CHAPTER 1: Barely Even Friends

"You really don't remember any of it, Belle?" said a disbelieving Gaston to his wife.

Belle sat in an unfamiliar bed in an unfamiliar, sparsely furnished, rustic-looking bedroom. Her head was crudely bandaged with a handkerchief, and by the strange dizziness she felt, she could well believe Gaston's assertion that she'd only just woken after being badly hit on the head by something.

She could believe. But she didn't remember. Nor did she remember her life with Gaston.

His enormous figure was seated in a chair beside her. His look was one of legitimate worry and confusion, as one would expect of a concerned husband in this circumstance.

"I mean…" she replied, her voice faint with confusion, "I remember you're a man named Gaston, who I've met. But… I don't remember us being married…"

"Belle!" he laughed, like he couldn't believe what she'd said. "We've been married for over a year!" He hesitated then. "You're pretty out of it. If this really isn't a joke, then I'm going back into town to get a doctor."

"I just… really don't remember any of it," said Belle, honestly and totally lost for how to feel about it. "Tell me how it happened. How did I hit my head, again?"

"The beam in the next room collapsed, dinged you right on the head. This old cottage… we moved in a couple days ago, and it needs a lot of fixing up."

"And this cottage is in…?"

"Isola. You can see the town from the window. Though — if you're telling me the truth, maybe you shouldn't be out of bed right now."

"But we're not from Isola," said Belle, feeling very sure of this particular fact.

"Nah, we just got tired of that old village we were from. Place was a freakshow," said Gaston disdainfully. "But you really don't remember that? People there said you were a witch."

Belle shook her head slowly. The concussion left her feeling weak and tired, and her thoughts weren't coming together well. They were sluggish and disjointed. "I remember…" she tried to think of the last thing she remembered. "I remember a castle… an enchanted castle… there was a prince… a beast… he was a prince who had been a beast, or a beast who became a prince… a blue eyed prince… I was married to him… he had furniture, that were his servants…"

The sense of longing that the memory inspired in Belle was rattled when Gaston began to laugh loudly and heartily.

"That's a good one!" he cried. "You obviously had some kind of dream." His mirth declined suddenly, and in a swift motion he rose from the wooden chair where he was seated. "Look, if you're this bad, I'm definitely getting you a doctor. Hate to leave you alone, but there's not much else I can do. Town's about twenty minutes walk each way."

Belle tried to work coherent thoughts through her liquified brain. "No one else is here?"

"Only the two of us," said Gaston. "But I'll be quick about it." He flashed her a bright, confident smile, which she didn't return, and soon he was gone.

Belle spent the time alone wracking her brain, trying to remember anything about her life. The bed she was in had only sheets on it, no blankets or pillows. She looked at her clothes — a pink taffeta gown, somewhat soiled at the moment. She could remember Gaston… but the more she thought about it, she began to realize those memories were intertwined with images of the beast in the castle. She remembered something about Gaston wanting to kill the beast, and a fight on a rooftop, from which Gaston had fallen to his death… but clearly that couldn't have happened for real, since he was certainly still alive.

She'd evidently had a very vivid dream, and nothing more. There was no Prince Adam (she somehow recalled that name) who was Duke of Normandy, and no castle filled with talking tableware, no magic mirrors, and no angry mob led by Gaston to go kill the beast.

But this left her in a strange position of remembering nothing about her life that was true.

Gaston. Gaston. How could she have come to marry him? Surely that would have never happened if he was anything like the man in her dream. But was that an accurate depiction? What was he really like?

In less than forty minutes, Gaston returned in the company of an elderly doctor dressed in cheap black medical robes. The old man removed the handkerchief from Belle's head and examined the gash, asked her a few questions about what she remembered, and confirmed that she didn't seem to remember anything.

"She has experienced a dermal-disruptive contusion to the upper region of the cranium, creating a disruption of the mental data preserved by the cerebrum's interior."

At that point the doctor was ready to leave, and asked for his fee.

