"If only he had come." Gaston's words lay flat, like overbaked bricks in the hot sun.
"Well, he didn't, did he?" her father said. He sat down heavily on his throne, for once not looking like a king . . . not even looking like a man. "Ogres are not men. We have to do something. We have to stop them."
Her heart melted and the safety of her world, a safety she hadn't even known was there, started to crack. If her father could be weak . . . if their kingdom could fall . . . if everything she knew could come to an end . . . She shook her head. She had to stop this.
"They are unstoppable," her father said.
She ran to him, and dropped onto the floor at his feet.
"He could be on his way right now, Papa," she said. She grabbed his hand as if it were a life raft, a little girl clinging to her father.
"It's too late, my girl," he said. He looked right at her but past her. "It's just too late."
She was going to start screaming. She was going to run out of the room. She was going to do anything, anything to stop this falling. Save me. The words spun through her head, making her dizzy. Please, save me. Save me. Save me!
The bang was so loud and so close she thought it had come from inside her own head. The second bang was just as loud but not so close and she saw it for what it was. A knock. A lifeboat. A chance.
She leaped to her feet.
"That's him," she said. She was breathless as she fled toward the door. "That's got to be him."
It was a moment before she realized why she had stopped moving. She looked down and saw Gaston's arm across her body. He was holding her back.
"Open it."
Her father's voice came out strong and steady. It sounded like it always had. It sounded like home.
The heavy doors creaked as they swung open. Had they always been that loud? The corridor outside was – empty. She wanted to push Gaston's arm out of her way so that she could go right up to the doorway, but nothing was going to make a man appear in it, no matter how well she could see it.
"Well, that was a bit of a letdown." The words were so casual – so conversational – she almost didn't register alarm. But they were followed by a trill of a laugh that sent tingles up her spine.
Everyone turned as if they were of one mind, as if they were strapped together with wooden yokes.
"You sent me a message," he said. He was reclined in the king's chair, as if he had sat in it a thousand times. His frame was so slight – almost delicate – that his feet didn't even touch the floor. "Something about 'help, help, we're dying, can you save us?'" He cocked his head when he looked at them and rose slowly from the throne. "Now the answer is," he said, holding his hands out slightly – owning the space around him. He swatted Gaston's sword down like a fly. Did that hurt? "Yes, I can," he said. He tossed the little castle he had been holding – the one her father used to let her play with when she was a child – to a guard. "Yes, I can protect your little town," he looked at each of them in turn. "For a price."
"We sent you a promise of gold," the king said.
The man nearly rolled his eyes. "You see, I make – gold. No, what I want is something a little more 'special'." He drew the word out, long and lean, emphasizing the sounds of the 's' and 'c', making it sound visceral – snakelike. "My price," he said. He didn't take his eyes off her father's. "Is her."
One Mississippi . . . two Mississippi.
Everyone spoke at once.
"No," the king said.
"The lady is engaged – to me," Gaston said. His arm pressed protectively over her but it was too high and almost covered her face. She had to fight the urge to push it away.
"I wasn't asking if she was engaged," he said. He took a slow stroll as the words came out. "I'm not looking for – love." He gave an almost imperceptible laugh. "I'm looking for a caretaker," he announced, "for my rather large estate". He boxed his hands together – so expressive – as if were holding it right there between his palms. "It's her or no deal."
"Get out," the king said. "Leave!"
"As you wish," the man said.
That was it?
He didn't even glance at her as he passed by. He moved past her with a slow, jaunty gate, taking up so little space with his fine, precise movements and yet filling the room with his presence.
I can't let this happen. I can't let him leave.
"No, wait," she said. She did push Gaston's arm away then. The sound of her blood pounding in her ears nearly drowned out the click of her heels on the marble floor. She crossed the room and went right up to him. She looked at him, at his big, expressive eyes, hovering above his delicate frame. She was nearly as tall as him. She spoke the words clearly, so that there could be no mistake – no undoing what she had just done. "I will go with you."
