Chapter Nine; In Which There is Unexpected Affection
Once back in his quarters, Brendan looked around the room for any sign of the unseen servants, and then felt foolish for doing so. The fire was blazing hot, so he pulled his tunic off over his head and sat down at the edge of the bed.
"Allo?" he asked softly. He felt a soft brush of air on his skin to indicate that one of the servants was there, and so prompted, said, "Look, would you happen to know where that rose might be? I thought I might have left it here in the room, but it's not here. Have I dropped it somewhere?"
The bed curtains wavered, as if someone was leaning against the bedpost.
"Well? Do you know? I'd be very grateful," he added quickly, remembering how callous Beast was to these servants, and somehow felt obliged to make up for it.
Brendan felt someone take hold of his hand, and lay his or her knuckles against the heel of his palm. Slowly, and with seemingly great reluctance, the hand unfurled and the rose lay revealed. For an instant, Brendan fancied he could see the outline of invisible fingers over the petals.
"Thank you," he said, reaching for it with his other hand. The servant snatched its hand and the rose away, in such a way that it was obvious that the servant was clutching the rose to its chest possessively.
Brendan's brow furrowed in puzzlement. Why on earth would this person want his rose? Did it have so little beauty in its life? "Please?" he asked.
And then the presence was gone, to Brendan's disappointment. Spare seconds later, he felt a hand tentatively brush his bare shoulder, and he was presented with the rose, placed in a delicate vase.
"Thank you very much," he smiled, taking the proffered flower and setting it on his nightstand. "I...I just feel like it's very important, is all."
Very soon, with his belly full and his body warm, Brendan fell asleep, hands nestled by his face, hair splayed over his closed eyes. Gentle and hesitant, transparent fingers brushed the chestnut locks aside.
The next day, after he arose and ate the small breakfast that was laid out for him, Brendan decided he would try and find the Music Room. He threw open the wardrobe doors, and was pleased to see a selection of clothing befitting his size and, even more fortunately, gender. He chose a lightly frilled linen tunic shirt from the array of brocade and silks, and plain black breeches. After moving to the country, he'd gotten used to simple clothes and felt uncomfortable in the kind of court finery he used to wear. All of the clothing in the wardrobe, he noticed, seemed to be cut in a fashion that was popular many decades ago.
After he had washed and dressed, Brendan stepped out of his room and chose a direction. He decided not to ask one of the servants to guide him, for he had been slightly unsettled by the night before and wished to explore on his own. Seemingly heeding his will, the hallway torches remained unlit even as he passed them, as the cavernous halls were lit with pale, cold light that came in from the immensely tall windows at the end of each corridor. The wood floors and paneling of the walls were dark and fine-grained. Long red runner carpets covered the cold wood, smelling like old things but looking clean.
Most of the doors he passed were shut. At first, walking past door after heavy wooden door, he felt uneasy. At one point Brendan stopped, and reached one arm out, grasped a filigree brass handle and pushed. It was locked. After that, he assumed the rest were, as well.
His walk was neither short nor long. Time didn't really factor in to the feel of his surroundings; it was ageless and still somehow very ancient. The light never wavered, the general look of things never changed. In each new hallway, there was a different runner carpet, and occasionally some sorts of expensive looking baubles and tapestries, but other than that it all looked the same.
He had just come down a very brief flight of stairs. Six steps, a landing, and six more steps, and he found himself in an entirely different hallway. It was wider than the others, and was hung with great faded tapestries. There were no doors at all. He stepped down off the last step, and the worn heel of his boot clicked softly. No carpet. He glanced down, a short exhalation of breath escaping his lips. The sound echoed back at him.
A great tile mosaic, also faded and slightly worn from age, was inlaid into the ground. He noticed then the room smelled different—pleasantly earthy, not musty. He took a few steps forward, head tilted sideway to carefully take in the details of the picture. The image of a white skinned woman, cream colored cloth draped and folded around her shoulders and legs, was forever stretched languidly against a verdant flower-spangled background, her arm reaching ahead and one slender finger pointed at the two large white marble doors at the end of the tiled hall, where carved ivy and morning glories twined up the arched ivory doors.
