Chapter Eleven

Settling In

Belle sat by Phillipe's side, stroking his neck soothingly while she waited for the Beast's servants to appear. The winter air chilled her back despite her cloak, and she scooted a little closer to the warmth of her horse.

"Good boy," she murmured. "You're such a good boy, Phillipe. So brave." His eyes flicked up at the sound of her voice, and Belle could see the pain in them. "When you've been taken care of, I'll get you something nice to eat, huh? You'll like that, won't you?" She wasn't sure whether who she was trying to comfort - herself or Phillipe. Obviously, he was in immediate pain. Belle, on the other hand . . .

"I'm so sorry, Phillipe," she said. "I've injured you, and now Papa's going to be stuck in the - in that place for who knows how long." Although she was filled with despair, tears refused to come to her eyes. "And we're stuck here." She rubbed his neck, glancing again at his wound. "Who knows - maybe this Beast won't be so bad!" It was a hollow joke, but Belle did feel a little better for it. "At least we won't be found." She shivered a little, both at the thought of her husband and at the cold, and glanced around to see if the promised servants had arrived yet. The entrance to the stables behind her were still empty, however, so she turned back to Phillipe.

"I'll take good care of you, boy," she murmured. "You'll need to get that wound washed out, for one thing. I'll ask about a thicker blanket, too - can't have you getting cold." She patted his neck, and shifted towards the injured leg. "Alright, Phillipe, I'm just going to take a little look at this. Nothing to worry about, nothing to get in a tizzy about . . ."

Belle kept up a steady stream of talk as she moved towards Phillipe's leg. He'd always been a skittish horse, which unfortunately extended to anything related to his body as well. She was only eight or nine when Phillipe had been bought by Maurice, but Belle could still remember her father getting kicked into the stable wall the day Phillipe's shoes were hammered on. She'd been too little to understand that Maurice had been injured quite badly, and had been shocked to silence when he didn't get back up again immediately. Belle had ran for her mother, and between the two of them they had helped Maurice to the house they lived in at the time. They'd had to pay the blacksmith to fit the rest of Phillipe's shoes since Maurice was incapacitated, and it put more strain on the family's already small resources. That day was one of the few memories Belle had of her mother, and she cherished it even more because it was the last memory Belle had of her.

Now, Belle focused on keeping her voice low and soothing as she edged closer to Phillipe's back leg. Thank goodness I've never been squeamish, she thought. Looking at the bite, it didn't appear to be as bad as Belle had at first assumed. It was a mess of blood and matted hair, and Phillipe wouldn't be strong enough to carry Belle and Maurice for several weeks. But it didn't appear infected; Belle's worst fear had been if amputation of some sort had been necessary.

A tapping noise from outside the stables caught her attention. She turned around to see a gaggle of objects hopping towards the doors. She recognised the teapot from last night, steam pouring out its spout. Beside it was a white bowl carrying a white cloth. A three-pronged candelabra accompanied them, a thin book balanced over one of its arms. The candelabra approached Belle, proffering the book once it was close enough. She took the book from it carefully, making sure not to catch the paper on any flames. Domestic Husbandry, the cover declared. A page had been dog-eared to mark the place; when Belle flicked to it she saw it was a chapter on basic injuries and how to care for them.

"Thank you," she said, looking where she thought a face might go on the candle. "You're very kind." Too kind, she thought. This is too steep a debt to ever repay, and I've only been here twelve hours. The bowl and teapot moved closer, and as Belle picked up the cloth the teapot filled the bowl with boiling water. Carefully, she dipped the cloth in the water and wrung it out.

"Alright, Phillipe," she said soothingly. "This might sting a little, but I need you to not flinch." She stroked his hindquarters a little, and started to clean up his wound.

The horse did flinch, but not as violently as Belle had feared. She praised him continuously, petting him every time she needed to clean the cloth. The servants - because nobody else had arrived to help, and the castle did appear to be enchanted, leaving this as the only viable option - waited quietly beside Belle. About ten minutes later, Belle thought she was getting close to a clean wound.

"Could you get some bandages, please?" she asked the candelabra. "I've almost finished cleaning him up."

The candelabra hopped away, much quicker than it had approached. Belle didn't have to wait long before clean bandages were brought in by another bowl. She thanked it, and started to bind up Phillipe's leg.

"Could you tell me where I could find some food? I didn't bring much with me, and I hate to be a bother, but -"

At what appeared to be the request of the teapot, the candelabra almost violently cut Belle off, gesticulating wildly. Belle stared at it, puzzled as to what it was trying to say.

"You have no food?"

A negative from the servants.

