A parade of furniture surreptitiously follows Belle and The Beast around the castle.

. o .

Up the tallest turret Barry and Iris climb, trailed by a wagging footstool.

Whining with exertion, Houblon abandons them around the two hundredth step, opting to barrel back down with a joyful series of barks. Crunched in the stairwell, Barry rests his elbows on his knees and calls, "Are you all right?"

"I can see why no one conquers castles," Iris admits breathlessly, still out of sight. "You do this regularly?"

Barry shrugs. "Regularly enough." Smiling, he asks, "Would you rather to turn around?"

"How much farther is it?"

Barry nods side-to-side. "Sixty steps, give or take?"

She rounds the bend below him. "Only sixty?"

He hums noncommittally. "Give or take."

Iris smiles, leaning against the wall near him. "Why did I let you talk me into this?"

"Because you crave adventure," he says, shuffling aside and letting her pass him. Pushing himself to his own feet, he follows. The change is nice: letting her lead forces him to slow down, mitigating the ache in his left leg. Bracingly, he tells her, "The view is wonderful."

"But is it to die for?" Iris asks.

Barry huffs, amused. "You won't die." He oomphs when he takes another step and bumps into her, nearly knocking her over. Far from upset, she leans against him, arms hooked around his neck. He holds himself stock-still. "Are you – all right?" he asks haltingly, resting a paw against her back. She's a little cool to the touch, despite the exertion, and it occurs to him that the towers are the least well-insulated parts of the castle. "Sorry, I should have anticipated how cold it would be," he says, rubbing her back. He's careful to keep his claws from her skin.

Standing two steps above him, she's nearly eye-level. "It's fine," she assures him, holding on. "You're quite warm."

He's very happy she can't see him blush. "Happy to help," he murmurs, flattening his paw against her shoulders. Barely audible, he mumbles, "I could carry you."

In response, she tightens her grip. He waits, but she makes no move to pull away. Carefully, he shifts his grip until he has both arms underneath her, back and knees, and lifts. She's lighter than he expects – or maybe he's stronger than he thought – for he barely notices her weight once she is settled against his chest. One arm draped over his left shoulder, she rests her palm flat against his opposite shoulder, avoiding the ruffled fur of healing wounds on either side. "Comfortable?" he asks.

"Are you?" she replies, and to hear her speak against him is somehow far more intimate than merely holding her. He nearly sets her down, lying that he's not, but then he takes a step, finds his footing, and nods. "Then yes," she allows. "I am."

His shoulders relax. He marches on.

The last forty steps or so melt away underneath him. She doesn't say anything, but she doesn't need to. The message is clear: I trust you.

He wishes the tower were twice as high, for it ends all too soon. The top comes into view and he sets her down carefully. He can still feel her warmth against her, tangible magic. Her soft exhale of sheer wonder makes his heart skip a beat. "It's beautiful," she murmurs, walking farther into the room, tilting her head back so she can regard the high ceiling, the open windows. Barry climbs the last stairs and joins her, inviting her with a sweep of his arm to the balcony.

Stepping through the stony arch, she doesn't say a word. Drawing up to the edge, she grasps the stone and look downs at the snowy grounds far below. He falls into step beside her, looking first at her, and then at his frozen kingdom, a familiar hurting ache tightening his chest. He once criticized a witch for the shame he wears now.

Hail, the ruler of one. The most destitute of royals.

"Prince of one," he says, pressing his paws against the stone.

Iris leans against his side. "I like the prince of one."

Barry smiles a little. He doesn't have the heart to tell her that he's still a Beast – and so the curse remains unbroken. "You're a strange one," he muses.

"So I've been told."

The curse will break, he thinks, taking in the view alongside her. It has to.

. o .

They dine with Cisco and Dante.

The brothers argue spiritedly over music selection. "What's wrong with the greats?" Dante asks, playing notes here and there, clearly exasperated. "Your inventive spirit tires the weary pianist!"

"Do you mean to say there is a song in this world the Great Dante Ramon cannot play?" Cisco asks loftily, sitting on a rafter while the piano huffs and sulks in a corner.

"I can play every song. What you call music is merely the rattling of pots and pans."

"Thank you! They've been working very hard on their numbers."

A pot crashes to the floor in the middle of the room. A pair of pans hurry over to right it. "Professionals," Cisco insists. "The finest performers in France!"

