Once upon a time, in a faraway land, a young prince lived in a shining castle with his mother and father.
As an only child, and an exceedingly charming boy at that, Prince Adam was indulged by all around him. He had inherited his mother's intense light blue eyes, and his father's fair hair and tempestuous moods.
His father, the lord Auguste, showered the prince with expensive toys and trinkets in the hopes of filling his place when he went abroad on diplomatic visits. His mother, the Lady Hélène, was a socialite with many demands on her time. Her guilt at the prince's loneliness likewise compelled her to spoil him, rarely disciplining the boy or even raising her voice when he misbehaved.
Nonetheless, the prince adored his mother and father, and thirsted for their attention.
Sometimes, when his mother had an afternoon to spare, he would sit at her feet in the parlor as she played the harp. He felt as if her music was for him alone, as if he was her entire world for just one moment, and the aching loneliness would subside for a time.
The prince had few playmates; his uncomfortable awareness of his higher status led him to act haughtily toward other children, so they avoided him.
When the prince was a boy of eight, the king and queen left for a brief tour of the continent, as was their custom in the autumn.
Do not worry, mon cher, his mother assured him as she kissed him goodbye. We shall return in time to celebrate your birthday. We shall have a grand feast, just the three of us, and all your favorite foods, and we'll spend the whole day together. There will be snow by then—perhaps we can build snowmen, would you like that, mon enfant? It'll be great fun, you'll see.
The prince had been near tears, but the lovely picture she painted with her words left him smiling weakly and nodding.
His father looked him sternly in the eye and charged him with keeping the servants in line and the kingdom intact while they were away. The prince, not accustomed to subtle teasing from his father, straightened up solemnly and gave his word.
With one last pat on the head from his father, and one last embrace from his mother, they were gone. The castle seemed deathly silent.
In his parents' absence, the prince grew sulky and impatient. He lashed out at the servants at every little annoyance. The only ray of light for him was his lessons with his tutor, Monsieur Dupont, who recounted ancient battles and ill-fated love affairs that brought mighty kingdoms crashing down. There was such melancholy in history, the way he taught it, that the prince was enthralled with every word, and it checked some of his more selfish outbursts.
The king and queen had not been gone two months before Adam began to notice the grown-ups whispering when they thought he was not listening.
Tales from Avignon of an outbreak…
Yes, they say a thousand infected at least—
-All trade routes are being sealed off—how will the Master get home?
The prince did not know what an "outbreak" was, only that it must be a grave matter indeed if it might hinder the king's journey home. The servants' faces were all pale and creased with worry, until they noticed their young charge watching, at which moment they forced smiles.
He resented being sheltered from whatever was going on. After all, he would be the master of this castle someday; it was not right to keep secrets from him.
Weeks passed in this manner—the furtive glances and hushed gossiping among the servants—until Monsieur Dupont informed the prince that he must leave the castle at once.
Leave? I am your prince, and I have not given you permission to leave, the prince responded, summoning his most imperious tone.
In truth, the adults' mysterious worries had started to spill over onto the boy. Fear bubbled beneath the surface, though he did not understand why.
You cannot leave, he told his tutor, trying to keep the edge of desperate pleading out of his voice. Who else will teach me?
My dear young prince, the tutor said gently, taking both his hands. I have family in the city, and I must go to them before it is too late. There are rumors of an epidemic in this region, and if it spreads, this castle may be sealed off and quarantined. Do you understand what that means?
The prince shook his head. It was a curious word, quarantined, but it filled him with inexplicable dread.
People in the country are getting very, very sick, Monsieur Dupont explained. He had a way of simplifying things without patronizing the listener, which Adam had always appreciated. I must go to my family while I am still allowed to travel, or I may not see them again.
The prince shuddered with tears. It sounded so final—as if the wizened old tutor expected this to be their last parting.
Will you forgive me, young master? Will you allow me to go to them?
Adam could not very well refuse such an earnest request from one he admired so much.
And then he was truly alone.
