Ten

The winter was getting on. Christmas was drawing near as the snow gathered thickly over the trees and rooftops. Under slightly different circumstances, the servants would have been busy setting up holiday decorations and paraphernalia; unfortunately, her Highness' mood often objected to the keeping of schedules, since it was a constant reminder of the time slipping past. In the outside world, it was hardly any different. Beau had never really experienced what one would call a real holiday in his life; long ago, they had been tabooed as unpopular, along with everything to do with every religion in general. Under such circumstances, the least the servants usually did was an annual burning of a Yule log and hanging small sprigs of holly, mistletoe, and some evergreen as the holidays drew nearer.

It was on one cold, bright morning that Beau first noticed some of the feather-duster maids stringing these curious ornaments out along a banister. "Hello, ladies; what are those, if I may ask?"

One of the maids dropped a curtsey. "These, monsieur? Why, they are decorations for Christmas."

"Oh?" Intrigued, the lad peered closer for a better look. "I think I've heard of that; it used to be rather popular, from what my mother says. What is it?"

The maid's eyes popped. "Begging your pardon, monsieur, but how can you not know what Christmas is?"

Beau shrugged. "We just never had it. I guess most people thought it better not to do it while there was trouble and it just sort of died off."

Another maid scoffed, speaking her thoughts aloud. "How could anyone so callously dispatch of Christmas? Everybody has to have Christmas!"

"But not our Issachar," remarked a third maid. "He is Jewish."

"What do you do here for Christmas?" inquired Beau.

"Oh, it is magnifique!" sighed the first maid, leaning against the banister. "At least, it was in the old days. There's a holiday feast, the burning of the Yule log, carols, bells, giving of gifts—"

"But we have not had such things for a long time," said the second sadly. Lowering her voice, she added in a murmur, "Her Highness' condition made her ill disposed toward them."

"It certainly sounds wonderful," said Beau. "Is there anything I can do to help out?"

"Oh, no, monsieur." The maid shook her head. "We do nothing more than spruce things up a bit; that and the Yule log."

"Well, how about if I go and find it?" he suggested.

This seemed to cheer things up considerably. "That would be lovely!" exclaimed the second maid. "All the wood we have is kept outside, by the back kitchen door."

"Great." Beau smiled, glad to be of some use at last. "What sort of log is a Yule log?"

"Oh, any will do," the maid told him. "Just find one that is nice and fat and sturdy. That's all."

Beau had expected to be the only person going out, but was surprised to find a few other workers, mostly enchanted as various tools, picks, or shovels, headed off to their own duties. Out by the woodpile, for instance, a large axe was busy splitting logs for the castle fireplaces, muttering distractedly to himself as he worked. "Oy gevaldt, do I need some oil!" he cried, shaking himself free from a stump of wood. "Such a headache I have! This job will kill me, just see if it doesn't." Obviously, it wasn't all too comfortable being an axe when he had to chop wood with his face.

Beau stepped around to the other side of the pile. "Excuse me, monsieur?"

The axe, who had just raised itself for another swing, made a rather dangerous arc as it whirled round. Beau leapt back as it embedded itself in a nearby post, drawing another cry of "Oy!" from him.

"I'm so sorry," Beau apologized quickly. "I didn't mean to interrupt."

"No, it's perfectly fine," muttered the axe crossly, hitching himself out again. "Don't worry about me; it'll pass, it'll pass." Shaking himself, he spit out a splinter. "So, what can I do for you?"

"I just need one of these logs," Beau explained, giving the pile a onceover. Browsing through, he asked, "You wouldn't happen to be Issachar, by any chance?"

"Chance or not, that's my name," affirmed the axe, tossing another log up onto the stump. "Don't wear it out. I've worked here for thirty years with it; I can work a little longer." Due to the fact that there was no one to hold him in order to chop the wood, his means of chopping was rather unusual. Mounting a taller block next to the chopping stump, he jumped, face-down, planting his blade into the log. There was a crack! as the wood split, stopping the axe halfway down. Leaning back, he pushed himself out of the wood and began the process again.

Beau watched this with interest before he remembered what he'd come out for. Finding a large, fat log, he picked it up, brushed the snow from it, heaved it up under one arm, then turned to go. "I suppose you wouldn't be wanting any Christmas presents this year?"

Issachar paused, glancing up. "Presents? Presents I wouldn't mind, not at all. But Christmas presents; nobody gets those here, not even her Royal Beastliness."

Beau frowned. "Hasn't anyone given the princess a gift on Christmas? Or even her birthday?"

"Well, sure, before we all got like this," answered Issachar, returning to his work. "But after? Oh, no; not even birthdays. She doesn't like holidays; reminds her too much of what she's missing, you know? But hey, I wouldn't mind a few gifts now and then." He said nothing after this, being busy splitting the log with his face. Still pondering this, Beau hoisted up his own log and hurried back inside, out of the cold.