Sitting by the piano, The Beast chimes in, "Have you ever considered working together?"

Cisco laughs so hard he falls off the rafter. When Barry scrambles to catch him, the pans fumble their delicate hold on the pot, losing their balance and crashing in a pile.

Iris smiles. "I don't know, I like a good improvisation." Surrendering her perch along the wall, she rights the pot and pans. The pans bow; the pot shuffles forward and presses against her shin in an imitation of a hug.

"Now that the pans have had their piece," Dante says, clearing his throat. "Let us have some real music."

Launching into a spirited song, he plays a tune that Iris suspects would be impossible for the casual pianist, effortless for a virtuoso at the peak of his craft. "You offend my pots and pans, and then you play them!" Cisco chimes in, hopping over to the piano, voice nearly drowned out by the music.

Barry rubs a paw over his eyes and Iris takes a seat on the floor across from him, watching the lit candelabra attempt to hug the piano dancing out of its reach.

She can't stop smiling.

. o .

They part ways for a time, Cisco promising to attend to Iris' every need as Barry trusts his word and makes himself scarce.

Sitting in the snow outside the castle, Barry buries his paws in the fur near his temples and asks the teapot, "What am I doing wrong?"

His mother frowns. "I'm afraid I'm not following, dear."

Glancing over his shoulder, Barry crowds closer and explains, "Iris." When his mother looks at him uncomprehendingly, he elaborates, "The girl."

"That I follow. What of her?"

Sighing, Barry says, "She's not …" Eloquently, he rubs a horn. "I'm still a Beast."

"So you are."

"The curse can only be broken if she …" Aggravated, he presses a paw to his mouth. "I don't understand."

"Have you ever been in love?"

Barry lowers his paw. "Not if I could avoid it."

"Love takes time," his mother says. "You like her, do you not?"

Flustered, Barry ducks his head. "I enjoy her company," he grunts.

"Well. That's a start. Sweetheart, your father and I knew each other for weeks before we professed our love for each other, and ours was an arranged marriage."

"I wish you had arranged mine," Barry says, gaze on the snow.

"No." Hopping forward, putting herself in his sightline, his mother says, "You've always had a softer heart than you accredited yourself. Such things are dutiful, and just, and can be wonderful, but … to try and fail, Barry, that is noble."

"I cannot fail." Lifting her in his paws, he holds her up and says, "Too much depends on this."

"Act as though you cannot fail," his mother counsels. "That is all you can do, Barry."

"There must be something more. Some way—"

"Some phrase to turn her heart and make her fall in love with you?" She waits until he meets her eyes before saying, "There's not."

With a frustrated growl, he explains, "We have five petals. Time is one thing I do not have." He sets the teapot down carefully. "All of this could be for naught if she falls in love with me the day after the last petal falls." Growling, he presses his paws to his eyes and says, "I can't do this."

"Sure you can." Bumping his knee, his mother insists, "You're a prince. There is nothing you cannot do."

"Charm women," he grunts. "Dance."

"You've attended dozens of balls."

"Attended. Scarcely participated in."

"It's not that difficult."

"Charming women?"

"Dancing."

He huffs. "I'd rather charm women."

"You want my advice, do you not?"

"I have to dance?"

"It's something you haven't tried. Could it hurt?"

"My ego may never recover."

"Egos are overrated. Take a risk. At worst, she'll leave, and you'll be no worse off than if you hadn't tried at all. You have everything to gain, Barry."

He hugs his knees to his chest, feeling shy. "You think it could work?"

"It did for me." He raises an eyebrow at her, and she continues. "Your father could be a bit of a brute. For him, marriage was a chore. He didn't want much to do with me. His ideal marriage was a contract, signed by two people, who were mutually excluded from each other's company as often as possible without upsetting the appearance of being engaged in a happy partnership. I think I upset his plans a little." Smiling to herself, she tilts to one side. "Have I not told you this story?"

He rubs the back of his neck self-consciously. "I may not have listened attentively, in my … more flippant years."

"Well." Settling in the snow, his mother begins.

. o .

