JMJ

NINE

Gazing up at the paintings in one of the many galleries, Cogsworth strolled at a rather leisurely pace, but it was not so much to enjoy the paintings as it was a result of not knowing what to do.

No one had felt much like doing anything since the Easter festivities had been banned; thus aside from the sweeping and dusting and cooking, there really was nothing to oversee. He did not press anyone either given the circumstances except to point out an especially dusty corner that had been neglected. Thus overall it must be admitted that he had come to be almost bored with having nothing to do except to think, which he preferred not to do for too long, and this morning Cogsworth had awoken rather early, and few of the servants had set about chores just yet anyway, but try though he might he had been unable to return to sleep once he had woken.

A walk along the galleries was something he had not done for a time. Unlike much of the other art of the castle most of the paintings had remained unadulterated by the curse. Oh, a freak mockery from time to time of some person or other being replaced by some monster plagued a painting or two, yet Cogsworth had become quite good at ignoring such things in the new décor of the castle. He knew which ones they were by now anyway, and his eyes passed them over as a matter of course.

He looked at gatherings of people in pageantry and ceremony, portraits of the Master's family members and ancestors, and romantic scenes of gardens, flowers and towns, mysterious scenes of sunsets and woods, and of mountains and valleys. He categorized the paintings in the way of his calculating mind into categories ranging from color to artist, to period, to mood and personal preference in a half conscious sort of way. He went on like this until he came at last to a painting that did strike his interest enough to pause him in his next step.

He had passed the painting many times before, and just as many times as he had passed it he had given it little thought in the past. It was a painting of a Spanish ship coming into Marseille, which had been purchased four or five years ago now among a group of paintings by a relatively new artist in the art world. Most of his work seemed to be aimed at the wilder side, and he remembered only once mildly thinking them to be a little mismatched in this particular gallery.

But as to what had attracted him now?

Something in the sails, perhaps? Something in the way the crisp sunlight touched the backs of the sailors and glistened in the water and on the buildings in the port? The whiteness of the clouds? The vastness of the bay? The firmness of the captain? Whatever it was that had originally struck him he stepped back a bit to get a better look at it. His back was up against the opposite wall and he still could not get the full effect he wanted for his quite diminished size, and painting's being hung for typical human eye lines.

Regardless, he made do with what he could get, and he stared into the waves and into the bay and the one or two trees peeking out somewhere to the side of the port. At last they reached the middle where the ship was, and here his eyes rested.

Though as a firm believer that one should keep one's station he had the strangest desire at that moment to be one of the sailors. He could feel the wind upon his face and pulling at his clothes. He could feel the sun upon his back and the sound of the waves crashing upon the swaying ship. He could hear the sea birds cry above him loud and clear as they soared high and free. The freedom and danger of the sea always ahead, the feeling of accomplishment for every wild storm he had survived ever behind him. His skin would be darkened by shade-less days under the ocean sun with every shipment of goods brought safely to port. He would remember foreign lands and strange tongues, animals like something out of a fairy tale walking in life before his very eyes, people and customs from right out of Marco Polo's travels.

Strange flutes and strings played haunting melodies from Morocco, India, China, and maybe the wild lands of the still half-tamed Americas. Jungles and natives and smells of cocoa and the tastes of wild fruits surrounded him in a rainbow of foreign delight. Gold and ruins and the famed birds of paradise he had heard so much about coated in Spanish exploration. Going up north he found the Saint Lawrence River where he felt proud to be a Frenchman: trade with the good Indians who gave warnings of the bad. There were war drums, and missionaries, and furs, mountains and canyons unchartered.

A true wildness awoke in his heart, and he suddenly yearned for such a life of independence. How strong he would have been had he chosen such a life: not round and fumbling, he would have been stout-hearted, firm, with a keen hawk eye. He had not had such a strong urging for something so out of his path of life since the age of twelve when he had suddenly wished to be a cabin boy in the usual way of childish fancies on a visit to the sea in Brittany where some of his less formal relatives on his mother's side resided.

Well, every man is a silly little boy at one time, he told himself with a sad sort of chuckle as he pictured a younger version of himself leaping onto the dock and staring out toward the Atlantic.

At this last thought, he returned from the sea and found himself upon solid floor in the castle gallery once again. Bound to his small, wooden box frame and clockwork in stillness and solitude, he let out a heavy sigh. The ticking of the pendulum became the only sound aside from a deep moaning in the castle heights.

