The snow melted to nothing a few days after the Beast introduced Belle to her library, properly exposing the winter grass and remnants of dead plants for the first time since she had arrived at the castle. However, Belle was so relieved to have regular access to books once again that she paid almost no attention to the state of the outdoor plant life – a state of mind which occurred with the regularity of clockwork when she was at home in the wintertime. She devoured the rest of The Woman in White , and when she closed the book with satisfying authority, the Beast looked up from across the room.

"You've never finished that already?" she asked incredulously.

"I get that reaction a lot," Belle chuckled. "I'm a fast reader. And, to be fair, I was roughly halfway through already."

"Well, was it as fascinating as you remembered?" the Beast asked, sliding a marker into her own book and setting it to one side. She shifted in her seat so that she faced Belle a little more, her large eyes trained pleasantly on her.

"Yes – the mystery was as satisfying as it's always been," Belle said. She moved to return the book to its rightful place, allowing her fingers to drift slowly over the spines of the other books after she'd done so. "And yet . . ."

"Yes?" the Beast asked.

Belle spun around to face her, her skirts (today a rather becoming dark-brown shade made of wool; the stomacher was a pale yellow that reminded her of young chicks with lilies-of-the-valley embroidered on it) swirling around her feet. She leant against the shelves, the wood structure pressing against her shoulder blades. "Well – it's an epistolary novel, made up of excerpts from letters, diaries, journals and so on. And when I first read it I was just engaged by the writing style and how the information was fed out, and the plot. Marian's section in particular – she's the sister of the heroine – was always my favourite. But then Walter just dominates the last chunk of the book, and for no real reason. We never even read Laura's own diary or letters."

"And Walter is . . ." the Beast prompted, her head cocked to one side in a display of confusion.

"The male lead," she said. "He starts and ends the story, and ends up married to Laura."

"Hmph," the Beast said. "Why am I not surprised."

Despite herself, Belle let out a tiny laugh. From the twinkle in the Beast's eye, she guessed that this precise response had been what she'd aimed for. "I suppose I am being a little unfair to Mr Collins," she said. "The fact is, he wrote this book in the first place to raise awareness of just how few rights married women in England have under current property laws. And we do have that wonderful section written by Marian."

"You realise this is just wanting to make me read it more?" the Beast chuckled. "As soon as I've finished this, I'm picking up The Woman in White."

"Well, all your gushing about The Moonstone has me dying to read it as well, and yet I can't get my hands on it," Belle shot back. "It's positively unfair."

The Beast chuckled again, shaking her head, and carefully picked her book back up. "The moment I finish it, I'll bring it to you," she promised.

"If you say so," Belle said quietly. She wandered past some shelves to a little natural alcove in the wall, where she began twisting her hands in her skirts. What am I doing? she asked herself. This is the longest conversation we've ever had – and it's . . . pleasant. She resisted the urge to tap her foot on the ground to expel some nervous energy that had manifested in her. Just to settle herself, she ran her fingers over the spines of the books in front of her, tapping them as she went. She pulled down a heftier book than The Woman in White had been; the title in gold lettering on a forest-green jacket proclaimed it to be Le Morte D'Arthur. It fit well in the cup of her hand, and she made her way back to her seat.

"What are you reading now?" the Beast asked as Belle sat down again.

" Le Morte D'Arthur," she said. "I'm quite intrigued – I've never read Arthurian legends before."

"I quite enjoyed them," the Beast conceded. "But surely you're not starting that right away – don't you need time to . . ." Both her wing and arm made the same expressive gesture out to the side. "Absorb it all?"

"Sometimes, yes," Belle said. "Especially if it's new. I usually go out into my garden and weed or sketch, but it's a little difficult in this season." She smiled ruefully as she glanced out the window at the dreary day. When she turned back to face the Beast again, it was as if a curtain had been drawn over her face.

Every inch of her upper body seemed to telegraph that she was uncomfortable with the subject matter, but her voice remained even as she said, "Well, I've seen you out in the grounds a few times."

