Prologue

Panic –

(n) An overwhelming feeling of fear and anxiety.

(n) Sudden fear and anxiety of an anticipated event.

(v) To be overcome by a sudden fear.

Giselle

I've never dealt with panic well.

Don't take this the wrong way though. I don't mean that any time things get a little stressed I over react like the earth is about to implode and kill us all. No, I mean that I just don't. Panic, that is. Never have. If a gunman were to walk up to me during school and point the gun at my head, I'd probably say, "Just let me finish this equation… okay, I'm done. What can I do for you?"

And yes, I understand this is a problem. A problem because panic was instilled in us humans for a reason. It makes us run away. And I don't do that. I'm still trying to work it out. In any case, that is why I am now in the predicament I'm in now. Because if I had panicked – like all normal human beings would – I wouldn't have entered that house. I wouldn't have met River. I wouldn't have stayed with River. I wouldn't have… well, let's just say my life would be a whole lot easier if I had just panicked and got the hell out of that house.

But, no, I had to be the calm, measured, composed me.

I guess I should probably start at the beginning. To be honest, this story didn't actually begin with me. It began with River. And a long time ago, I might add. But I don't really know that part of the story all that well, so I am just going from where I stepped in. I'm seventeen and live in a fairly small town. Apart from my obvious abstinence from panic I'm also fairly pretty. And I know that sounds very conceited but it's the truth, and I personally hate it when pretty girls say they're ugly when they know they aren't. It's more insulting. Anyway, I have a feeling that was why I was picked. Because I'm sort of fearless and a little beautiful. So, here's the beginning.

Just know, the start begins in another world.

Beauty

The Merchant looked at the three girls before him. Junkies. Except the last one. The one that he'd always seen something in. Beautiful. Classic. Virgin. A pure rose.

He held up the vile of coke.

"This can give you anything. What do you want?"

"Diamonds," the first girl giggled.

"Pearls," the second laughed with her friend.

"Belle?" the Merchant questioned the third girl.

Belle looked at the Merchant with a disgusted look on her face. She hated it when he called her that. Belle.

"From that?" She nodded at the vile of white powder. "Nothing." She looked away, revolted.

"What about a beautiful," the Merchant took a step forward, whispering, "red," another step, "rose." He was close now. He reached up and ran a hand over Belle's cheek with only breath. "Rose. Belle."

"You'd never find one in winter," Belle spat. Then, she spun, spite in her movements, and left the house.

The Merchant only smiled, knowing she'd be back.

And next time, he'd have his rose for her. From her.

Magic Mirror

The mirror wasn't magic, but it may as well have been. The white powder made it magic.

The images changed. Sharpened. Blurred.

The mirror wasn't magic, but it showed Belle what she needed to see. She saw her family. Her brother. The life she lost. And the life she'd gained. But gained was hardly a word that sounded fit.

Sometimes she wondered what happened. How this had happened. The drugs. The haze. The lies. The pain.

Mostly – usually – the pain.

She blamed the Beast. But there was only so much blame one person could be held to. So much of it was her fault. So much.

And she hated herself for it. She really hated herself.

Beast

She was beautiful. He could see that. It was one of the reasons he'd married her.

Jocelyn. But there was something else. Something about her. Some… emotion. Some… enchantment.

He couldn't explain it. Her beauty explained it for him.

So why was he… exploring with another? Jocelyn was all he needed and more. So why was he with a gypsy. Because it was easy? Because she was entrancing. He wasn't sure.

"Are you coming to bed?" Jocelyn asked. Her voice was soft and tentative; almost as if she were scared. He hoped that she wasn't. That would hurt him.

"I…yes. Yes, I am." Tonight, he decided, he would stay with his wife. She deserved that much from him. Jocelyn had already crawled under the covers of the bed. She was reading something. A title he wasn't sure of. "What are you reading, love?" he asked.

Jocelyn looked up, surprised he'd asked. "A story of a young girl. It's called Roselyn." He waited for her to continue. Jocelyn looked happy. She began to talk animatedly. "Her father is awful, his wife dead. She runs away. It's about her life after. She meets some very interesting people."

He smiled, and slipped under the covers of the bed with his wife. She put the book down and took a breath. He ran a hand over her cheek. She smiled softly; she wanted this. Then he realised something – so did he. He still didn't understand it. Was he scared of what Jocelyn was? "You are more beautiful that you could ever know," he told her.

"Just for you," she answered.

Stockholm Syndrome – a psychological response seen in an abducted hostage or prisoner, in which the hostage shows signs of loyalty to the perpetrator, regardless of the danger. This response is thought to occur as a survival mechanism for the hostage, on the grounds of the perpetrator providing protection for the victim; forming a bond with the perpetrator in the thought that this will stop any intention of killing the hostage and providing better treatment.

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