It had been weeks now, or at least Belle assumed it had been weeks seeing as there were no clocks in the house, all the windows blocked with sheets of black velvet so even the sun couldn't help her guess the time. The only shadows cast were those from the candles on the walls, on almost every surface, that burned all day and all night, their wax never dripping and their wicks never burning lower. She had become accustomed to the dim light they cast, and to all the other odd traces of magic that seemed to litter the house. Sometimes she would be startled, even confused, but finally even she learnt to accept them as part of her life. She accepted that the flowers always withered within a day, no matter how carefully she tended to them, seemingly coming back to life at night only to die again in the morning. The fire was always lit and no about of dousing could put it out.
Belle noticed how Rumple stared into that fire every evening before he retired to bed, his eyes glowing black in the light. He would rest in one of his high backed chairs and just stare into the tiny, flickering caves of red and yellow, hardly blinking. When he would leave Belle would often stare into the flames herself, squinting to see what he saw that made the corners of his mouth tense and his breathing become shallow. Eventually the coils of smoke would become too much for her eyes to bear and she would return, defeated, back to her work, the fire burning on.
Every morning Belle would awaken in her cell, for that is what she knew it to be, and thought of that fire, not because she yearned to know its secrets but because the air was always bitter at dawn. She would rush to the door, the floor damp against her bare feet, and call out for Rumplestiltskin, unable to open the door lest she escape during the night. Almost immediately she would feel the door give way, knowing he had flicked his wrist in response to her cries, and find a pile of freshly warmed clothes just outside. She didn't know who picked these clothes or even who put them there for she had never heard any footsteps other than Rumples, nor any voices, but they were always well made and pleasing to the eye. It seemed curious that those which she was particularly fond of, such as the pale blue skirt with the white lace bodice, seemed to appear more often than most, something which she saw as evidence of both Rumples kindness and control. After hastily dressing in whatever gown was placed she would ascend the stairs into the main body of the house to find Rumple sat at the large oak table in the dining hall, after which she would bring him whatever food and drink he desired. More often than not he would unashamedly watch her with intent, passing a few civilities before directing her as to what was to be done that day.
One day, however, she ascended the stairs to find the dining hall empty, a note thrown upon the tabletop which she hurriedly read –
"Belle,
I have business to attend to, I trust you to continue with your work in my absence."
Even though there was no signature she instantly recognised it as Rumple's handwriting from seeing him scrawling out contracts full of loopholes and impossible conditions. She noticed how the lines were thin and long, scratched out on the parchment with a quick, fluent hand, she discerned the flourishes on every 't' and 'y', how their tails curled up like those of a lizard. Before she even had time to place the note back down upon the table she felt it disintegrate into dust which sunk into the air until no trace of the thing was left. Even in his absence Belle could still feel Rumples presence, he was in every cup, in every dusty wall hanging and his gold dust still glinted in the air in the right light. This odd feeling of his lingering being mixed with that of freedom rose up in Belle as if the two emotions were battling to be the strongest, battling to be felt. She froze in uncertainty.
Moments later she felt herself running through the corridors, the sounds of her feet hitting the ground echoing against the hard stone walls. It seemed the feeling of freedom had won out, for she was all too used to feeling oppressed, and she held her dress up to her knees to allow her legs move from under the layers of fabric. Naturally she first ran to the heavy oak door trough which she was escorted though not so long ago, pulling at the heavy steel handle, but to no avail. Next the windows, pulling back the velvet to find them barred, and no matter how hard she tried, impossible to shatter. Of course this came as no surprise to the girl, whose natural instincts seemed to over ride her reason, though she knew she would have felt yet more foolish if she had simply given up on escaping through assumptions of it being impossible. Satisfied that there was no obvious means of escape she began to absent-mindedly roam the halls, half looking for any clues that might aid her in her plan to free herself, half looking for the 'others' of which she had seen no signs.
Belle climbed the staircase, its hand rail thicker than her out stretched palm, up to where she knew the bedrooms to be, all those of course, except her own. The silence of the house seemed to be troubling her more than usual and she called out in a small voice –
"Hello?" and then again, a little louder "Hello? Is anyone there?"
There was no response. Belle breathed slowly, strained her ears to listen for any signs of movement. Without warning a loud clash erupted, causing her to jump backwards against the wall, clutching her chest in fear, before seeing an ink-black rodent scurry away down the hall. The sudden sound had startled her enough that when she began to walk towards the source the noise her steps were slow and light, the candles doing litter to calm her fear. Towards the end of the hall she found a small toppled table on its side and shards of what she guessed to be a vase scattered across the carpet like tiny pointed teeth. Oh gods, Belle thought, still sceptical about speaking aloud again, not knowing how to tell Rumple that his vase had been broken by some kind of rat- the kind that manages to knock over tables. Collecting the shards into a pile with her hands she reflected silently how she was sure he would blame her for the damage, frowning with anxiety about his return, until she felt one of the pieces cut into her skin. Bell let out a small yelp, picking up the table to place the pile upon before instinctively putting her finger between her lips. The blood tasted metallic in her mouth. After several minutes she inspected the cut, not as deep as she had first imagined but still angry and red against her pale skin. Satisfied that it was just a scratch, all but a deep one, Belle decided to continue her exploration, leaving the pile of broken vase pieces to deal with later.
Cautiously she began to creak open several of the shut doors she could see, checking them for signs of life, half expecting Rumple to appear behind one at any moment. Although he did not appear she suddenly felt as if she were trapped in a giant kaleidoscope where each room was a reflection, each grandly decorated, each as empty as the next. She touched the tie backs of the curtains which hung at the double beds, woven out of fine gold thread, and carefully avoided stepping on each rug. The pattern continued until she wandered back down the hall with a sigh, none the wiser for all her prying, stopping outside the door by the broken vase. Instantly she noticed the door handle was different, why has she not noticed before? for it was unmistakeably the head of a dragon, its scales delicately carved but rough to the touch. Twisting the handle, Belle stepped through.