path just in time.
"Heavens, child!" the porcelain housekeeper exclaims. "Where are you going in such a hurry?"
I flush—I don't really want to confess the reasons for my haste just yet, as I'm hardly sure of the reasons myself. As it turns out, though, I don't need to explain—Mrs. Potts isn't really looking for an answer. She gives me a shrewd look, raises the corner of her lid—I'm certain she'd have a soul-searching eyebrow raise if she were human—and informs me that the Master is waiting for me in the main dining room. I thank her, turn away, and hurry off before she can see my blush deepen further, but I can feel her eyes on me as I rush down the stairs, and I can't shake the feeling that she knows something that I don't.
She's right, though. Beast is pacing before the fire in the dining hall, awaiting my arrival. He gives me an uncertain grin and gestures toward the table, gruffly muttering something about "thought you'd be cold"—he's gotten the kitchen staff to bring soup up for the two of us. His nervousness calms mine a little, and I wonder at myself for a moment, surprised that I hadn't let myself see this sweet, uncertain side of his nature before. He barely talks as we eat lunch, and I allow my attention to wander to Chip, who is having a great deal of fun showing me all of his little tricks (the bubble-blowing is just the tip of the iceberg). I try not to put pressure on Beast by staring as he attempts to start speaking and catches himself, losing his nerve several times. Finally, hesitantly, he manages to get the words out.
"Belle, there's something I'd like to show you," he tells me. I smile at him—I suspect that if I speak, he'll forget how again and I'll never find out what his intention was. He takes me by the hand and leads me to the door, then turns abruptly to face me again. "But first, you have to close your eyes." I give him a suspicious look. What could he possibly have in mind? He sees my expression and somehow, regains some of his confidence. "It's a surprise!" I search his face for a moment, looking for a hint, but can't see past his excitement, so I give up and shut my eyes. He takes me by the hand—heavens, his broad, softly padded hand could envelop four of mine—and leads me through several turns. I keep track of where I am through the first few, but finally lose track by the time he stops me. He drops my hand, and I hear the slow creak of a door opening, and then he leads me inside. I can't stand the wait much longer—it's taken nearly ten minutes to get here, and now he has me wondering. "May I open them?" I ask, the impatience in my voice mingled with amusement.
"No, not yet," he tells me, and there's the sound of a vast drape being pulled back, and light floods through my closed eyelids, and I throw my hand up to shield my face. "Now may I open them?"
I hear the click of his claws on a marble floor, and feel his presence before me as he whispers… "All right… now."
I open my eyes and feel my knees go weak. I'm surrounded by the most spectacular collection of books I've ever seen—I hear the gasp that comes from the back of my throat, but have no control over it. I'm spinning, spinning, it's making me dizzy, but I want to take it all in—books all the way up to the vaulted ceiling, the tall window that stretches the whole height of the room and looks out over a view nearly as spectacular as the vast array of texts. I inhale deeply, the scent of paper and glue and binding intoxicating me. Somewhere in the back of my mind I can hear him asking me if I like it. Is he quite serious? Do I like it? "It's wonderful!" I exclaim, turning towards him for an instant before my eyes are drawn back to the shelves.
"Then it's yours," he tells me.
My heart stops for an instant, a moment, for a day and a half, I don't know, until I finally summon the power to reach for him and gasp out my thanks, making the mistake of looking directly into his face. This time, when he smiles at me, it's not uncertain at all, and suddenly my stomach is fluttering at the depth of those vividly blue eyes of his—I'd never noticed before. I'm not sure I want to decipher this response, so I turn back to the bookshelves, looking for something new or something well-loved, whichever appears first. As I skim titles, a volume bound in blue and gold catches my eye. Pride and Prejudice, by Jane Austen. I tug it out—here's a book that can say to him what I can't. I hand it to him wordlessly. He looks at it for a moment, then quizzically back at me.
"I'd like you to read it, if you don't mind," I whisper, not meeting his eyes.
"Why?" It's a genuine curiosity. He really wants to know. I look up at him again.
"Because it's about learning to look past first impressions."