Chapter One

The Girl

Ten years later

The autumn sun streamed down brightly over the little village. Birds chirped softly from the heights of rooftops and chimney stacks, collecting nuts and berries for the coming winter - the only gentle things in the whole scene. The streets were a bustle of activity, as merchants, farmers, bakers, haberdashers, butchers, greengrocers, and their wives took part in the chaos of market day. The air was filled with the screams of playing children, the noises of animals for sale, and the loud exchanges between seller and consumer. The farmers chewed meditatively on their tobacco, occasionally spitting it onto the ground at an especially ludicrous bargain; their children held tightly to the animals for sale, gazing longingly at the other boys and girls their age, who could freely play in the streets.

Into this collection of confusion and loud noise entered a tall, blue-clad girl, keeping one hand tightly clasped around her covered basket. She wove her way quickly and expertly through the throng of people to the baker's window, a polished, polite smile already on her face.

"Good morning, Belle," the baker smiled. "Just the usual today?"

"Yes please," she said. "How are you today, monsieur?"

"Just fine," he said from further inside the shop. "We're swamped with all the extra visitors, but market day's always like that this time of year. Are you selling anything today, Belle?"

"No," she said, taking the bread and tossing over a few coins. "Papa's meant to be home from the fair today, and I want to be back home in time to see him."

"Nice talking to you anyway," the baker said. "Say, have you thought any more about Gaston's offer? It was very generous of him to -"

"I'm sorry, I have to go now," Belle said hurriedly. She grabbed her basket and darted back into the crowd, losing sight of the baker within an instant.

"Strange girl," the baker said. "Marie!" he called out a second later, "hurry up with the baguettes!"

Belle moved quickly through the throngs of people, trying to avoid the glances that followed her. Not for the first time, she wished she hadn't been quite so strong in her rejection of Gaston. He'd deserved it - she couldn't think of anyone else in the village who needed taken down a peg or two more than him - but this had only sparked his desire to possess Belle. She smirked a little at the recollection of seeing him covered in mud in front of the whole village. Yes, that humiliation was a good punishment for attempting to force her into marriage. But the backlash from the village had been severe. Or rather, the backlash from the women.

"Bonjour, Madame Cotard," Belle smiled.

The haberdasher's wife stopped mid-conversation to glance towards Belle. She normally always had a smile for her; Maurice was her husband's best customer, with his sometimes weekly need for unusual trinkets. But since Gaston's proposal, she now merely nodded her head slightly, with a grave "Bonjour," instead of her usual fountain of chatter.

Belle hurried past, a little stung. She liked Madame Cotard, and had thought she'd approved of Belle's choice.

"Always a little odd, that girl was," Belle heard her say distantly to a woman Belle didn't recognise. "A great beauty, but she holds a mighty high opinion of herself if you ask me. Always reading - and not just essays, but novels, too!"

"Disgraceful in a woman," the other woman said. "How will she ever find a husband?"

"Oh, didn't I tell you? Just last week, a long-time beau came to see her . . ."

Belle fumed silently as she continued into town. He wasn't my beau! He's barely been my friend since he turned eighteen, let alone anything else! Her stony expression set off more gleefully disgusted whispers, and Belle half-jogged along to the bookstore. The owner, Madame Hoen, was one of the few women in town who approved of what Belle had done. Belle had met her on the first day of living in the village, nearly ten years ago now. Belle still remembered Madame Hoen's look of surprise when little eight-year-old Belle had asked for a copy of a book far above the normal reading level of a child. They'd met up at least once a week ever since then, to read books together in companionable silence or to discuss them loudly with expressive gestures.

A bell jingled as she entered the bookshop. It was always deserted; the village wasn't really one for reading. Madame Hoen always kept a good stock of farmer's almanacs and seed journals, but aside from those decidedly seasonal purchases the shop was solely provided for by Belle's reading habit and Madame Hoen's own money. Despite these gloomy financial proceedings, it was a sort of haven to Belle. It was never as uncomfortably tidy as some other shops in the village. Red shades lit the books in a rosy glow, the chairs were easy to sit on, and Madame Hoen always had a pot of tea on the boil.

"Belle!" Madame Hoen appeared from behind the counter, a wide grin over her face. She adjusted the veil she always wore over her head, silver-grey curls poking out from behind her ears. Her deep-set eyes twinkled, dark in the recess of her face. "And how are you today?"

"Not good," Belle said. "Madame Cotard barely looked at me today. She's known me for years - how could she honestly expect me to marry him? We're nothing alike!" A knowing expression flitted over Madame Hoen's face.

"Belle, you must remember that you are decidedly individual when it comes to opinions on marriage. Not every woman would marry for love. Not every woman can." A sorrowful expression flitted over her face. "And not every woman wants to. Sometimes they marry simply for security; to have a roof over their heads and know where their next meal is coming from. Other times . . ."

"What?" Belle asked. Madame Hoen looked down at the slightly dusty floor. "What else, Madame Hoen? You can tell me."

"Other times, a woman will marry to avoid a scandal," she said. "Sometimes a very real one, sometimes one created by her would-be husband."

"A man would do that to possess somebody?" Belle asked, horror in her eyes.

