Author's note: I struggled a lot with this chapter, a lot more revisions and rewrites than I typically do, but I think that was a good thing in the end not to rush through it. Hope you guys enjoy. I can't tell you how much I appreciate the encouragement you've given me so far.

In Belle's dreams, the Beast was never safe.

Tonight, he was on the highest tower of the castle, surrounded by a pack of snarling wolves. She stood on a balcony off the East Wing, able to look out across the rooftops and see the fight through the heavy rain, but too far to reach him. She tried calling out to him but, in that frustrating way dreams have, couldn't make a sound.

Lightning flickered. He was fighting ferociously—through her terror, she felt a twinge of awe—but the wolves just seemed to be multiplying. Every time a wolf latched its teeth into him, she felt a sting of pain in her shoulder, as if she were the one injured. When she looked down, she realized she was indeed covered with blood. Every blow meant for him was killing her, too.

She awoke in a cold sweat, shaking.

The greyish pre-dawn light seeping through her curtains was enough to distinguish the Beast's sleeping form in her bed. She calmed herself by watching his chest rise and fall, listening to the low rumble of his snores. He was alive. He was alright. He was right here with her. Eventually, her own breathing slowed to match his.

Since the injured Beast had appropriated her bed for the past three days, Belle had slept on her windowseat. The oversized down mattress of that bed was overwhelmingly luxurious anyway—the simple thin cushion on the windowseat felt more familiar.

She could've moved into another bedroom in this wing of the castle, but truthfully she wanted to stay close to him.

I'm just being silly, she thought. These nightmares are just nonsense. I don't know why they bother me so much.

Deep down, she knew this to be a lie: three days ago, she had learned just how much pain it would cause her to lose him. And it haunted her.

Still, there was no sense dwelling on what might have happened, or tormenting herself with imagined scenarios. She forced herself to sit up and peered around the heavy curtains.

She suppressed a groan: a light dusting of snow had fallen on the sleepy castle grounds. The past few days had almost led her to hope for an early spring, as it had been unseasonably warm, and the rain had washed away the muddy snow. She had even begun to daydream about seeing the overgrown gardens in bloom.

But she supposed that was a little unreasonable to hope for, and she would have to content herself with the beauty of the swirling frost creeping across her window.

Though her blankets were soft and inviting, Belle yanked them off and threw a shawl around her shoulders. She had always been an early riser.

Back in the village, everyone's days began at sunrise, because there was work to be done whenever there was daylight—feeding livestock, milking cows, collecting eggs, baking bread. Belle's favorite time of day was just before dawn. She would take a walk in the fields around their cottage, the dew soaking through her boots, sometimes squinting in the dim light to reread a favorite story, other times just breathing in the cool, quiet air and waiting for the first birdsong of the day. It was the only time she ever felt she had true privacy, because the world was still sleeping. There were no scornful eyes watching her.

But now she lived in another world. At the castle, she didn't have to hide, and she didn't have to worry about people whispering behind her back.

Still, some habits were too ingrained to break. She was guaranteed to have a few hours of solitude today. The Beast was not a morning person. At all.

Before she tiptoed out of the room, one last backward glance told her that Madame Garderobe was awake, for she silently waved a good morning from her dark corner. Belle tried not to grimace in guilt as she waved back. That poor wardrobe had feigned sleep so often lately out of tact, to give the couple some semblance of privacy in their conversations, but Belle was sure this was an awkward situation for her anyway. After all, it wasn't Madame's fault that she could hardly squeeze through the doorway and leave this bedchamber.

She didn't feel hungry for breakfast yet, so she decided to wander the quiet, dark castle corridors while she waited for sunrise.

On her way to the library, Belle paused: she heard stirring behind one particular door. She shook her head. Apparently her father had risen as early as she had.

She knocked softly. No response.

"Knock, knock," she murmured. "It's only me, Papa."

There was no reply, but that didn't surprise her. Maurice tended to get so absorbed in a task that he was entirely unaware of the outside world. She opened the door cautiously, trying not to startle him.

