CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Belle turned her head, finding a woman older than her, but still quite pretty, standing almost directly behind her.
She blinked owlishly at the voice, startled by the new arrival, and even more so of the woman that stood in front of Belle as she shakily turned around to face the new arrival, hesitantly lifting her black veil from her face, not even caring the woman before her took notice of her red-rimmed irises. Belle at first made no reply, trying to gauge who this she-stranger was to her, and how she had found her here.
Though she would never come outright and admit this to the woman's face, Belle found it rather unnerving and unpleasing that someone had discovered her in her place of solitude, where she was free to mourn.
She cast her eyes to Maurice's unmarked grave. Her Papa was down there and Gaston and LeFou had taken him from her. What did God need her father for? Father Darius back at the cathedral had said God had 'called him home,' with a pained look upon his handsome features, his cobalt blue eyes shining with something akin to grief for her and her father.
Belle swallowed nervously as she imagined the priest's face rearranged by the end of a shovel. Her Papa already had a God damn home and damn God for taking him. Belle blinked back salty liquid as a fresh onset of tears gathered at the corners of her eyes and threatened escape, but she fought it back down.
Belle could not—would not—allow herself to cry in front of a stranger. She gingerly glanced down at the now-crumpled pristine white lily that she had allowed slipping from between her fingers, where it came to rest at the foot of her father's grave as she allowed her mind to wonder if Gaston had been granted the privilege of a grave.
Quasi had led her away from the horrific scene and had not allowed her to glance back as a few soldiers of the cathedral guard were called upon to dispose of her deceased husband's body.
Belle had been raised in an environment of love and peace, thanks to her father, God rest his soul, bless him and keep him, taught to show grace and to forgive, but when her mind turned to thoughts of Gaston and what he had done, or that his best friend and partner, LeFou had done, merely stood by and allowed her father's murder to occur and not speak up, none of it was there. Her husband had known what he was doing, and all she could feel for the dead man these days was a horrible, toxic, engulfing bitterness.
With each passing day, it grew and grew, pushing on the side of her mind that was serene, enveloping her in icy darkness, taking her fully.
"Well. I'm glad to see someone in this city appreciates it for what it is, a gift of nature. Whenever I bring a flower to a grave, it becomes discarded."
The woman standing in front of Belle spoke again, her voice soft and quiet, startling her out of her thoughts and almost eliciting a scream from her. Belle knitted her brows together in confusion, casting her eyes down to the edge of Maurice's grave, where she had delicately placed the white lily.
Belle lifted her chin, reluctantly tearing her gaze away from the single flower to meet the newcomer's gaze, looked slightly to her right, and gaped. A beautiful woman stood in front of Belle, though her cobalt eyes were not currently fixated on Belle, but upon Maurice's grave, and the lily.
The stranger had beautiful auburn strawberry blonde hair that fell in graceful curls to her shoulders. When she met Belle's gaze, the inventor's daughter could not help but feel as though she were staring into her soul. Her eyes were of liquid amber scrutinizing things that Belle could only dream of seeing in herself. This woman, whoever she was, was a mystery.
A dangerous, beautiful mystery, a stranger to Belle, of whom she was admittedly wary, though something in the woman's gaze told Belle that if she were to speak up about her trepidations, she would not be faulted for it.
And yet, Belle could not help but feel as though she had allowed herself to become ensnared in this strange woman's trap. How the moon poured down on the two of them in this desolate graveyard, showering the stranger in beams of milky moonlight.
They caught in the woman's curls, these moonbeams, making each auburn curl seem as though it was burning. The stars illuminated her skin. She looked deathly pale as if her heart would stop at any moment, and Belle surmised she could not have been older than her late thirties.
Perhaps forty, at the oldest, so she was much too young to die from a complaint of the heart. The inventor's daughter's frown deepened, and Belle was well aware she was staring, but she could not seem to avert her gaze or even think of looking away for a split second, even. The blonde woman's face was very white, the color of a moonbeam, or an ivory carving. A snowy face, beautiful and elegant, like that of a snow queen in one of the many fairytales Belle had read throughout the years. The woman's hands, too, were bone-white, but soft, elegant, as pale hands went.
Belle bit the wall of her cheek and could not help but wonder if she were to reach out with one of her hands and try to touch her if she would only graze the air. As if the woman were nothing more than a ghost. A spirit.
She felt her gaze wander to the stranger's robe, which admittedly looked entirely too neat to belong to that of the beggars that crowded the streets of Paris on a daily basis, so she wondered if this woman was a noble.
The robe the stranger wore was a long linen robe, a brown color the color of desert sand. The fabric was draped in rich architectural pleats; the waistline was high, which only emphasized her slim, elongated silhouette. The sleeves of the garment were long and wide with turnbacks. The hood draped elegantly over the back, giving off the appearance that this woman, whoever she was, was a queen or a wanderer in exile, an ambassador of God.
