CHAPTER 19

BELLE leant against the door and shakily slid to the cold stone floor, still clutching the so-called magical book close to her chest, hardly daring to believe what had just happened. Whatever her master wished her to see in this book must have been important for him to insist that she keeps it.

She furrowed her brows and glanced down at the book, gingerly setting it in front of her and drawing in a sharp breath as the book's pages began to turn of their own accord once it flipped open, that strange golden hazy light emanating from within its pages.

She squeezed her eyes shut and waited for something to happen.

One minute. Two minutes. Three minutes.

Belle nervously cracked open an eyelid. Nothing. No sudden movement. No razor-sharp teeth or anything ready to remove her hand in the next fraction of a second. Nothing at all. Though almost the second her mind began to believe that maybe she was safe, after all, the book began to vibrate violently, and it began to glow, this time its aura changing from the faint soften golden hue that flowed through her room to an intense blue, the pages flipping at a break-need alarming speed so fast that Belle's blinking eyes could hardly keep up. Belle couldn't ascertain exactly when the pages stopped, but once they had, she felt herself being drawn to it.

She closed her eyes as she felt warmth pulsate through the room, and a gush of wind blow her hair off her shoulders, the strangely invisible, almost magnetic force pulling her into it. Not wanting to look, Belle kept her eyes screwed shut as there was another violent whoosh of air, and then darkness.

And then, she was falling, but the sickening sensation did not last, as whatever she landed on, it was hard and hurt. Unsure whether or not she had broken anything in the fall, Belle concluded that attempting any sudden sort of movement was a bad idea. Instead, she simply focused on forcing air into her lungs as carefully as possible while also attempting not to cry out in the process and alert anything unsavory that might be waiting for her here to her presence.

Once breathing was no longer painful, Belle decided it was safe enough to test for any sort of broken muscles or bones. She tried her toes first, giving them a wiggle, and then her hands. They moved with ease, albeit stiffly, but there was no pain in the movement as she shakily rose up to her feet.

The hushed whispers around the familiar-looking castle walls aroused Belle and despite the scorn that choked her brief smile of relief that the book was showing her the castle, the thought of what she might witness made her cheeks flush in curiosity.

The horizon of the Prince's castle looked farther now, and she realized the strange walls that now surrounded her, engulfing her. The book had seemingly forced her to move her chambers. This chamber was smaller than what she was used to and seemed to be located among the towers on the castle of the castle.

It was smaller, dingier, the daylight though easily trapped. The strange scent of rosemary brought Belle back to thoughts of Villeneuve, when the harlots who worked the corners of their village in the darkness of the night would coat their neck and shoulders in the substance, hoping to entice male attention and convince them to give up their coin in exchange for a night of pleasure.

The memory irked her and pushed her to the winding stairs, hearing the whispers as she flew past them and out of the tower, not sure if whatever magic had created this book could sense her, an intruder. Snow had coated the muddied ground again and Belle turned on the heels of her boots to walk along the bricked alleyway that would take her back towards the servants' halls.

She could, at a minimum, save ruining the hem of her frock. Belle paused to slip on a dark velvet robe, dark as dried blood that it almost blended well enough into the shadows of the halls, wide at the shoulders so her clavicle peeked under her pale skin, and long sleeves that fitted her thin, bony arms. Pulling up the hood of her robe, and undecided where to go, where the book wanted to take her, she was briefly tempted to head to the kitchens to see if she could sneak away with a slice of grain cake or two, and perhaps some pumpkin stew or beef broth with a baguette loaf or some other bread for dunking and a rind of cheese to nibble on.

It made her mouth water and her stomach churn, though her hunger quickly dissipated as she caught sight of a few of the Prince's guards, human, in the hallway, and slowed her steps, wondering if she was a specter to these three boys. The door was half opened and one concealed inside after whispering to the other two.

Two of them looked Belle's way, and she stiffened, drawing in abated breath, and holding it. But they seemed to stare right through her, not seeing her.

Maybe she was safe, then. She halted as her heel accidentally thudded heavy enough that all three of them swiveled their gazes in her direction, but again, the trio of foot soldiers seemed not to see her standing there. She sucked in a secret breath and resumed walking past them, careful to try to cling to the shadows where able. She gathered her skirts and twisted her heels to scurry off, but before she could, a horrible darkness settled over the hall.

Belle shivered, looking to the left and right, feeling as though there were monstrous claws waiting to snap her spine in half.

Near the edge, she could hear voices echoing from the arched side entrance, and they weren't meek. She thought she recognized one of them. Belle receded her footsteps in order to hear the voices better. By then, she could recognize one of them. A deep voice, callused by ire, livid, graceless.

Adam. The Prince, he's the Prince to you, Belle scolded herself, widening her eyes at the audacity her own conscience had the gall to suggest she dare call her master by his first name.

Belle shakily rested a palm on the cold stone wall and a sudden chill stabbed her squarely in the heart at that moment, pulling the young woman away from appearing on the scene, not even sure if they would be able to see her if she did. This book's magic had a funny way of showing itself to her. Hiding was pointless, Belle sighed wearily, even behind the wall as she was hiding behind now, she could fathom the fury that hung on every crevice. Her eyebrows furrowed, beginning to crease as the intense perfume of outrage filled her pores as she stood.

