"The Complete Lineage of French Royalty?" the bookseller asked in bewilderment. "You're sure you want to borrow this one, Belle?"

"Yes, yes," she said eagerly, bouncing impatiently on her heel as the man moved slowly down the ladder with a large volume in tow. As soon as he handed it over, she hoisted it onto the shop's corner table, blowing off a thick layer of dust before heaving it open. "When did you say this one was published, Monsieur?"

"Oh, can't be more than ten, fifteen years ago," he replied, moving across the small room to sort through some of the more popular novels. "I'm afraid it's the most recent I have—there's not much demand for such texts around here," he chuckled.

"It's all right, it's recent enough," Belle replied, before sweeping through the pages in silence for several long minutes. He's got to be in here somewhere, she thought determinedly, huffing a bit of hair from her eyes as she continued to read. She still had no idea what the master had been trying to tell her the other day, but she figured his identity might be a good place to start.

"Aha!" she cried in sudden triumph, finally locating their northern province in one of the later chapters. The poor shopkeeper nearly toppled off the small ladder in shock as Belle read the passage with earnest, skipping past rows of century-old names to those from just decades earlier. Her finger ran down the page quickly, finally nearing the year of interest when—

"Where's the rest of it?" she asked aloud. The list stopped well before the publish date, skipping straight to the next region on the list and leaving theirs utterly, irritatingly incomplete.

"Mmm?" the man asked absently.

Belle only frowned, staring at the two disjointed pages in confusion. It was then she noticed the small but clearly jagged edge along the centerfold of the open book. Running a finger down the seam, her heart fell into her stomach—someone had torn the page from its binding. "Oh, of all the pages!" she cried in frustration, plopping down into a chair in defeat.

"Dear girl, whatever's the matter?"

Belle bit her lip. "I was just…I was hoping to learn more about King Victor's relatives," she admitted.

"Whatever for?"

"Oh, I was just…curious," she fibbed.

The man didn't seem the least bit perturbed by that answer—it was in her character, after all. However, he did look oddly nervous all of a sudden, glancing out the window and frowning deeply.

"Monsieur?" Belle asked in concern, sitting up in her seat and watching in bewilderment as the old man moved to shut the curtains, then the door, which he promptly bolted.

"You didn't hear this from me, Belle," he said seriously, settling his tired body in the chair across from her, before adjusting the spectacles on the tip of his nose.

Belle's eyes grew wide, but she quickly nodded.

"The truth is…our king had a brother," he whispered.

"A younger brother?" Belle asked, wondering if she was finally getting close to discovering the master's identify.

"No, older."

"Oh," Belle said in disappointment, before realizing another possibility. "Did—did he have any children? His brother, I mean."

"Mmm, not sure. From what I've read, it seems those royal folks liked to keep their children a secret for as long as possible—you know, to protect their heirs from any who would wish the family's power in the hands of another."

Belle's shoulders sagged a bit. "I suppose that makes sense."

"But Belle, that page," he said, motioning to the book beside her. "It wasn't taken by a careless customer. It was removed by royal decree."

"…What?" she asked in confusion.

"You were too young to have been paying attention to such matters. But King Alexandre, the rightful ruler of this kingdom…he disappeared mysteriously a decade ago. Victor initially declared his brother's death the act of a demon," he explained. "But not a year passed, and any who even made mention of the late king was…cut down," he said darkly. "A royal guard even showed up at my tiny bookshop, demanding I show him any book with mention of Alexandre and removing each reference from its binding."

"Sacrebleu," Belle breathed in shock. "King Victor…he was trying to erase history!"

"And his own crimes, I believe," the man added. "A brother killing a brother for power? It's certainly not unheard of."

Belle frowned. The "demon" explanation actually matched up best with what the servants had told her about the night of the curse—the witch could certainly fit such a description. From what they'd said, it seemed pretty obvious she was the one who had to do with the king's disappearance. But Belle couldn't imagine that two kings had mysteriously vanished a decade ago. No, it had to be the same man. This Alexandre was most certainly the master's father. And if that was true…their present king was his uncle.

To my favorite little explorer, the inside cover of the child's novel had read. Love, Uncle Victor.

Belle pursed her lips. It seemed with one answer came a dozen others. And she doubted she'd get many of them answered with every book in the county censored and its residents' lips sealed on the matter. It seemed she would have to trust that the master would tell her himself when he was ready.

That is…if he could tell her.