Gaston folded his arms and puffed himself up. "Hey! Doc," he said, a menace to his tone. "You can at least replace the bandages you pulled off."

"Oh, well, those are not actually necessary," answered the doctor. "You see, the wound is not exsanguinating now, and they serve no purpose on contusa —"

Gaston took one threatening step towards the man, then another. The two males were pushed together. Were Gaston not a head taller than the doctor, they'd have been face to face, and the bigger man was giving quite an aggressive staredown.

In a quiet but not in the slightest bit submissive voice, Gaston declared: "Put a cork in the mumbo-jumbo and do something for her."

He raised his fist.

The doctor, shaken, murmured an apology to Gaston and then hurried over to Belle.

Belle watched this all, not finding it as shocking as she might have were she fully coherent. She was able to pull herself together enough to ask the doctor, "Is there anything that can be done to get my memory back?"

"Nothing," said the unnerved doctor. "It might return with time, or it might not. Simple as that."

The old man gave her head injury a second look, and tried to conjure up anything additional to say about it.

"Dressing the scab with some oil or unguent will help it to heal faster," he announced nervously. He took up his medical bag, which had in it a small number of commonly needed items, and from it produced a small bottle of olive oil. This he applied to her wound, and afterwards wrapped a fresh linen bandage about her crown.

That completed, he looked to Gaston as if for permission to leave. Gaston, not seeming too pleased, nevertheless produced a few coins — the doctor's fee — and put them into the man's hands.

The big bullying huntsman was less than satisfied, but he knew he might need the old man's services again. This wasn't the time to stiff him.

As Gaston showed the old doctor to the front door by tossing him out of it, Belle contemplated that, apparently, her dream vision of Gaston's personality was more or less correct.

Gaston returned to the room, his mood noticeably soured from before.

"Brainiacs! I'm telling you — the more education they say they have, the dumber they are! It's like they fill their heads up, and their brains get so big that the ideas get lost and can't find the way out anymore…"

Belle, though still not at full mental sharpness, smiled at the visual he had conjured. But then a memory struck her, of Gaston hassling her about reading books. Was she…?

"Gaston?" she asked.

He looked at her.

"How did we meet?"

Gaston approached the bed and reclaimed his seat in the chair. "How did we meet…?" he said, as if trying to think back to it. "The first time we interacted, you were about ten and I was about eighteen. But, of course, there wasn't anything going on between us at that point. We lived in the same town so we saw each other around once in a while, but, I'd say you were seventeen or eighteen when we met for the first time. It was at the tavern… the thing was, you were a real bitch to everybody, back then. Going about town, commenting how boring everyone was. Some drunk guys got it in their heads to 'teach you a lesson' and — " he laughed uncomfortably. "The tavern didn't usually get that rowdy that early in the day, but luckily I stopped in, and that's when I walked in on five guys tying you down to a table."

Belle did not remember any of this, but she was utterly appalled by the story. "My God!"

Gaston seconded her horror. "Anyway, I pulled them off, made confetti of their teeth, and chucked them into the next province. And of course, you were very glad that I'd come and saved you. That's how we got to talking."

Belle was shaken by the idea that something like that had happened to her, and almost more shaken that she couldn't recall anything of it herself. Still, when she thought about it… Gaston seemed like a more aggressive person than she might tend towards, but in that context she could imagine being moved to view the behavior favorably.

Then a sudden flash went through her mind, of the beast from her dream. She recalled a moment of the ferocious monster murdering a pack of wolves to save her.

It was just a quick flash, then it was gone.

"Right from the moment that I met you," continued Gaston, oblivious to the thoughts that had gone through her mind, "I knew I had to make you my wife. You were the most beautiful girl I'd ever seen — really, the only beautiful girl I'd ever seen." He sighed smilingly, a deep affection seeming to have overtaken him. Then he looked at her. "You really don't remember any of it?"

Belle shook her head helplessly. "How long before we were married?"

Gaston paused thoughtfully, brow furrowed in concentration. "Pretty quick, actually. I don't think it was even three months. 'Course that was because of your father…"

Belle's heart lit up at the word. "My father! So he is real!"

