Belle was sitting in her library, rereading the letter one more time.
When Rumplestiltskin was a boy, he had tended the spinsters' vegetable garden. While pulling weeds, he had kept an eye out for the various pests that came after their plants. He remembered finding snails slowly eating their way through the green leaves. Any flick of a touch would make one pull into itself. Sometimes, instead of just getting rid of them, he would brush a blade of grass against a snail's eyestalk and watch the eyes slowly sink into the snail's head, first the one he'd touched, then the other. Then, the whole snail would slowly suck back into its shell. He always thought it should become wrinkled and baggy, like a sack being emptied. Instead, it was like watching a plant grow in reverse, remaining just as solid, only becoming less.
Watching Belle read Gaston's letter was the same. She shrank into herself. The light he had seen in her eyes as they walked the grounds and she told him about Bae died out.
Rumplestiltskin had waited patiently—well, as patiently as he ever waited—but enough was enough.
"Is it bad news?" he asked her. Maurice, he thought. If the Lord of the Marchlands had died, his heir ought to have the mother wit necessary to send word to the man's daughter, acknowledged or not (though Rumplestiltskin hadn't seen signs the stretched-out beanstalk had any wit at all).
Just so long as Maurice hadn't died from drinking too much uisge. . . .
But, Belle was shaking her head. "He says—he says Maurice is in good health. He asks after me. And Bae. He. . . ." Belle swallowed. "He says . . . he knows he treated me badly. He wishes to make amends and—" Belle closed her eyes. Despite what she'd said, she looked like a woman delivering news of someone's death—and an unusually horrible death, at that. Her voice fell to a painful whisper. "He—he asks if it is possible for him to come visit me."
"Do you want me to send him away?" Rumplestiltskin asked. "Or turn him into a toad? Or send him to the siren's lake? What do you bet she turns into him?"
Belle didn't laugh. If anything, the pain in her face grew worse. He might as well have been making quips at a funeral. "Please," she whispered. "Don't joke."
Something twisted inside of him. "Do you . . . want to see him?"
"No—yes—I don't know—I—" She got up, agitated, and began to pace, agitated, as if she were trying to escape her thoughts. Trembling, she came to a halt, her hands clutching her upper arms as if she were cold. If she'd been trying to escape, her thoughts had caught up and taken her prisoner. Very quietly, she said, "I shared his bed for nearly three years—for three centuries, if the curse is counted. I . . . owe him. Something."
"I was there at the end," Rumplestiltskin said. "I saw how he treated you. You don't owe him anything."
Belle shook her head, though she looked sick. "It wasn't his fault. You made your deal with Maurice—"
"A deal he didn't try to stop," Rumplestiltskin snapped. He took a breath. Attacking wasn't going to help. In a calmer, kinder voice, he went on, "Belle, I've told you why I made that deal. But, Gaston didn't know the reason. He didn't know what I wanted with your son. But, you remember what you thought. He had no reason to think any better of me, and he didn't lift a finger to stop it."
His words weren't helping. Belle looked pale and nauseated, as if he were torturing her, bringing up memories of that night. "Enough," she said. "It doesn't matter. I owe him this. No matter how things ended. I owe him."
Sometimes, Rumplestiltskin reflected, he didn't know when to leave well enough alone. He managed to force his voice to be gentle and measured, but he couldn't just leave it. "Belle, you don't. Maurice—" There were several things he could have said about Maurice, but he managed to rein in his tongue that much. Though trying to be tactful about the man felt very close to full-blown lying, "—was the one who made Gaston responsible for your safety, and he—"
"I agreed," Belle said lifelessly. "I made a choice." She closed her eyes, swallowing as if she was trying to force down bile. "It wasn't dishonorable," she whispered. "What I did." Her words were a question.
She'd saved Bae's life—and her own, little as she seemed to value that. She'd found a way to rescue them both from Jones when most women—and men—would have been beyond all hope. When the people she had turned to for help had tried to tear away the son she had sacrificed so much for, she had followed him into the Dark One's own lair, armed with nothing but her love and her determination not to abandon her child even when all seemed hopeless. She was the bravest, most honorable woman he had ever known.
But, that wasn't what she meant. Belle meant that, in the eyes of Maurice's court, it hadn't been dishonorable for her father to sell her off to as Gaston's mistress.
A rosebush, he thought. Gaston would make a beautiful rosebush. And Rumplestiltskin would find snails and set them loose just to eat his leaves.
Except his deal with Maurice bound him to protect his heir. And Belle. . . . He looked at her. He had seen men in the Ogre Wars with faces like that, soldiers who had barely finished being bandaged up from their last battle stealing themselves to go fight in another. You didn't point out to them how weak they were or that they barely had the strength to lift their swords. They knew that. Instead, you tried to give them what encouragement you could as they filed out of the healers tents to fight again, hoping against hope your words would give them some strength to help to see them through—or some comfort if they didn't.