"So it appears we can only discuss how to break the curse amongst ourselves," Lumiere concluded. He, Cogsworth, and Mrs. Potts—the highest ranking staff members and the master's informal council—were gathered in a quiet hall early in the morning discussing this latest discovery.

"And I can't explain it in writing either," the Beast added. He thought, in some chagrin, that if he'd actually made any attempt at journaling over the years, he might have realized this sooner. Since his attempt to tell Belle how to break the curse, he'd asked several of the servants to try and explain in his place—yet anyone who tried to explain experienced the same inability to speak as he had. It was strange; for weeks he'd been so conflicted over whether to reveal the truth, yet the moment he realized the witch didn't want him to tell Belle about it, he was determined to do just that.

"Well, I say it's for the best," Cogsworth huffed, forever the pragmatist of the group. "Who knows how she'd react to such knowledge? We shouldn't have risked it in the first place."

"But Cogsworth, think of the kind of leverage the master would have if he could explain," Lumiere said earnestly. "Surely if she knew her love would transform him into a handsome prince with a right to the crown, she would jump at the opportunity!"

"I don't…I don't know about handsome," the Beast said in embarrassment.

Mrs. Potts chuckled. "Don't sell yourself short, love."

The master cleared his throat in discomfort before going on. "Well, even if I could tell her, I don't believe Belle would fall in love with someone just because they're rich and, um…attractive," he said awkwardly. By Belle's description, Gaston was both of those things—and she wanted nothing to do with him.

"If that's true, she's better that most of us," a rich voice observed. They looked up, watching as Madame de la Grande Boche lumbered down the hall. The wardrobe fell heavily onto a small sofa along the wall beside them. "Though if I could just find myself a nice bureau to settle down with, I'd be happy," she sighed in jest.

Lumiere and Mrs. Potts laughed at that, and even Cogsworth cracked a grin. The master, however, stood still, unsatisfied with the present outcome as they began to depart for their daily tasks.

A moment later, he felt a small nudge against his foot. "No use in feeling bad about something you can't control," Mrs. Potts offered from below, as though reading his mind. "I daresay you've been as honest as you could be with her."

The Beast nodded slowly, smiling a bit. "I suppose you're right."


As the first true frost settled over the valley, Belle again spent her mornings with the horses. If he wasn't needed in the castle, the Beast would join her in the stables before their afternoons in the library. With Belle's help, he found the work on his parent's index ten times more enjoyable than ever before. However, they didn't make much more progress than when he worked alone, since every dozen books or so one of them would find themselves browsing through one of interest.

He didn't mind, though.

"M-Master?"

The Beast looked up, having been immersed in a tome on sixteenth century politics as the door to the library cracked open one afternoon.

Cogsworth waddled inside, huffing a bit as he caught his breath. "I'm—I'm sorry to disturb you, my lord."

"It's fine. What's wrong?" the master asked, noticing the clock seemed even more nervous than normal. Behind him, Belle slid down one of the tall shelf ladders, setting a stack of books on the floor before moving towards them.

"It's Chip…again," Cogsworth explained, wringing his small metal hands together.

The Beast cursed under his breath. "Where is he this time?" he asked, now nervous himself as he dropped the book on the closest shelf and moved towards the door.

"Atop the dining cabinet, Master," Cogsworth explained, following each of the Beast's large strides with a dozen of his own. "My apologies, my lord—but none of us could reach him."

"It's fine," the master repeated, breathing a little easier. The dining cabinet should prove easier than the organ, at least.

As they entered the hall, Belle stood in place behind them, feeling anxious but not wanting to get in anyone's way. She sighed, picking up the books she was sorting through and trying to focus on the task at hand.

Several minutes passed, and she had just started penning in a few book titles into one of the indices when she was startled by a horrible crashing sound from deep in the castle. Her heart seemed to stop as the sound echoed off the walls, followed by a terrible howl. "Oh…oh, no," she breathed, imagining the worst as she ran out into the hall. She followed the sound of the deep cries, dashing down the stairs towards the kitchens. Rounding a corner, she stared in horror at the enormous dining cabinet, now face down on the floor, dozens of dishes shattered across the hard floors. By now, the howls had vanished as the Beast knelt on the ground, chest heaving as his whole body seemed to tremble.

"Master…Master, it's all right," Lumiere was saying, resting a golden hand against his arm. The candelabra seemed a bit shaken, but not upset. "They were all inanimates, my lord."

