The Beast fixed her with a furious glare that made Belle feel as though she were either going to throw up or run away – possibly both.

"You made a Christmas wish last year," he said. Then, a roaring crescendo: "Is this what you wished for?"

Belle looked away.

Last Christmas. Just her, her father and the best food they could afford. A little tree in the corner of the room, hung with all the familiar ornaments. Her mother had made some of them, and if Belle shut her eyes she could still see her, a warm smile and bright, shining eyes, hanging them on the tree all those years ago. Christmas hurt without her, but they did it, because that was what she would have wanted them to do.

So that had been last Christmas. She had given her father a book on science, the bookseller had ordered it for her specially. It had given him the idea for the machine, now that she thought about it: the wood-cutting machine that had caused all this. If he hadn't built it, if he hadn't set off to take it to the fair – well, he had, and that was how it was. Anyway, it had given him pleasure at the time, and that had made her happy. He had given her a book, too, a book of stories like the ones the bookseller always lent her. Books were a custom between them. Each of them had a set of shelves on which they built their collections. But he'd given her something else that year, her first Christmas since she'd come of age. After dinner, as dusk began to fall, Maurice had taken her by the hand.

"Close your eyes."

And she had. A moment later, he placed something there. It was small and heavy and – she was almost certainly imagining this as she remembered, but she could have sworn to it – warm.

"Can I open them?"

She could hear the smile in her father's voice. "Alright."

It was a little silver box with a key in the back. "A music box! It's beautiful."

"I gave it to your mother on the day you were born," he said. "It was a gift to thank her for all the wonderful years we'd had together, and all the wonderful years that were to come."

Belle opened the box. The tune was pretty, one she didn't know – except that she did, now that she thought about it. She remembered them singing to her, both of them, as she had drifted into sleep. They were holding hands. She wished now that she had stayed awake, just a few more minutes, so that the memory of the two of them together would be longer. "I wish there had been more years," she said, quietly.

"So do I," Maurice said. "But we were lucky to know your mother at all."

Belle closed the music box, clasping it gently. "Thank you."

Maurice smiled. "And speaking of wishing!" He picked up the Yule log and held it out to her.

Belle put her hand on it, feeling its rough bark against her skin. She thought about her beautiful mother and her beautiful smile. She had loved Maurice, and there was no question that Maurice had loved her, loved her still.

Normally Belle wished for adventure, excitement – a wish that had yet to come true, and didn't look as though it would in this little provincial town. This time, she wished to be like her mother, surrounded always by warmth and love.

Surrounded by the bare stone walls of the castle, somehow cold even as they stood in the boiler room, Belle shook her head.

"No." She lifted her gaze, meeting those angry blue eyes. "But I will keep wishing."