Cogsworth shrugged. You only want that now because you can't have it, he told himself returning to his usual practical manner as he continued on his way. Think about the present at hand and things will go far better.

He glanced down at the glass case on his front.

He should perhaps consider cleaning himself after his rounds, which was something he had not attempted well for some time now as still he considered wiping glass and polishing brass on one's own person a most awkward experience. Now indeed he did not have to clean himself much as compared to a human, but the glass especially was starting to look a tad musty and lacked its original shine that it had possessed upon the enchantment's beginnings.

Lumiere, Cogsworth remembered, said that he had already gotten into the habit of giving himself a good polishing when necessary, and Cogsworth still had to shake his head with distaste for such a thing.

It was a form of pride, he knew. If he wanted to keep up personal dignity as head of the household, he needed to look as well as he could, given the circumstances, and put aside what he felt about the process. How could it be any different really that taking a bath, except that he had to be careful how he cleaned the wooden casing.

Then afterward if there were no further duties, which probably would not come up, maybe he could spend some time in the library. What else was there to do these days? He could catch up on a little reading: familiarize himself again with the history of the Roman Empire, or something on that order.

Thus with a set plan in mind for the day he made for the outer corridor and turned the corner. He had not gone far however when he heard someone call out for him from behind, and though he was in some way grateful for the interruption of the mundane dreariness of the castle, the tone of the voice did not sound as if the reason for calling him would be anything he really wanted to hear.

"Monsieur Cogsworth," said the Inkwell as he scurried up on tiny feet just behind the butler.

"What is it?" he asked.

Drips of ink the Inkwell caught just in time from falling onto the floor from the seemingly endless supply inside M. Goutte's head as he looked up with anxiety, and more than Cogsworth remembered seeing on the usually glumly placid secretary's assistant since the last letter received from the king two years back.

"I wasn't certain," he said, composing himself somewhat, "if I should go to the Master or not, but—"

"The Master?" Cogsworth demanded. "What has happened?"

"Well … it's Monsieur de l'Écriture," said Goutte.

"Yes?" Cogsworth pressed impatiently. "What? Is someone coming here? Some letter of disturbance?"

"No, no, monsieur, no letter, it's, well, everyone has become so desperate," said Goutte. "There was nothing I could have said. I thought it was a terrible idea to begin with, but I cannot tell Monsieur de l'Écriture the time of day once something's hard in his head. And they've gone, monsieur."

"Who have gone? Why?"

"People under the orders of Monsieur de l'Écriture and his usual way with words," said Goutte, "they've gone, monsieur, to the house of Count Vespasien."

"What?!" snapped Cogsworth, now quite alarmed. "Whatever for!? To beg!?"

"To take matters into their own hands, according to de l'Écriture," said Goutte. "I'm ashamed to say that they have taken your words too literally and have gone to the spring party of Count Vespasien with the intention of returning to the castle with a girl."

"A girl!" cried Cogsworth, his voice echoing about the corridor like the last cries of a nightmare. He jumped himself at the volume of it and looked about quickly to make sure no one else would have been near enough to have understood what he had said. The fear that the Master lurked somewhere about especially caused Cogsworth to shudder.

Then he turned sharply back to Goutte so that in the other's surprise ink splattered on the floor.

"Who else knows about this?" Cogsworth demanded.

"Only those in Monsieur de l'Écriture's strict confidence," said Goutte.

"Are you sure!?" Cogsworth checked his voice, and then asked far quieter as he leaned in closer to Goutte, "Are you absolutely certain?"

"Positively," said Goutte with a slow nod.

"When did they leave?" Cogsworth demanded. "Is there time to still catch them? Monday is an odd night to have a party, but—"

"They left last night, monsieur," said Goutte.

"What?" gasped Cogsworth, "but why didn't you tell me earlier? And what do you mean they took me too literally?" He spoke this last question in a near growl of frustration and fretting.

"I don't know for sure," said Goutte. "I wasn't there, and neither was Monsieur de l'Écriture. It came from someone else who said that you in passing said something about kidnapping a girl."

"I said no such thing!" protested Cogsworth, and after a miserable moan said, "Never mind that now! If they're not back yet they soon shall be! We must catch them before it's too late. Perhaps it already is! What would any sane man do upon discovering living objects dragging a poor girl scared out of her wits across the grounds? But I also shudder to think that they could have possibly succeeded and—" He shuddered. "Come with me!"