The only noticeable flaw to the mysterious woman's spellbinding appearance was a nasty-looking bruise over one of her delicately shaped brows that looked like it would eventually leave one hell of a scar, but it was not what Belle's eyes were drawn to. No, it was the woman's dark eyes.
Her eyes were the softest brown infused with green as if she held the new spring growth inside of her. Combined with the graceful gentleness of her features and her pale skin, this woman could soothe anyone, even Belle.
Belle could feel her overactive imagination begin to go into overdrive, feeling as though it were reeling. Who was this woman and why was she here? Had she sought out Maurice's grave, and if so, for what purpose?
Was this one a wise woman, somehow, come to offer supporting words of comfort? As she felt her lips part open slightly in shock as her brows came together in a confused frown, it was then that Belle was hit with a sudden realization. This robed woman was an enigma, and she was not sure if she liked it or not, given Belle considered herself an excellent judge of character, and the fact that she was unable to ascertain what she was thinking or feeling, greatly unnerved her.
Belle turned, shifting at the waist to better face her, her head inclined in a slight bow, and fingers clasped in front of her. Belle let out a tiny muffled squeak and quickly dipped her head and bent her right knee and dropped into a low curtsy.
"I—I am terribly sorry. I must have missed your name—I beg your pardon, milady, a—and I realize this might be forward of me, b—but…do I know you?" Belle asked, straightening her posture, and lifting her chin to meet the woman's gaze. Her gaze fell upon a single flower in the stranger's hand, the woman was fingering the delicate petal tenderly.
"Lilies," the woman interjected, noticing Belle's gawking expression. "They were your father's favorite, once upon a time, if memory serves. Or so I was told."
"Yes, they were," Belle breathed, feeling her frown deepen as she watched the hooded woman take a few hesitant steps forward and gently placed the lily she was fingering her palms next to the one Belle had placed aside her father's grave. A dozen questions were burning on the tip of her tongue, though only one she desperately wanted the answer to more than ever. "Did you…" She bit the wall of her cheek, unsure of how to phrase her question. "Did you know my father? You knew that he liked lilies."
The hooded stranger regarded Belle in silence for a moment, studying the features of Belle's face in a way that made her feel incredibly uneasy and not sure what to think. Nevertheless, after a moment she spoke, her voice soft and kind, as she motioned for Belle to join her and head back towards the direction of the cathedral.
"A long time ago, I did. I am saddened to say that I found Maurice only in death, I am afraid. Your father was kind to me. He gave me bread and jam once, offered me shelter during a storm. We became friends. I would see him from time to time in the marketplace, and he would always have something for me. An apple, a piece of cheese."
Belle hesitated for a fraction of a second and reluctantly felt her arm grip around the woman's forearm as she allowed the strange woman with the thick head of strawberry blonde curls to escort her back to Notre Dame.
Every so often, she would shoot the hooded figure an inquisitive glance out of the corner of her eye at the woman, unable to quell the strange swooping sensation in her stomach or the sudden feeling of uneasiness that pricked at her heart. The woman swiveled her head to the left and smiled.
Belle snapped her head away, embarrassed at having allowed herself to get caught staring in such a manner. She felt the heat creep to her cheeks as a light pink blush speckled along her cheeks. "You were friends with Papa?"
"I was." Her answer was curt, and her voice carried a hardened edge that Belle could recognize from having spent so much time around Gaston, and the inventor's daughter knew that it was time to change the subject.
It seemed ages before the woman spoke again, and Belle was beginning to grow grateful that she could see the towering parapets and buttresses of Notre Dame in the distance, and that they were almost back to her sanctuary, as the thunderclouds rolled and loomed in the distance, though with each footfall and step forward she took, it felt like the storm was growing closer. Belle swallowed hard past the lump forming in her throat.
"Your father was a good man, strong in life, and unwaveringly kind and gentle, a good father, his spirit was strong, and he shall find his way to the hall of his fathers before him," the woman answered after what felt like an eternity spent with just the pair of women walking in a thick silence. "He will be missed, but know that you are not alone, Belle," she said softly.
"How do you know my name?" Belle immediately asked, unable to help herself as she turned her head and quirked a brow, managing a weary laugh that failed to disguise her sudden trepidation towards this woman.
She did not even know this woman, had never met her before, and yet somehow, she was familiar with Belle's name. How was that possible?
The beautiful blonde noticed her questionable stare and chuckled lightly. "I am a beggar, my dear. Part of Monsieur Clopin Trouillefou's camps," she began, though there was an air of distance to her tone that Belle was not entirely sure she believed this woman's claims, though for now, she let it go. "Being out in the streets of Paris on a daily basis allows me to see and learn much during my time here in this city. No one pays very close attention to someone like me," she explained, though she sounded cold.
At her remark, Belle raised an eyebrow in skepticism. This woman who had snuck up behind her in the graveyard looked entirely too put together to be a homeless nomad. No. Something was off. Not right at all.
