Release

Cecelia was sprawled across the bed, muttering unintelligible nonsense in her sleep when I awoke. When I was awoken by her. I'd forgotten that she always hogged the bed. I had only remembered the nice things about it. I had remembered the warmth, and the silly secrets that we whispered to each other long after Father blew out the candle and bid us each goodnight. But I'd forgotten that she stole the covers. I'd forgotten that she always spoke in her sleep, and how irritating it was to have to constantly elbow and nudge her and hiss in into her ear 'Stop it, Cece'. And it would never matter, because she could sleep through anything.

I glared at her and relinquished the small bit of quilt that I had managed to retain during the night's long, unconscious battle. It did not matter, really. I wouldn't have fallen back asleep again anyways.

It was cold—excessively cold—and the floorboards were icy underfoot as I tiptoed towards the window. I clenched my teeth so that they would not chatter and peered out. Black skeleton trees stood out starkly against the bland gray sky. Snow was falling lazily.

It looked lonely.

I felt lonely, too, but I did not want Cecelia's chipper conversation. I did not want to smile contrived smiles at her triumphant jokes. I did not want to pretend anymore that nothing had happened. Why were we avoiding it? Why were we trying to act as if I had not been gone?

I don't know why it bothered me. It wasn't as if I wanted to talk about it. I did not.

What I wanted was to trudge through the snow in my father's oversized boots. I wanted to hear it crunch, crunch, crunch under my feet. I wanted to feel the tip of my nose sting from the cold, and to feel my fingers to grow numb and red.

There was no winter at the palace. It was perpetually spring: a balmy, sun-drenched sort of spring that was not really spring at all. At home chilly, drizzly days pervaded well into May. But what was May there? What was time at all there?

I had missed the seasons when I was away. I'd missed the oppressive heat and the wretched cold. I'd yearned for the long, dreary weeks of unremitting rain and the hazy, sultry summer months. The perfectly temperate atmosphere—eternally temperate atmosphere—about the palace gave me the eery impression that it place was not at all a part of the world I'd known. I suppose it was not. Where in the natural order do invisible servants and gentle beasts with human eyes and heavy hearts exist?

I did not like thinking of those eyes: those penetrating, seemingly omniscient eyes.

I grabbed my weather-beaten cloak from where it was draped across the back of Mama's old rocking chair and pulled on the worn-in, hand-me-down boots that had once belonged to my sister Viola. The former was dead; the latter married.

In the corner, neatly folded, were the lovely velvet cloak and fine leather boots that he'd given me. I did not think of touching them, or any of the other extravagant articles he'd lavished upon me. What would Cece think if I pranced about our cottage in some silk ball gown? What would Father say if I sat down to breakfast with a glistening jeweled necklace hung about my neck? How pretentious and ridiculous would I feel?

Beast had sent me home with jewels and gowns and velvet capes enough for all, of course. But Father and Cecelia had no need for fineries. They had no desire for them, either. Father was deeply insulted, and Cece thought it all too amusing for words.

I was troubled. I did not want my family to think me altered, though I was. The me that I had been—and thought I'd always be—was not me anymore.

Which was ridiculous sounding, and probably just plain ridiculous.

'Twas nothing a walk in the crisp morning air of December could not remedy, though.

I descended the rickety stairs from our attic bedroom painstakingly, anxious not to awaken Father. I did not worry much about waking Cece, for it was little more than she deserved. My concerns were unnecessary, though. There were the glowing remnants of a fire in the hearth, and Father's boots, which were always in their designated post beside the door, were not there. Father was out.

I stood in the threshold a moment, following his footprints with my eyes until they disappeared into the thick of the forest. I decided that I would go to him, regardless of whether he had left seeking solitude or not. Our time together was tragically brief. Sensitivity was a luxury we could not afford.

Like a child, I tried to fit my own feet into the imprints my father left behind. His stride was not much longer than mine now, and I no longer had to breathlessly hop from one footprint to the other. Though growing older admittedly frightened and saddened me, I was not especially depressed by my longer legs. I rather preferred thinking of them to agonizing over all that had passed that would never be reclaimed or relived.