"They are lovely," Belle said. She placed the book on her lap, a paper tablet between the two of them. "But I wouldn't dare intrude to work in the grounds – and besides, I'm more used to a small herb and flower garden than anything as grand as that." She paused a moment. The Beast still seemed uneasy, and so Belle forged on with the conversation. "I did get a chance to wander through the walled garden the other day."

Instantly, the Beast went from uncomfortable to on-edge.

Belle froze, her heart in her mouth. She couldn't look away from the Beast's sharp talons, or forget the strength in her wings and arms. And yet, as soon as the thought had arrived in her head, Belle acted to dismiss it – she wasn't afraid that the Beast would hurt her, not after the last week. No – she realised that she was afraid she would hurt the Beast. "They were beautiful, from the little I saw," she said softly. "I mean, it was difficult to tell – it's winter, after all, and Mrs Potts called me back inside for dinner before I could take it all in."

In miniscule movements, Belle saw the Beast relax; her wings smoothed down against her body, her spine relaxing as she took in a quiet breath of air. The silence between them was such that Belle could hear every shudder of that breath. "It's a sight to behold in summer," the Beast said. "The flowers start to bloom in February and they don't stop until October." Her voice was subdued, and also melancholy in a way that seemed familiar to Belle's own experiences. "But it's been years since there were people to properly take care of it."

"I can imagine it would be difficult to do so, given the circumstances," Belle said.

Her bright blue eyes darted over to meet Belle's gaze. "Yes, well." There was a solid foundation to her voice this time, Belle noted with something like relief. "You said you sketched?" she asked, changing the subject rather pointedly.

Belle went along with it without complaint, and for the rest of the afternoon the Beast listened as Belle told her about her efforts over the years to attain the quality necessary of a submission to the Botanical Magazine, and her continual, low-lying anxiety that her work would be rejected after all. So when they went their separate ways to dinner that evening, although the Beast excused herself with that same strange reserve from the fireside when she refused to share her name, Belle felt no guilt in her heart over the conversation.

Belle blinked in the soft light. She was in the library again, a book in her hands, but wearing one of her dresses from home. She looked over to where the Beast usually sat, but instead of the winged form she had grown almost used to sat Marie.

Belle rushed over as quickly as she could, but it was as if she was running in marshland; the faster she moved her legs, the less ground she covered. "Maman!" she cried out.

Marie glanced up at Belle. She was bent over her desk from the cellar beneath their house, although she was in her travelling clothes and not her usual overalls. "I know about the books you checked out from Léon's shop without telling me. You're not – you're not like that,are you Belle?" she asked with a stony face. "Not one of those – those –"

"Maman . . ." Belle started, her stomach falling out from beneath her.

Before she could evade the question, Marie ran towards her. "Belle!" she screamed, her eyes wide with fear. "Belle!"

And then she was ripped away from Belle – yanked away by invisible strings. And Belle rather abruptly realised that she wasfalling; with a soft thud she landed in the snow, the library melted away to the forest. But instead of the Beast curled protectively over her, the white wolf with the brown marking was crouched on her chest; his eyes glinting, his teeth dripping, his body weight pressing on her stomach and her shoulders so that she was completely pinned down. Belle tried to shift him, to overbalance him by using her legs, but they were tangled in her skirts and she couldn't, she couldn't.

"Marriage is all about compromise," the wolf said – and it was Gaston's voice that came out, although there was a growl beneath it all the same. He bent his muzzle to the side of Belle's cheek, his hot breath tickling her ear. "Say you'll marry me, Belle."

"I –"

"Say it," he growled.

They shifted somehow without changing positions. Belle was now leant against the ivy-covered wall of the garden, standing upright. Her hand scrabbled for the doorknob of her front door, but found no purchase on anything. The wolf grabbed at her wrist, his paw enveloping it, and Belle let out a gasp of pain as her bones ground together.