Gaston reacted like that was an odd thing to say. "Well, you weren't sprung from a dungheap."

Belle was very comforted at the realization that her father was a real memory. "Is he still in the village?"

"Belle!" said Gaston in an almost scolding tone. Then he seemed saddened, and in a voice overbrimming with remorse he announced, "Maurice died a few months ago. That was one of the reasons we decided to leave the village — there was nobody to keep us there!"

Belle's initial delight at the discovery that Maurice was real was instantly dashed at the disclosure that he was already dead. She'd gained and lost a father in a matter of seconds.

Trying to piece everything together, Belle repeated it back: "So… we have been married a little over a year, but we met three months before that. And my father died a few months ago, after the marriage."

"Well done," said Gaston, an odd note to his tone that verged on sarcasm. "That'll tide you over till your memory comes back, at least."

Belle felt embarrassed. "I'm sorry. I really don't remember any of it."

"Ah, what's the difference?" said Gaston, now upbeat. "A year and a half — what really happened then that changes anything now? We're still together, and we came to this village to get a fresh start. Just looks like it's fresher than expected."

That was a comforting thought to Belle. A fresh start. Somehow Gaston still didn't feel to her like the kind of person she would marry; but, having heard their history, it all made sense why she would like him. She couldn't allow a silly dream to prejudice her against him.

And most importantly, he was her husband.

She just needed to fall in love with him again.

…

Belle was informed that she usually handled the cooking and meal planning; but being that she was dizzy, and still deeming it unsafe to emerge from bed, Gaston procured for them a simple dinner of bread, cheese and wine. It looked to Belle like a lot of food, but somehow it was all vanishing quickly.

By this time it was dusk outside, and the room grew still darker by the minute.

Belle looked around the little space, which seemed to be furnished only with the bed, the chair, and a small, shabby dresser that did not appear to have anything in it. "Is this all the furniture we have? Where are my things — clothes, and all of that?"

Gaston answered glumly. "We had our things sent on ahead of us, but it's been a week and nothing's arrived yet. I'm beginning to think that it won't. Bah! Highwaymen must have got it! Which is a shame, because I had some great stuff: a lot of hunting gear, my portrait… and I think we're both dreaming of a change of clothes, at this point. All that's in here is what came with the house." He brightened, and stood up, walking over to the wall in front of the bed. "Picture it, though! We can put a big mirror framed with antlers right here! And a bearskin rug over here on the floor! And I think an elk's head will fit right over there!"

Belle burst out laughing. Gaston's face crumpled into an irritated glower.

"Something funny?" he asked, challengingly.

Belle tried to stop when she realized that he was offended, but her amusement remained. "You really want to decorate a bedroom like that?"

"It's how the old one was done up."

"Really?"

"Oh yeah. You loved it. Makes everything seem very dangerous. Sets the mood and keeps the Croquemitaine away," he stated proudly.

It seemed odd to Belle, but… maybe it would look better than it sounded? "I can't remem — "

"— can't remember any of it," said Gaston, finishing the sentence for her.

The idea of furniture suddenly made her recall the animate furniture and housewares of the dream — the friendly wardrobe who consoled her when the beast had imprisoned her, the teapot who always had words of encouragement and affection, the teapot's son the little chipped teacup, who always made her smile with his innocence and enthusiasm.

What could have been the meaning of such a strange dream? What brought it on?

"In that dream I'd had," said Belle, looking at her husband, "I hadn't wanted to marry you. You responded by arranging to have my father committed to a madhouse, unless I would agree to your proposal."

Gaston almost choked on his food as he started to laugh. "Well," he finally said once he'd managed to swallow effectively. "I suppose if you'd been resistant, I might have had to resort to something like that. I mean, there's not much I wouldn't have done for you. But — I'm proud to say you were a very cooperative girlfriend. You'd been sneaking me into your bedroom every night for months beforehand." He chuckled at a memory. "One morning, I didn't slip out fast enough, and your father caught us — and, well, we didn't want to disappoint him, did we? So, we had to hurry that along."