Or you did back then if you weren't Rumplestiltskin. He was the crippled coward. There was nothing worth hearing he could give them.
But, he could give it to Belle. He didn't need to tell her that just the memory of Gaston cut through her like an old wound being torn open. She knew that. And she was still determined to face it. He could only give her a few words to try and soothe that hurt—and promise she wouldn't face it alone.
"It was honorable," he said. "Everything you've done has always been honorable. I . . . will see to it Gaston receives whatever message you care to send. But, if you summon him here—" Because, if she had to see him, it would be here, in a place of her own strength and safety and not on Gaston's ground, "—let me be here when he comes. He won't have to know." He wanted to fight this battle for her, but Rumplestiltskin was equally sure Belle meant to fight this one herself—might even need to fight this one herself. "I'll transform into anything you want. I'll stay out of the way. But, know that I'll be here to help if you want me."
He thought Belle looked a little—just a little—more alive at his offer (his demand?). "Thank you," she said. Her voice was still weak and drained, but he thought—he hoped—the gratitude was real, that he was helping instead of making it worse.
Then, she got out paper and pen and wrote the letter he would have no choice but to deliver.
X
Belle was nearly sick with anxiety when Gaston finally arrived. He had brought a small entourage. Stomach churning, Belle tried to calm herself by thinking like a member of the court. What message was Gaston trying to send with the companions he'd chosen? What messages were there in the clothes he'd chosen? What sort of display was he making and why?
Belle's message was simple. She was standing by the front steps to greet him. She wore a very fine dress of black velvet but not the one she'd worn in the Marchlands on the anniversary days of her husband's death. Although she'd felt guilty asking the Dark One for more, she didn't want to meet Gaston in clothes he'd given her but she also didn't want to meet him in one of her black, work dresses. The Dark One's eyes had flashed with grim humor. The dress he'd given her was black velvet with delicate, hand-made black lace at the sleeves, hem, and collar. She wore earrings of jet and black pearls and a matching mourner's locket. The locket was the same one she always wore.
The Dark One had asked if she would like it remade as mourning jewelry, "To match the rest," he said. She wasn't sure if he knew what the locket meant to her or if he was only being practical, to make it fit with the rest. He had also (rolling his eyes as he examined it) asked if she wouldn't like Gaston's family crest (or, as he put it, "That over-wrought bit of self-congratulation") removed. It hung on the jet and pearl chain, covered in obsidian colored enamel.
The obvious message was simply that Belle was a widow of some standing in the world, dressed in her best to greet a guest. The less obvious message—the one she wasn't sure Gaston would see but that she had to make for herself—was that she was no longer his vassal or dependent.
Any subtle reading of Gaston's message was . . . disturbing. He had brought three friends, Sirs Armand, du Vallon, and Henri. They were men of the highest rank, so it could be construed as a compliment to her, more of a compliment than a past mistress deserved.
More likely, it was just that they were some of his closest companions during the war, men who had fought alongside him in life or death battles. They would also be good friends to ride through some of the more dangerous roads between here and the Marchlands. Gaston had also brought his manservant, LeFou, and there was a young man from the village who had acted as their guide. It seemed it hadn't taken long for word to spread in the area when the Dark One built a house.
Perhaps she was reading this wrong. The great warrior, Gaston, and three knights. Perhaps, he just thought coming to see Belle counted as a battle. Or was he just wary (quite sensibly), entering the Dark One's domain?
Gaston dismounted and came up to her. She had no intention of curtseying before he bowed. She was the lady of this house and he was her guest, even if he was a lord. It was her prerogative to act as though she outranked him here. Gaston understood the rules she was acting under but, being Gaston, she had expected him to grin as though she were a child dressed up in her mother's ball gown. Instead, he bowed low and sincerely—as low as he would have bowed for Lady Rosamonde—kissing her proffered hand. Her hand was cold, but Gaston wouldn't be able to tell that through the velvet glove. The important thing was it didn't shake. He acted in every way as though she were a noblewoman far outranking him.
It meant nothing, she told herself. He'd played the part of courtier to her at court when he wasn't giving her gentle phrased commands. It was the way the game was played. A man often pretended to adore and worship his acknowledged mistress while she quietly accepted his praise did as she was told.
She invited them in, letting Gaston take her arm. He was her highest ranking guest, after all, but her eyes went to the Dark One. He was wearing the same, bland form he had worn to the village festival. Only he had given himself human eyes this time, soft brown ones. He played the part of butler today, letting Goodman Dove deal with the horses. Unfortunately, there was no rule of etiquette that allowed butlers to walk alongside her when there were respected guests to do it.
