Chapter Two

"Why are you hiding in the dark?"

"Will you come out so I can see you?"

Isabelle opened her eyes in the darkened bedroom. Her bedroom. When she sat up, she recognized the familiar blanket, the familiar furniture, the familiar curtains on the window. She was back home. She dimly remembered having arrived back here earlier, although where she had been and how long she had been gone were a mystery to her. The house had been dark and cold and empty, and for a moment she had been afraid as she ran from room to room, afraid that she was the only one left in the world. Afraid and so angry, although why she was angry she did not know.

She had finally found her father sitting out on the front porch, looking miserable and forlorn as a heavy snow fell all around him. When he had looked at her, it had reminded her of a stone statue suddenly coming to life after centuries. She had seen surprise in his eyes, but also disbelief, and even a kind of faint, uncertain hope, as if he were afraid she might vanish like smoke on the wind. And all at once, both a fierce love for him and a hatred that made her want to see him suffer and die both roared to life within her and fought an evenly matched battle while she stood there, staring at him and unable to move.

But then one of the tears she didn't know had been welling in her eyes slipped free and trickled down her cheek and that broke the spell. Love won out and forced the anger into submission and she whispered his name, suddenly so happy to see him that she rushed out the doorway and into his arms. She wrapped her own arms around him (arms that still felt some small need to reach for his throat) and cried, cried because she had missed him so much during all the time she had been gone away to a place she could no longer remember but was sure was nothing like this.

She had held him and cried and he had held her and cried and he had smelled like woodsmoke and lamp oil and the forest-oh, how wonderful the thought of the forest was-and she had finally felt safe and loved and she hadn't even protested when he'd scooped her up and carried her inside, even though she was far too old to be carried about like a child. And she'd must have been more tired from her long journey than she'd thought, because she had fallen asleep as she was being carried and now here she was, in her familiar old room, with a fuzziness in her head and dull, formless heat in the back of her mind, making her feel like she'd just woken up from a bad fever dream.

Slowly, Isabelle got out of bed and placed both feet onto the cold, wooden floor. The whole room was chilly, and looking toward the window told her why. The snow was still falling. A part of her wanted to climb back into bed and wrap herself in her blankets and sleep safe and warm until the morning light crept in through the window. But she suspected she wouldn't get much sleep, not with her head feeling like this, and so she crept toward the window instead, hoping a change of scenery might help clear her mind.

Outside, the snow was still falling heavily, but she opened the window anyway, letting in a puff of cold air. No wind though, thankfully. It was a peaceful, almost wholesome snowfall rather than bitter storm. The woods that surrounded their house on all sides stood dark and silent under the heavy canopy of white now covering them, and she realized she could smell them, smell soil and dead leaves and wet underbrush. They smelled like home, and she wondered for a brief irrational moment if she should just hop out the window and slip away into them, where no one would be able to see her and she could become one with their dark shadows. The foolish idea startled her enough to push the window closed and back away a few steps. She'd probably break both legs jumping from this height, and even if she didn't, going alone into the woods in a heavy snowstorm would mean death. The forest was not her home. This was her home.

To reassure herself, she forced herself to step back to the window and look out again, this time ignoring the woods and focusing on the familiar shapes in the yard below. The snow had softened their edges, but she nonetheless recognized them all. The woodshed, where her father (her horrid father!) stored the fruits of his labor until he could go out and sell them. The knobby wooden fence that surrounded the house and was probably just for show, since the spaces between the beams were too wide to keep anything out. The well, the little tool shed, the garden…

Her garden.

The neatly tended rows of vegetables, the haphazard tangles of raspberry bushes, the beds of bright flowers…all of them were hidden beneath the growing blanket of white that covered the rest of the yard. But still, she could remember them, could see the lovely colors, taste the ripe fruits and vegetables, smell the scent of good healthy soil and hear the heavy drone of insects and the chittering of birds in the apple trees by the back gate. The garden had been her favorite place in the world, ever since her mother had died and her (hateful) father had allowed her to take over the task of maintaining it. Her dear mother had never had much knack for it (she had always been more interested in reading and music than in any sort of outdoor activity), but Isabelle had taken to it instantly, and she thought that might have pleased her mother. Her mother had always claimed that everyone had at least one talent, something they both loved and excelled at, and no one could be truly happy until they found theirs. Isabelle had found hers, and she thought that might have helped to put her mother's spirit at peace.