Over the next few days, things got rather busy. Most of the work done now had to do with chopping wood to heat the castle, preserving everything from the kitchen gardens for the rest of winter, and a good deal more cleaning, polishing, dusting, sweeping, and brushing up than had ever been in the castle for quite a few years. The place had never really fallen into disrepair, but, as there had not been much need for the ballroom, dining hall, and the several parlors, these had rarely been regularly cleaned or even entered.

The servants weren't the only ones who were busy. For many days, Beau kept in close quarters, about a secret business of his own. No one could guess what he was up to, not even when he was once seen carrying several large stacks of paper around the corner. Often he would stay up late in the library, working on whatever scheme had entered his head.

One evening, a week before Christmas, Beau asked for Mrs. Potts. "Pardon me, but you wouldn't happen to know where I could find a strong needle and thread, and maybe a pot of glue?"

Mrs. Potts raised the edge of her lid (that was where her eyebrows should have been). "Why, we've probably got some such things in the servant's quarters. Whatever do you need them for?"

"Oh, just something I'm working on," replied Beau, hiding a smile. "If it's no trouble, may I take them up to my room for a while? I'll bring them straight back when I'm done."

"Don't you worry about that, dear," Mrs. Potts assured him. "Keep them for as long as you need."

"Thank you so much, Mrs. Potts," said Beau, bowing to her. After she'd gone to fetch the items, he couldn't help letting slip a wide grin.

As it happened, "as long as he needed" was something of a stretch. He soon discovered that using a needle and thread for the project was much harder than it first looked, even despite the fact that the needle he was using was meant for such a task. By Christmas Eve, however, he had succeeded in completing, finishing, and wrapping his surprise in lovely, decorative paper. When dinner was rung up, he carefully snuck it into his pocket and made his way to the dining hall.

The table was now set with a fine, lacey tablecloth, all the good silver and china, and had been decorated with holly boughs for the occasion. Mrs. Potts really had outdone herself this time; there were pies of every flavor, a spectacular roast, apples stuck full of cloves, potatoes and gravy, candied fruits, and an elegant chocolate mousse with cream. It was certainly fortunate that the castle stores had remained exceptionally bountiful over the years; that and perhaps even that the princess didn't often eat more than a bowl of soup for meals; otherwise, she might have soon starved under their enchantment. It was only now, when there was finally company to entertain, that grand feasts like this were possible.

"Wow," was all Beau could manage when he saw the table. "Mrs. Potts, how do you do it?"

"Lots of practice," answered the teapot genially, rolling about on her little trolley cart. "And it helps that we had decent crops this year."

Princess Lynn was sitting at the far end, dressed unusually formally for the occasion. Due to her increased size, most of the clothes that she'd had as a little girl had long ago been shredded to pieces, but the castle seamstresses (who had ironically been turned into spinning wheels, irons, and quilt racks) had done their best to keep up their lady's apparel, mostly by way of using the castle curtains. The princess rarely wore anything they made for her, preferring to go about in something like a very, very large nightdress all the time, but tonight was an exception. It made a surprising difference.

When Beau was finished staring at the table, he had to stop and stare at the princess, too. "Wow… you look… different tonight."

Lynn blushed, grateful that it wasn't visible under her fur, and scratched at the fringed collar of her dress. "Thanks. The girls made it as a surprise. They worked really hard on it."

"Well, it's really nice," complimented Beau, sitting down across from her. "As a matter of fact, before I forget—" Out of his pocket he drew the small package, passing it across the table, "—I have a present for you, too."

Curiously, Lynn picked it up. It was small, very compact, and not very heavy. She gingerly undid the ribbon and peeled back the paper, revealing a smooth, green cover, splotched in places with glue. "You made me a book?"

"It's a little flimsy," Beau admitted. "I've never done it before, but I know the basics. I got the cover from the library. You'd be surprised how many of those books are falling to pieces. I hope you don't mind my using one book to make another."

"Hey, I gave them to you; they're your books now." Opening the book, Lynn browsed through the pages, carefully turning over the leaves, for fear they might tear. The glue in the binding was still damp, causing a few of the pages to stick together. It wasn't a long book, but it had many pages to it. "Did you write this story yourself?"

"Sort of," he replied. "My mother used to tell us a story kind of like that when we were little. I just sort of embellished it a bit."

Lynn gently closed the book, laying it aside. "I really like it. Thank you." She hesitated, biting her lip. "But I have nothing to give you."

Beau smiled. "That's okay. This is just our first Christmas together."

Lynn returned the smile, hoping desperately that it wouldn't be the last.