He hadn't been kidding when he'd said he had a collection. The library alone was cavernous. There were rows upon rows of leather-bound books, stretching so high toward the ceiling they disappeared into shadow. She took a few steps onto the ladder and ran her fingers lightly over the spines. Many of the titles she could read, but there were several – shelves full – that were in all different languages. She wondered if he could read all of those. Was that part of his power? Or did he just keep them because they were beautiful? Her hand lingered over one. It was familiar and she pulled it from the shelf. It was a story her father had used to read to her when she was little. Her eyes drifted over all the volumes she had never read, but then returned to the one in her hands. It was familiar. And she needed that just now.
She took it down with her and considered how she might ask him if she could take it with her into her cell that night. It had been hard to fall asleep yesterday, especially because it was so cold. It was cold everywhere inside the castle. She wondered how he didn't feel it but then thought maybe he didn't because he was so warm. She only ever felt warm when she was standing right beside him.
# # #
After dinner, the house was quiet. The shadows seemed to lean in from every corner, but it didn't feel ominous.
It felt as cold inside his bedroom as she imagined it felt outside. It didn't help that she had chills running up her spine whenever she heard the softest creak behind her that might signal his approach. She didn't really know if she ought to be in his bedroom at all. She tried to recount the duties he had listed for her in the morning, but she had been so nervous she could hardly focus on what he had been saying.
She remembered that he had told her to launder his clothing, and his clothing must be kept in his bedroom, right? . . . meaning that she was allowed to go into his bedroom to collect his worn clothes. But maybe that was only alright during the afternoons. She felt odd being in a man's bedroom – I mean, that wasn't very ladylike – but then again, he had said she would serve as a caretaker and caretakers went everywhere, right? And he had said she should clean the castle. Did that include making his bed in the morning? And he hadn't specifically said he wanted his bed turned down for him in the evening, but it seemed like something he needed. After all, everyone needed a little care, didn't they? A folded duvet corner just so he would feel – looked after.
Enough of this, she told herself firmly. I'm going to do what I planned to do and be done with it. She would start with a fire. She didn't know what time he went to bed at night – did he even really sleep? – but she would light a fire in the bedroom fireplace so it would be warm when he arrived. She found wood and kindling right next to the hearth, but no matches. Where would he keep the matches? After a brief and rather futile search in the near darkness, she decided to just use her own candle to light it.
It was very dry in the room and the kindling caught right away. She blew on the flame lightly until it glowed brighter and caught the wood. There. Not bad. She sat by the fire until it grew bright and then dimmed a little, then flickered until it found its even pace. Finally, she started to feel the chill creeping out of her. She sat in front of the fire as long as she dared, and then hopped up and started toward the bed. Carefully, she folded back the corner of the heavy down comforter and pressed it lightly so that it would lay flat. It looked nice. She turned and started for the door, but then stopped. She turned back to look at the fire and the freshly turned down bed. And she remembered something the servants used to do for her when she was a little girl.
She made her way slowly over to the closet and opened the heavy door. His clothes were lined up neatly on heavy wooden hangers, and when she opened the door it smelled like cedar wood and also something else – a soft honey and resin scent – that she realized must be him. Her hand lingered over the soft fabric of a satin honey shirt that she imagined must exactly match the color of his eyes. And then the smooth red leather of a neatly tailored jacket. And then her fingers rested on something soft, velvety. She took it out and looked at it in the light. It was the jacket – the black one – the one he had been wearing the night before when he had come to her father's castle, the one he had been wearing in her dream with the dark red patch between the shoulder blades. I want to touch it. Can I touch it?
She glanced over her shoulder just to make sure he hadn't come up the stairs when she wasn't looking. The room was empty, just as before. She turned back and looked at the black velvety suede of the jacket. Her fingers singled out one after another of the black feathers adorning the jacket's chest and back, and again the feathers bounced like a little girl's curls, just like they had when he had put his arm around her and walked her out of her father's castle – just as they had in her dream when she'd walked behind him. I want to touch it. Can I touch it?
She brushed just the very tips of her fingers against that reddish patch on the back of the jacket. It was incredibly soft, like crushed red velvet, and felt so delicate and so soft that she thought she could put her hand right through it with little effort. And when she ran her fingers over it a second time she smelled it again – that honey-soft resin scent that she smelled whenever he was close. She was amazed at how soft it all was. Weren't men's' clothes supposed to be coarser, like the stiffer vests and jackets that Gaston wore? She let her fingers drift over the patch one last time, incredibly slowly, feeling the crushed red velvet between her fingers and breathing in that sparkling, resin scent. Then she placed the jacket back into the closet and felt instantly sad that she wasn't touching it anymore.