Belle had initially been nervous about bringing her father to stay at this castle, thinking he might be too afraid or uncomfortable in this place he'd once been a prisoner. But she needn't have worried. Maurice had only been occupying this room for a few days, but he had already transformed it from a stately nobleman's bedchamber into an impromptu workshop. The desk was littered with wrenches, cogs, wood shavings, and screws. Next to the washstand stood an odd contraption that looked like a barrel attached to a potter's wheel.

Maurice himself was hunched over the dressing table, tinkering with scrap metal. The bed didn't look slept in.

Belle tried to make her footsteps noisy on the creaky wood floors, but he still seemed unaware of her presence until she put a hand on his shoulder.

He jumped, dropping the piece of metal in his hand and clutching his heart.

"Good morning," Belle said sheepishly. "Sorry. I did knock."

Maurice took off his magnifying spectacles and peered up at her, looking faintly puzzled. She noticed then that his eyes were bloodshot. "Is it morning already?"

She folded her arms across her chest. "You haven't been to bed yet, have you?"

"Um. Well." It was Maurice's turn to look sheepish. "You know how it is, when I'm in the middle of a project. I keep telling myself, five more minutes…"

Belle sighed. Lecturing him on taking better care of himself never did any good. And he had pointed out, on numerous occasions, that she'd spent sleepless nights finishing a book that she couldn't put down, and so she couldn't really argue.

"Is this a new invention?" She picked up the scrap metal he'd been working on. It looked like a series of interconnected levers. When she pressed one of them down, the other five opened—rather like fingers on a human hand, she realized. "What's this for?"

Maurice rubbed his red-rimmed eyes, as if finally noticing how exhausted he was.

"I noticed that a lot of the servants don't really have hands. Because they're, you know, mops and candlesticks and things like that. And that makes ordinary tasks a lot harder for them. But I was thinking, maybe—"

"You'd make some for them. That's…that's a wonderful idea, Papa."

"You really think so? It's not ridiculous?"

"Not at all. I think it's sweet of you to want to help."

He flushed a little under her praise, as he always did. "Well, still has a few kinks to work out," he mumbled. "But it keeps me busy."

Maurice had taken the loss of his log-chopping machine harder than he would admit. He waved it off whenever Belle brought it up, saying it perished for a good cause, but she knew it killed him to see all those months of hard work go up in flames.

"What's this over here?" she asked, gesturing to the barrel.

"Oh, just another little contraption I came up with last night. Or maybe it was this morning. Anyway, it's supposed to shorten the process of washing cups and plates—a sort of automatic dish-washer, if you will. Mrs. Potts was telling me how tedious a chore it is when you have so much china."

He pulled off the lid and showed her the small pile of cups and saucers inside. "You just pour soap and water in the top, and spin it for a few minutes."

"Does it work?"

"Only one way to find out."

He gave the dishwasher a good spin. They both winced at the sound of breaking china.

"Don't worry, they were all inanimate," he assured her quickly.

Belle stifled a laugh. "You probably want to work on that one a little before showing it to Mrs. Potts."

Maurice ran a hand through his hair, making it stand even more wildly on end. "I can't seem to think what went wrong…"

"You're just tired, Papa. A good night's sleep, and you'll be able to see it with fresh eyes."

He sighed. "It would be easier if I had my tools from home instead of starting from scratch," he muttered. "It's not like we have anything valuable, but there are some things of your mother's I wish I could go back for."

Belle's shoulders slumped. "I'm sorry, Papa. But you know we can't go back there right now. Not after what the village tried to do to you."

It was almost amusing, trying to imagine what the townsfolk were saying now after fleeing the castle in terror. Would they admit they'd been attacked by furniture and dinnerware, or had they lied to their wives to avoid sounding insane?