In awe of the aged beauty of the place, Brendan strode quietly up to the door—the silence was too serene to mar with his clicking footsteps. He carefully stepped over the woman's face, with the courtesy of simple admiration for art. There were no handles on the doors, so he slid his fingers over the carved leaves. He jumped, startled, as the doors, being very delicately balanced on their hinges, silently opened inwards.
"Dieu," he breathed in wonder. The word 'garden' didn't begin to describe the beautiful pillars and steps, the sunken turquoise pond surrounded by orchids and snapdragons, the leafy green ferns in tall pots along the tiled walls, and ye god, the roses. So many roses!
Gape-mouthed, Brendan's eyes were drawn upward. The blue and green tiled wall and columns reached as high as a man's height, and then turned to glass, slightly yellowed with age. Brass bars stretched up, curved like ribs and met in the very center, and through the glass Brendan saw the grey clouds, still streaming snow. The garden, however, was warm, and Brendan's tunic began to stick to his skin with the humidity. The columns by the walls were covered in clematis and dappled ivy, and there were small round fountains placed around the vast conservatory. It was very lovely, and yet somehow, with the age of the glass and the violently bright flowers, it seemed savage and dangerous.
Dazed, feeling as if he were wandering through a dream, Brendan walked down one of the blue-tiled paths. Now and then he would stretch out a hand to touch velvet roses that were as red as fresh welts; delicate spider flowers as pink as skin; nodding orchids that were the same blue-purple of new bruises, yellow violets the same muted golden as those contusions that have just begun to fade. Strange, and so exquisitely lovely.
There were roses with long prickly thorns, so that he had to skirt around them to avoid being scratched. Some were yellow or pink or champagne and, of course, red. Many were more exotic, like the sweet-smelling violet blooms that lay close to the ground, or the odorless roses that were so purple they were black, standing far apart from their sister blossoms on the bush as if they disliked one another's company, and some roses as white as bone and with a scent as cloying-sweet as death.
Brendan loved flowers. He didn't know how long he walked among the garden, eyes wide trying to take it all in, smelling the sweet tang of earth and pollen. He dabbled his fingers in the pond, and was delighted to see two fat fish swim near, one white, one black. He might have wandered in a blissful daze for hours, but for looking up at the sky and realizing with a jolt, that evening wasn't too far away.
Reluctantly, but promising within his heart to return soon, Brendan left the fierce, beautiful garden, again courteously stepping over the mosaic woman. He'd forgotten about his search for the Music Room, but felt more than compensated for the temporary loss. Now, he was expected for dinner.
Brendan felt only slightly less apprehensive than he had yesterday as he walked into the dining room, where Beast was already waiting, even though Brendan had consciously come early in hopes of seeing the food being carted in on invisible hands. At least he had fresh clothes on. He wore a simple grey shirt with laced cuffs, and a silver-blue embroidered vest that fitted closely around the hips, with matching grey breeches and high black boots that shone like a beetle's exoskeleton.
Brendan made a small bow to his host before seating himself. Beast nodded curtly, which was about as polite as he got, and waved a furry hand for Brendan's glass to be filled. Brendan thanked the air where he thought the servant should be, and sipped his wine absently. He watched the Beast carefully.
As he was changing in his quarters, Brendan had come to the conclusion that anyone who kept a garden as magnificent as that couldn't be such a monster, despite his fearsome appearance.
In silence, Brendan ate what was placed before him, savoring the delicious gravies and meats. It occurred to him that if he ate like this every day, he'd be quite round before too long. Of course, any day the snow would stop and he'd be out on his tail, but it was an amusing thought nevertheless.
"Did you visit the Music Room?" Beast asked in a somber voice, making quite clear by his tone that he couldn't care less one way or another.
"Oh, no. I couldn't find it."
Beast looked over his goblet at Brendan, one heavy brow bushily quirked. "Didn't the servants show you where it is?"