I knew where he was headed after only a minute or two of following his trail. Left from the Black Walnut tree with the massive, knotted roots, straight 'til the White Elm scarred by a bolt of lightning. Turn right there, and on, on, on. At the moment that you begin to think you might as well turn back, or that you've gone the wrong way and missed the mark completely— and not a moment after—you'd find it there. It was not much really, just a small clearing with a gurgling brook not two feet wide passing through it.

The softly murmured secrets of the small stream were silenced during the winter. What was picturesque during the blossoming spring was simply dreary and sad then.

Father was seated on an old log he'd cut down for us: a crude bench of sorts that Cece and I would sit on when we went there. We'd once fancied it a faerie grove, I suppose, and thought we might catch a glimpse of one if we sat long and patiently enough. I scoffed to myself at myself: at my younger, sillier self and all her foibles.

Father looked up, alarmed. I smiled at him. He smiled, too, though his was achieved only after visible effort.

He patted the place beside him with a gloved hand. "Sit, please."

His words dissipated into the air in puffs of white.

I consented with a nod. The bark was wet. I shivered.

"Are you cold, Rosalind?" Father inquired politely. Formally, too: as if I were a guest at a dinner party.

"No," I lied, hugging my cloak about me and shaking my head. "Not at all."

He tried to laugh. A strangled sort of cry escaped him, and he closed his mouth hastily. I stole a glance at him, embarrassedly, and looked away.

Silence. I could not bear it. Too often at the palace had Beast and I sat in silence, too angry or shy or pained to speak what we felt. So I decided I would speak.

"It's snowing," I observed, opening a palm towards the sky to catch the tiny flakes.

Stating the obvious seemed a natural progression in a floundering conversation. I silently applauded myself for that brilliant insight.

Father merely nodded. I swallowed a lump in my throat.

"Has it been a mild winter?" I inquired, hopeful to bait him somehow. "Was it a pretty fall? Cece told me she painted a picture of it, but she won't show me. She says it's not very good."

"It's not," he replied, smirking weakly. "But she's getting better. She's quite determined, really. After that young man--"

"She's got a young man, now?" I asked eagerly. "Why did she not tell me?"

He humph-ed and crossed his arms over his chest.

"I don't know. I s'pose she's embarassed. He's a painter, from the capital. He was traveling north for a commission, but he stopped here for two months to paint the scenery. Just like that," Father murmured, furrowing his brows in distaste. "As if his obligation did not mean a thing."

"A brash young man," I remarked, smiling drolly. "You don't seem very fond of him. Was he an unbecoming fellow?"

Father shrugged, watching me from the corner of his eyes. "No. I suppose he was a very nice man. Cece was quite taken with him. She spent nearly everyday following him, watching him paint."

"Admiring his every brushstroke, I suppose?"

I snorted derisively, though in all actuality I was glad to have something to tease my sister about. Any lingering uneasiness between Cece and I would surely dissolve once we resumed our old repartee. Not that we had much time left for sisterly bonding...

"Not at all. She critiqued him quite honestly. If she thought he was misrepresenting our woods in the slightest way, she was quick to tell him. He thought that quite funny, but he always listened to her suggestions. And his paintings were all the better for it."

Father crossed his arms over his chest and scoffed. "I suppose he means to come back again this spring. For her sake alone, I suppose. He promised Cece a portrait. She promised him a landscape."

"They've only known each other briefly, then. Do you think... Well, knowing Cece, I'm sure she's 'in love' with him. Do you think it's real?" I asked pensively. "Do you think he loves her?"

Father frowned at this and waved a dismissive hand at me. "Marjorie from the inn says that he's from one noble family or another. Painting is a hobby. He's probably got coffers enough for a king at home."

He said it as if it were a definitive answer to my question. With his face in a scowl and his nose and cheeks bright red, he looked something like an indignant little boy.

"Oh. Well. Nobles are incapable of love, so I imagine the answer is no," I teased.

He pursed his lips. "He has money. We do not. There is nothing to tempt him."

I shifted uncomfortably on the log. "But Cece is clever, and funny, and warm. He very well might love her. And she's pretty, too."