Everyone knew your father. He was reputable; he liked to immerse himself in crowds, shaking hands with everyone. What few people noticed was how fleeting his interactions were. He passed by with scarcely more than a polite word here or there. He was like a fox, granting just the right amount of attention to fool everyone into thinking they had separated him from all other distractions while they were engaged with him. He made them feel heard, but he did not stay long enough to witness the deterioration of his word. It was far simpler to feign interest than execute it.

The first night we met, I choose a simple grey dress. Amid the peacocks in brilliant shades of every color, I stood out, the sole soft in a crowd. The flash and flare was attractive, and it kept the eye engaged, but I wished to be a break from the distractions.

When you father first saw me, I could see he was torn.

There was the anticipated surprise, and then the scarcely hidden disappointment (for he was to marry this woman?), and finally the acceptance of his fate. He strode across the floor, bowed, and took my hand. He introduced himself as a Prince, and I introduced myself as a Lady, and neither of us offered up our names. We already knew who we were involved with. It wasn't necessary to explain anything.

The interim was comfortable enough. Things were already underway: it was noon, and we were to be wed early that evening. I couldn't believe that I had found myself in such a position, engaged to a handsome young prince.

Your father was quiet, a listening presence. I was impressed with how he let me speak with the guests, even when I knew the subject matter couldn't possibly interest him. He was patient. Patience was a good quality in a man. Even if his warmth seemed surficial, and his smiles forced, he was good at pretending.

I told myself that I could be happy with a pretend romance. It was far superior to an antagonistic one, and it would keep our parents happy. That was all I could ask for in life: a break-even. Not better, nor worse, than what came before. At eighteen, it seemed like just enough, even if it left me wanting more.

Our wedding ceremony was brief, the reception lavish. It was expected – it was the wining and dining that mattered – but the brevity left me tired before the night was half over. This was to be my life: a prince's standoffish affection for ceremonies, an absent husband for all the rest. He was nothing if not polite, and I resolved to be the same, for, I knew, it was scarcely an arrangement he could have chosen, and it was only fair to honor his cordiality.

Eventually, as I entertained the notion of abandoning decorum and leaving, he asked me to dance.

I was confused – we had already danced, as was proper, I with his father, he with my mother, and finally each other – but obliged. Surrounded by happy, oblivious guests, we took up refuge from their conversations on the ballroom floor. It was then, finally, that he spoke to me – actually spoke.

"My name is Henry Thomas Allen," he said. "I love to meet beautiful people on beautiful nights like this. I expected my wife to be the most beautiful of them all." I waited for the inevitable reprise: You weren't it. "My expectations were too small." He carried on, for half the night, it seemed, and I listened as the second most powerful man in France gave me his full attention.

It was the beginning of a beautiful, lifelong friendship.

. o .

Sitting on a windowsill next to a candelabra, Iris muses, "My father must be worried sick."

"Come, come! Fathers worry when their daughters are out of sight for five minutes. It is healthy for them to wonder!" Cisco encourages. "Wonder keeps us alive!"

"I thought that was caution," Iris replies, tilting her head to watch The Beast and the teapot below. "What do you suppose they're talking about?"

"Tea, most likely."

"I'm serious."

"Then tea, certainly."

"Cisco."

Sighing, Cisco waves an arm. "What else do enterprising young men speak of with their mothers? How to charm a lady." Realizing what he has said, he winces, hastening to add, "I mean, that is what I would talk of with my mother, if she were here. Princes have more in-te-resting conversations, surely – not to say ladies are not in-te-resting! On the contrary!"

Iris draws her knee up and rests her chin on it, watching them. Barry and Nora are tucked close to the wall, almost out of sight, but not far enough that she can't see them. "Why would he want to charm a lady?" she asks. "He seems happy on his own."

"What is that book of yours? Every man in possession of a fortune must be in want of a wife?"

"More or less." Smiling a little, she says, "He can be quite charming."

She can hear the restraint in Cisco's voice as he comments, "Can he? I hadn't noticed!"

Iris turns to him. "He's a prince," she says slowly, because he has not grasped this reality firmly enough – perhaps servitude does that, being constantly immersed in a crowd of people at different stations. "And I'm no Lady."

"Every woman is a lady," Cisco replies with a scoff. "Even the spoons know that!"

"Cisco."

The candelabra presses an arm to his forehead for a moment. In a lower, more serious voice, he says, "Yes. You are not technically a 'Lady.'" He uses both hands to mime quotation marks; without fingers, it is simply waving his hands twice up and down. "It does not matter!" he insists. "You are magnificent!"