The Beast didn't seem to hear him as he cradled several pieces of broken porcelain in his hands.

"It was only a plate, love," Mrs. Potts said on his other side, little Chip alive and well beside her as the boy nudged the Beast's quaking paw. "No harm done, see?"

"Ch-Charlotte," the master finally gasped, eyes still glazed over. "Oh, God…oh, God…"

"That wasn't Charlotte," the old teapot went on, voice growing more anxious with each moment. "N-no one was hurt. Just—just try to stay with me, dear. Try to stay with me."

Around them, living objects were gathering, their uneasy chatter swelling in the low-ceilinged kitchen. The Beast's paws curled around the sharp fragments in his hands, blood starting to drip through his fingers. His trembling seemed to increase in proportion to the volume of voices around him, eyes large and unblinking as he stared at the floor.

Belle sucked in a sharp breath, no longer seeing the master before her as much as another man she knew well. "Mrs. Potts," she said calmly, by their side in a moment. "Is there somewhere quiet nearby we can go?"

The woman looked up at her in shock. "O-oh—well, yes, yes there is. The servants' quarters—they're just in the next hall over."

Belle nodded, before looking up at the Beast. "Master, it's Belle. Can you hear me?"

He looked over slowly, confusion sweeping over his face until he caught her eyes. "…Belle?" he asked, as though the name didn't fully register.

"Yes, it's me. I'm going to take your arm now," she explained carefully. "Can you stand?"

He stared at her for another long moment before nodding. She gently grasped his arm with both hands and helped him to his feet as best she could, ignoring the blood from his paws that dripped on her skirt as they wove through the crowd and towards the abandoned servant's quarters.

By the time they reached an empty room, his trembling had ceased, though his breaths were still shallow and forced. Belle sat him down on one of the small beds near the hearth, keeping a hand on his arm as he started to calm down.

"Can you feel me, Master? I'm right here," she said quietly.

He nodded.

"We're just in one of the servant's rooms. Everyone is safe. You're safe, okay?"

He nodded again, finally breathing easier though still not quite in the present as he stared absently across the room. A few minutes later, Mrs. Potts came in filled with steaming water and riding a serving tray pilled with rags and bandages. Belle sighed in gratitude for the woman's foresight.

The master eventually let her take the fragments of chipped porcelain from his grasp before she set about cleaning the cuts in his palms. It took care to remove the blood from his matted fur, but she was in no rush.

Soon, a crackling came from the hearth as a couple more servants quietly started a fire. The Beast stared at Belle as she worked to wrap clean bandages across his giant palms.

"I…I'm sorry," he finally managed, squeezing his eyes shut as he turned away.

"Don't be," Belle said straightly, tucking in the final wrappings and pulling away. "I'm here to help, remember?"

His eyes opened again and he looked back slowly. He didn't quite smile, but looked grateful nonetheless. As he stared back down at his bandaged paws, Belle stood and followed Mrs. Potts into the hall to help clean up the mess back in the kitchen.

"My dear…how did you know what to do?" the woman asked as soon as she shut the door behind them.

Belle glanced back at the room, frowning sadly. "My papa gets like that sometimes, but much worse. He fought in the war before I was born, and Mama told me he's never been quite the same. I've—I've seen her help him through his fits many times. And then…I have myself since she grew ill."

"What a blessing we had you here," the old pot sighed in gratitude. "But I am sorry for your dear father. Soldiers sacrifice more than lives and limbs, I believe."

Belle nodded, biting her lip before going on. "No one knew, until a few years back," she went on, staring absently across the small hall. "He went on a hunting trip with some of the men. We thought he'd be fine—hadn't had a fit in years by then—but I guess the sound of so many guns at once set him off. O-our neighbors…they had to carry him home," she whispered, swallowing roughly. "Now, people in town call him weak. Some even call him mad. Say—say no man in his right mind would behave like that." Belle stopped, curling her fists as her eyes began to sting. "But it isn't his fault. Something—something j-just happened to him, th-that's all."

"Of course, dear. Of course." Mrs. Potts said gently.

"H-he fought for them, and they—they treat him like that, just for feeling frightened," she said, now struggling to hold back tears as the stress of the day caught up to her. "Just…just for feeling something."

"Oh, love," Mrs. Potts went on softly. "I'm afraid people can be cruel towards things they don't understand."

Belle nodded again. "Yes. They can." She was quiet for a long moment, and the woman waited patiently until she spoke again. "Mrs. Potts?" she finally asked.