Over his marked shoulder, Belle saw the girl from the portrait appear at the end of the path, so far in the distance that all she could see of her was her golden hair.

"No," Belle whispered. "I won't marry you."

And with a snarl, the wolf ripped out her throat.

"Belle?"

She turned her head with a start. Mrs Potts had hopped onto the breakfast table, and was looking at her with marked concern. "Are you alright, dearie?"

Belle blinked, and returned her spoon to her porridge bowl. "Oh, yes," she said absently. "I'm just a little . . . off-kilter today. I had a horrible dream last night."

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that, chuck," Mrs Potts said. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"I . . ." Belle glanced at the other servants in the room. They were all minding their own business, the usual hum of conversation seemingly undisturbed by Belle's start, but the chance of being overheard was still enough to send Belle's heart racing. "Can we take a walk?" she asked.

"Of course, my dear," Mrs Potts said.

Belle stood away from the table. Mrs Potts used her now-empty chair as a halfway point between the table and the ground, and Belle could see her eyes taking in her barely-touched breakfast. Still, she left the room without saying a word, and the two of them were soon walking along the southern side of the castle. The drab colours of winter earth dominated the grounds through the windows, and if Belle strained her neck she would be able to see the very corner of the walled garden.

After it became clear that Mrs Potts wasn't going to begin the conversation, Belle took a breath.

"It was the wolf who chased me through the woods," she said. "The one your Mistress saved me from. He – cornered me. Had me backed up against the wall, so I couldn't get away. And he – he sounded like one of the men from my village, who tried to force me to marry him." Belle resolved to keep Marie's role in her dream – which had been the part which truly disturbed her – to herself. After all, she reasoned, she had no way of knowing how the staff might react to her inclinations for women.

"Oh, dearie," Mrs Potts sighed. "I'm awfully sorry about that. I can make you a little something to help you sleep tonight, if you'd like? Keeps bad dreams away, too."

"Thank you," Belle said quietly. "That's very kind of you."

They kept walking for another minute, before Mrs Potts broke the silence again. "Belle," she said, "it seems like there's something still troubling you. Can I help at all – even just to offer an ear?"

Belle slowed to a halt, fiddling with her shawl as a flimsy excuse. "I . . . Have you ever felt as if you grew to like someone, almost against your will?" she asked. "As if everything you've ever been told is telling you that you – you shouldn't be impressed, or amused by what they say, and yet you still are?"

"Now that you mention it," Mrs Potts said gently, "I have."

Belle shifted to look straight at Mrs Potts in complete surprise. "Really?" she asked.

"Yes," she said. "Go on, tell me the rest of what you're thinking."

Belle hesitated. "It's like there are two reasons I shouldn't like her – I mean, I came back freely enough, but . . ." She turned her gaze back to her fingers, twisting them around each other. "And then," she said. "Well." The words stuck in her throat. She couldn't tell her. She couldn't.

"You know," Mrs Potts said when it was clear Belle's limit had been reached, "I also felt conflicted over my feelings. There was a power imbalance, and . . . well, other factors," she said. "But the love I felt was more powerful than anything people around me thought or said, so I did what I thought was right and I don't regret it."

"So you married him in the end, didn't you?" Belle asked. "Your husband?"

Mrs Potts seemed taken aback for a moment, before collecting herself. "Oh – yes, David was a good husband to me," she said. "But that's not – well – dearie, you can be honest with me. Is this about the Mistress?"

After a long moment, Belle nodded.

"If the only thing holding you back is a worry about what others think . . ." Mrs Potts conveyed the motion of a shrug despite not having shoulders. "Nobody here will think any less of you for admiring her character, or wanting to be friendly with her."

"Oh," Belle said softly. She rather got the feeling that if Mrs Potts had been capable of it, she would have hugged her then. "I . . . I see."

Mrs Potts smiled. "Come on, dearie," she said. "I reckon we can get you in a nice spot of tea and you'll be all set for the day."

Belle grinned, and followed her back to the dining room.