"My point still stands."

"Which point is that?"

"He's not exactly in want of a wife."

"He does not know what he wants," Cisco deflects. "That is what I am here for! To tell him what he wants, so he can be happy."

Iris' lips twitch in a smile. "Seems like a tall order, to look after a prince."

"It has its perks," Cisco says, "and drawbacks."

"How often do you see your family?" she asks.

"I've been with the Allens for fifteen years. I've seen more of his parents than mine," he admits. "They're like fam-i-ly!"

"Fifteen years," Iris repeats softly. "That's a long time."

"Yes. I started when I was just eight-years-old. My brother was twelve, and I wished to be nearer to him. King Henry, God rest him, let me stay with him and his family. Dante had more success bonding with the prince, who was his age, but the family was always kind to me."

"That seems almost lonely."

"At times it was," Cisco concedes. "Dante was not always the warmest fellow, and the prince was often even more aloof." With a rueful smile, he assures, "Do not worry. We've grown much closer over the years."

Sitting cross-legged, Iris prompts, "Why did Dante come to work for this family?"

"Ah, Mademoiselle, that is quite a story!"

Iris looks around. After a pointed pause, she says, "I have time."

Cisco waits for her to rescind her invitation, but she just lifts her eyebrows expectantly. "Very well," he says at last, dimming his candles. "Dante always wanted to be … larger than life."

. o .

Some people are born with greatness; Dante Ramon was born with great expectations.

Our father was the man he aspired to be. He was a Ren-ai-ssance man. If you needed something done, you wanted Mateo Andrés Diego Ramon for the job. He could re-wheel a cart, build a house, cure a hangover, tame the unruliest animal. He was well-read and loved to quote the Greeks. One of his fa-vo-rite expressions was 'Anánkāi d'oudè theoì mákhontai.' 'Not even the gods fight necessity.' He was a violinist, a craftsman, a cook. He was impressive, a true polymath!

But when I turned seven, things changed. My father's horse fell upon him just after my birthday, and he became paralyzed from the waist down. No more could he engage in his beloved crafts, entertain his friends or win over strangers with his prodigious skills. His sons became his greatest legacy. He taught us everything he knew. It gave him purpose. It wasn't enough, but it was something.

Being four years older, Dante felt it his chief duty to not only succeed – magnificently, as our father had – but also to take care of me. He wanted to do it all – twice as much, in half as much time. He wanted to be the man people looked up to, the man my father would be proud of.

It was difficult. Dante was never very good at backbreaking labor, and so he struggled to find work, failing to fill the robust shoes of my father. He compensated with a more refined route, taking up the piano and resolving to become superb at it. He spent every night at the nearest tavern, working the keys, learning the songs of the greats from other pianists who stopped by.

His lifestyle was painstaking: he spent most of his days at an ironwork shop, accepting his pittances of wages to keep our family alive. He was frayed and temperamental, working far harder than he should have for much less than he needed. Still, he refused to abandon the piano, and he memorized nearly everything our father told us, determined to become a better man than what he was. He didn't want to be a peasant who lived and died under a yoke; he wanted to be something more.

When a passing royal requested a servant for the week, Dante raced across town to volunteer. A two-day assignment became a grueling twelve-week-long internship. He barely slept, ate a meal a day, and traveled the country alongside one of those pomp-and-circumstantials that cared for him as much as the dogs the man shot if they failed to work. At the time, Dante was eleven, just skilled enough to carry out basic orders and just young enough to take a sound beating without mutinying. His greatest talent by far was the possession of strong legs and opposable thumbs. In the world of servitude, he was just above a dog.

Still, he did enough. During a visit, the monsieur dumped him with a letter at the Allen family's castle. 'He will work like a dog, for less pay.' Dante's illiterate – he hadn't had time to learn more than a few passing phrases – but even the brusque nature of the letter was a testament to some work. He hoped it was positive. In a way, he was right.

King Henry was impressed with the unpresumptuous young man who spent the entire night mucking out the stables before falling asleep in one of the stalls. After reading the one-line letter, King Henry brought him into the fold. For three days a week, Dante was part of the King's family. It was a trial run of sorts.

