He was alone when the old gypsy came. The servants were there, of course, but he never really thought of them. Madam Grace was taking her afternoon rest after teatime, his tutors (all seven of them) had left for the day, and his pretty mother was out riding with his father the king. So when he saw the old woman hobbling towards the kitchen gardens as he perched on the branches of the apple tree, he thought nothing of hopping down to see what she wanted.
"What're you here for, old lady?" he demanded.
The old gypsy looked up. He took a step back. She was old, older than he expected, older than Madam Grace even, and she was forty-seven. The gypsy's face was a maze of deep wrinkles and pockmarks. A narrow scar ran across her lip, twisting her mouth into a grimace. Her ragged layers of shawls and tattered skirts showed the dirt and wear of years on the roads, but a great gold ring glittered in her nose. "What is your name, little boy?" she asked, leaning forward on her walking stick.
"I am Adam," he said, sticking out his narrow chest in pride. "And I'm not a little boy. I'm eleven."
"Adam," she repeated. She was only a little taller than he was. "Adam, child of who?"
Adam scowled. "Everyone knows that," he scoffed. "My father is the king of Glauerhaven, and my mother is the Countess Constanza."
The old gypsy woman laughed at that, the raspy sounds grating on his ears like Master Buckley's chalk on the blackboard during a geography lesson. "The king's bastard, eh?" she cackled. "Ah, so that's what you are."
Adam flushed hot. "Hold your tongue, old lady!" he said, giving her a shove, She caught her balance with her cane. "I'm the son of the king!"
The old gypsy lady stabbed her walking stick into the cobblestones of the garden path. "You're the bastard," she repeated.
"I'm not," he said emphatically. "Now get out of here, you old bat."
"I've got business," she said, shaking her head. The ring in her hooked nose glittered in the late afternoon sunlight. She reached deep into the pockets of her skirts.
Adam folded his arms. "I'm not going to buy nothing," he said.
"I never said anything about buying," she said. She pulled out her hands and showed him what she held.
"Seeds?" he said, peering closely.
"Rose seeds," said the old gypsy woman.
Adam slapped her hands away. The rose seeds fell to the ground in a shower, scattering along the cobblestones. "We don't have roses here," he said. "They make my mother sick."
"There once were roses here," the gypsy woman said sternly.
"When my mother came here my father the king had 'em all pulled up,em just because she didn't like them," Adam retorted. "I told you we don't have roses here!"
With a sharp motion too fast for a woman of her age the gypsy woman grabbed his chin and pulled his face close to hers. Adam breathed heavily, too startled to move. The old gypsy studied him, her milky dark eyes intense, her breath hot on his face. "Young and impetuous," she said. "Hot headed, bad tempered. Spoiled and selfish." She turned his chin, looking at him this way and that. The intensity softened slightly into a tight smile. "But there is still good. Still good. Just buried deeply. Deeply like a rose in winter." She stepped back, still smiling the odd tight little smile. "The queen thought there was no good, but I can see it. I can see it clear." She let go. Adam fell back, rubbing his chin and jaw where the old woman had gripped it, leaving white finger marks on the reddened skin. "I see it clear. The queen will be displeased, but what can I do? The good is hidden. I will just hide it more."
She turned and hobbled down the path, her stick chinking against the stones, the golden ring glittering, the strings of tarnished coins wrapped around her thick waist jingling as she hummed a minor key melody. Adam leaned heavily against the apple tree, his insides quavering.
The sun had begun to set over the forest ridge, turning the trees black and the seas pink and gold, when Constanza and the king returned from their ride. The stableboys took their mounts as they strolled towards the manor. Adam looked up as they passed by. Constanza caught the movement. "Adam?" she called, and skipped towards him, her blue riding habit rustling. "Adam, darling, whatever are you doing in the kitchen gardens?" She drew back sharply, pulling back her skirts. "And what are all of these thorns doing here?"
The king knelt, plucking a bit of the vine. "Wild roses," he said.
Adam turned his head limply, leaning heavily against the trunk of the apple tree. "I don't feel well," he murmured, and he fell into the growing carpet of thorns.
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Author's Notes:
I began this story about two years ago…just a little idea of what Beauty and the Beast would be like from the Beast's perspective. But for some reason, it just wasn't jelling.
Now I'm working at Disney World, at the Beauty and the Beast show in Disney's Hollywood Studios…and I finally figured out how I was going to approach the story! I don't know how far I'll get, but let's see!