"Um. No, I went alone. I just sort of…walked around a bit in hopes that I'd find it." He laid down his fork and tried to converse while looking the Beast in the eyes, but once again he couldn't bring himself to do it. Every time that mane bristled, or the muscles bunched under the royal-blue vest, a frisson of fear brushed up Brendan's spine, and he looked away.
"Ah." Beast managed to fit a lot of 'you're rather foolish, aren't you?' into that one word. "Then I'm sure you've found that many rooms are locked. Those that are locked are old and have been unused for many years. But some rooms," here Beast's voice grew more menacing and he growled lightly, "some rooms are locked because I do not wish for anyone to enter them. Do you understand, boy?"
Brendan had to bite his tongue to stifle a nasty retort to 'boy'. Schooling himself into politeness, he replied, "Of course. You like your privacy." It sounded infantile and obvious as soon as he said it. "Perhaps you should tell me which rooms you would rather that I stayed out of, to avoid any…um, conflict."
The Beast assessed Brendan for a long second before answering. "You have proved to be a most curious specimen, boy. I am more wise than that, to tell you what is forbidden to you, and thusly in your mind, desirable." Beast snorted, and it was almost a laugh. "Just know that the servants will keep you away if you get near."
Brendan nodded, for it was the only thing he could think of to do in answer. "That garden isn't off limits, is it?" he inquired before he'd even meant to ask.
"Have you been to the Garden Room?" Beast asked, incredulous. He had been circling his glass with a talon to make it ring faintly, and now his claw was poised over the goblet in astonishment.
"Yes…" Brendan answered, unsure if this was the best answer to give. There was a long, drawn-out pause.
"No, it is not off limits." The Beast sat silently, nursing his wine. Brendan felt compelled to say something to break the tense silence.
"It's very beautiful." He felt the Beast's eyes upon him, and went on truthfully, "and yet, sort of frightening."
Beast tilted his head, almost understandingly. "Do you like gardens, then?"
"Oh yes," Brendan quickly replied, then felt his face flush red. Liking flowers wasn't exactly something for a young man to list as a virtue. His father had often jibbed him about it. Unexpectedly, his inquisitiveness forced words to trip out of his mouth. "May I ask you a question?"
Beast leveled fierce eyes on Brendan, looking daggers. "You may," he rumbled, "but I may not answer."
"Right." Brendan swallowed. "Who are they? The servants, I mean." He met Beast's eye for an instant before looking away. "Why are they…the way they are?"
Surprise flitted across Beast's leonine features. I'll bet he expected me to ask about how he came to look the way he does, Brendan thought. Curious he might be, but he wasn't crazy.
"The servants? They are…my servants. They always have been. Most of them."
"But…I mean, why can't they be seen, or heard? And invisibility—I just don't understand how it's possible." Brendan leaned forward in interest, relieved that the Beast seemed willing to talk.
"It's obviously possible, isn't it? Or else it wouldn't be so." Beast took a long draught of his wine before continuing. "They are bound to me by great sorcery, obedient to my will, and tied to this castle. Most of them have always been my servants, even before…they became invisible. They are unable to communicate in any way besides that of touch. It has been so for years."
"But…how do they eat? Where do they sleep?" Brendan's hand flipped in the air expressively. "Don't they…well, there are a great many practical things like that I am wondering about. Just who, exactly, are they?"
Beast pulled back a little, inwardly bewildered. "They're just servants. They serve…that's what they do. That's who they are."
"…I see." Brendan said, looking sharply down at his lap. And he did see. The Beast was quite clearly noble-born. It was highly likely that to him, the servants had always been nameless and faceless even when they had been visible, and after they had faded from the world of sight, he had ceased to think of them as people at all. Brendan could understand it, in a way, but it saddened him nonetheless.
"You said 'most of them'. Who are the rest?"
Beast's voice was as cold as the sleet outside when he spoke. "The others are those who have since come to my castle to gain from my wealth, making false promises and twisted lies."