The King paid him ten times as much as his previous employer. He also insisted that Dante eat at least one meal with the family for the first month, until Dante himself refused because he found that the servants had more fun in the kitchens. He sensed the prince often wished to join them: after experiencing the more relaxed servants' dining experience, Dante felt the formal affair almost intolerably stuffy.

For a starving twelve-year-old, though, the arrangement was grand, irresistible. He came home with amazing stories, and quickly it became clear that the morose, dire circumstances at home could be greatly mitigated if he accepted more regular employment with the King. All he had to do was sign over his soul: swear fealty, and agree to an indefinite commitment to his King and the King's family.

I imagine you are shocked that any man would agree to such enslavement – for it is scarcely less, even if the pay is generous – but you must understand how desperate we were. Dante nearly killed himself at the employ of the first royal for the opportunity to potentially get closer to the king. That he succeeded is miraculous. However generous a ruler he is, the King hires experienced hands, not street rats. And passing royals do not care for filth, either. It was my father's words that saved my brother's life: 'not even the gods fight necessity.' Passing royals need hands. Dante has two, and he used them well.

Perhaps if he had been sixteen and well-fed he would have turned down the King's offer. Maybe if he was thirty with his own children he would have preferred to spend his days as a free man, rising and setting to his own clock. But we do not live in that world, Mademoiselle: for every day, every man must arise and go to work and perform his own kind of labor, and then he returns to his family to apologize for the absence and hope the pay compensates for it. We work until we die and hope the work we do matters in some way.

My father's work mattered. And I know Dante wanted his work to matter, too.

Under the King, he prospered. Dante's visits became vanishingly rare. He appeared once a month to deposit all his earnings with my parents, and then he left the same night. His love for my parents was sincere, but his love for the King's family had to be sincerer. There were plenty of passing royals with their own servants, and a single unexplained absence could be enough to let a replacement unseat him. It is a surprisingly cutthroat industry. Perhaps the knowledge that we eat and sleep and live in warm, beautiful, lively castles is enough to keep us on our knees, no matter how steep the cost.

Eventually, a well-entrusted letter home replaced foot service, and we stopped seeing Dante altogether. It was around this time that, though I was only eight, I determined that my best life, my best possible life, would be at the King's side, like Dante. My parents were doing well enough that I didn't worry my absence and the absence of my own pittances of wages would destroy them. On the contrary: with two working sons, they would double their income. It was a win-win for everyone.

And I missed my brother. I missed my brother's laughter, his wit, his charm. I missed another true child in the town, and seeing him in good health encouraged me. Whatever he was doing – and however little he saw of our parents – he was clearly happier than he had ever been home. He was alive and well. What more could be asked of a man?

It wasn't hard to break free – my parents were always more impressed with Dante, and when I left they were, perhaps, relieved to grieve in unencumbered peace, without the complexities of a single son remaining behind – but it was far more difficult than I anticipated to adjust.

For weeks, I was fine. Eight-year-olds love simple things, and the castle had many extravagant things. Admittedly, it took some serious persuasion – and several strong promises from Dante that the Ramon blood was invaluable and I would be a magnificent servant one day – to bend the King's opinion. The King didn't bring in boys; he brought in aspiring young men. I was younger than the youngest page. I was four years younger than the King's own youthful son. No royal would have hired me, but the King trusted my brother enough to permit the exception.

So I joined the royal family. Three weeks passed in a whirlwind, learning names, acquiring a feel for the castle, picking up the most basic skills wherever I could nose in.

By the fourth week, a crushing mal du pays set in. I actually hid in a closet. I was terrified to be seen upset, for fear that the King would revoke his generous offer. No longer could I afford to back out, for if I left now, I knew I would leave them with a soured impression of me. I would never get a second chance at this business, and I knew – however sad I was, however terribly I missed my parents then – that this was my best chance at a good life.

That was the day I met Barry.

I'd seen him before, plenty of times – he was the King's little shadow, everyone's child, and though he was moody at times, he was generally very royal and well-liked – but I'd never so much as exchanged first names with him. I knew his name; he barely knew I existed. I had chosen a good hiding place, but I hadn't anticipated that the Prince sometimes hid away, too. He found me, entirely by accident, in something of a fuss himself.