"Yes, dear?"

Belle looked back at the closed door before turning back to the teapot. "…Who was Charlotte?"


"M-my lord! Please, please come quickly!"

The young master looked up from his texts, watching as a small salad bowl rolled quickly over the carpet and into his feet.

"Do you mind?!" a gruff voice spoke, a large, feathery quill dragging itself to the edge of the desk and seeming to glare down at the intruder. "I will not tolerate interruptions to my lessons! The master has been dutifully focused on his arithmetic and I will not have you—"

"B-but Charlotte is on the roof!" the bowl cried desperately. "She's—she's going to jump, my lord!"

Heart catching in his throat, the teenager knocked a dozen papers to the ground as he sprinted out the door and towards the tower. Still not used to the strange way his new legs moved, he fell into a more natural gallop on all fours as he climbed the long stairwell.

The windows of the empty dungeons were surrounded by other servants, various household objects peering out into the midday sun.

"He's here!"

"Young lord!"

"Master!"

He ignored their cries of alarm, pushing his way through the crowd of objects and sticking his head through one of the narrow windows. "Charlotte!" he shouted, a lingering crack in his voice as he squinted against the sun. The rooftops reflected back at him brightly, covered with moss and debris. Throat growing dry, he finally spotted her above him, the little plate skirting anxiously in the storm drain.

"Charlotte, don't move. I'm going to get you down," he said slowly, squeezing out the window and trying in vain to reach her with still-growing arms, wondering how in the world she'd managed to get in such a position.

"Don't," she whispered, skirting further away. "Please…just let me—"

"I won't let you die!" he cried, reaching more desperately, clawed paws propping him against the cool outer stone as he tried not to fall himself.

"Why?" she asked quietly, suddenly still against the roof top. "I don't matter. I'm a salad plate, my lord." She stopped, leaning precariously close to the edge. "…A salad plate."

Inside the tower, the servants heard the boy's sudden, roar-like scream followed by a small crack against the rooftops. Pushing the others aside, Lumiere hopped up onto the window's ledge, looking out for a moment. His metal shoulders sagged immediately, turning around slowly and motioning a couple of the footmen to his side. The coat racks obeyed, helping him pull the master back inside before he could fall himself.

"No—wait—I have to—" the beast-child gasped, fighting against them as they dragged him away from the window. "I can fix her…I-I just need to gather the pieces…please, Lumiere, let me go!"

"Master, she's gone," Lumiere said quietly, resting a waxy hand on his shoulder. "She's gone."

A terrible silence fell over the crowd of servants, pierced by the quiet sobs of a little salad bowl.

"No…no…" the master choked out. "I…I couldn't…oh, God. O-oh…God…"

"Oh, Mrs. Potts," Belle said sadly, heart breaking. They now sat beside the hearth in the kitchen, where Mrs. Potts had quietly related the event.

"The master blamed himself," the woman went on. "Perhaps still does. From a young age he felt responsible for the castle and its occupants. More than he needed to, but it gave him purpose. It was after her passing that I believe he realized we all needed to have a purpose, too.

"For some of us, it came naturally. I had a child to care for, and could still brew the master a cup of tea should he need it. The stable boys still had the animals to tend to, the Cardinal and organist gave us peace on the Sabbath, the master's tutor continued his lessons almost as if nothing had changed. And Cogsworth, as usual, could always find something to fuss about," she smiled, before sobering. "But my poor kitchen girls, all turned into the dishes and utensils they'd been washing the moment of the curse—they and so many others found themselves suddenly useless."

"So what changed?" Belle asked curiously.

"Well, the master didn't know what to do. He was fourteen, I believe? So he counseled with us, as he still does with such things. It was actually Lumiere who came up with the idea to open the library to everyone. In fact, the master hadn't even realized the staff didn't have access to it before the curse—he'd just assumed no one shared his interest in reading," she said with a fond smile. "However, we quickly realized that many of the household were illiterate—and before you know it, those who could read were teaching those who couldn't. Even the master insisted he and his tutor help, which the man found quite beneath him, but knew better than to argue with the boy over such things," she chuckled. "It was quite an exciting time, in fact. I don't believe that library has ever been so used, or loved, as it was that year everyone learned together."

"Everyone here can read?" Belle asked in awe. She knew how uncommon it was to read in her village, or at least read well, especially among the women.

"Yes. Everyone," Mrs. Potts said warmly, though her smile fell quickly. "Even then, though, it was still difficult for many of us without…" She stopped, trailing off.