Brendan smiled wryly. "Could you elaborate a bit on that, please?"
The Beast didn't seem to even be listening to him. "Some were men of business who came to make deals, hearing tales of my wealth and power. Some were women who came hearing those same rumors, and made false vows of love, all the while looking over my shoulder, hiding the revulsion in their eyes." There was another pause that Brendan didn't dare interrupt. "Some came by accident, like your father, and took advantage of me in some way. Your father was not the first to take the one thing that was not freely offered. They all sought to acquire something from me; my wealth, my title, my land. So I acquired them."
Brendan bit his lip, and thought of his father, fading away. He shuddered.
"That was long ago, when people still knew of this castle, and of its Master. Now no one remembers the story is more than a nursery story, and the only ones who wander into my land do so by accident. Or, in your case, by lack of common sense." The uneaten food was being carried away by the unseens, and Brendan's glass was refilled.
"Ah. Well. Thank you for, um, answering my question," Brendan said softly, in a strange way more frightened of the Beast than he'd ever been, and he made a private vow to never, ever try to use the Beast for personal gain, not that he could even think of a way to do so in the first place. Still, even more questions had arisen from the Beast's answer, but his tongue was reluctant to ask anything more.
"Are you finished?" asked the Beast calmly, indicating Brendan's nearly empty plate.
"What? Oh, yes. It was very goo-"
"Yes, yes. I will show you the Music Room, if you wish it." Sweeping out of his high-backed chair, the Beast stood. Quick with his manners, Brendan swiftly followed suit, again taken aback by the Beast's mercurial moods. "Yes, please," he stated simply.
Brendan quietly followed the Beast. They had ascended a long flight of stairs that Brendan reckoned he could find again, due to the great marble griffons on either side of the handrails. Brendan hadn't been in this wing before, and admired the many long paintings that adorned the hall. The ceiling here was buttressed and very grand.
"Here," the Beast grunted, turning abruptly to the right. He pushed open a large door—third down on the right, Brendan told himself— and stood to the side, looming tall like a monolith that breathed and was covered in fur. Hesitantly, Brendan walked past the Beast and into the room.
There were two crystal chandeliers with their candles lit brightly, and the first thing Brendan saw was the enormous fireplace. It was practically another room in its own right! It was very ornately carved, as most fireplaces in the castle seemed to be, with great hunting cats. He glanced back at the Beast, who watched him impassively, and then swept his gaze over the room. There were many chairs and divans, most of their upholstery torn to rags. A large black harpsichord sat near a small window, a thick layer of dust accumulated on its surface. Brendan stepped over to the music racks by the wall as if drawn magnetically.
He sucked in a breath with delight. Nearly every instrument he could name, and a few he couldn't, were neatly displayed along the wall. There were violins and violas, flutes and slender piccolos, five different types of guitars and citterns, cornets and French horns, oboes and clarinets, a Russian balalaika, a hammered dulcimer and a zither, three fiddles, and even a musette. Turning, he noticed a large Irish harp in the corner and one small Greek lyre on a stand next to it. He knelt to touch a lute, and his fingers came away coated with the dust of many years.
"Tsk," he clicked his tongue, and began to brush away the grime with his finely embroidered sleeve. It didn't clean it as well as he might have wished, but soon, coughing a little at the dust, he saw that the lute was a fine piece of craftsmanship, of a lovely honeywood color. He strummed experimentally, and winced at the sharp discordance. It needed tuning. All of them probably did, strings sagging with dejection at their long abandonment. Brendan plucked at the E string, carefully twisting the tuning pegs. He closed his eyes, concentrating on the right notes. He jumped when he heard Beast's voice over his shoulder.
"I could have the servants dust the instruments," the Beast had stated loftily.
"Oh!" He'd forgotten that the Beast was even there. "Could you, please? That would be…um…" He watched in wonderment as invisible rags were swept along each appliance, cleaning each fret and groove. One of the unseens politely took the lute from his hands, stripped away the dust, and handed it back to him.