She could envision the older man—his father, perhaps—walking to and fro in the mess hall, failing his arms, talking, and ranting like a mad man. Her shoulders leapt at the unmistakable sound of a chalice crashing against the floor, and she imagined the dark red wine that would spew like a tempest in all directions, staining the stone floor.

In the midst of her thumping heartbeats, she risked inching towards the entrance to try to make better sense of the scene she was hearing.

"I gave you this one chance, boy, you witless fool!" someone yelled.

Belle wet her lips with an almost drying tongue as the fine hairs on the back of her neck stood upright. She recognized the Duke's voice, deep and ire, no warmth. She'd know that voice anywhere, the man having come to Villeneuve on one or two occasions, passing through on his way to Paris. Belle drew in a sharp breath that pained her lungs, willing her breathing to come to almost a complete standstill by the oak door.

"I gave you this chance and you make a laughingstock of me!" the Prince's father, the late Duke bellowed, roaring at the top his lungs like an enraged bull. His only son and heir said something by way of response, but the Prince's voice sounded faint, weaker than she'd ever heard the Prince speak before.

Belle felt her fingers dig into the palms of her flesh, piercing the skin hard enough to cause it to crack and bleed as she leant her hands against the wall for support with how dizzy she felt.

"What have you done?" came the roaring baritone voice of the Duke, just as Belle had anticipated and was steeling herself for another outburst. "You claim to be my son, but you've as good as murdered your own mother! YOU ARE NO SON OF MINE, YOU BASTARD!" he bellowed, livid with his rage.

Belle thought she could faintly make out the sound of the Prince's twisting and snarling amongst his own father ranting at him, and she flinched as the sheer force, the power behind the back of his father's palm no doubt sent the much younger Prince sprawling to the ground.

Her ears perked up as she heard the fumbling of the master of the castle as he whimpered and fought back tears as he groveled at his feet.

"No, Father, I—I didn't! No, no, stop! I—I didn't…kill…Mother…"

The young Prince's pitiful half choked but furious sob rent the silence of the dimly lit corridor near the Great Hall, and Belle's heart wrenched for him, rattling against the confines of her chest as Adam let out a pain-filled and desperate scream. She kept her eyes squeezed shut as she swore she heard one of the Prince's ribs crack as the Duke continued to berate and humiliate his only living heir, to the point of almost death.

Belle drew in a pained breath and gingerly creaked open the door, pushing against the flat surface of the oak door with her palms, feeling her face drain of colors. She was not at all prepared for the violent scene in the castle's mess hall that now assaulted her eyesight and made her sick. The late Duke jolted another swing of his foot right at Prince Adam's stomach, where Adam knelt on the cold stone floor in a heap.

The sound of crunching ribs shattered the air, causing Belle to cringe the moment the pained scream left her now-master's cracked, bleeding lips, followed by a guttural cough that sounded like the Prince was choking on his own blood. She knew if the man didn't receive the medical attentions of a doctor, then it wasn't looking good for him at all.

Belle didn't want to think of what the book would show her next, or more importantly, why it was, hardly able to bear that awful thought.

She shook her head to clear it. No! Don't think like that, she scolded herself, daring to peek her head in through the door to get a better look.

Her breaths hitched in her throat as she caught sight of the Prince, looking not much older than she was. She wondered when this had happened. She'd known—the whole village and country had known—of the late Duke's wife passing about six months or so ago. It was said that she had fallen down the stairs, and that the Prince was suspected of pushing her, but Belle had never believed those ridiculous rumors.

But it would seem, that his father had, and her heart went out to him. Belle felt her face drain of color as she caught a glimpse of the red that streaked from the Prince's mouth, wincing as her master turned his head to the side and spat out a mouthful of blood, and her blood boiled within her veins. Belle was trying not to stare at his nose, but she kept finding her eyes had diverted to it.

One moment they were obediently on his red-rimmed eyes and the next they were rested on the bloody mess that had been a perfectly ordinary nose. His left eye was horribly swollen, he can't be seeing a thing out of that and he won't for a while yet. His face still bore congealed blood and his clothes were an utter mess. Then he tried to plead with Belle to help him, which gave her pause in thinking that they really could see her presence here then, his cracked lips failing at the first syllable, but he didn't need to, she was already on her feet and running, desperate to get to the Prince before his father could kill him.

"YOUR HIGHNESS! STOP!" she bellowed, and as Belle barreled in through the now-open mess hall in her haste to appear at her master's side, she almost tripped over herself, and would have done so too, had the Prince not bolted to his feet, broken, bleeding, and near tears, to catch her when she almost fell.

Thanks, she offered in their usual way she'd grown accustomed to, by trying to thank the master of the castle with her eyes. He could only nod, too weak to even respond, and Belle grunted with the effort to drape the Prince's right arm over her shoulder, supporting the bulk of his weight with her own body.