"…Without what, Mrs. Potts?" Belle asked carefully.

"Oh, this must sound strange. But…well, it's quite hard to go so long without…being touched."

Belle's eyes grew wide. "I…I didn't realize you could…"

"Feel?" the woman smiled. "Yes, we can, to an extent. I believe it differs depending on our form. I can, obviously, tolerate extreme heat," she chuckled, a bit of steam escaping her spout before going on. "But try to imagine, dear, living even a year without the touch of another, the warmth of those you love."

Belle blinked slowly, her observations of the Beast suddenly coming together. The way he would rest a paw against a living chair, or reposition a chatty frame, or tenderly shut the drawers of a sleeping armoire. He was, after all, the only one with blood and warmth, the only one who could offer any semblance of human touch. She thought about his reaction when she'd merely rested a hand on his arm on Max's first visit, realizing that of everyone here, he was the only one who'd never had his efforts reciprocated.

Belle looked back at Mrs. Potts, who suddenly looked as though she'd remembered something very upsetting. She thought of this grandmother before her, and the little boy she'd been left to care for. She sucked in a breath of terrible realization. "M-Mrs. Potts…how old was Chip when you were cursed?"

The woman sighed. "But an infant, my dear."

"Shhh, don't…d-don't cry, love," the grandmother whispered desperately, the infant's lonely cries echoing in the night. "I'm here, little one, I'm—I'm right here," she said, holding back a sob. The child's cries only grew, a vocal expression of the dread and fear that had filled the castle for the last two days.

"Mrs. Potts?" a small voice asked from the darkness. "Mrs. Potts, is that you?" She looked up to see the prince in the doorway, holding a candle that set his face aglow. His eyes were rimmed with a deep red, still-human cheeks wet with undried tears as he moved over beside them.

"Master," she said, desperate to cry herself but, of course, no longer able to. "I-I'm so sorry, my lord, I just can't seem to comfort him," she said, hearing her ragged voice echo strangely from her porcelain cage. "I've tried filling him with warm tea, but it only calms him for a short while. He just, he wants to be held, b-but I can no longer …" she trailed off, voice cracking as terror and helplessness consumed her.

The prince was staring at them, appearing as helpless as she felt. What was she doing, placing her troubles on the young lord? The child's father had vanished on the night of the spell, and his mother but a year prior. And little did she know at the time that he, too, would soon endure his own transformation.

"I'm so sorry, dear," she said quickly. "You need not trouble yourself with—" She stopped as the boy set the candle on the table and picked up the small teacup in silence. Mrs. Potts watched in surprise as he cradled the little porcelain infant in small, careful hands. The child's cries faded in an instant.

"Th-thank you, Master," she whispered, heart swelling with gratitude. "Thank you."

By now, Belle was stunned into silence by everything she'd learned. She stared at her hands as she tried to make sense of it all. She had, of course, assumed the servants had endured much in their transformations. But she was just starting to see all it had really entailed.

"It's not been an easy road," Mrs. Potts went on. "But look at us all now! We're doing quite well, if I do say so myself."

Belle looked up, watching the teapot beside her for a long moment as she thought.

"Try to imagine, dear, living without the touch of another."

"My, it's grown so late already," the woman noted, glancing over the darkening grounds. "We'll clean things up here, love. You better—" Mrs. Potts stopped, her painted eyes growing wide as Belle rested a hand against her warm lid.

"Thank you, Mrs. Potts," she said. She was quiet for a moment, before going on. "You know, I've been missing my mother quite a bit lately. But I'm glad—I'm glad you're here," she said quickly, biting her lip before standing quickly to retrieve her cloak and bid farewell to the others, giving each a quiet touch on her way.

Mrs. Potts watched her leave, recalling her own daughter she'd lost so long ago and thinking perhaps she felt a warmth inside that wasn't from the water in her pot.


Late the next day, the Beast moved slowly towards the back exit to the stables. He realized he'd been avoiding Belle ever since his…incident the day before, but soon his desire to see her had outweighed his embarrassment. He felt his bandaged hands, chest growing warm as he recalled the feeling of her fingers against his palms—

"Good afternoon, m'lord."

The master started, glancing towards the voice and spotting a small landscape painting hanging against the wall beside him. "O-oh, Timothée. Good afternoon." He paused, scrunching his brows as he thought. "How long have you been there?"