Still, it disturbed Belle to remember how quickly her neighbors had turned from ordinary farmers and bakers into a single-minded mob. Were they too afraid of everything they'd seen, or would they come back to kill the Beast? At least they no longer had the mirror to help them find the castle again.

"Oh, I know." Maurice smiled wryly. "You and I are probably wanted for murder at this point, too."

She froze. "What are you talking about?"

"Well, Gaston rode off to this castle, and he never came back. What conclusions do you think our neighbors are going to come to?"

A chill ran through her. She hadn't even spared Gaston another thought since his fall from the tower.

"Gaston's death was an accident," she protested, "and his own fault, I might add. The Beast spared his life and gave him a chance to get away. If he'd taken it—"

"I know, sweetheart, I believe you," Maurice soothed her. "But do you think anyone else will?"

Her silence was enough of an answer. The idea that the villagers might give her the benefit of the doubt was laughable.

"So, ah, speaking of which," Maurice said, "how's your patient?"

That coaxed a smile from her. "Oh, he'll be fine. He complains a lot about it, but I think he secretly likes being fussed over."

Maurice snorted. "I believe it."

Belle's throat felt suddenly dry and her palms started to sweat; she didn't know how to broach this subject with her father. "Listen, about—about the Beast, I…"

"You love him," Maurice finished gently. "I know, honey."

She blinked a few times, astonished. His smile was unconcerned and understanding.

"How did—?"

"I may be old, Belle, but I'm not blind. A woman doesn't stand up to a mob for someone she feels lukewarm about."

She exhaled in a breathless laugh. "And you're…you're okay with that?"

He put his hand under her chin, the way he used to when she was a girl. "Belle. It's not for me to tell you who to give your heart to. But if there's one person living on this earth whose judgement I trust, it's yours. I know you wouldn't care this much about someone if they weren't good."

Belle blinked back tears. "Thank you, Papa," she managed to choke, before throwing her arms around his shoulders.

She hadn't realized how afraid she'd been of this conversation until it was over, and she felt every muscle going slack with relief. Of course, she wasn't a child, and she didn't need her father's permission to do anything—but his approval mattered to her. She'd always been able to confide in him, and even when he didn't understand her thoughts or feelings, he took her seriously. He was the only one that seemed proud of her, and not embarrassed by her eccentricities. She didn't want to lose that.

Maurice hugged her tightly for a moment.

"Of course," he added conversationally, "if he breaks your heart in any way, he'll have me to answer to. I hope he's aware of that."

A laugh escaped her. "I think you need some sleep now, Papa."

It was still dark when she left her father's room, so Belle decided to make one more stop before heading to the library.

She never expected to wander into the West Wing ever again, let alone on such a mundane errand, but here she was, staring that snarling gargoyle knocker in the face.

Even though she was expecting it this time, she still jumped at the sight of the cracked mirror in the corridor. Inside, the master suite was just as gloomy and dilapidated as she remembered, the torn bed hangings fluttering in the breeze from the broken window.

There's no need to be so jittery, she reminded herself. Even if the Beast minded you coming here, he's not going to catch you. He's fast asleep in your bed right now.

That first time, she'd snuck into the West Wing out of curiosity, but she'd also felt a little perverse pleasure in defying the Beast's childish orders. If he was going to be so mysterious and frustratingly evasive, she would seek out answers herself.

She still couldn't explain what had possessed her to try and touch that rose. Something about its mesmerizing glow had seemed to beckon her, to promise her answers to the castle's secrets.

But then she'd learned that curiosity could have its consequences. Not just for herself: probing too deeply into old wounds and asking too many questions about the enchantment just seemed to cause the Beast and his servants pain. And so Belle had stopped asking.

Today, she was only here on a practical errand: fetching some fresh clothes for the Beast. The shirt he'd been wearing the night of the fight was too torn and bloodstained to be saved, so she'd come to hunt his armoire for another one.

She was tempted to ask one of the servants to do this for her, or at least to accompany her—but something stopped her.

Lately, the staff had all been rather…not cold with her, exactly, but oddly distracted.