Her new skills helped her father (she hated him!) too, since they allowed her to assist him in putting food on the table. Ever since her mother's death, he had been increasingly stressed and weary, and Isabelle had been glad to help ease his burden.

Over the years she had branched out from the usual peas and beans and cabbages and turnips into all sorts of different types of vegetables and fruits, and they had had something fresh and in season for the dinner table from spring until the end of fall, and the barrels of root vegetables and shelves of preserves in the cellar were always full. It got to she had been able to dedicate some of the space for non-edible things, like tulips in the spring and sunflowers in the summer and chrysanthemums in the fall, and, of course the wonderful rosebushes along the back fence.

Instinctively, her head turned toward the spot, although the bushes, like everything else in the garden, had vanished beneath the snow. She couldn't help but feel a prickle of worry at that, however. Rosebushes needed to be covered with leaves in the fall, to protect them from the cold winter. Rosebushes were so much more fragile and vulnerable than the other shrubs and trees in their yard, or those in the forest beyond. But she had been gone so long, and hadn't been able to cover them. Had her father remembered to do so in her place?

Her father. Every time she had thought of him, it had felt like grease hitting a hot skillet, and now she finally turned her head and looked out the open doorway into the darkened hall. Where was her father? Was he in his room sleeping? Would he wake if she crept into his room and-

She whimpered, covering her face with her hands. What was wrong with her? Why was she having these thoughts? They were contrary to everything she should have felt, everything she did feel. Because she didn't really hate him. How could she? But she did. It was as if she felt two things at once, and one of the things was a vile thing that made no sense at all. Had something happened to her while she'd been gone away? Had something changed her inside, made her violent and cruel, made her angry.

Because she was angry…

In desperation, she reached for the window again, hoping to clear her head once more with a breath of cold air. But then she thought of the woods, and how the scent of them would only make the odd feelings worse, and she dropped her hands to the windowsill and leaned forward, pressing her forehead against the cool glass instead. She squeezed her eyes closed and tried to concentrate on the coolness against her skin…but it did no good. Even as her forehead began to go numb from the cold, the back of her head was still on fire. And the fire was fury and the fury was toward her father because he…he'd…

No, he wouldn't…he'd NEVER hurt me!

She opened her eyes again and tried to stare down at her beloved garden. It was the last thing she could think of to calm herself with…but even that didn't help anymore. Because when she looked down at it, all she could think of was that her roses were dead. They were dead because her father…

NO! He wouldn't DO that!

But he had.

He had.

He had tried to kill her.

She could remember the look on his face, even now. Sorrow, and grim determination. But also satisfaction. He had been glad to do it. Even as she'd protested, screamed at him to stop, he'd done it, and he had enjoyed it.

And she wasn't going to let him get away with doing something like that, was she?

Of course not.

Isabelle crept to her doorway and looked out into the hallway. It was dark, and so were the other two rooms adjoining it, her father's room and the guest room that would have been for her sibling(s) if her mother had live to bear them. But from the stairs, she could see a very dull orange light, a light that must have come from the living area below. She snuck to the top of the stairs and looked over the railing. Her father sat sleeping in a chair as a dying fire glowed in the fireplace beside him. He'd taken off his hat and his head had fallen forward as he'd slept, revealing his thinning gray hair, and for a moment he'd looked so sweet and vulnerable that she almost abandoned her plan.

That was her last moment of weakness, however. Because then her eyes fell upon the dying fire and she remembered how he'd almost let the same thing happen to her. Even before he'd tried to kill her, he had been willing to let her die. He didn't deserve mercy.