Goutte nodded and scurried after Cogsworth already hurrying as fast as he could toward the main entrance of the castle.

"And we mustn't say anything to the Master if we can help it," Cogsworth hissed.

Goutte looked surprised to hear that coming from Cogsworth.

Once reaching sight of the doors a windowsill near at hand lit up, and Cogsworth did not have to look hard to know this light belonged to Lumiere. He often slept in the windows by the doors, and the shouts and commotion of Cogsworth (and not so much Goutte, quieter by nature) running his way must have woken him. Indeed as Cogsworth made for the doors, Lumiere could be heard calling out to know what had happened.

Not answering, Cogsworth pushed his way outside and hurried down the walk, across the courtyard and out for the gate. He did not stop until he came to the road, and he stopped quite suddenly here nearly tripping over his feet with a yelp. Then he spun around and stared down in the direction of the house of Count Vespasien.

He had been up quite early. Dawn was just coming up over the horizon, except that in the thick of the wood and the overcast of the castle, the only evidence of the sun was that the blackness of night had turned to a dark plum and dim greenish grey. It was enough light however so that Cogsworth could see that no one came up the road.

Panting hard for a reason that Cogsworth could not physically explain without lungs, he still looked around him as though perhaps the kidnappers had come through the wood itself and would emerge any moment from the thick of the underbrush, or worse … the Master. From tree, to stone, to the shuffling of a bird, he turned but saw nothing unusual.

"Whatever is the matter?" asked Lumiere as he and Goutte caught up with the butler.

"Shu—shu—shu—sh-sh-sh!" stuttered Cogsworth holding a hand in front of Lumiere's face, which Lumiere promptly moved aside.

"Come now, Cogsworth, what's this all about?"

"Listen!" Cogsworth hissed.

The other two stopped to listen and heard it too.

Wagon wheels approached.

"Someone is coming," whispered Cogsworth.

Making their way down the road a ways they peered down a slope and all three saw the one-man carriage coming up toward the castle.

"Isn't that la Chaise?" asked Lumiere.

"It is," said Cogsworth darkly with eyes locked onto the carriage. "Your light's making it hard to see them. I thought I saw someone else with him before you—"

"Where has he been?" Lumiere wanted to know, ignoring Cogsworth's complaint. "What secret is going on here?"

"A girl," said Goutte.

Cogsworth moaned and rubbed his protruding temples.

"A girl?" gasped Lumiere and turned to Cogsworth for further information.

"They've kidnapped a girl," said Cogsworth without turning to the others. "We've got to stop them before they can go any further."

La Chaise stopped before reaching them; however, for he could see the trio far better than they could see him and the others which rode on top of him or traveled behind him. Nevertheless, Cogsworth called out for them to stop right after that moment. Instead of halting upon hearing who spoke, la Chaise continued again and made it up to the top of the hill and the castle wall.

"What on earth do you think you're doing?" demanded Cogsworth forgetting to keep his voice down.

Monsieur de l'Écriture, the Pen glared down from the carriage from behind a taller item, the step ladder Olivier à Portée, and shushed Cogsworth. "Fixing the situation," he said, and he did sound rather desperate. "Please be quiet, Monsieur Cogsworth, or you'll spoil everything. This is no time to be thinking about propriety."

His glare however fell more upon the Inkwell who glared in return than to Cogsworth or Lumiere.

Cogsworth jumped.

"See here, you!" he shouted up at him. "Whatever madness has struck you!? How can you possibly hope to think that the Master—"

Pushing past him Lumiere interjected, "You mean to say that you actually kidnapped a guest of Count Vespasien?"

"Yes, that's exactly what they mean," snapped Cogsworth pushing him back. "And you're not helping, so stay out of—"

"HELP!"

Lumiere was first to react to the cry and once again pushed past Cogsworth and jumped onto the foot step before la Chaise could react. The windows were all covered from the outside with cloth fastened around the edges, and Lumiere thought at first to lift an edge of one to see inside.

"Don't do that!" hissed Cogsworth. "Don't let her see you!"

"The poor girl is already as scared as she can be," said Lumiere as the girl continued to yell from the inside, and Lumiere said in a lower tone, "That sounds like Monique St. Gervais."

"It is Monique St. Gervais," retorted the Pen. He was the only one on his side that looked as if they had any confidence in the idea at all anymore. "Monsieur la Chaise. Keep going."