The hooded figure let out another light little chuckle that to Belle sounded like the tinkling of a million bells and continued, either having noticed the younger girl's suspicious looks Belle was in the midst of giving her and had chosen to ignore it, or she genuinely did not see the dark look.
"It works to my advantage," the woman confessed, reaching up a hand to tuck a strawberry blonde curl back behind her ear, a sheepish, small half-smile tugging the corners of her luscious, pink lips upward into a kind smile that Belle could not help but to return, despite her initial misgivings for this woman before her, about whom she knew very little, her first real smile in two weeks. "I see and hear much and am generally able to remain undetected." She glanced sideways and regarded Belle for a minute in silence. "I think that in a way, you are like me. I do not know how it is for you, I admit," she confessed, looking pained, as the pair of them paused outside the steps of Notre Dame and she craned her neck upward to see, her dark eyes widening a little in awe and wonder at the magnificent cathedral.
The woman blinked as if startled out of a stupor of sorts, and then forced her attentions to return towards Belle. "I do know that when I was your age, I always felt like a weed in a garden. I grew bold and headstrong, often where it was the least expected and apparently without an invitation. Those around me in my ah…social circle at the time did not take kindly to this, and I was cast aside and shunned. The simpleminded smallfolk, they cannot see what weeds are until they bloom," the hooded woman growled darkly, her eyes clouding over with something akin to anger, bitterness laced throughout her otherwise quite kind tone, and just for a moment, Belle felt the very blood in her veins run cold and turn to ice, and she knew it had nothing to do with the cool October breeze that wafted their way just then.
Though this woman, from what she could tell in the precious fifteen minutes she had spent with her, seemed nice, she quickly got the impression that whoever this she-stranger was, she was not a woman to be trifled with.
Belle's brows furrowed into a frown. Was that, then, how she had managed to sneak up behind Belle in the graveyard? How could she not have sensed her? She was silent. Silent. Her footfalls had been so light, airy, and she had heard nothing. Not even a whisper from the trees.
The mysterious woman glanced back towards Belle and smiled that little ambivalent smile that both excited Belle's spirit and calmed her.
"Girls like you and I, we are flowers. French Roses and our fragrance is aromatic and our nectar as sweet as any other. As I hear yours was to a certain young noble Prince of these lands, and there is another in your life," she added sardonically, a dry smirk replacing the kind smile that had been etched upon her pretty features only moments ago.
Belle's frowned deepened, unsure of how to phrase an appropriate response to the turn their conversation had inevitably taken. She could not stop the scrunching of her nose in disgust at just the mention of that vulgar Prince who had cornered her two weeks ago in the library on what she now would forever remember as the worst day of her life.
Suddenly, her lips felt quite dry, and she licked her lips to moisten them, though no benefit came. She gave out a pained wince as her stomach abruptly snarled and howled and from it, came the not-so-subtle undertone of pain. It came to young Belle in waves and it seemed as though her stomach was slowly digesting itself.
She clutched at it, doubling over at the waist with one hand, her other hand clutching onto the auburn-haired woman's arm tightening her grip upon the woman's forearm. If her nails were raking into the fabric of the woman's robes and piercing her soft flesh and hurting her, the she-stranger made no comment, for which she was grateful. Belle attempted in vain to silence the violent protests of her stomach, though to no avail. It cried even louder, earning her a curious and yet strangely knowing stare from her new acquaintance. It was a slow pain, eating away at her stomach and leaving her feeling drained and empty.
Belle bit the inside of her cheek as she slowly stood up and straightened her posture, feeling beads of sweat begin to form upon her brow and she swallowed, wishing for nothing more than a chalice of water. "Would you care to accompany me inside? I—I am rather hungry, and I could see what we have in the kitchens for you too if you would like. You look as though you've not eaten in some time," Belle offered in what she hoped was a kind and soothing tone. Something about this woman's presence was calling to her, like one of those sirens in the tales of old.
Belle watched as the woman with the strawberry blonde curls gave a curt nod of her head, and without waiting for the inventor's daughter to respond, she strode towards the wide oak double doors of the main sanctuary and opened them for Belle with next to little to no effort on her part.
"That is very kind of you, my child. You are incredibly sweet to offer to help someone like me," the hooded woman spoke in a quiet voice. "I should like that very much, though I am afraid I cannot stay long, Belle."
Belle gave a curt, silent nod of her head to silently communicate that she understood and hurried inside just as the first crack of thunder rent the air and let out a tiny squeak of fear as from the sky came a clipped boom of thunder, so loud, that it startled the young woman so badly, she almost shook on her spot as she crossed the threshold of the church's front entrance and into the warmth of the cathedral. She let out a heavy sigh of relief.
The young woman was so engrossed with getting away from the storm and preoccupied with thoughts of food on her mind, that had she turned around to regard the hooded beggar woman, she would have seen the she-stranger staring up at one of the bell towers with a strange, inquisitive look in her amber eyes and a knowing little half-smirk forming on her lips.
She did not see the soft smile that crept on the beggar woman's lips as the woman gingerly closed the door behind her.