At first, she thought they were just worried about the Beast. But now, it was clear that he was going to be alright, and they were still acting strange. Even Lumiére, usually so fond and gracious, seemed to avoid her eyes.

She tried not to feel hurt by it, but she couldn't help wondering if she'd done something wrong.

Deep in thought, she almost tripped on an overturned chair. Some of the broken furniture had been cleared away, but it seemed to be darker in here, and she could hardly see where she was going.

Then she realized why: before, it had been lit with a faint pink glow from that rose. There was nothing in the glass dome but a pile of ashes.

Belle couldn't explain why she suddenly felt cold and empty looking at it. It had just been a flower, and flowers eventually wilt, don't they? But there had been something special about it.

Looking back on that first night, she could almost hear the fear beneath the Beast's fury.

Do you realize what you could have done?

No—and I still don't.

But now the rose had crumbled into nothing, and she didn't know what that meant either. Just that it probably wasn't good.

With a shiver, Belle strode over to the armoire, eager to leave.

When Belle returned to her room with a new book under her arm, sunlight was starting to creep through the curtains. The Beast was evidently feeling well enough to sit up in bed, albeit propped up on pillows.

All he said was, "Good morning," but it somehow made her blush. Perhaps it was the way he seemed so genuinely pleased to see her, as if there was no other way he'd rather start his day.

"Feeling better than yesterday?" she asked, tossing him the clean shirt.

He caught it with a grateful smile. "Much better. I think I can get out of this bed today."

"Let's not rush things." She sat on the edge of the bed.

"I'll be careful, I promise," he assured her, sounding amused. "Is that a new book?"

She showed him the cover, which had an image of a tropical island on it. He squinted at the title for a moment.

"Another Shakespeare? This one isn't going to be depressing, is it?"

She rolled her eyes. "I picked a comedy this time, I promise."

He visibly relaxed. She understood: they had both had enough of tragedy to last them for a while. She leaned back so her head rested on his shoulder before opening up the book. He slid his arm around her waist.

She was still in her short-sleeved nightdress, so when goosebumps rose up on her arms, he noticed.

"I'm sorry, are you cold, Belle? Why don't we sit by the fire?"

She protested that she was fine, really, because she didn't know how to explain to him that they were a different kind of goosebumps, and so of course he thought she was just being polite. At his insistence, she helped him awkwardly limp over to the armchairs next to the hearth.

"I think you'll like this one," she said, smoothing the open pages on her lap. "It's a comedy, but there's a lot of adventure and romance in it too. There's this father and daughter shipwrecked on an island, and then a storm brings another ship—"

"Don't give too much away before we read it, I want to be surprised."

"Oh, that's just the first scene," she assured him.

Whenever she read one of Shakespeare's plays to him, she tried to describe the scene as it might have appeared onstage, even though she'd never seen one performed. He listened with rapt attention as she painted the opening scene for him: the roiling tempest, the ship close to capsizing, the chaos of the terrified sailors. But before she continued on, he objected to one detail.

"The noblemen are the ones staying calm and dignified?" he scoffed. "In real life, they'd be the first ones to panic in the face of danger, not the experienced sailors."

"Hush, it's not that important to the story," she chided, but she couldn't suppress a grin.

She loved reading aloud to the Beast. She loved watching his expressions change from the corner of her eyes. Whenever he bit his lip and leaned forward in his seat, she knew he was dying of suspense; when he covered his mouth and looked away, she knew he was moved. Sometimes he clenched his fists on the arms of his chair if he was particularly frustrated or perturbed by a plot point.

Watching his reactions made her feel like she was experiencing the story all over again with new eyes.

Even now in this dim firelight, there was a softness in his eyes that even his heavy brow and glinting fangs couldn't detract from. It was hard to imagine she had ever been frightened of him.

He seemed to notice her scrutiny at last, his eyes widening. "Aren't you going to go on?"