"About a week," he replied, his frame curving up ever so slightly as if shrugging. "Violet read me some of Aesop's Fables yesterday, which was quite enjoyable."

The Beast frowned, realizing he'd been neglecting the man. "I'm sorry. I've been a bit…distracted, lately, I suppose."

"And why's that, Master?" the man prodded, chuckling to himself.

The master only grinned, thinking of Belle again. "Where would you like to go today?" he asked, ignoring the question.

Timothée hummed as he thought. "Perhaps before the Bellini, in the Grand Hall? Only if it's not too much trouble."

The Beast shook his head, pulling the man down from his hook before yanking the nail from its place in the wall. He found some amusement in imagining what his predecessors would think of him driving holes all over their grand palace, but he'd long since stopped caring about such things. "Where's the—" He stopped, spotting the hammer on the small table several paces away. Grabbing it, he moved towards his destination and drove the nail into an old hole that faced a beautiful painting of the Madonna and Child on the opposite wall.

"Thank you, Master," the man said once settled in place.

The Beast nodded, heading back towards his original destination. At the top of the stairwell leading to the kitchens, however, he froze as a dozen giggles echoed through the air. A now-familiar voice emerged as the crowd calmed down.

"There we were—me on Philippe and Gaston on his young, prize-winning thoroughbred, so convinced he'd be leaving me in the dust," Belle said to the quieting voices. "As one of the other boys raised the gun high above his head, I took a deep breath, ignoring their jeers as I stared at the wooded path before us." Belle paused for just a moment. "Then I smiled—knowing I was going to win this race."

"But Philippe is a farm horse!" one of the women cried.

"How did you ever expect to win?" another chimed in.

"She couldn't have—the girl's pulling our leg!"

"I'm not," Belle said earnestly, and the Beast could almost hear the smirk in her voice, the hushed quiet of the women as they waited for an explanation. Even he found himself leaning over the railing for a better listen. "The fire was shot, and Gaston was off like a bolt," she went on. "Philippe ached to follow, but I held him back, giving my rival a nice, long head start."

"What?!"

"No! Why?"

The Beast took a few quiet steps further down the stairs, the side of Belle's face coming into view as he ducked to look between the banisters. He was right—she was grinning ear to ear when she spoke again. "Because I knew a shortcut."

The room filled with a chorus of high-pitched cheers and laughter. A good storyteller, the master thought absently.

"By the time he made it to the lake, I'd been there a solid ten minutes!" Belle went on in victory. "And I didn't cheat, mind you—we only agreed whoever made it there first would win."

The master found himself grinning now, imagining a smaller Belle racing through the woods towards her victory and the blow it must have dealt to this kid Gaston—the one who had clearly grown into scoundrel.

"What did you win?" someone asked in earnest.

"Pride," Belle laughed. "It was quite a feat, considering he was already of age and I just a scrawny preteen," she continued, before pouting. "To be honest, I was kind of hoping to injure his pride enough that he'd leave me alone." She sighed. "I think I made it worse, though."

The Beast scowled. He hadn't realized Gaston was that much older than her. Not that such an age gap was odd in adulthood—but for a grown man, even barely, to be eyeing a twelve year-old was more than enough to make the master's stomach turn.

It seemed he wasn't the only one with such thought. "He tried courting you that young?" one of the middle-aged women asked in shock.

"Well, not exactly. He just told me not to worry about courting later since he'd already decided to marry me," Belle explained, wrinkling her nose. The irritation practically dripped from her tone. "And despite everything I said to the contrary, he seemed to take the fact that I never did as my acceptance."

"You've never had a beau?" another woman cried. "But you're so lovely!"

Belle flushed brightly, looking into her lap. The master couldn't tell if she appreciated the compliment or not—but something about her reaction made him guess it was the latter. He tucked this piece of information away for later. "I guess no one was ever interested," Belle shrugged quietly. "And I doubt Gaston would have let them court me if they had been."

Several servants offered sounds of exasperation and sympathy, making Belle smile again. Meanwhile, the Beast had to bite back a growl, realizing how far back Gaston's attempts to control her had really gone. While he wasn't necessarily upset Belle hadn't courted all the men in town, it certainly wasn't fair that one powerful man had prevented her from forming acquaintances with others her age. That must have been terribly isolating.

The Beast's nostrils flared as he glanced down at his claws. He didn't often desire to use them for harm, but one possibility was beginning to sound very tempting.