"Not every man, but enough of them for it to be a very real possibility. Such things aren't always confined to storybooks."

Belle shuddered. Madame Hoen laid a comforting hand on her arm, and for a moment, despite their many differences, they were just two world-weary women, taking and receiving comfort in each other.

"On the other hand," Madame Hoen said, the faintest hint of a smile on her face, "some women never marry. Because they don't want or need to rely on a man for the rest of their lives."

"Is that why you didn't?" Belle asked, genuinely curious.

"Yes," she smiled. "I could have married any of the men in my village, if I wished it. But I didn't love them; any of them, at all. My father left me enough money to make a living or furnish a dowry, if I so desired." She smiled ruefully. "Most of my family would have wanted that money for a dowry. My brothers in particular. But I wanted - had always wanted - to own a little bookshop of my own."

"So that's why you moved all the way to France?" Belle asked. "Just to own a bookshop?"

Madame Hoen laughed.

"I've been wondering why you came here for years. Why are you telling me this now, Madame?"

"You are no longer a child," she simply said. "And since the first day I knew you, I've always thought we were very alike." She clapped her hands together. "That reminds me," she said, "do you have the book you borrowed?"

"Right here, Madame," Belle said, taking it out her basket.

"What did you think?" she asked, as she climbed up the ladders to fill a small space on a high shelf with Belle's book.

"Good," Belle said. "A little slower than I usually like in some places. And the morality in the lead characters have the most shifting shades of grey I've ever seen. But overall, I think it worked really well. Is there anything else by him I can read?"

"Not today, Belle," Madame Hoen said. "I've something particular in mind for you."

"Really?" Excitement spurted low in her belly. It had been a while since Madame Hoen had recommended a book, and her choices were always excellent.

"Here it is," she said, presenting Belle with a blue-bound book, the title sketched in gold paint. "You've already read it, I know. But there's some interesting commentary at the end, and I thought you'd like the binding."

"Thank you, Madame," Belle whispered reverently. She had never been one to judge a book by its cover, but when it was a cover as beautiful as this around a story so captivating she'd read it more times than she could count . . . Well, Belle certainly wasn't complaining. "How much is it?"

"No charge," Madame Hoen said.

Belle sighed. They went through the same charade ever week, Madame Hoen only rarely insisting that she buy a book. "Alright then, when do you want me to bring it back?"

"Don't," she said. "You can keep it."

"Madame, don't be ridiculous, this has to be worth a fortune!" Belle placed the book back down on the shelf, but not slotted into place. "Don't pass up that sort of thing just for me! There could be a customer who walks in here five minutes after I leave, and ask specifically for that book, and then you'd miss out on a sale, and -"

"Belle, nobody comes here for the books except for you," she said. "Just take it. It's a gift."

"It's not my birthday until May," Belle persisted.

Madame Hoen sighed. "Do you want the book?"

"Well . . ."

"Do you want it?"

"Yes," Belle said quietly.

"Then take it." She picked the book back up, and pressed it into Belle's hands, who put it slowly into her basket.

"Thank you, Madame Hoen," Belle smiled.

"You're awful at accepting gifts, you know that?" she teased. "Now go, go back home! Your father will be back from the fair soon, won't he?"

"Yes," Belle smiled. "Thank you so much, Madame. I won't forget this."

Belle went back out into the heat and frenzy of market day. It was harder for her now to make her way back, as she was moving in the opposite direction to the flow of people around her. More than once she had her feet stepped on quite painfully, or risked the contents of her basket falling out into the mud. Belle glanced over at the haberdasher's shop, to see a group of elderly village women all gathered around Madame Cotard. Their fingers flew through the small pieces of embroidery in their gnarled hands, heads bobbing up and down like sage old harpies from her books. She couldn't hear the exact words of their chatter, but Belle knew they were talking about her from the way they all stopped their conversations at once when they noticed her. Holding her head high, Belle swept past them, continuing to make her way home. She didn't care that they'd think her proud and standoffish now. She just wanted to see her father.

As she crossed the small bridge separating her father's house from the rest of the village, she heard a gunshot ring out in the distance. The huntsmen were back in town - too late to seriously sell anything, but still early enough to make a spectacular entrance. She rolled her eyes just thinking about how much Gaston would be showing off, in all his hunting 'finery'. Despite what he told the girls from outside the village, there were no men in the town who exclusively hunted for a living. Even Gaston, though he made two or three times the amount of money that other men did, had to keep up a side trade in case of bad winters or elusive summers.

As Belle neared home, she could see Phillipe, the carthorse, munching on some tall grass outside the house. Slowly, a smile transfixed her face. It started at her eyes, blossoming onto her mouth, until she was the very picture of joy. As if she was a child of eight and not a woman of eighteen, she ran the rest of the way back to the house and threw the door open, to see Maurice just settled in his favourite chair by the fire.

"Belle," he said, voice trembling slightly, "you won't believe what happened to me."

A/N: The bookseller is a woman here because why not? And anyway, Belle needs more female friends.

And if anybody was curious as to why the villagers seemed friendly with Belle up until shortly before the start of the story . . . Well, I've always found that losing people you thought were friends is more painful than never having them in the first place.

TheTeaIsAddictive