We're going home, sir. I'm getting you out of here. You'll see. I promise…

Belle, by this point in her life an excellent judge of another's character, could tell that her unexpected entrance in the middle of whatever this was, had succeeded in pulling the late Duke out of his fury, leaving him beet red in the face, and stunned at this new arrival.

"Milady, I know not who you are nor how you stumbled to be in here, but I advise that you leave, mademoiselle," the Duke responded in a cold and clipped tone, seething. "This is an insult. This is a moment between father and son that needs hashing out, my dear. You should go."

Belle bristled at hearing the Prince's father's calculating words, knowing that if she had been a fraction of a second too late in interrupting, the man might very well have succeeded in killing his only remaining living son and her best friend. She felt her head whiplash sharply upward so hard that a muscle in her neck pulled, sending a white-hot flare of pain up her neck and around the contour of her right ear.

She winced but fought back the urge to let out a cry.

"No, monsieur, I will do no such thing, sir," Belle heard herself growl in a voice that did not entirely sound like her old self at all, and she was pleased to see, if nothing else, the shift in her tone almost sent a chill crawling underneath the older man's skin. "You're humiliating your son."

She watched as the Duke's lips pursed into a rigid, thin line. Belle swallowed hard and blinked back tears.

"How could you?" Belle asked him. Belle felt like in the moment, upon seeing the Prince so broken and beaten, that she would be kinder to the Beast going forward, now that she knew the truth, thinking that perhaps she had misjudged his character. "How could you?" she repeated as she spat at him. Belle watched angrily, a muscle in her jaw twitching and behind her right eyelid as well as the Duke swallowed, offering no defense for his actions. He looked to the side to catch Mrs. Pott's quick evasion of eye contact as the Head of Household had stumbled upon the commotion, wanting to see what was the matter.

Belle turned away, effectively turning her back on the Duke.

"How could you blame your son for what happened…" she continued in her efforts to reach the Prince's father, keeping her eyes narrowed in incense and despair as she locked her jaw, shifting the Prince's weight slightly as she helped her friend to stand and walk, though his gait was all wrong and wonky. She winced. Belle hoped that the young Prince didn't have any broken bones, and she let out a shaking sigh as she walked away from the Prince's father, with Mrs. Potts at her heels, feeling as though her lungs had turned to stone in her chest, hoping that for the first time in the man's life, shame would rain down on him like flaming arrows.

Which she thought made sense, considering she was helping the Prince leave the room, and good riddance to the late Duke, who'd dare treat his own son this way. "Follow me, sir, let's—let's get you out of here and cleaned up. Just look at you. You're a mess, Your Highness," she murmured lowly under her breath as the pair of the stumbled towards the stairwell. Belle glanced down at Mrs. Potts, who grimly nodded.

"I—I didn't k—kill my mother, my lady," the Prince managed to speak up hoarsely, causing Belle to wet her lips, though she stopped as the all-too familiar twinge of melancholia stabbed through her memories the last time the village had caught word of the Duchess's death.

The Prince, sensing Belle's piercing, questioning stare, ducked his head and turned away, though with Belle maintaining her vice grip on the man's shoulder and waist, he wasn't going anywhere anytime soon she didn't want. Belle felt her heart give a painful little lurch as she realized there was so much heartbreak, so much sadness in the Prince that she had never seen in him before, and she wanted him to share it, to tell her the full truth of what happened, so that she could understand his hurts better and help the man.

"Tell me", she urged, sensing that he lacked the strength to talk.

"It was an accident. I—I tried to save her when she fell, but...couldn't reach Mother in time. Father believes that I—I killed her."

Belle heard his voice start to crack and falter, and Belle swore she heard her heart break.

In the middle of his confession, Belle gently took the Prince by the scruff of his neck and rested his head on her shoulder, having to lean up on her tiptoes to do it before hearing the Prince sniffle once as he fought back a broken, mournful whine. When he cried there was a rawness to it, like the pain was still an open wound.

The sobs were stifled at first as he attempted to hide his grief, then overcome by the wave of his emotions he would break down entirely, all his defenses washed away in those salty tears. When he at last turned his face to Belle he was a picture of grief, loss, devastation.

It was the face of one who had suffered before and didn't know if he could do it again. Then, just when she thought the breakthrough would come and he would trust her with his vulnerability, the shutters would come down, his emotion walled off behind a mask of coping. He would just wear it until everything was right again, he didn't know another way.

Mrs. Potts offered her master what Belle could only presume coming from the elderly woman was meant to be a hopeful smile, though in actuality, on the woman's somewhat drooping and weathered face, it came across as more of a pained grimace as Mrs. Potts clutched onto the Prince's arm, with Belle supporting her master, and Belle closed her eyes, feeling relieved at least, that she didn't have to tell the book where to take her.

She had seen more than enough to know why he was the way that he was.

Home, she thought to the book, feeling the air brush against her cheeks, and whipping her hair off of her face as the book sent her back, back to the Beast's castle, back to the Beast, who, she silently made a vow to be kinder to, going forward, wanting nothing more than to be back in the relative safety of her own quarters.

Take me home.