"Men can be such fools," one of the older women chided, stirring him from his thoughts. The room filled with more giggles, and the master had a sudden, intense desire to be far away. Slipping silently back up the steps, he pulled open to door to see a little teacup sitting in the threshold.

"Hello, Master!" Chip said happily. And loudly. "Watcha doin' down here?"

The Beast grimaced, feeling his fur stand on end as the giggles grew in volume below them. Chip! he thought in irritation, though he couldn't reasonably blame the kid. He had been the one eavesdropping, after all. Instead, the master sighed deeply, picking the cup up and taking the slow walk of shame down into the kitchens.

"Master, you didn't have to hide, you know," one of the plates teased him. "We would have let you join in the fun."

His cheeks burned in embarrassment, and the Beast was once again grateful no one could see them. "I don't know…" he muttered, letting Chip down on the tabletop. "I didn't want to interrupt the man-bashing party, after all," he said, raising a thick brow.

"Oh, we didn't mean you, my lord!" a little feather duster said earnestly. "Now Lumiere, on the other hand…"

Their resulting laughter soon melted into idle chit-chat, and the Beast finally looked back towards Belle. She was distracted however, holding one of the plates carefully in one hand while the other held a small, purple-tipped paintbrush.

"What are you doing?" he asked curiously.

"Oh Master, Belle's the most wonderful artist!" the plate in her hand responded eagerly before Belle could even reply. "Haven't you seen her sketchbook?"

"I'm—I'm not that good," Belle said, cheeks flushing again.

The Beast looked around more carefully. A half-dozen plates already appeared to be decorated—flowers, leaves, and detailed patterns of all kinds gracing their porcelain surfaces. The plate in Belle's hand had several pretty violet tulips dotting her surface. A couple others were just coming from the warm oven, the prints now permanently etched into their surfaces.

"Someone said I could borrow some of the paints from the workshop," Belle explained quickly as he sat beside her, the plate rolling out of her hands and across the table. "I hope…I hope that's all right."

"Oh—it's fine, of course," he said quickly. "I'm surprised they weren't dried out by now."

Belle nodded, looking at the plates lining up for their turn in the oven. "I just…I thought it might help," she whispered, shrugging a bit. "It must be hard to be one of several dozen matching plates."

"I don't matter. I'm a salad plate, my lord."

Charlotte's words echoed in the Beast's thoughts as he watched the servants along the table, felt the newfound joy that permeated the air. He looked back at Belle, fighting the sudden urge to hug her. "It does help," he said quietly, settling instead with moving an inch closer.

Belle smiled a little, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear as she so often did. The Beast suddenly imagined what it might feel like to have human hands that could do it for her. His heart was starting to race, and he shook his head roughly. "S-so, um…what's this about a sketchbook?"

"It's nothing," she replied quickly, though he noticed her hand move from her lap to the opposite side of the bench, hearing something shift against the wooden surface.

He leaned back, spying the book on her other side. "Can I see it?" he asked with interest.

Belle grimaced a bit. "Mmm…I suppose. But don't expect much," she said nervously, picking up the sketchbook with careful hands and pursing her lips for a moment before handing it over.

It was fairly small, about the size of the Beast's paw, the cover a dirty brick red and peeling along the edges. He opened it carefully, surprised to see every square inch of the parchment covered with drawings. The first page was filled with all kinds of people, many having been redrawn over old sketches multiple times as the artist's skill improved.

"These are incredible," he said quietly, soaking in the human expressions staring back at him from the page. They were all so different, but so real. So unlike the ancient, unfeeling castle portraits that had been staring at him from the West Wing's walls for a decade.

"Thank you, my lord," Belle said shyly, though she sounded pleased. "They're just some of the other villagers."

The Beast looked slowly through the next few pages, all filled with people, letting Belle tell him about each one. "Is that you?" he asked a few pages in, pointing to one who had shown up several times already and seemed to look quite like the girl beside him.

"That's my mother," she smiled. "I suppose I took more after her than Papa."

That's for sure, the Beast thought in some amusement, recalling the time he'd met Maurice. Not that he was one to judge for looks, but he'd been pretty certain after meeting Belle that she hadn't inherited her features from her father. "You know…" He swallowed, hesitating for a moment but ultimately deciding to go on. "My own mother was actually an art historian."

Belle's eyes grew bright, though her response was careful. "She was?"

"A self-taught one, but yes," he nodded. "As far as I was told, there weren't half the number of paintings in the castle before she married my father," he said, smiling a bit. "He used to joke that she would empty the treasury if she kept it up."