She smiled, blushing a little. "Act One, Scene Two. This takes place on the island, in Prospero's cell. It's supposed to be a cave, but I imagine they've made it into a comfortable home over the years…"

As she described all the magical trinkets and treasures that bedecked Prospero's cave in her mind's eye, he slowly took her hand, and the warmth crept from her cheeks to her neck and the tips of her ears. But she pretended to ignore him, and started reading the scene, changing her voice depending on which character was speaking.

But then she came to the part about the spirit Ariel being imprisoned in a pine tree by the evil witch Sycorax for twelve years. The Beast suddenly slipped his hand out of hers and stared off into the hearth.

Belle's voice faltered a little as she read. "Thou best know'st what torment I did find thee in; thy groans did make wolves howl and penetrate the breasts of ever angry bears: it was a torment to lay upon the damn'd, which Sycorax could not again undo: it was mine art, when I arrived and heard thee, that made gape the pine and let thee out."

Her throat suddenly felt too dry to continue. There was a distant look in the Beast's gaze that told her she had struck a nerve somehow, that every word was causing him a little more grief.

"Belle, can we talk for a moment?" His voice was hoarse, but he tentatively took both her hands again—gently, as if preparing her for bad news.

"Of course." She shut the book, trying not to look alarmed by his sudden seriousness.

"I need to tell you something. I put it off because I wanted to spare you. I didn't see the point of causing you any more pain, but…" He hung his head. "I don't think there should be any secrets between us."

"It's okay," she told him with a weak smile. "I'm made of pretty tough stuff, you know."

The corner of his mouth twitched, but it didn't reach his eyes. "I know you are."

"Am I about to find out about the enchantment this castle is under?" she asked dryly.

He blinked a few times, looking startled.

"Nobody told me," she assured him. "It was—well, it was kind of obvious. Your candlesticks talk."

That, at least, got a reluctant smile from him. "Fair enough."

"I'm listening," she prodded gently, though her pulse was starting to pound in her ears. All the questions that had nagged at the back of her mind for months, all the times she had bit her tongue out of courtesy to her new friends, she was finally going to understand. He trusted her enough at last.

"I'm not good at telling stories like you are," he said, "but I'll try, anyway."

The Beast addressed his tale to the flames crackling in the hearth.

"I suppose I should go back to the very beginning, for this to make sense. Twelve years ago—twelve years ago, my father died, and I was the sole heir to his estate. I was too young to rule, so a regent was appointed to govern the province until I was of age. Which meant I really had no responsibilities, just a lot of privileges I didn't know what to do with.

"I was…I was a spoiled brat, which I'm sure you'll have no difficulty imagining," he added with a halfhearted wry smile. "The castle became sort of cut off from the outside world, and it was easy to forget that not everyone lived like we did.

"But then one night—on my eleventh birthday, actually—there was an unexpected visitor. She demanded to see me personally, so I thought she must be someone important. But she turned out to be an old beggar woman in a threadbare cloak, asking me to shelter her for the night. It was January, there was a terrible snowstorm that night—the wind sounded like a pack of wolves outside. She pleaded, saying she was likely to get lost in the woods and freeze to death before she came across another safe haven."

Belle could vividly imagine the scene he painted with his words, but she couldn't begin to guess why this story was important for her to hear.

"In return, she offered me a rose as a gift. She said, 'It may not seem like much, to someone who lives in such finery, but it is precious to me. It's all I have.' But I…"

His voice broke. He took a few deep breaths before continuing.

"I refused to help her. I'm not proud of it, but—she had warts on her face, and mismatched eyes, and broken teeth, and dirty clothes, and she frightened me. I'd never seen poverty and old age like that. She could tell that I was disgusted by her appearance, because she warned me that looks could be deceiving. 'Beauty is found within,' she told me.

"I told her to get out of my house. And then I knew I'd made a grave mistake. There was a flash of green light, almost blinding, and she changed right before my eyes. She was tall and young and fair—but somehow ageless. And there was no pity in her eyes.