I was so startled I forgot to call him a Prince – it was just "Barry," and it always has been – but he didn't mind. He was upset because his mother was leaving the next morning for a few weeks and the King was something of an absentminded father, King first, father second. Barry wasn't terribly distressed – he simply wanted a chance to be alone before facing the morning – but he was surprised to find me, already deep into my own meltdown. I hastened to make an exit, apologizing profusely, but then another royal 'rounded a corner and he shoved me back inside and wedged himself in, shutting the door behind himself.

We huddled together for an hour, hounded by a procession of royals. We stayed silently in our hideaway until things settled down. At last, Barry said into the darkness, "Thank you."

"For what?" I asked.

"Not giving me away," he replied.

I had shrugged, assured him that it was no trouble, why would I? Eventually I would see that most servants were on the King's side first, and the Prince's side second, and it was in fact an unusual occurrence when anyone would support the Prince to the potential disapproval of the King. It wasn't very princely behavior to hide in a closet, and he outgrew it rather quickly, but I noticed his tendency to strike out on his own, unfindable, was common.

For many years, I came to know the King's son as well as the King, and I came to like him a great deal more. To be sure, Barry is an acquired taste – he has a tendency to rebuff the more traditional routes of becoming friends, preferring traumatizing experiences to polite handshakes – but he's a genuine man. He cares when it counts.

By fourteen, I was as good a servant as any, the Prince's right-hand. Dante had established himself as a master pianist, a virtuoso behind the keys, and no longer had to perform the more menial day-to-day tasks. He was well-liked, and I was well-hidden, shadowing the Prince without overshadowing him. We'd found our places. I met Caitlin and Ronnie together – they're transplants from another royal's estate – and became fast friends with most of the other servants here.

Dante and I have been here ever since.

. o .

Barry pads so quietly down the hallway that the piano does not hear him, but he hears it.

"Days in the sun, when my life has scarcely been spun, not until my songs are undone, will I ever cease, too." Mournfully, Dante plays the keys and asks an invisible audience, "Will I amble again, through a summer's gorgeous blue rain?"

Out of sight, Barry hears an answering refrain from Cisco and Cindy: "Will you now forever remain, out of reach of my arms?"

Walking away from them, unable to bear the fact that he is the reason they are like this, Barry finds a teapot in an empty room down the hall, singing softly to Dante's tune. "All those days in the sun, what I'd give to relive just one. Undo what's done, and bring back the light."

Sinking back on his heels, unable to escape the haunting melody, and scarcely wanting to, Barry hears a more distant pair still, Caitlin and Ronnie, voices heartbreaking and sincere: "Oh, I could sing, of the pain these dark days bring, the spell we're under, still, it's the wonder of us I sing of tonight."

In the middle of the hall, The Beast hunches, paws pressed to his head, tears in his eyes. What have I done to them?

He isn't expecting her at all, voice soft and clear. "How in the midst of all this sorrow, can so much faith and love endure?" Stepping towards him, Iris sings, "I was innocent and certain, now I'm wiser but unsure." He straightens from his crouch, rendered utterly speechless by her. "I can't go back into my childhood," she admits. "One that my father made secure." With a deep breath, she finishes, "I can feel a change in me, I'm stronger now, but still not free."

From the halls, the chorus is haunting: "Days in the sun, will return, we must believe, as lovers do, that days in the sun will come shining through."

She closes the distance between them and he wraps her in the gentlest of tight hugs that he can. Don't leave, he pleads with every waking, dying breath. Please.

Inevitably, when she backs away, he lets her go.

And still he is a Beast.

. o .

Lying flat on his back on the floor of the master suite, Barry explains, "I want her to be happy. Before I want her, I want her to be happy."

The feather-duster hovers above him. "Then go get her. Make her happy."

Sighing, Barry says, "It's not that simple."

"Fine. I'll go get her."

"You'll – Cindy," he says, scrambling to his feet. "Cindy!" She's already flying out the door as he sprints after her, taking the stairs five at a time and barking, "This is not a joke!"

"No, it's not," Cindy agrees, gliding out of reach as he doubles back. "Go get her. Or I will."

With an exasperated growl, Barry says, "Not now."

Cindy takes off.

"Cisco!" Barry shouts, hurrying after her. "Call her off!"

Laughter is his only response, a faint, "I love her!" his sole commission for his trouble.

. o .

"Is it always like this?" Iris asks, amused, curled up on an armchair in the library with the clock on the table next to her.