Almost three years passed. In fear of the dreadful epidemic, the castle had been boarded up, and no visitors allowed in or out. The prince had no letters from his parents or his tutor, nor any news of their whereabouts, but he stubbornly insisted that they would come back. They would not leave him forever, after all, would they? They could not.
He pretended not to notice the way the servants addressed him "Master" now, instead of "young master" or "prince," as they used to. As if he were truly the man of the house now.
The prince's temper grew stormier and stormier—yet instead of arguing with him, the servants rushed to humor his every whim before he could descend into a tantrum. They pitied him, he knew it, and the thought was not comforting.
Each year, on his birthday, he insisted the table be set for three, and a great feast laid out in the dining hall, just as his mother had said. He would sit across from his father's usual place, not eating a single bite until his parents joined him.
But they never did. The succulent roasts and stews grew stone cold. The prince felt too empty and numb to notice his hunger. The clocks stroke midnight, and the servants quietly cleared the meal away as Adam stumbled up to bed without a word.
By the third year of the quarantine, the prince had grown into a little tyrant. He was eleven years old, but ordered the staff about with all the haughtiness of a conquering emperor. And what could they do about it? He was a child, yes, entrusted to their care, but they were also his subjects and social inferiors—they could not challenge him outright or send him to bed without supper for misbehaving, as his mother or father could have.
His eleventh birthday was just as cheerless as the last two.
It was a bitterly cold night in late December. The brutal winds howling across the parapets could have been mistaken for the wolves deep in the forest. Swirling snow piled high on the windowsills, and the servants felt more trapped than they ever had.
And there Adam sat, watching the bouillabaisse congeal in front of him on the table instead of eating, waiting for party guests that were never coming—
When out of nowhere, a deep, resonant gong sounded.
It had been so long since anyone had rung the front door that all the servants could do was stare at one another in shock.
It would, of course, have been the butler's duty to open the door and ascertain the business of any visitors, but Cogsworth was frozen, unable to move his feet.
The prince was the first to comprehend the sound's significance. He raced to the foyer to answer the front door himself, royal status be damned.
It's Mother and Father—they've come home! He said to himself, his heart almost bursting out of his chest. This was the moment he had prayed and wept for—the moment that would end all his waiting and misery. Life would return to normal again.
They haven't left me after all—I knew they would come back!
The great wooden door screeched as he dragged it open with all the force he could muster, his incredulous joy still driving him. An uncharacteristic grin lit up his face as he prepared to meet his parents' gazes for the first time in years. The queen's soft, kind eyes. The king's approving nod. They would be proud of him for waiting—for not giving up hope.
He stopped cold.
He was face to face, not with his beloved mother and father, but with an old hag.
She was a stranger to the prince. Her eyes were mismatched—one brown and squinting, one round and green—and her bulbous nose was covered in warts. Her spine was crooked and she leaned on a willow branch for support.
She was wrapped in a tattered grey cloak—feeble protection from the blizzard outside—but she extended a claw-like hand toward him.
Please, she said in a thin, reedy voice. Please, grant me sanctuary in your halls, kind sir. I have nowhere else to go, and the storm is growing worse.
The abrupt disappointment caused Adam physical pain, as if he had been slapped. His loved ones were still missing, still wandering the world without him, and in their stead was a hideous old beggar woman on his doorstep.
It seemed almost like a cruel joke.
Seeing his hesitation, the old crone said quickly, There is little that I can give you in return for shelter, sir, when you have such finery and I am but skin and bone. But please, take this rose as a gift. It is precious to me—it is all that I have.
She reached with her claw-like hand into her cloak and drew out a rose, holding it out to him. The brilliant magenta petals stood out like blood against the snow—there was something eerily beautiful about it. And yet it was but a simple flower.
The prince recoiled from her.
Away from here—you are not welcome, old woman, he snarled.
(You are not who I have been waiting for, he did not add.)
The withered lips pulled into a wry smile.
You do not receive me gladly because I repulse you, she surmised. But I must warn you, young prince, not to be deceived by appearances, for beauty is found within.