She came next to what she had been looking for when she had started. It was a very thin white linen shirt, almost sheer, and delicate as a spider web to her touch. It had been on the bed when she had come in to tidy up the room in the morning, so she knew it must be what he wore to sleep at night. She took it off the hanger and ran her fingers lightly over the crinkles in the fabric. So soft. Next she removed a pair of loose-fitting pajama pants from a hanger and draped them over her arm.
She tried not to picture him in these clothes because it seemed inappropriate, but it was hard not to wonder because the clothes he wore in the daytime were so fitted – neatly tailored jackets, slim-fitting pants that seemed to hug him like a second skin. It was hard to imagine him in things that were flowy and soft.
She took the clothes over to the fireplace and warmed them there for a moment. Then she laid them carefully down at the foot of the bed so that the firelight would keep them warm. If he were cold – ever – if his heat didn't keep him warm, he wouldn't be tonight. She smiled.
# # #
He was spinning at the wheel when she came downstairs, just as he had been when she had left. He barely glanced over his shoulder at her when she entered, and when he did, his eyes hesitated only for a second on the book she was holding.
"I – I hope you don't mind. I borrowed this from your library upstairs," she said.
The wheel creaked a little as he turned it, golden spindles of thread slipping out between his deft fingers and falling into a loosely curled pile on the spinning table.
"It's something my father used to read to me when I was little," she said.
He didn't look up when she spoke.
"Anyway, I wondered if you might let me borrow it for tonight?"
He didn't answer – just kept turning the wheel, letting the golden spindles drift slowly toward the tabletop. Then, almost as an afterthought he said, "as you wish, my dear."
She stopped and looked at him a long moment. His voice had been so soft she wasn't sure she had heard him correctly – wasn't sure she had heard him at all. His demeanor, the way he positioned himself with his back to her – told her flatly that he could care less what she did but his voice . . . it was so . . . tender? She hovered just behind his left shoulder watching him, holding the book up against her chest. He turned the wheel, slow, unhurried, as if he didn't have a care in the world.
After what seemed like twenty minutes or so, his hand paused – fingers resting very lightly against the edge of the wheel, but he didn't turn it. Instead, he let his hand drop. He turned around to face her and he was so close, his knees almost bumped her legs when he turned.
"Well, I guess that's enough for today," he said.
She smiled and felt that familiar blush creep over her. She hadn't realized how close she had been standing to him all that time. Didn't it bother him? She hadn't meant to do that. It was just – it was so cold everywhere in the castle except. . . She stepped back to give him space to stand up and felt the chill air against her back.
When he stood, he was right up against her. If she had swayed forward even the tiniest bit, she would have touched him. His golden eyes drifted down until they met hers. She couldn't look away.
"It's time for bed now, my dear," he said. He said it so softly – tenderly – like before. He slipped the book soundlessly out of her arms.
She smiled. He was so warm. It almost felt like she was melting.
And then he stepped to the side, gallant and noble, and the whisper-soft brush of his arm rested on her back as he wrapped it around her and began to walk. She moved with him, floated. His warmth made her dizzy and she smelled that honey golden resin scent, like sap just uncurling from a tree. She tried not to lean into him as she walked, but she couldn't help it. He was so warm, and he made her feel so – safe. He was holding her more securely now, his arm not just a warm spot on her back, but wrapped around her more tightly. She couldn't help it. She leaned against him while they walked. She was so dizzy she felt almost sleepy. It was a long moment before she realized they had stopped walking.
She opened her eyes and then realized that she had closed them. She looked up at him unsteadily. His eyes looked down at her, the barest hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
"Good night," he said. He held out the book to her.
"Good night," she said. She smiled up at him and then stood there, not moving, not able to move away from that warm, soft place right by his side.
She felt his hand on her back again, gentle and light, and he guided her with the softest pressure into her cell. He reached his hand out to the side very slowly and drew a small, slow arc in the air, closing the cell door between them.
She stood there for what felt like a long time, holding the book up against her chest in the dark. Then slowly she moved back, until she felt the mattress behind her legs and sat down. She reached out toward where the nightstand was, feeling for its surface so she could set the book down. She felt its uneven wooden planks and then something doughy on top of it. Her candle? Had she brought it in there? And then a small square box at its side. She picked it up. She shook it. It rattled.