LaFou accompanied Dove to look after Gaston's prize war stallion. Dove pointed the village boy in the direction of the kitchens to get some food. Crystal, Bianca, and Bae were there along with Goodwoman Dove, although Belle knew she would be in and out, helping to serve the meal. Still, she'd seen the kitchen windows open earlier and knew nearly all of Dove's birds were perched along the sills or on branches just outside. Belle wasn't quite sure what the birds could do if the village boy misbehaved, but she suspected the village boy wouldn't know either—and wouldn't want to find out.
The entered the dining room. The table was already set with a feast. The Dark One, still playing his role, pulled out her chair for her before Gaston could try to. Despite that, he remained blandly invisible (or so Gaston and his friends treated him) as he began serving food.
The Dark One seemed to enjoy role playing, Belle thought. She, on the other hand, was fighting to appear calm and tranquil. It had been easier once. Only a few months ago, she had faced worse than this every day with frozen calm. What had happened to her? She cut up her food and moved it around her plate but only managed a couple of bites, her stomach rebelling at the mere taste of food.
There was nothing frightening in the conversation. Gaston seemed at pains to put her at ease. He spoke of the Marchlands and how they were doing. "Do you remember de Montoya, the swordsmith?" he asked her.
Belle nodded. "Of course, he made that rapier for you. He was from La Mancha, wasn't he?"
Gaston nodded. "He came to the Marchlands, you know, to try his luck, making swords for northerners to fight against the Ogres. Then, he was trapped with the rest of us. It seems La Manchan steel became a lost art in these past centuries. De Montoya and the journeymen he taught may be the only ones left who know the way of it. There are kings who want to visit our lands just to ask de Montoya to make them a sword."
"That will be good for the Marchlands, won't it?" Belle said. "You don't think a foreign king will hire him away, do you?"
Gaston shook his head. "De Montoya married into an old, Marchlands family. His son married the sister of Maurice's captain of the guard. We're also all that's left of the world he knew. He won't be leaving us. Though Maurice has decided to raise him to gentry. He'll even be given a coat of arms." The conversation went on, safe and innocuous. The Marchlands seemed to be finding its way in this new world.
At least, they weren't facing this new world alone, Belle thought. Frightening as it might be, they had their homes, their families—they had the Marchlands. They would get through.
"The Dark One—I've heard frightening stories of him since the curse broke," Gaston went on. "But, we owe everything we have to him."
The Dark One, refilling Henri's wine glass had the faintest ghost of a smug smile.
Gaston searched Belle's face. "All the same, is it well with you?" he asked. "Does he treat you—and Bae—kindly?"
To Belle's surprise, Gaston looked truly concerned and a little ashamed of himself. Did he regret not standing up for her? Did he—could he—regret not standing up for Bae?
"It is well," she told him. "The Dark One truly did want Bae as his ward. It was an old obligation, he said. One that makes more sense to wizards, I think, than to normal mortals. But, the Dark One is also used to his isolation. Not long after we came to the castle, he sent us here. He still comes to check up on Bae, but this is my home."
"You're in mourning," Gaston said. He himself wore a black band for Lady Rosamond. "He allows you that? He doesn't—doesn't place undue demands on you?"
Did he want to know if she was the Dark One's mistress, now? Or had he been afraid, as Lord Maurice no doubt would have been, that she was working as a servant? She wondered how Gaston would react if she told him about scrubbing marble floors and making eggs-in-a-basket. Probably with more horror than if she told him she was sharing a demon's bed.
Well, she could reassure him on both points. "No, he doesn't place undue demands on me. He—he only asks that I look after Bae."
Henri snorted. "A good price just for playing nursery maid."
Gaston stiffened. "Henri, go check on the horses."
"What?" Henri looked up, surprised. Henri had always been one for crude jokes—many of them at Belle's expense, though she'd learned to laugh at them and pretend to be amused. They were usually much worse than this before Gaston or anyone else told him to stop. He had to insult Gaston or Lord Maurice before he was sent away.
"The horses, Henir," Gaston said. "Go see if LaFou managed to get his brains knocked out by my warhorse. Now—with your permission, Belle?"
"Of course," Belle said bemusedly. "We wouldn't want LaFou—or your warhorse—to suffer Gaston."
Henri scowled but knew better than to argue. At the end of the meal, Belle offered to show them around the gardens.
"I'm sure Armand and du Vallon would like to explore on their own, if that's agreeable with you, Belle," Gaston said. "But, I would appreciate it if you could show me the grounds? And there is a matter I would like to discuss with you?"
Belle kept herself (barely) from throwing a desperate glance at the Dark One. She was beginning to rethink his offer to turn Gaston into a bush or send him to the siren. . . . No, not really. Because, while she might long for Gaston to be gone, she didn't think the Dark One had been joking about those offers.