"I'd angered an Enchantress. I think she was testing me, and I failed." His voice was hollow. He gestured aimlessly at himself. "So she turned me into this, and punished the whole rest of the castle with me."

Belle felt all the color had drained from her face.

So this was the reason why. She had wondered, so many times, whether the Beast had been born this way, or if there was magic at work, as in the case of the servants. And now that the mystery was solved, she didn't feel any better.

She managed to croak, "Surely—surely there must be some way to break the spell."

"There was."

"Was?" she asked carefully.

The Beast seemed reluctant to go on. He stared at his hands for a moment, as if searching for words.

"Before she left, the Enchantress gave me the rose. She said it would bloom until I was twenty-one."

"The one I almost touched?" Belle asked, wincing.

"That one," he said with a nervous laugh. "She said, if I could learn to love another…and earn her love in return, before the last petal fell, then the spell would be broken. And if not, well…"

"But then, shouldn't…shouldn't you be…"

It took her a moment to put all the pieces together in her mind. The Beast should be human again, because they loved each other. He wasn't. In her mind she saw the rose, crumbled into ashes on its table.

I was too late.

She stood abruptly and strode over to the window, so that she wouldn't have to look him in the eye, trying to absorb all this information.

"Are you alright?" He seemed to be standing a pace behind her.

"Just give me a moment," she said, keeping her voice steadier than she felt. "It's just a lot to take in."

He patiently waited, but Belle didn't see how she could face him. She kept a hand over her mouth to silence her crying.

If I'd just been a little bit quicker—a little less stubborn—everything could be different right now. How can you not hate the sight of me?

"Belle, please say something." There was a hint of desperation in his voice.

She tried to say something calm and nonchalant that wouldn't alarm him, but the only sound that would come out was a sob. Her shoulders began to shake with the effort of keeping quiet.

Then there was a reassuring hand on the small of her back—well, a paw so large that it essentially covered her torso, but she knew his intent. For once, she shrank from his touch. She didn't feel worthy of his affection right now.

"I could've helped you," she said in a low voice. "I could've saved you, and I was too late."

"Oh, Belle," he sighed, gently spinning her around to face him. She didn't have the energy to resist, but she could hardly bear to meet his eyes. When she did, she saw no resentment, no accusations, nothing but softness and concern. "You have saved me, though."

That brought on a fresh wave of tears, because he sounded so grateful, as if she'd fulfilled all of his hopes instead of dashing them in accidental cruelty. He dabbed at her cheeks with a handkerchief. He brushed her hair out of her face and let his hand rest on the side of her neck. She trembled a little under his touch, despite the tears still clinging to her eyelashes.

"Wait," she said, suddenly pushing him away, "why are you the one comforting me? It's your life. Why aren't you more upset?"

"I guess it hasn't really sunk in yet," he said, shrugging helplessly. "I'm sure I'll feel more when it finally does. But at the moment—I'm just happy you love me back."

His tone was incredulous with wonder, as if he still couldn't quite believe she was here. Overcome with emotion, she pulled him close again, so that their foreheads touched. They rested that way for a while, just listening to each other breathe.

Belle's stubbornness eventually crumbled, and she let him comfort her. She buried her face in his shoulder and tried to steady herself with deep breaths. Absently, he began to stroke her hair, his claws brushing against her scalp very gently. But when he seemed to realize what he was doing, he abruptly pulled away from her.

"No, don't stop," she murmured, "it feels nice."

Please don't be afraid to hold me, she pleaded silently. It hadn't escaped her notice, how he always touched her as if she were made of glass—or as if one wrong move would make her run away.

A moment's hesitation, and then he let her back into his arms again. The warmth of their embrace, the companionable silence, and the soft crackling of the fire all had a soothing influence on Belle. Her tears began to subside, even if grief and guilt were still gnawing at her heart. At least he didn't hate her. Maybe things were going to be okay.

One question kept intruding on her thoughts, refusing to let her relax entirely.

So what happens now?