"Okay," Belle said slowly. "Is it too much bother?" The teapot emphatically shook its head. "It's no bother?" Belle guessed. The teapot and candelabra nodded enthusiastically, and some more objects entered the stables carrying suitable horse feed. "Oh," she said weakly. "Th-thank you." She tied off Phillipe's blanket without saying another word, and stayed by her horse's side a little longer, scratching his ears.

A light tugging on her dress caught her attention. She glanced down to see a small group of servants, seemingly led by the teapot. Belle stood up, a little awkwardly given how long she'd been sitting, and the servants hurried back to the castle. Belle followed, looking back over her shoulder to Phillipe one last time before he was out of sight. Back in the main hall, the servants led her to her room - confusingly, a different way than she'd come the night before. When she entered again, Belle noticed that the rest of the curtains had been drawn back since she'd left that morning, letting sunlight stream in brightly. It made the room look almost completely different now that it was properly lit, giving her a larger view of the gardens as well. As Belle gazed out the windows, the wardrobe she had noticed earlier sprung open. It plucked out two or three fine dresses with its doors, laying them on the bed. Curious, Belle walked over.

Another tug on her dress made her spin round. A small hairbrush held one end of her apron string in its bristles, and as it gave another tug the muddy apron fluttered to the ground. Before Belle could even pick it up, it was whisked away by a group of servants she couldn't see. Something else tugged at the ribbon pulling her plain blue dress together.

"Hey!" Belle cried out, stepping away from the bed and holding tightly to her dress. "What are you doing?"

The wardrobe pointed to the dresses on the bed.

"Oh - oh that's really not neces -" Belle started, but the little hairbrush rapped on the bedpost firmly. It looked her up and down - or at least, it appeared to - and Belle was suddenly conscious of the state her dress was in. She hadn't noticed until now the mud stains and rips from the wolf attack. She flushed red. "I don't need anything nearly so fine as these," she said, looking at the dresses. "I'm just an inventor's daughter, not a fine lady."

The hairbrush rapped on the bedpost again, and Belle felt a perverse stubbornness to keep her old dress on.

"I'm not sure you understand," she said. "I don't need these clothes. I have another dress with me."

The wardrobe sagged a little. Have I . . . hurt its feelings? Belle wondered. I guess it is just trying to be hospitable.

"I'm sorry," Belle said. The wardrobe perked up again, but something about its demeanour suggested confusion. "I didn't mean to offend you. I'd just hate to be a bother." She smiled a little, and pulled at the laces on the back of her dress. The hairbrush perked up again, and jabbed excitedly at the two dresses.

"Which one?" Belle asked. "Maybe . . . the green one? If that's alright?"

She didn't think she'd ever seen an inanimate object so happy.


The Beast's arm had taken a full ten minutes to stop smarting once his weight was off it. After he'd alerted the servants to Belle's needs, he'd scrambled to his rooms as quickly as possible. He didn't want to take a look at it just yet, even though he knew that logically the wound was still there. It still ached, for one thing, and it prickled a little every time he stretched his arm too far, for another. He huffed out a sigh, and spared a passing glance at the rose the enchantress had given him. It still looked as perfect as it had the day she'd given it to him, a soft pink glow lighting its immediate surroundings.

This rose will bloom until midnight of your twenty-first birthday. If you have not found love by the time the last petal falls, you will remain a monster for all time.

He shuddered a little at the memory of her words. No petals had yet fallen from the rose - and assuming he hadn't lost more than one year of his life to his despair, they wouldn't fall for another four or five years. If Belle wasn't going to leave as soon as her horse was healed, could I manage to win her love in only a few years? he wondered. Can I win her love at all?

"Don't be a fool," he muttered, for the second time in an hour. He paused for a moment, his ears flicking up thoughtfully. "Still. Got this far." His bared his teeth. No, that's not what I meant to do, he thought. I just wanted to smile.

He sighed again, his ears sinking back down into their habitual position. How was he supposed to win her love if he couldn't even smile without terrifying somebody? There was no way of knowing how much time he had left to try, apart from checking the rose for fallen petals, and there was no way of knowing how much he had lost.

"Wait a minute." He remembered suddenly. The clock in the library. If anybody could tell him how much time he'd lost, it would be . . . it would be . . . !

"Names!" he muttered in defeat. "Need to . . . not forget names." Still, at least he had a plan now. Walking carefully, always aware of his arm in case it suddenly worsened, the Beast made his way to the library.

Walking through the castle, the Beast was struck by how busy it had become only half a day after Belle had arrived. Every ten minutes or so down the hall, he would see a feather duster battling with a cobweb, or a drawn pair of curtains. It was nowhere near the hustle and bustle of the castle in the early days of the curse, when everybody still tried to keep up appearances. But it was still something. Looking out one of the newly-revealed windows, the Beast saw the teapot, candelabra, and various other servants leading a figure in a blue dress back towards the castle, away from the stables. Even though the horse's recovery wasn't in his best wishes, the Beast still hoped in the back of his mind that he would be alright. Hunting wild animals and watching a domestic horse die were two very different matters, as far as he was concerned. He turned away from the window and kept on towards the library. Apart from his visit a week ago, he hadn't been there since before the curse.