Her fingers slid the tiny box open in a way she knew by heart. She struck a match and brought the tip of it to her candle. The light began to reflect off the stone walls, shedding light over the small interior of the room. She looked at the candle and then at the matches in her hand. She couldn't remember if she had brought in the candle – maybe she had – but she knew she hadn't brought in the matchbox. That could only mean – he did it. When? When she was upstairs in his room? Couldn't be. He was spinning that whole time. But was he? What if he had slipped in to her room while she'd been in his?
And something else. The mattress felt much softer than it had the first night. She stood up and touched its surface. There, under her fingers, was a heavy down comforter in a quilted duvet with pale pink flowers on the front of it and a light blue ruffle along the edges. He must have known that she had been cold last night, but how? She touched the downy surface of the blanket and then squeezed a handful of it in her hand. It was very, very thick and heavy – even heavier than the one that had been on his bed. He must have known she had been cold, but how?
She moved the candle down the length of the bed and saw a slight shadow – a dark shape – under the bed. She knelt down and held the light closer. It was a box – a big, dark colored box – so big she had to set the candle down on the floor so she could use both hands to pick it up. She knelt on the floor beside the bed and laid the box onto it. She opened it slowly, and her breath caught. Inside was a thick, soft white gown with flowers embroidered into the front panels. The flowers were embroidered in gold – his gold – the gold threads he had spun on his wheel. She ran her fingers very, very lightly over the embroidery. Had he made this? With his hands? For her?
# # #
He walked heavily up the stairs, letting his footsteps echo against the stone walls, for once not caring how much noise he made. He scowled. This was not going to plan. His brows drew together in frustration as he unbuttoned the cuff of his dress shirt. He had firmly decided that after this morning's misstep, he was going to scare her. That's what he had meant to do. When he had drawn up so close to her they were touching – she should have been scared. She should have been scared then. But she hadn't been.
And then he had said it, those carefully, painstakingly carefully selected words – words so subtle and yet so menacing, words that were meant to be threatening, to be frightening – to assume an intimacy that should make her shrink away from him. It's time for bed now, my dear. Hadn't he said it correctly? Had he said it too quietly? Had she not heard him? He stopped on the stairway and considered going back down. He had a wild notion to go running back to the door and to say the words again – to make sure that she heard. It's time for bed now, my dear. It's time for bed now, my dear. Why hadn't it worked? Why hadn't she been afraid? Didn't she know what he could do to her?
He scowled again and turned around, continuing his trek up the stairs. No, he could not go running back down there. He would look like a fool, like a boy crying wolf over and over to get attention. No. He would have to try harder next time. He would have to say it more clearly. He would have to invade her personal space – maybe even touch her when he said it. That would scare her, right? But then why hadn't she been scared tonight? He had put his arm around her – tight too – not lightly like the last few times. He had wrapped his arm around her, and he was sure she had felt it this time. He had even let their bodies touch while he was walking her down the hall. But at the end of it, her eyes had been closed. Why had she closed her eyes? And she had looked up at him – so trusting – like a fawn waking from sleep.
He shook his head. What was wrong with her? Alright, fine. Tomorrow. Tomorrow would be the day. He would threaten to punish her. Or, no, he would actually punish her. Yes. He would take her by the arm and squeeze the tiniest bit, just so that she saw he was strong. He would back her up against a wall. It would have to be over something silly. Maybe he would even raise his hand, as if to slap her. He would . . .
He stopped. It was a sensation like the floor dropping out from under your feet and then rushing back up and shoving you into the air.
There was a fire. It was crackling in his fireplace. And his bed – the corner of the blanket had been folded back. Had she done that? And his clothes – his night clothes – they were draped over the foot of the bed near the fire. They were – warming. He strode quickly over to the bed and touched it and then touched his clothes as if to make sure they were real. Had she touched these? He felt almost – violated. What had she been doing in there? And why had she done all of this? He hadn't told her to do any of this. He nearly ran back to the doorway and then stopped again. He turned, very slowly, back toward the light and warmth of his bedroom. Had she done all of this? For him?
He rubbed his fingers against his palm. She had done it again – disarmed him, confused him, put him – him – off balance. He knew he should punish her. He knew he should want to punish her. But he didn't. He didn't want to do that – at all.