La Chaise obeyed with such a lurch forward on his wheels that Lumiere just barely caught himself on the door handle, which he had been about to open.

"Wait!" cried Cogsworth running after the carriage as fast as he could. "Come back! What do you think you're doing?! What will the Master say?!"

"The Master wants to escape this curse just as much as we do," snapped Monsieur de l'Écriture. "I was going to speak with him of this personally just after—Don't open it!" he cried. "Not yet!"

Too late. Lumiere did, and Monique pushed out with all her might causing Lumiere to fall onto the road from the still moving carriage and his light to go out.

The girl turned sharply back a moment as she ran forward, but as she saw no one, not even horses, she became even more frightened and ran for the gates of Prince Adam's castle. She knew as well as anyone about the word that Adam no longer resided at the castle, but he must have servants still working there to keep it up in his absence.

The gate had already been left open for her as the servants she had been thinking about stood upon the road and had quite recently passed through them without closing them behind them. She fled to the doors and knocked with all her might. "Please!" she begged. "Please! Let me in! Help! Somebody! Help!"

The servants on the road stood frozen as they watched the poor and frantic girl at the doorstep.

"Maybe it will work after all," said the Pen at last.

"Mademoiselle Monique is no idiot," said Lumiere. "She'd figure out eventually that you kidnapped her."

"Unless she's deaf," muttered the Monsieur Goutte, his ink splattered in a trail behind him from the hill to the gate. "And didn't hear a word you said just earlier, or Monsieur Cogsworth."

"Someone's going to hear her now," shuddered Cogsworth.

"The Master will eventually," said someone else on top of the carriage.

"We could knock her out and send her home," said the Sauce Pan.

"Knock her out?" gasped Cogsworth. "Miss Monique!"

"Shush, shut up, Monsieur Cogsworth," whispered the Pen.

"'Shut up?'" demanded Cogsworth slowly turning to Monsieur de l'Écriture. "You have the gall to ask me to 'shut up' after what you've just done?" He was beside himself, it must be admitted, and in a state of unmovable uncertainty. His voice came out hallow and fraught and his face was a wreck.

Monique had stopped yelling by now. No one seemed to be home, or if people were there they were so deep within the castle that they could not hear her.

Slowly she stared out behind her and still saw nothing but the carriage just outside the gate. She had heard the voice of Cogsworth shout out her name, however, and she knew someone was about. Lucky for the servants she would not have as clear of memory of their voices as they had of hers from the last time they had seen her at the Christmas party.

As she squinted into the gloom, her panic subsided somewhat. Although still much afraid she took it upon herself to see what was going on or at least to step a few paces toward the gate. She felt somewhat safe behind the walls of the castle grounds. Perhaps the kidnappers were afraid to venture into the prince's domain. Perhaps they had not heard that the prince no longer lived at the castle.

Wiping a tear from her eye, she stepped forward

"If everyone would just stay still," whispered Cogsworth just loud enough to be sure everyone around him heard where everyone hid now behind la Chaise, "it's possible that she will leave down the road for the house of Count Vespasien or down into the village the other way."

"Oh, Cogsworth, she can't go walking through the wood all by herself," Lumiere whispered back.

"The sun will be up soon," returned Cogsworth. "And we'll have someone quiet secretly follow to make sure she stays safe. I say it should be Monsieur de l'Écriture," here he leered at the object in question. "If some wild creature attempts to nab her he can stab it in the foot."

Monsieur de l'Écriture snorted, but he too looked as if he was beginning to regret what he had done at last.

"Cogsworth, she can't," whispered Lumiere.

"Well, she certainly can't stay here," hissed Cogsworth. "Not Monique St. Gervais. The Master will have a fit! Who knows what he'll do. Out of all the girls …"

"Maybe she's the one," said Lumiere. "Like I said from the very beginning. Mademoiselle Monique and the Master are perfect for each other, and it would just make sense that the last girl he offends is the girl who frees him."

"Don't be stupid," said Cogsworth closing his eyes with disgust. "What would Count St. Gervais say? The Master will not …"

Goutte tapped Cogsworth on side.

"What?" he whispered.

With a foot, Goutte pointed.

Lumiere was not listening, but instead had already taken it upon himself to approach the girl himself.

"Lumiere!" Cogsworth squeaked, throwing his hands to the sides of his head in dismay.