Rain just a few degrees from being snow. She shivers and wonders if the seeds will make it through winter's death throes. But now is not the time to idle away, she tells herself. She's seen the mess the girls and Arthur made in one of the sitting rooms—feathers everywhere, throw pillows torn, and droppings. Oh, she's positive there are at least a million droppings. She may not have to wipe up any off the floor now, but rugs are another matter. She grabs a basket and tosses in a needle with a spool of thread, plenty of rags, a horsehair brush, scissors, and anything else that might possibly be useful. With the mop inside the pail, she picks it up by the handle and charges into battle.
It's a small room and yet it takes an hour to fix. On her side halfway under the sofa, she rakes in the marbles that had rolled underneath.
"Arthur, you're a terrible ringleader," she admonishes. He shakes his comb at her. "I'm serious. You're supposed to keep them in line." She doesn't know if that's true or not, but she's decided it will be in this case. "You have to take your...erm, love affairs elsewhere." Arthur squawks and continues his loafing. She plops onto the sofa and begins to stitch the pillow.
"What happened in here?" Rumpelstiltskin asks her from the doorway, cloaked and back from his work.
"The chickens were a little, a little rowdy."
"I'm gone for half a day and miss a chicken orgy. The house just has a different atmosphere with you."
Belle blushes at the absurdity of it. If anyone had told her before she would be having this discussion, she'd have suggested he or she seek help.
"Leave that." He flails his hands at the pillow and for a moment, she believes he's fixing them for her, but it's just awkward hand-waving. "You can come see my latest acquisition."
Holding her breath, she tries not to cringe as she follows him out back through the dining area to his workspace. It doesn't surprise her she's able to enter this once. He opens a hollowed-out tome and reveals a crystal.
"What is it?"
"This can show you whatever you wish to see. With no one interfering," he adds with a certain contempt. Her reflection in it is distorted given the crystal's shape. Distorted and pinkish. "You don't want to give it a go?"
"Where did you get it?"
"Oh, here and there. By and by. If you didn't want to catch a glimpse of your family..."
"Yes! Thank you! Is..." She cradles the crystal in her palms. "Is it good magic?"
"Enchantments like this can be used for good or evil," he says. "But there is no curse on it, if that's what you mean."
"What's your price?" she is sure to ask in spite of a feeling there won't be one.
"Cleaning up chicken droppings isn't enough?" He leaves her alone with it, understanding privacy, she hopes.
"I'd like to see my father, please," she addresses it, her lips pressed together in anticipation. A small image appears. She recognizes the robes and throne of her father, the bags under his eyes as it focuses in on him.
"It's still too dangerous, Sire," she hears someone say. "We'll have to wait until more of the ice melts before we can even think of scaling the mountain."
"There must be something we can do."
"Sire, speaking truthfully." Ah, it's Gerald. Always truthful, reluctantly truthful. "We're lucky to have anyone willing to scale the mountain at all for this. Many would rather die."
"No more." Her father's voice shakes. "We'll have to wait for spring thaw then." He slumps on his throne, a hand over his face. Even though it's muffled, she can hear him moan her name. I'm here, she wishes to answer. And I'm all right.
"Your Highness." It's Gaston. So statuesque and pretty, she thinks. "I saw Gerald just now. Does that mean we're ready to...?"
"Not yet, my boy," he sighs. "We must hope Belle can hold on for a little longer."
"This is outrageous!" He slams his fist down on the table and even though she is miles and miles away, she jumps. "Isn't there anyone more powerful than he? Someone we can convince to go head to head against him?"
"Magic got us into this mess, Gaston. It will not get us out."
"And in the meantime, what becomes of the kingdom? What becomes of our arrangement? Do I hold on a little longer too, or is our contract null and void?"
"That contract you so lovingly refer to is my daughter, and I'll not have you speak of her that way. She's a hero!" There is a beat. "Perhaps you should go and seek your fortune."
"What? That's it then? Even if she's retrieved?"
"You think I like having her gone?" her father thunders at him. "You think I care right now about your petty dissatisfaction when my child isn't safe at home with me? The only way you'll ever marry her is if she'll have you, and she's no fool."
Belle's eyes widen.
"I'll have Belle for my wife," Gaston says, shaking a deliberate finger at her father. "Make no mistake about that!" He turns to go, collides into the table's edge, and curses at it. "There's a table there!" he screeches.
The crystal darkens, everything in it fading, leaving Belle frozen. So frozen she nearly drops the crystal. She catches it and staggers, closing her eyes and planting her feet for balance. She'd always known, always had a feeling around Gaston—that the poetry he recited to her did not have his heart behind it, that his silence when she talked wasn't listening but disinterest, that the vengeful way he spoke of anyone who presumably wronged him was more than temporary anger. Placing the crystal back into the book, her knuckles press against her mouth until she feels physical pain. Rushing out of the room, she bolts into the kitchen, fills the basin with the hot water on the fire, and scrubs dish after dish.
He enters, looking as bewildered as she's ever seen, so she knows he wasn't listening. She watches out of one eye as his mouth falls open and shut, debating what to say, if anything. All he knows is that she didn't like what she saw, and that's all she really feels like confiding at the moment. Right now, she must concentrate on scrubbing off every remnant of food and every little germ or she will go mad. Choosing not to speak, he takes the first dish that she just rinsed off, and dries it, patiently playing with the towel while waiting for the next one.