Isabelle took her first step down the stairs, then paused again.

How was she going to punish him? He was stronger than she was now, with this pitiful weak body, and if she attacked him he'd certainly overpower her. Of course, his being asleep helped, but she still needed to take him out before he woke up fully, or else she would lose the battle, as she'd lost others. There had to be something she could use. Something within easy reach. There were knives in the kitchen, and probably plenty of sharp and heavy tools in the toolshed outside, but getting to either of them required too much walking around and opening doors. It was too risky. There were candlesticks on top of the fireplace mantle, though, and they looked heavy enough. Bring one of those down upon his head while he slept and he'd never wake again.

She smiled in gleeful anticipation of it and began to descend the stairs.

/

The Woodsman drifted in and out of consciousness, too tired to remain awake and too wound-up to sleep. It still didn't seem real. She was alive. She was safe. His daughter, his Isabelle, was free from the Beast's clutches…and so was he. And now they were both home, and it was…he didn't have words for what it was. There were no words to describe what he was feeling.

Maybe he was still in shock. It hadn't seemed real, when the door opened and she'd stepped out of it and spoken his name. He'd been sure it had been a hallucination brought on by cold and misery. But then she had run to him and thrown her arms around him and she had been solid and warm and real and it was her, was his Isabelle, his only child, the only member of his family still living. Because she was stillliving. She hadn't died when the lantern had been extinguished because she had never been in the lantern. The Beast must have had her (how else would she have been freed upon his death?) but she hadn't been tied to the lantern. She hadn't died when the Beast had died. She'd been given back to him instead.

He'd held her in his arms and wept with joy and finally, when he began to feel the cold once more, he'd picked her up and carried her inside. The house was full of dust (how many years had it been? How long had he wandered the forest?) but he'd gone upstairs and shaken the dust from her bedding and wiped it from her furniture and swept it from her floor and then, when everything was as clean as he could get it, carried her upstairs and put her to bed. He'd sat up with her for a little while, almost afraid to leave her, as if she'd vanish into thin air once she was out of his sight, but her sleep had seemed troubled and that had troubled him. He hoped her time with the Beast hadn't done something to her mind…or worse, her soul. Hoping she might sleep easier if he left her in peace, he'd gotten up and gone into his own room instead.

He'd been too tired to do any more cleaning, so he'd fetched a single item from the room and gone down into the living room, where he'd brushed the dust from his old easy chair and then set to work getting a fire going in the hearth. Once he had some warmth seeping into his old bones again, he'd sat down in his chair and picked up the small box he'd taken from his bedroom.

It was a music box, small and of plain wood on the outside, revealing its secret only when the lid was lifted. The Woodsman had done so and found, to his delight, that it was still wound. The tune it played was gentle and sweet, and reminded him of cozy winter evenings curled up beside the fire, loved ones beside him and all right with the world. He had smiled, perhaps for the first time in years, and closed his eyes and listened to the tune it played and finally allowed himself to feel some measure of peace.

The music box had been his wife's. She'd always loved music, and he had given it to her as a birthday present one year. Since they had lived so far from even the smallest towns, she rarely had the chance to go and see a single fiddler play in a tavern or a street musician play on a sidewalk, let alone a concert, so he had given her the box as a way to let her "always be able to carry a little tune with her wherever she went." He thought that was what he'd said, anyway. It had been silly, and of course a tinkling little tune that never changed could never replace real musicians with real instruments, but she had been delighted nonetheless. And she had enjoyed it far more than any other gift he'd ever given her. Oftentimes she'd done just as he'd suggested and carried it with her as she went about her day and he would find her reading on the front porch or cooking in the kitchen or knitting by the fire, the little box beside her, playing its simple little tune.

Now it was he who was taking comfort in the box's sweet melody. He'd wondered what his wife would think right now if she knew of all that had happened since her death from fever so many winters ago. Would she be proud of him for finally defeating the Beast and setting their daughter free? Or would she be angry with him for letting himself be fooled for so long, for leaving Isabelle trapped for so long, for sacrificing so many other lost souls to that monster over the years?