And so all the instruments sat shining, some still faintly humming from efficient unseen hands. Brendan glanced at the Beast, who was looking at him expectantly. He bent his head back over the lute, and in a minute had it fully tuned. To test its timbre and to get a feel for the instrument, Brendan softly played a bit of 'Greensleeves', which was the song that was most often used for quick test runs in his old music classes.
The lute's voice was sweet and thrummed with vitality. Again forgetting about his host, Brendan sat down in a relatively untorn chair and played a few simple bars of 'J'ai vu le loup'.
"J'ai vu le loup, le r'nard, le lièvre. J'ai vu le loup, le r'nard cheuler. C'est moi-même qui les ai r'beuillés…" He softly sang to himself, and stopped with the song unfinished, hands resting lightly on the lute's warm face. It felt like it had been forever since he'd last played.
"Play something else."
Brendan looked up, startled. Though it sounded more like a command than a request, Brendan was secretly pleased to have an audience, and took the Beast's appeal as further evidence of humanity, somewhere deep inside. His fingers moving almost of their own volition, he strummed a mournful tune. This really should be accompanied by a harp, but ah, well…he thought.
"One pleasant summer's morning
When all the flowers were spring, Oh
Nature was adorning
And the wee birds sweetly singing, Oh
I met my love near Banbridge Town
My charming blue-eyed Sally, Oh
She's the queen of the Country Down
The Flower of Magherally
Adam wasn't half so much plazed
When he met Eve in Eden, Oh
Her skin was like the lily white
That grows in yonder valley, Oh
She's the girl that I love dear
The Flower of Magherally."
Beast watched the boy play as if he were in a trace, his blue eyes nearly closed and unfocused. He had a surprisingly strong voice for such a slender lad, and his tones were clear and well trained.
"I hope the day will surely come
When we'll join hands together, Oh
And let them all say what they willAnd let them reel and rally, Oh
For I shall wed the girl I love
The Flower of Magherally."
Brendan sat back, the song finished, and looked askance at the Beast through his bangs.
"That wasn't a French song," The Beast said. "The words were French…mostly… but that was very clearly not a French song."
Brendan blinked. "No, it isn't. It's Irish." He ran a finger along the lute's bridge. "Many of the best songs I know are Irish songs."
"Irish?" the Beast asked quizzically. "You went to a Parisian school, did you not?"
"Yes." Brendan swallowed, not liking where these questions were headed at all. "They taught us only French songs, of course, but I've always liked Irish ones better. They've got so much more…truth. And fire." He sat quiet for a while, fingering the lute.
"Where, then, did you learn that song?" Beast shifted his weight from one footpaw to another.
Brendan opened his mouth, and found himself wordless. He tried again. "A friend taught me. A schoolmate. He was Irish." Mon Dieu, it hurts to even think about… "I am very tired, gracious host." Swiftly, Brendan stood and placed the lute back in its place.
"Tomorrow I will come here and tune all the instruments properly." Not meaning to cause offense, he quickly added, "Forgive me for saying, but they have been very badly neglected."
The Beast scrutinized his guest carefully. If he was surprised at Brendan's sudden change in mood, he did not show it. "Yes, they have been. Tomorrow after dinner, I'll come and hear you play some more."
Brendan smiled.
"Weather allowing, of course," Beast added.
"What?" Brendan was confused. What did the weather have to do with music?
"If the snowstorm ceases, you will leave, of course," the Beast's words were as sharp and brittle as icicles. It was clearly a dismissal.
"….Of course." Of course, thought Brendan as he made his way back to his room with an unseen servant as his elbow, have I forgotten that I'm not exactly a welcome guest? All this finery and music had muddled my mind. It's Beauty he wants.
Half an hour later, Brendan didn't feel the gentle hand that traced his face, for he was asleep in the large curtained bed and merely twitched his nose like a rabbit. The covers shifted and there dipped a depression low in the mattress, as if someone was curling up at Brendan's feet, careful not to disturb the slumbering young man. He dreamed no dreams.