Belle's eyes widened with surprise. She wouldn't have guessed that history, but it actually made sense. She'd perhaps been willing to give Gaston a chance, eager to test him out, but unready to marry him till the issue was forced by such a mishap.

"Maybe if the furniture comes in, and I start to see familiar objects, something will help me to remember," said Belle, almost dreamily. Her head injury had softened her thoughts, but notwithstanding this she really did want to recollect her own life on her own instead of relying on Gaston's reassessments.

She couldn't put her finger on just what it was, but there was something kind of repulsive about him. She gazed up at his long-lashed eyes, which always seemed half closed with a sort of disdain for the world. There was not a gentleness in them, though neither was it a cruelty she saw depicted. It was something well past that — like he'd been broken completely, and therefore anything was possible with him. A confusion, a cacophony of possibilities were going on in his head at all times, and chance alone determined whether you caught him in a friendly or an antagonistic mode.

The trouble was, it sounded like she'd ended up becoming this man's wife through a particular combination of mishaps — a series of unfortunate events which had led her to marry someone she might not have otherwise found herself matched with.

And now she was trying to work the same relationship but without that same basis.

Still, if she'd been willing to carry on with him, she must have figured out what the rules were to make life with such a person bearable — enjoyable, even. She recalled that he had warranted the bizarre devotion of many townspeople.

"There was a man named LeFou…?" asked Belle, unsure if he was only part of her dream or not.

"That's correct!" said Gaston, his tone almost mocking. "There is a LeFou!" He dusted some breadcrumbs from his hands. "He's my cousin. We lived together during my bachelor days. And he's handling some things for me back in the village, so I suspect we will see him again in the coming months — because God knows he isn't going to be able to write."

She shook her head, agreeing absentmindedly. "But you can read?" she asked.

"Certainly!" said Gaston, switching into that deep, booming voice which Belle was coming to recognize was invoked by him to compensate for something. "Just because I generally don't, doesn't mean that I can't."

"I'm not sure if it's a memory or another part of the dream…" said Belle, closing her eyes, "But I have an image of you… grabbing my book from me, telling me it's a silly hobby… no, wait. I think you said, 'Get your head out of these books and pay attention to more important things,' or something like that."

"Well, I don't remember it, but I guess it could have happened. Thing is, you aren't much of a reader, either."

Belle's eyes went wide. "I'm not a reader?" Somehow this sounded very wrong to her.

"Nah. I suppose you have some cookbooks — if our stuff ever arrives, they'll be there. But I didn't see you with books very often."

Belle narrowed her eyes. "You're lying."

Gaston seemed taken aback. "Why would I lie about that? Is that shocking?"

Belle nodded.

Gaston seemed disturbed. "I would ask if you'd been hit on the head — but we already know you have. I'm telling you, you were never much of a reader. Your father made sure you could read, but if you ever did read anything, it sure wasn't when I was around."

Belle really wished her thoughts weren't so fuzzy from the concussion. She pondered it. Could she really not have been an avid reader?

Impossible — it didn't feel right. Not at all.

But maybe Gaston really hadn't ever seen her read. Afterall, why would she read when he was around?

This was the problem with relying on his account — he didn't necessarily know everything about her.

Or he could be lying.

"So… tell me a little about you," said Belle, hurrying to change the subject. "I really don't remember much of anything."

Gaston smiled. "Well, I was the strongest man in town, and best looking I might add!" He was clearly very proud of this. "Everywhere I went, at the sight of me women fainted, bullies fled, men turned homosexual!"

"You mentioned being associated with a tavern?" said Belle, hoping to steer him towards information she could actually use.

You could almost hear Gaston's brain changing gears. "The tavern. Yes. I own a lot of property in the village, and the tavern is one. After Henri Proux died, the tavern was sitting empty, so I took it over myself. Why not? Besides, not many taverns in France serve beer. If it's my tavern, it serves what I want."