Beast is not pretty at all, and it does not matter to me, I caught myself thinking. I looked to Father frenetically, absurdly fearful that he might've sensed my... What exactly was it? I could not say, but it worried me exceedingly.

"She is that and much more," Father agreed complacently. "Cecelia is everything that is spunky and spirited. And what an amusing companion! She will make a good wife, but not for him. And she will see that in time. I imagine she will be quite devastated when he leaves her, but she will live. And she is far too pretty not to love again."

"I don't think beauty has anything to do with that," I retorted insolently. "And I do not think he will leave her."

I rubbed my hands together and looked crossly at the frozen stream. Father's back straightened.

"You're quite opinionated on love these days," he murmured. "I wonder what has happened to you, Rosalind, that you know so much of it. That you believe so ardently in its ability to triumph over adversity."

"I don't," I snapped hastily. "I know nothing of it, and I don't believe that it can overcome. I'm simply being romantic. People can love whomever they like, but it hardly makes any difference in the end. You are right, of course. She will not marry him. He will marry some tedious gossipmonger with money, and he will forever think of her. She will marry some charming knight, or someone of that dauntless stock, and she will never think of him again. And he will be forever sorry, and he will forever love her. And it won't make an ounce of difference to her, or anyone but himself."

His posture relaxed a bit, but his entire carriage still bespoke wariness. He knew. Good God, he knew it all! Father knew of every miserable pang, every surge of fondness, every stirring of that uncomfortable and enigmatic something that I'd ever felt for him.

I paled.

"And now she is unforgiving and cynical!" he declared in a voice that was intended to be jovial. It fell terribly short of the mark.

"I cannot make my mind up," I quipped, smiling tightly. "I had much time to wonder about life and love and all the things that I would never know. I came to some conclusions, most of which—I imagine—are erroneous. But they are mine to believe, and no one can ever make me think differently. No one can disprove my notions in the palace. I could believe whatever nonsense I wished to for all time, if I wanted to."

A lie, if I ever told one. It was convincing, though.

"And he does not try to break your spirit?" Father inquired in a gravelly voice. His jaw was clenched, and he was trying quite hard not to emote. "He does not laugh at your naiveté? He does not rejoice in your heartache? He does not derive his amusement from the notion that he has made not only you, but also your entire family hopelessly unhappy?"

I said nothing for a moment. I did not trust myself to hold my tongue. I wanted very much to defend Beast's character; to illustrate to Father his kindness, patience, generosity…

But Father would be incensed, and with good reason. His actions were unforgivable, regardless of my feelings for him. How soulless Beast seemed; how seemingly unworthy of anything but hatred! But even I—who always held a grudge and forgave only half-heartedly— could not hate him.

"Have you been hopelessly unhappy?" I asked after a pregnant pause.

I sounded heartlessly indifferent in a childish way, with the sort of unintentional meanness that can come so easily to children.

"I have been more unhappy than you could know," he replied simply. "More unhappy than when Viola married and left us. More unhappy, perhaps, than when your mother died."

"Why?" I gasped. "You knew, at least, that he would not hurt me. He promised you that."

Father shook his head of graying tawny hair. "It does not matter. Why do we dwell on it? We've a whole day ahead of us. We mustn't spoil it."

He did his best to look cheerful, and he squeezed my hand fondly.

I could not feign happiness. I could do nothing but sit there with the icy cold seeping through my cloak.

"I have not been hopelessly unhappy," I whispered, more to the air than my father. "I have not. I felt happiness there. I felt great happiness. And I felt great sadness, too, but it wasn't because I was homesick. It wasn't only because I was homesick, at least. It was because there are things that cannot change, and you cannot understand, but you want to. You want very badly to understand them."

Father, who had stood to leave, looked over his shoulder incredulously at me.

"Rosalind?"

"You want very badly to know why there is always that sadness in his eyes. But you don't want to make him as happy as you do because it's too frightening. You don't want him to look at you like that: like you're the epitome of goodness, because you know you're not. And then you hurt him; you know you're going to, and you do it anyways. Why? Because you still can't forgive him? Because you're afraid? Yes, yes—because you're afraid. Because you're a coward, and you feel things and--"

"Rosalind. Stop. Please."