Belle smiled widely in response as she leaned against the table, and the Beast felt himself going on. "I was actually told that she was so unimpressed with the art on her first visit that my father had a hard time persuading her to stay longer," he explained, feeling himself grin. "I guess he finally convinced her when he showed her the library's collection of art history texts."

Belle laughed a little. "That's sweet," she said honestly.

The master felt a strange but pleasant lightness in his chest. He hadn't talked about his parents so openly since…well, since they'd been alive, in fact. He wasn't expecting it to feel so natural.

"My Papa won over my mother with books as well, you could say," Belle said after a few moments of silence.

"Really?"

"Mm," she smiled, tucking that same lock of hair behind her hair as she sat back. "They grew up in a town further south, but like here she wasn't allowed to go to school," Belle explained quietly, before brightening. "But her and Papa would meet under a great oak tree near the woods and he would share all his lessons with her every day after his classes. He's convinced he would have dropped out of school much sooner to work on his inventions had he not been trying to win her over," Belle chuckled.

"His inventions?" the Beast asked curiously.

"Oh, well, it was an old hobby of his. He hasn't had time for them in years, and wound up selling most of them for parts when Mama grew sick," she explained, looking a little sad. She recovered quickly, however. "We still have one left, though—it lets you see who's on the other side of a door without opening it."

The master raised his brows in interest. "That…could actually be very useful," he observed.

"Oh, it is," she said earnestly. "I can't tell you how many times it's saved me from having to talk to Gaston." She paused. "Or from hearing him talk, to be more accurate."

The Beast was a torn between a reignited irritation with this man and an amusement as he imagined Belle devilishly avoiding Gaston's house calls. He looked back down at the sketchbook in his hands. "What about them?" he went on, turning the page to see several new faces.

"Oh, nobody in particular," Belle shrugged. "Though I guess I sort of imagined them from my stories."

"That one looks like Robinson Crusoe," the master grinned, pointing to a long-bearded man garbed in ragged clothes and holding a musket.

Belle gasped. "It is! I can't believe you could tell!" she cried, her smile growing tenfold.

They went through the rest of the pages together, all filled with a variety of flowers, plants, homes, and landscapes. Up to the very last page, each bit of blank space had been filled with some large or small sketch.

"You're out of pages," he observed, closing the book carefully and handing it back to her.

"It's all right. There's still a little room left," she said, pressing the book tenderly against her chest.

"You should get a new one," he prodded. "Your father left you some coin, right?"

"What?" she asked, looking up at him with wide eyes. "Oh, no, I—I couldn't spend your money on something like that," she said earnestly. "Besides, I promised Papa to be very careful with it all."

The master frowned, realizing he was speaking to someone who had experienced true poverty. Perhaps the idea of spending money on something like this felt frivolous to her, when it seemed like such a basic item to him.

The thought, however, gave him an idea.


"I want to do something for her."

"Well, there's the usual things," Cogsworth told his master straightly. "Flowers, chocolates, promises you don't intend to keep—"

"What?" the Beast asked, wrinkling his nose. "No, no. I already know what I want to—"

"Flowers, at this time of year?" Lumiere interrupted, raising a golden brow at his wooden associate.

"And where in the world would we get chocolate?" Mrs. Potts chuckled in amusement. "I'm afraid the master ate through the last of that years ago."

"Oh, everyone's a critic," Cogsworth huffed.

"Look," the Beast grumbled in exacerbation. "I already have an idea. I just need some help." The three objects finally acknowledged him, looking up expectantly. He cleared his throat. "Do you know anyone in the castle with experience in bookbinding?"


A/N – Whew, this one was a toughie. I hope the middle section wasn't too dark for anyone. I looked up the typical trigger warnings for fanfic, and it seemed okay to leave things as they were without a warning. In general, I do like to slip in social commentary into my writing now and again; here, I've attempted to acknowledge and normalize mental illness, which would be an obvious result for our characters after what they went through. There's also a ton of research out there on the psychological and health benefits of human touch for all ages. Particularly infants, who can actually die if they are not held enough, even when well-nourished. All in all, I think what the servants went through is ignored a lot, and I really wanted to show some of that here. And if you identified both the Beast and Maurice as experiencing varying levels of PTSD, you're absolutely correct.

Anywho, hopefully the fluff at the end made up for the serious themes! And welcome to my lovely new reviewers, Bookloverdream and juminhan :)