"So you aren't a bartender, in that case?" said Belle, not concealing the relief in her voice.

"Can you imagine me as a bartender?" said Gaston, smiling. "I'd never get a drink to the customer. No, I pay someone else to bartend. I just show up — mostly to keep things from getting too rowdy. An enforcer." He said it in that deep, booming voice again. "But most of my money comes from the other properties. When the tax farmers come to mark down my profession, I'm listed as a landlord. That doesn't take up a lot of time, so usually I'm out hunting — that is, when I'm not home with you, my little wife!" At these last words he took on a tone something like sweetness. Maybe it was condescension. Maybe it was mockery. Maybe it was sweetness, but the kind that's mitigated by a dozen other sharp flavors, like a shot of absinthe.

Belle tried to picture the life that was being described to her. It didn't sound too bad — a cozy life with a husband who was at home all the time.

Then a recollection came of the prince in the castle. Always home, and God only knew where his money came from.

She was beginning to think that this blue-eyed prince in her dream was some kind of subconscious representation of Gaston's better qualities. A blueprint of what was possible.

The bedroom had grown very dark by this time; only moonlight from the window illuminated the scene. If there were any candles or oil lamps in the house, Belle hadn't been privy to them.

"Look, it's pretty late," said Gaston. The bread and cheese were all eaten. He moved away the board that had served as their makeshift dinner table. "There's a lot to do tomorrow, and Lord knows it's been a hard enough day today. I'm pretty beat." He yawned and stretched showily.

For the whole day that Belle could remember spending in bed, Gaston had been a perfect gentleman who kept himself to a chair beside her. A wave of discomfort now washed across her.

Surely he was going to want to share the bed — he was her husband, afterall.

She wasn't sure what to say. The reality was that he was almost a stranger to her now. She didn't feel ready for something like sharing a bed with him.

Gaston looked her over. His expression was strange — thoughtful, almost amused, yet something sinister about it.

"You know," he declared suddenly, "I wouldn't want to do anything that might dislodge that bandage you've got. Why don't you have the bed to yourself, and I'll sleep up in the front?"

Belle exhaled, relieved. "I was worrying about something similar…" she half-lied.

"A good night's sleep is what you need," said Gaston, deep voiced, rising. "You'll probably be back to yourself in the morning."

"I sure hope so," said Belle, gushing with true emotion.

Gaston gave her a pat on the shoulder, and began as if he was going to leave. Then suddenly he stopped and bent down towards her.

He gave her a kiss.

Just a quick peck, like one might expect from a husband as an everyday show of affection. He murmured a goodnight, and left Belle to herself.

And once left to herself, Belle found herself wishing he would come back, if only to alleviate the loneliness of the dark room, without even memories and thoughts to comfort her.

She was distressed by the dark, empty, unknown space. At least Gaston was something familiar.

"Gaston?" she called at last.

"Yeah?" he called back.

"Maybe — maybe if you're careful, it would be alright if we shared the bed?"

She could hear him moving around. A moment later his figure appeared in the dark room. There was a decided spring to his step. He tromped swiftly to the bed, saying nothing.

Belle knew from her husband's report that they had no changes of clothing, but she could see in the moonlight that he had removed his boots and shirt.

"Don't worry, Belle, I won't let the monsters get you," he said in a jocular tone. Yet, like with most of what he said, there was some note of malice about it that Belle couldn't quite decipher.

He plopped himself down on the mattress. His weight created a bounce — Belle was suddenly and unexpectedly ejected from the bed, her body landing with a thud on the floor.

Alarmed, Gaston hurried to help her back up. "Whoa! Sorry about that… new mattress, not used to it yet."

Belle was already discombobulated enough, she hardly minded. The husband lifted her up in his arms and laid her gently on the bed.

In the dark she perceived Gaston, settling onto his back, folding his arms across his abdomen. His ankles were crossed comfortably. For her part, she held herself stiff as a board, hands at her side.

And the two of them did fall asleep together. Really sleeping.