An order. I shut my mouth, trembling uncontrollably. I bit my lip hard. So hard that it started to bleed; so that I could taste the metallic piquancy of it.

Father's dark eyes glared down at me. He was angry, and hurt. And maybe he was scared, too.

"I'm sorry. I don't know…" I trailed off and looked away, mortified that I'd said anything about any of it.

I didn't want to talk about it. That's what I'd said, wasn't it? Not talking about it was not going to change it. But talking about it wasn't the brave thing to do. Things like that torture you if you leave them inside. I would feel better, maybe, if I told Cece or Father about all the things I felt. But Father looked tormented by the mere thought of it. I had to be unselfish. I had to pretend that he did not exist, and that my feelings did not exist. What were they, anyways? What? I did not know.

"Let's go back to the house," Father said easily. "Cece will be awake, soon. She will not hesitate in complaining how much she detests waking up to an empty home, and we will have to hear it. It will have her in a cross mood all day."

I wondered how he did it. Just like that, it was all swept under the rug. I tried to smile and pretend, too. But those sad eyes plagued me. Those mournful, gray-blue eyes that looked at me with such hopefulness. The sad eyes that trusted me, that believed that I could make things better. How? How could I possibly change the way of things? He loved me, yes. But what could ever become of it?

Nothing. Whatever could? Marriage? He'd asked me, too. 'Will you marry me, Beauty?' he'd begged earnestly. What a laugh! A beast and a girl, married. What sort of fool would even fancy such a thing possible? And yet I answered him with a straight face! I was even sorry for refusing him-- indeed, I was heartbroken to do it! How utterly absurd! And yet, it hadn't at all felt that way then... I felt as if I could not breathe; as if nothing would ever again be right...

I looked at Father a moment and impulsively grabbed his hand.

"I don't want to go back there," I declared, holding on to him desperately as if we were being torn apart that very moment. "What will come of anything? Why go back there? Why would he want me to? To torture himself? To torture me? I don't want to have to feel that way and know that nothing will ever change. I don't want to."

Father pressed my hand to his cold lips and smiled gravely. "I would not make you go back. You know that."

My father was not joyful at the prospect of having me back forever. I wondered why. Was he afraid that he would have to go in my place? He did not understand. Beast wanted me, and me only. It was no longer about some debt: a simple rose. None of that mattered anymore. Beast loved me. He loved me, and I knew that. Still I did not want to go back. I knew it would break his heart, and still. I did not want to hurt him, but I was afraid. He thought that I was the most selfless soul on the planet, and so foolishly!

I was terrified: so terrified that the pounding of my heart echoed dully in my ears.

"Please don't," I begged dumbly. "Please don't. I'm afraid. I don't want to. Don't make me."

"Rosalind," Father repeated, embracing me warmly. "I would never force you to return. I would have you forever with me, if I could."

But his voice trailed, and there were ominous words left unsaid, lingering in the crisp wintry air.

"Why can't you?" I whispered into the front of his coat, so quietly that I was sure that he would not hear. Part of me did not want him to hear, so ashamed was I of my spinelessness.

And Father did not hear me. He stroked my hair, as he did when I was a child: when I'd scraped my knee or quarreled with Cece. After a moment, he took me firmly by the shoulders and looked at me with a resolute expression.

"Rosalind, you know that you must live with whatever decision you make. I will love you no matter what you do."

This was his gentle, paternal way of telling me that what I wanted to do was wrong. Why would he say such a thing? Didn't he want me to stay? Couldn't he be selfish, if only for my sake?

"I don't want to be a bad person, Father," I moaned glumly. "I only want to do what is right."

He smiled at me pensively. "You only want to be free. You are young, Rosalind. You don't deserve to have the weight of another's happiness on your shoulders."

"But I do," I retorted bitterly. "I never should have asked to come home. It was better to have no say in the matter. It was better to have something—someone—to blame. Now I have to make decisions that I don't want to make. I just want to--"

I didn't know what it was that I wanted. I didn't know why I was all but throwing a tantrum. I hadn't meant to say that. I wasn't sorry that I asked to come home.

