The castle was enchanted. Nay; alive. In a strange and miraculous turn of events, Belle had found herself in a place where she could pose a question to a teacup and hear a tiny, pitched voice that closely resembled the whistling of a kettle as it answered her in kind tones. Candelabras with a sense of humor told her jokes, clocks scolded and pointed to the time as they sent her off to bed. And a kettle with a kind disposition offered her a steaming cup of tea to settle her nerves before she dropped off to sleep.
It was beautiful, now that she'd had considerable time to adjust to hearing whispered comments from seemingly lifeless decor and furniture. The sharp squeal of rusty hinges followed her whenever she strolled through the armory, where suits of armor followed her progress through the slits in their helmets. As of yet, none had spoken, but one bold suit had lifted a metallic hand in salute, earning itself a whack over the head from the suit next to him. The clang that echoed through the hall had left a ringing in Belle's ears.
Her host - although, she supposed, gaoler would be a more appropriate term for the fanged creature holding her here - had not shown himself since the eruption of temper outside her bedroom door. Briefly, she wondered what he did with his time, but quickly shook herself out of her musings to answer the polite little feather duster keeping pace next to her, feeling her eyes water from the clouds of dust stirred up from years of neglect.
How long had it been since the place had seen a thorough cleaning? Too long, undoubtedly. Belle reached out and lightly traced a finger against a tapestry as she passed by, and wrinkled her nose in distaste when the tip of her finger came back coated in thick gray fluff. The motes, floating gaily in the air, tickled her nose, and she sneezed delicately, flinching a bit when the sound echoed off the high ceilings, so far above her head it made her neck crack with the effort of leaning back to study them. She thought she could detect the shapes and swirls of an artist's work through the shadows - for such a large castle, it was very dimly lit, with only a few candles placed here and there along the corridors - and wondered which painter had devoted his time and talents to the beautification of the home of a literal beast who wouldn't appreciate any of it.
As the feather duster offered apologies and hurried to clear her finger of dust and dirt, Belle froze with a sudden question lingering in her mind: how long had the Beast been - well, a beast? It was impossible to judge his age through the thick layers of fur that covered his skin, and the added boost to his height from the clawed paws and muscular legs belied any hint of how tall he might be as a man. For surely he was a man, hidden though he was by teeth and fangs and the terrifying form of several animals blended into one hideous figure. For she had seen his eyes, gazed into them as she bargained for her father's freedom, and discovered not the chilling amber gaze of a wild beast, but light blue orbs brimming with a variety of emotion, and undeniably human.
She must have shivered at the route her thoughts had taken, for the feather duster ceased her fussing and exclaimed, "Vous avez froid,mademoiselle?Nous vous ramènerons dans votre chambre.Dépêchez,maintenant."
And as the feather duster guided her down the cold corridors back to her room, quietly chastising the young lady for not speaking up sooner, Belle remained silent, hardly noticing the coolness of the stone floor seeping through her thin slippers, or the secretive glances exchanged between the feather duster and the candelabra as they ushered her into the room where the smiling teapot sat, patiently waiting to pour her a steaming cup of tea.