He'd had no answer for that. He'd suspected the former, but deeply feared the latter. Maybe because he hadn't been sure he could forgive himself for what he'd done. He'd tried to remind himself that he hadn't known the Edelwood trees were made of lost souls, but it didn't help much. Deliberately or not, he'd still fed them to the Beast. Who knew what kind of misery they had been put through while in his clutches? He'd hoped that they were at least free now, as Isabelle was, and that they forgave him his role in the monster's wickedness.

He'd wondered if that was why he still felt worried, despite everything turning out the way he'd wanted. Because deep down, he'd felt he didn't deserve such an easy ending. Such a happy ending. His crimes were too severe for this to be his reward, and he'd realized that he was subconsciously waiting for the other shoe to drop.

He'd sighed and closed the music box, (no longer finding its sweet little tune so comforting), wondering if maybe he was being too much of a pessimist. After all, he hadn't known he was hurting anyone by chopping down the Edelwood trees, and he had done the Unknown a great deal of good by vanquishing the Beast. Perhaps that was deserving of a happy ending. Perhaps he only felt uneasy now because he was so used to feeling that way. Maybe he had been miserable so long he had forgotten how to be any other way.

He'd tried to nod off after that, hoping a good night's sleep would help him put things in perspective, and now, here he was, still trying. And not doing a very good job. Obviously, sleep wasn't going to come easy tonight. Maybe he should go upstairs and clean up his own bedroom, as long as he was awake. Maybe sleeping in a bed would prove more fruitful. Maybe he should go check on Isabelle first, and make sure she was-

A soft scraping sound by the fireplace caught his attention, and at first he almost dismissed it, figuring it was some rodent or other animal that had made his house into its home during the time he'd left it vacant. The place was probably crawling with vermin, in fact, and he shuddered at the thought of what the pantry must look like. But then he heard another sound, the sound of a soft, stockinged foot upon stone, and that made him raise his head. Was Isabelle awake? Was she down here? The Woodman looked toward the fireplace…and saw nothing.

Instead, the attack came from behind him.

His only warning was the soft, almost imperceptible whoosh of some object descending toward him, a sound he foolishly turned his head toward. It was an act that probably saved his life. Whatever had been descending toward his head hit him right in the nose instead. The Woodsman fell out of his chair with a scream, stars in his head, copper in his mouth. He hit the floor and began flailing at the air above him in a panic, determined to keep the intruder away. He pushed against the dusty floor with his feet, propelling himself backwards and away from his chair, until the wood floor beneath him gave way to warm stone and he knew any further movement in that direction would send him in the fireplace. Thankfully, his vision had finally begun to clear, so he could at least see the attacker, almost certainly a thief or drifter who had taken up residence in the house while it had been empty and was not happy to find someone else sleeping in "his" easy chair.

But it wasn't a thief, or a drifter. It was his daughter, his darling Isabelle. She was no more than a silhouette, still standing back by the chair, away from the circle of light cast by the fireplace, but he recognized her at once.

"Hello, Woodsman," she said.

Both the term of address and the soft, gleeful anticipation in her voice as she said it chilled his blood. "Isabelle?" he choked out, fighting the urge to back up once more.

She moved toward him. "You showed me no mercy, Woodsman," she said, giving him a grin that turned his stomach. "Don't think I intend to show you any in return."

She raised the object she had struck him with, which turned out to be a brass candlestick, and stepped forward once more, bringing her into the circle of light.

And the Woodsman screamed.

"NO!" he howled, as his daughter stood calmly over him, a bloody candlestick in her hand and a calm smile on her face. "NO NO NO!"

On the wall behind her, looming tall in the reddish light cast by the dying fire, was the shadow of the Beast.

/ / / / / / / / / / / / / / /

Btw, I just wanted to say thanks for the reviews I got last chapter. I wasn't really sure there'd be much interest in a fic like this, so I'm glad some people are enjoying it. Thanks so much!