"We mustn't spoil your last day," Father repeated, feigning deafness to my sour lament. "Cece will hate you forever if you fritter away the hours in brooding. You know how resentful she gets when things don't happen exactly as she intended."

"Yes," I replied. "I missed that. I missed having a spoiled little sister to complain about. I missed having a father. I missed our routines. If I stay… Is it stupid to wish that everything would go back to normal?"

He laughed again, abruptly. "Stupid? Never. Pointless? Entirely. You've changed. Nothing will be as it was."

He'd noticed. It was futile to pretend now that I hadn't.

I screwed my eyes shut miserably. "I have. I'm not as...as stupendously stupid. Why did you let me think that the world was so neat? So tidy? So eager to cater to my needs? Why did you let me think myself a sage of Solomon's proportion, when in reality I was a ignorant twit? Why did you let me ramble on when you knew I was so utterly wrong?"

"That was what was so endearing," Father laughed. "You truly believed things would turn out for the best, and I believed it, too, despite knowing better. Now I would not ask your advice on anything. You doubt yourself so completely, and therefore the world. I don't want to hear that things will be dreadful, even if that's what I myself believe."

I studied him for a moment uncertainly, and he studied me back, smiling so that the corners of his eyes crinkled.

"I want to stay," I said then, with a nod of my head to give the impression of certainty. "I'm going to stay."

Father said nothing for a moment.

Then, "Are you sure?"

"Positive," I lied.

The wind rattled the barren tree branches. I shuddered and painted on my best smile. Father paced pensively and was silent.

"Then you'll stay," he said at last. "But you mustn't think of him ever again."

"Never again," I repeated obediently. "Never again."

For a moment there was a blessed calm in my mind. It was said. It could not be unsaid. I was staying.

"Promise me, Rosalind," Father ordered strictly. "Promise me."

"I promise."

I would not think of him again. I would not think of those eyes, or of our discourses on literature or people or history or gardens. I would never again reflect on our evening walks: those strolls that were sometimes awkward but more often peculiarly pleasant. I would happily forget those agonizing times he asked me to marry him, and I would eagerly put out of mind how strained his voice sounded when he accepted my answer with the same pained'Good night, Beauty'. I would banish every last memory of our time together.

I would forget about him. It wouldn't matter to me if he were well or sickly, or happy or disheartened. It would make no difference if he were alive or dead, really.

I would be happy. Every thought—any thought—of him or his well-being would be damaging to that happiness. Forgetting him was necessary.

Forgetting him would be impossible, but I would do it anyways. Somehow.

The world could be tidy again. I could go on believing that things would turn out right if I only wished and hoped and prayed. I could be the silly, misguided Rosalind that my father loved. I wanted to be her. I wanted to forget. I wanted it more than anything... anything.

Didn't I?

Father leaned to kiss my brow, and turned back towards the path. I followed him blindly, smiling like a fool, and doing my best to forget. I was too consumed with this effort to notice or admire the perfect still of the forest—of my forest that I could enjoy for the rest of my life. Father hummed a cheery strain, and I wrinkled my wind-bitten nose at him jovially. Actually forgetting came second to convincing Father I'd already forgotten.

The top of our homely little house soon emerged over the trees, hopelessly incongruent against the picturesque forest backdrop with its discolored wood and worrisomely slanting chimney of stone. Cece could be seen sitting in the 'parlor' (if it could be called thus), drawing sweeping swirls on the frosty windowpane with her index finger. When she noticed us she sprang to her feet and threw open the front door with a dramatic flair that only she could execute flawlessly—despite her bedraggled appearance.

"Do you think it humorous to leave me here all alone?" she exclaimed indignantly. "I thought you'd been murdered or kidnapped!"

"Time you spent concocting those outlandish theories might have been spent actually looking for us, Cecelia," Father chided good-naturedly. "I assure you, we were neither kidnapped nor murdered. You can put your mind at ease."

Cece scowled. "You might've woke me. It's Rosalind's last day. I would have enjoyed wandering about in the freezing cold, too, if it would've meant spending time with her."