No servants had entered the library yet as far as the Beast could tell, although he had left the door ajar since his last visit just in case. Consequently, it was still dusty and dark, the weight of years of absence oppressing what the Beast couldn't help but think of as a cheerful room. He still could remember only small parts of his past - the woman in the garden, the man with not-green hair, and other small flashes that were maddeningly vague - but even if he'd never spent any time here before the curse, he felt comforted just being in the room. His parents must have chosen the books that filled every available surface. He assumed they were the man and woman he could barely remember, too.

Suddenly, he felt an itching in his nose. Before he had time to process what was happening, he sneezed loudly, giving himself a fright as he did so. He shook his head self-deprecatingly. You idiot. Scared by your own sneeze. A small scraping sound caught his attention, and he turned to see the clock from a week ago, flat on its back on the table where the Beast had left it. Was it scared by that sneeze as well? he wondered. He padded over and set it right way up again. It nodded gratefully at the Beast.

"I want to know . . ." The words failed him again, as they had so many times before, and the Beast growled in frustration. He had his intention so clear in his mind - he knew exactly what he wanted to say, but when he tried to speak out loud all he could convey were blunders and hesitations. "How long . . . been lost?" he asked. He hoped it was specific enough.

The clock did nothing for a minute or so. The Beast began to fear that he'd confused the servant or caused it to suddenly become inanimate again, when the hands began to fly around the face. They ended up positioned at five o'clock. The feeling of dread lifted from the Beast. The servants had stopped moving in midwinter. He remembered the months that followed being lonely and cold, but the last time the Beast consciously remembered anything it had been spring - maybe even summer. It was just the memory of being caught in a rainstorm and drying off in the hot sun, but as the Beast thought it through the clock's assessment made sense. Five months. I've only lost five months.

The clock itself was standing close to the edge of the table, looking down warily. It made a move as if to jump down, but seemed to think better of it and scattered back to the centre of the table. The Beast looked at it. Maybe it's afraid of heights, he mused. He held out his paw wordlessly. Hesitantly, the clock moved closer, until he could grab it. Gently, he walked out the library, flicking the door shut with his tail, and set the servant down on the floor outside the library. It turned to him, bowed, and then hurried off, probably to meet the other servants again. It had probably been ages since it had last seen them.

When he looked up, it was to see Belle at the other end of the corridor, in a different dress. It looked the same dull yellow as green and red now appeared to him. A strange look was on her face, one the Beast couldn't quite pinpoint. It wasn't anything he could identify as explicitly positive, but he didn't think it was a bad look, either. Contemplative, maybe. He limped towards her, his arm throbbing with every step. She didn't move at all, except to face him head-on.

"How is horse?" he asked.

"Good," she said. "Well, not good, but his leg isn't infected. Your servants brought a book to help me."

That surprised him, although he didn't think it showed. They must have either not noticed their stranded companion, or had forgotten him in their quest to help Belle. If they could talk back, he would have asked them about it later.

"Good," he echoed lamely. He nodded a little, the closest he could get to a bow on all fours, and started to make his way back to the West Wing.

"Um - Beast?" His name dropped awkwardly from her lips, and he paused, twisting to face her.

"If you like, I can take a look at your arm. It looks like the same kind of wound Phillipe has." Her face looked normal, and although he would have liked her to offer out of a preference for him, he suspected she was just doing it because it was kind.

"Thank you," he rumbled. They walked to an available room as quickly as the Beast could go, as he stopped a servant to fetch more water and cloth. Despite his misgivings on whether Belle could love him at all, he felt hopeful. He had years to break the curse, and she was volunteering to help him of her own free will. They settled down by a fire, him in a chair and her by his side just as the teapot and bowl he had sent out earlier came hopping into the room.

"Alright," Belle said, wringing out a cloth. "This might sting a little."


A/N: And that is the set-up complete! But poor, mistaken Beast. The miscommunication from dear old Cogsworth might lull you into a false sense of security, and it would just be awful if you thought you had plenty of time when actually you didn't, wouldn't it?

Special thanks for this chapter goes to the folks at Bittersweet and Strange, who helped me with plot aspects and the probability of Belle knowing how to treat a bite wound.

Are you excited to see these idiots fall in love? I know I am! Sadly, that might take a while bc uni and essays and blah. Anyway, prepare for re-written movie scenes and new scenes galore in the coming months!

TheTeaIsAddictive