Once upon a time, there was an inventor named Maurice. He was a kindly man, soft spoken, and gossiped about relentlessly in town. Ever the oddball, Maurice was satisfied being different, and lived happily in his small cottage, with his children. His wife long gone, and with her, most of his passion for inventing, their lives were slower, with little wealth.
But they made do, and at least one of his daughter's was happy.
Now, Maurice's daughters were all very, very different in temper, but all three fair of face and voice. Babette, the eldest, was self centered, thinking only of herself, and her own desires, putting everyone below her with rude remarks, and a sarcastic tongue, her words silver tipped daggers.
Gertrude, the middle daughter, was horrifically vain, spending all her time before the mirror, and all money she could on jewels and perfumes, primping and preening like a china doll, free off the shelf.
The youngest, Belle, although similar in appearance, was as unlike her sisters as it was possible to be: kind, and loving, Belle adored reading, and tending the small garden behind the cottage. While Babettet and Gertrude rose late, and complained often, Belle woke early, and took care of many chores; before her selfish sisters were even awake and dressed, Belle had milked the cow for the morning meal, made eggs, fresh from the hen house, and heated bread in the stove.
"She thinks she'll win father's heart like this," Babette said sourly, jamming a comb into her hair, tugging out a knot. "Such a selfish..."
"Hussy!" Gertrude added, modeling a new dress in the mirror. "Only thinking of herself... I do wish father had bought those peacock feathers for me last market."
"They would've made that rag almost decent," Babette snipped, perfuming her neck.
Gertrude threw a pillow at her.
One late fall day, as the long, heated nights began to succeed to the chilling bite of Winter, Maurice packed up his cart, readying it for market. With a newly perfected wood chopping machine strapped precariously to the rickety cart, their stallion Philippe casting glances at it, visibly nervous, Maurice sighed, wiping his forehead. "At last... the thing's all strapped on."
"It will only fall,"Babette sniffed, fanning herself.
"Father, really... it isn't that wonderful of a device... keep at home til next year, perfect it." Gertrude perfumed herself, the smell killing small flies instantly.
"Oh, papa, be careful," Belle said, clasping her hands. "Winter's coming... you can't be too careful on the forest paths." She hugged Maurice, kissing his cheek. "You'll win first prize... you'll win for sure!"
"Ah, Belle..." He wiped his eyes. His daughter's love could be overwhelming at time, so very deeply reminding him of her mother, gone for so many years now...
Babette sniffed, and Gertrude scoffed.
"Children, what do you wish me to bring home to you?" Maurice asked.
Every year, he bought each daughter a gift, one lavish thing in a year of simpleness. Babette demanded clothes or jewels, and Gertrude demanded perfumes and makeups, blushes and powders.
Belle simply asked for the same thing, each and every year: "Only a rose, Papa.. a red, red rose. I can't get them to grow here."
Belle waved goodbye, holding back tears: every time Maurice left, every year, without fail, she worried over him on the long journey to the market, through the woods and past the old village, into the next town. A two days ride, she fretted the whole time, and went through long periods of near depression, reading non-stop to qualm her excited nerves.
Babette and Gertrude merely lazed, with no father to keep them in line, and did not rise until well into the afternoon, past twelve o' clock. The moment they did, complaints flew.
"Belle, this milk is spoiled! Fetch me fresh!"
"Belle, I'm dying! Make me eggs!"
"And me!"
"Belle!"
"Belle?!"
"BELLE!"
For her part, Belle took it all in stride, and with good grace: Despite how they could act, Babette and Gertrude were her sisters, and she did love them. Their words stung, but Belle kept it hidden, knowing her father felt deep shame at how his eldest daughters acted, and she could never do anything to further that.
The days slowly bled into a week, and Belle's nerves were on their last legs: Maurice was gone five nights each year, six if bad weather formed... but as the sun set on the seventh night, she found herself staring out the small window over the sink, as she slowly wiped the same plate over and over, watching the road for any sign of a cart, or even a lone horse.
Nothing but the night, falling slowly, and covering the paths in darkness.
"Belle, really..."Babette snapped, as the plate, pressed tightly between her hands, cracked in two.
That night, a loud pounding woke them all: a desperate knocking, a hopeless slamming on the door. Belle alone went to the door, opening it only a crack. "Please, explain why you're waking my house at this hour," she said, in as cold a voice as she could manage.
"Belle..." A voice said, a soft, broken, familiar voice.
"Papa?!" Belle flung the door open, and pulled the cloaked figure into a hug. "Papa..."
"Belle..." Maurice said, his voice hoarse. "I've so much to tell you..."
"A Beast, Papikins?" Babette said, worry etching lines in her face. Maurice despised this nickname, so of course Babette used it often.
"It's the things of fairy tales..." Gertrude said, eyeing her father, "Do you think us simple, Popi?"
"Oh, Papa...you can't..." Belle said, gazing at the rose. As red as blood, and as perfect as stone, the rose floated placidly in a vase, but barely seemed to need the water. The rose, as the castle described by her father, seemed unearthly, and of another time and place. The age of fairy stories and legends, and not the modern times they lived in.
"I must, Belle, I must!" Maurice insisted, pounding his fist on the table. "The Beast will come and murder us all if I do not... he will, I'm sure of it!"
"No, Papikins! Who will take care of us?!" Babette cried, sobbing. Gertrude patted her back gently.
"Papa...I won't allow it. If this... this Beast.. wants a captive.. he shall have me."
With this, before anyone could speak, or stop her, Belle leapt to her feet, and pulled on her blue travel cloak.
"Belle, no!" Maurice tried to stand, but age had slowed his limbs: he made it to the door quickly enough to see Belle, riding off into the night astride Philippe, the first snowfall of the Winter starting to fall.
On the table, the rose shimmered, and a petal fell, slowly, gracefully, to the tabletop.