"I'm not leaving," I informed her quietly. "I'm not going back."

She blinked at me and Father uncertainly. "What do you mean?"

"I'm home, for good."

I waited for her to fling herself at me in a dramatic embrace, but she stood in place, tugging uncertainly at her nightgown.

"But you promised him. And he…" Cece paused and furrowed her brows. "A promise is a promise, Rosalind. You were never one to take that lightly."

I could not fashion any sort of rejoinder to that. It did not matter. Father would have beaten me to it anyways.

"You're always so silly and theatrical," he said dismissively. "Cece, can't you force yourself to be happy? Rosalind is restored to us!"

"Restored to us," Cecelia muttered, looking at me with unrelenting condemnation in her eyes. She crossed her arms over her chest and sighed.

"I made a loaf of bread. It's burnt. I'll make another," she mumbled at last, turning back to the house.

"I'm going to dress," I said softly, stealing a wary glance at Father.

He looked at Cecelia and shook his head in astonishment. "I don't understand. She missed you so."

I couldn't understand either. She didn't know him. She didn't know he loved me. How could she? How could she blame me when she didn't even know the half of it? Was my decision that blatantly amiss?

Avoiding Father's pitying glance and Cecelia's scathing glare, I quickly crossed the room and retreated up the attic stairs. I sat at the top and drew my knees to my chest. I did not want to dress. I did not want to stand and go to my dresser, only to have the gown he gave me catch my eye. I didn't want to think about him, or Father, or Cece, or anyone. I didn't want to hate myself for cowardice or torture myself over what the 'moral' decision was and how I was wicked for what I'd chosen.

It was inescapable, though. Father and Cece were arguing about it downstairs, loud enough that their belligerent voices were easily heard.

"What's the matter with you, Cecelia?"

"With me? You know this is pointless. Fool yourself all you like. You're delusional if you think--"

"Think what?"

"Think that she'll stay! Think that she'll be happy here! She might think that now, but give her a day or two and she'll be gone."

"Why? You think she'd be happy with him? She pities him; that is all. She cannot do anything for him, wretched creature that he is. I might pity him, if not for what he did to us."

"It's more than pity. Have you seen her? Have you seen the way she flinches when you refer to him as 'that monster'? Have you seen her smiling those strained smiles when we try to cheer her? Don't you understand? She misses him! I can see it! I can just… feel it, I guess."

I never knew I was that transparent. Everything I'd tried to hide was glaringly obvious to her. I was stupid to think I could fool anyone.

"I…"

"You know, don't you? She said something, didn't she? Oh, Father! I know how hard it is for you. She'll never be happy with us, knowing she'd made him miserable. Apparently he's not as wicked as we thought. Or maybe we simply underestimated the potential of Rosalind's bleeding heart to eclipse her reason."

And now I had the bleeding heart?

"But can she be happy with him, knowing she's made us miserable?"

I listened for the answer anxiously.

Please, Cece, I silently prayed. For the love of God, please have the answer. Please tell me what I should do. Please.

"I—I don't know. All I know is that she'll go. For better or worse, she'll go to him. I'm sorry. I know how you love her, Father, but he loves her, too. Why else would he let her go? Why else would he give her all those things, for us? To make amends, because she loves you and I, and he loves her. The oddest thing is that I think she might actually…"

She might actually love him back. She does.

I couldn't bear it a second longer. I threw myself on the bed and buried my face in the coverlet, smothering my hitched breaths and hiding the tears that I didn't deserve to cry.

I'd lost at this sordid game.

Either way, I'd break a promise. Either way, someone would hurt.

Either way, the fault was mine.

A/N: Yes: I have written yet another BatB one-shot. (I really need to branch out, don't I?) I wrote this one a while ago (a LOOOOOONG whole ago) but didn't publish it because I wasn't happy with the ending. I'm still not thrilled with it, but I decided that I wasn't going to be a perfectionist. There might be some overlap with this Beauty and the one in Quia, but I actually wrote this first. I borrow ideas from myself sometimes, which is probably not the best thing. Oh well.

Read and please review!