The prince, desperately impatient with the woman's prattling, was not really listening. He wanted to retreat into his solitude and self-pity, but the wretched woman was still here on his doorstep.
I told you to leave, old woman. How dare you preach at me? Do you know who I am?
The crone's smirk grew more pronounced as the prince tried to shut the door in her face. He may have been imagining it, but she seemed to stand up straighter, taller—no, she was growing taller, her leathery skin smoothing into porcelain perfection, her matted grey hair suddenly shining like the sun, her threadbare cloak transforming into a gossamer emerald robe.
Standing before him was a beautiful enchantress, regarding him with a piercing, austere gaze.
The prince trembled at her feet, terrified. He had never seen such magic with his own eyes and he had scorned her…
Please, My Lady, I didn't realize—
No, you did not, she said coldly. You think of no one's suffering but your own. And you think that love is akin to possession.
The enchantress suddenly looked darkly amused.
But she will teach you otherwise, she added, almost to herself.
Who? The prince asked helplessly.
All in good time. Patience is another lesson you must heed.
From her radiant gossamer cloak, the enchantress drew out an ivory wand.
You have been tested, young prince, and you have been found wanting. You are selfish and spoiled and see only what lies on the surface. Now your appearance will reflect what is in your heart.
Her voice was soft, yet it carried above the howling winds and seemed to reverberate through his very bones.
A wave of nausea swept over him—and pain, as if a thousand white-hot needles were embedded in his skin, making him cry out. His childish screams were drowned out by another sound—a horrible animalistic roar, like none he had ever heard. His limbs contorted, re-shaped themselves, his bones seemed to melt like hot wax and to grow; he heard his fine linen breeches and shirt tearing to shreds as if they could not contain his body anymore.
When the agony subsided enough for him to crack open his eyes, panting, he saw splayed on the floor in front of him, not a pair of thin pale hands as usual, but vicious claws like that of a bear.
What have you done to me?
His high, childish voice was gone—the words escaped his throat in a low, deep growl.
The enchantress watched his transformation pitilessly.
I place this castle, and all within it, under a curse, she said, and the words seemed to make it so. An almost imperceptible pall of darkness seemed to fall on the parapets, on the stones, on the gargoyles perched on the windows—but all of this was lost on the prince, who tried to stagger to his feet and could not keep his balance in this new form.
Dimly, he thought he heard the crashing of breaking china from within the castle, along with muffled curses and exclamations, but this too he ignored.
Have you no mercy? He pleaded with her. It sounded rough and demanding in his new voice.
You had none for me, she responded with a shrug.
But as he hid his face, curling into a ball on the floor, he heard her voice, somewhat softer, by his ear.
Do not fear, child. I will give you one chance to save yourself and break this curse.
Again, she drew out the rose that would have been a gift. Now he could see that it truly was glowing, alive with some kind of magic, as she handed it to him.
It will bloom until your twenty-first birthday, the enchantress told him. If you can learn to love another, and earn her love in return, before the last petal falls, the spell will be broken. If not…
A sudden gust of wind carried her form away, despite all his protests and pleading.
And so the disgraced prince's fate was sealed.
Even his servants—who suffered no less under the curse, trapped in the forms of the disposable household objects they had been treated as—shuddered to look at him. He withdrew into the shadows of his tower, forgetting that the West Wing had once been where his parents resided. For the enchantress' condition was surely impossible—earn someone's love? When he was nothing but a monster?
The enchantress had, however, left him one respite in his isolation: a magic mirror, a window to the outside world. He could watch the people in the village, try to imagine speaking to them as if he were an ordinary human.
Show me my mother and father, he demanded of it often. Show me where they are!
And yet the mirror's surface would become cloudy and inscrutable.
Was I unclear? Show me the king of this realm, he would try. And the mirror showed nothing but his own monstrous visage, as if taunting him.
His helplessness boiled over into rage. He tore apart the velvet curtains, broke every piece of furniture in sight, ripped through the canvas on a family portrait—
But he stopped before breaking the mirror. It was all he had.
That, and the eerily luminous rose in its the glass case.