The man laughed and clapped his hands together like a little child being promised a sweet. She stared at him. He was supposed to be frightening. How did he get away with things like that?
"No," the king said.
She turned and looked over her shoulder at him. For the first time – maybe ever – she saw that her father was afraid.
"I forbid it," Gaston said.
She didn't move from her spot on the floor, just looked up at her father.
"No one decides my fate but me," she said. She turned back to the man before her. "I shall go," she said.
He did something then, something strange, something almost – gentle. He gave her an out.
"It's forever, dearie," he said. His eyes locked onto hers and he raised his eyebrows ever so slightly. His tone was gentile, even affectionate.
"My family, my friends," she said. She watched him for any hint of deception. "They will all live?"
He lowered his eyes and gave the slightest of bows. "You have my word," he said.
"Then you have mine," she said. "I will go with you – forever."
"Deal," he said quickly. He laughed his delighted, childlike laugh, holding his hands clasped in front of him like it was Christmas morning.
"Belle," her father said. His voice was almost pleading, calling her – calling her back to her childhood. "Belle, you cannot do this. Please, you can not go with this – beast."
She did not turn to see the man's reaction, but her father's grimace hinted at it all the same.
"Father," she said. "Gaston," she said. She touched the young man lightly on the front of his chest – a touch that felt far more intimate than any she had shared with him in the past. A sudden rush of tenderness took hold of her when she saw what his face looked like. He looked like a little boy again, like the child she had grown up racing across the back gardens of her father's castle with. "It's been decided."
She didn't hear the man take a step – close the distance between her and himself. But she felt the softest, lightest touch on her back through the heavy fabric of her gown. The man's voice was so close, he was almost whispering in her ear.
"You know, she's right," he said. His voice held that same almost tenderness – compassion – pity? – that she had felt an instant before. "The deal," he said. And then his voice lilted into a hard, golden edge. "Is struck," he said.
She felt his hand, firmer on her back now, the warmth moving easily across the fabric.
"Oh," he said. "Congratulations on your little war." And then that little trill of a laugh again.
She didn't know if she turned toward the door then, or if he had somehow turned her, but his arm – so soft on her back – held her lightly against his side. He smiled a quiet little smile to himself as he walked toward the door, and she held her head high and never – not even once – looked back.
# # #
He didn't touch anything – not the locks on the doors or even the doors themselves. He just gave this little wave of his hand – you could barely see it, really – and the latches would open and the doors would give way.
"Where are you taking me?" she asked.
He walked so quickly for such a little man, and with a sense of purpose, like he couldn't wait to get her to where he wanted to go.
"Let's call it your room," he said.
She stopped so quickly she almost barreled him over when he stopped walking. She saw a small cell with a single cot and a slit of a window at the top.
"My… my room?" she said. She stared at him.
"Well, it sounds a lot better than dungeon," he said. He giggled.
His small hand took her arm so gently she hadn't realized he had touched her until he was shoving her inside like a frozen slab of meat. With that same tiny wave of his hand, the door slammed shut on her, leaving her in near total darkness. She heard him giggle with glee, clasping his hands together again, and then his footsteps disappeared down the corridor.
"Wait," she called. She knew she shouldn't call him back but she had to. "Wait, you can't just leave me in here!" she called. "You can't just leave me!" She slammed her hand against the door and felt the roughness of the uneven wood scrape against her palm.
Would he lock her in there forever? How long exactly was forever? But that didn't make any sense. Why bring her here if he was just going to lock her up in a dungeon for all of eternity? What good would that do? No. No, calm down. That doesn't make any sense at all. He's not going to leave me in here. He can't. He just . . . he went through so much trouble to bring me here. No, no he's not going to leave me in here. He just can't.
# # #
. . . she was following the strange little man through the marsh at the far end of the castle's woods. He was walking so quickly, stepping so lightly, she had to almost run to keep up. The feathers on the back of the black jacket he was wearing waved to her, bouncing like a little girl's curls. There was a reddish patch on the back of it, high – just between the man's shoulder blades. Funny. It looked like a heart.
I want to touch it. Can I touch it?