"I wish I could say no," Caitlin says, "but it's usually worse." A loud crash makes her spin on her feet, an even louder bray of laughter clear in the distance. She rubs a hand down her face. "Are you sure you wish to stay?" she asks Iris. There's a faint hopefulness – don't let the boys deter you – that Iris doesn't comment on, smiling.

"I want to see how this unfolds," she assures. "How could I leave now?"

Barking joins the fray, a noisy series of crashes making Iris wince. "Perhaps I should go check on them," she says, setting down her book. No sooner does she stand than a feather-duster sweeps into the room, doing a little twirl before gliding to the floor.

"The Beast has something he would like to say," she announces.

Barry appears scarcely a second later, doubling over his knees and panting. "Hi." Straightening, he looks at her, a half-smile curling his lips. Houblon paws at his leg, whining, and he scoops the dog up in one arm. "You look beautiful."

"Thank you," Iris says, curtseying in her little blue dress. "That's not what you came to say."

Smiling to himself, Barry shakes his head, hugging the footstool to his side to keep it from causing any more trouble. "No," he admits. "I didn't come to say anything at all."

"Barry." Sauntering closer, Iris takes the footstool from him. "Speak your mind."

Reaching back to rub his neck, he murmurs, "I can't." When she frowns, he explains, "It would … complicate things."

"Are things not complicated?" she challenges, setting Houblon down so she can take his free paw, tugging him forward. He lets her, looking down at her in something approaching awe. She has no response to it, so she steps closer and hugs him instead. It's safer. "You're a Prince, and a Beast, and somehow both and neither of these things."

"I envy the simplicity of your life," he says.

She can't help a little laugh. "Simplicity," she repeats, stepping back to look up at him. "Having found a Beast in a castle no one remembered existed and fallen in love with his furniture?"

He looks at her, really looks at her, and she wants to know what he has to say, so badly she nearly calls a full stop, refusing to budge until he explains it. Instead, she permits, "What is it about simplicity you crave?"

Ducking his head, he refuses to look at her. "I don't know," he admits. "It's different than what I know."

"You're very different than what I know," she says. He rubs the back of his neck again. It's sweet, but it also means he's stressed, and as much fun as it is to see him squirm, she wants him to feel at home. It's his castle. She's their guest. Squeezing his free paw, she asks gently, "If I promise not to laugh, will you tell me what it is that's bothering you?"

He huffs a little, amused and torn. "You would laugh at a prince? Risky girl."

"Everything I have done involves risk," she reminds him. "From the moment I stepped onto the castle grounds, to this very second, I have done nothing but take risks. Perhaps," she suggests gently, "you might do the same."

He works his jaw, and she almost forgets about their audience until his gaze slides over her shoulder to them. Then, looking back at her, he says slowly, "Follow me."

Letting go of her hand, he steps back, putting his back to her slowly and walking out of the room. None of the furniture – not even Houblon – follow.

Intrigued, she trails after his disappearing blue cloak.

. o .

In the ballroom, Barry turns to face her, and the hush in the grand room is phenomenal.

Turning in a slow circle, she remarks, "What magnificent balls you must have hosted."

Barry tucks his paws behind his back, at attention. "They were magical," he admits. "You would have loved them."

"So you've said." Stepping back up to him, she smiles even when he tenses. "I'm not going to hurt you," she tells him.

Unlacing his paws from behind his back, Barry lets them settle against his side. "I know," he assures.

She takes his paws in her own hands and he stops breathing. "I don't think you do," she says, swaying his arms lightly, back and forth, back-and-forth. "I trust you. Do you trust me?" She steps back and he follows. Her rhythm is easy; her gestures, light and welcoming.

Simply, he says, "With my life."

She cannot possibly know how much he means it.

But as she draws him out onto the ballroom floor, he finds he means it sincerely, unconditionally.

And it almost doesn't occur to him that he's still a Beast.

. o .

"I've never seen the master dance," Cisco remarks quietly from a balcony, smiling to himself as he watches Iris twirl once under Barry's outstretched arm. They move slowly, almost tentatively, across the floor. It's simple, but sweet. He likes it. "He's quite lovely."

"Hush," Caitlin advises, and so they do.

Far below, oblivious to their observers, Barry and Iris sway together.