"Of course, Gaston," she said, regretting the two bites of food she'd swallowed. "You must see the fruit trees. They're quite lovely."
So, Belle found herself showing Gaston the grounds, pointing out a few things of interest. "There's some magic on the fruit trees," she said as they stopped by the cherries. "See how they're blooming and have ripe fruit at the same time?" She didn't know why she was doing this. A true knight was supposed to have some skill at the gentler arts but, the few times Gaston had even needed to write a poem, Belle had done it for him—and she hardly had the experience at court he did. She doubted he saw any special beauty in cherry blossoms.
"That would be useful during a siege," Gaston said. "It's warm and sunny here, but its winter just a few yards from your door. Is that more of the Dark One's magic?"
Belle shrugged. She had seen the snow beyond this small enclosure. "I suppose. We didn't discuss it, but he-he said he didn't want us to freeze if we went outside." Not again.
"Most people would buy a good pair of boots."
Belle, thinking of some of the clothes she'd seen the Dark One wear, couldn't help grinning. "He's been to the Marchlands several times since making his deal. Have you seen some of the boots he wears? He probably thinks driving away winter is easier than risking getting snow on them."
"He comes here often, then?" Gaston asked, looking around. Pleasant, sunlit gardens probably didn't seem like the right setting for the menacing wizard who had presented himself at court.
"Yes, he's appointed himself Bae's tutor." Hadn't she told him this before? Hadn't he been listening?
"He's teaching him magic?"
"Not really. When we were still in the castle, he let Bae watch while he made some of his potions and he explained what he was doing. But, that's all. Since we've been here, he helps Bae with his reading and mathematics. He's teaching him history as well." And plays games with him, and carries him to bed when he falls asleep after festivals, and comforts him when I'm sick and Bae is afraid I'll never wake up again. . . .
Gaston frowned. "Then . . . you believe him? That all he wanted the boy for was as his ward? His foster child?"
"Did you believe otherwise?" Belle asked, surprised by how cold her voice had become. "When you let him take Bae away?"
"I. . . ." Gaston ran a hand through his hair. "Belle, a demon had just told me we'd been under a curse for three hundred years, the world we knew was gone, Lady Rosamonde was had been dead for centuries, Lord Maurice knew this the whole time, and the only way we could be freed was by letting your son go with that creature-a bargain Lord Maurice had already made before that play-acting at the feast. I didn't know what to think."
She remembered the placating tone in Gaston's voice as he tried to pull her away from Bae. As if loss of her son were nothing. As if she were a foolish child who needed to let go of a toy that needed to be put away. "And now?"
"Belle, I'm glad he treats you well. But, I've heard tales of him since you left. His reputation is far worse than we knew. Are you sure he doesn't need Bae for—for part of a spell. Or a potion. Or—"
"Of course, I'm sure!" Belle shouted, surprised to find it was true. She didn't understand the Dark One. There were times he frightened her. But, she knew—knew—he would never harm Bae.
Gaston held up his hands, backing away from her. He seemed surprised. Had she ever stood up to him like this before? Argued with him, defied him?
"Belle, I'm sorry—I didn't mean—Belle, I told you, I did wrong by you. I—I want to make amends."
Belle bit back her anger. She remembered Hordor. Anger had never done anything but betray her. "Make amends how?"
"I—" Gaston looked around the gardens. She had the feeling he was a man trying to remember a script he'd memorized. "This is what you always wanted, isn't it? Not the life at court, just somewhere quiet and peaceful. I was wrong to make you do otherwise, wasn't I?"
Whatever Belle had been expecting, this wasn't it. "You gave us a home," she said, repeating the arguments she'd made earlier to the Dark One. "You protected us."
Gaston nodded. "But, listening to Henri's jokes, partying with us, even your time with me, that wasn't what you wanted?"
"I. . . ." She felt as if she'd been stabbed in the stomach. These weren't things Gaston was supposed to say. "I was raised in a village," she said. "Not court. Village girls don't—don't take lovers. Or, if they do and they're found out, they marry. Fast. Or become outcasts. I—I've never really known any other way."
No, she shouldn't say this. Henri, if he were here, would laugh and ask her what about Jones, then? And she would laugh and make a joke because, otherwise, Henri would make more and more jokes about her time at sea, each one cruder than the last, till she was ready to scream or grab one of the others' knives and run him through. Gaston would tell Henri not to be too crude, but he'd still laugh at them.
But, there were no crude jokes. Gaston merely nodded and got on with his speech, if that's what it was. "I should have respected that," he said. "Belle, please, let me make it up to you. The Marchlands have changed. Before the war, it was important that I marry well for an alliance. Now, it's as though we all want to pull tighter to each other. It would mean a great deal to everyone if Maurice's line continued to rule after he's gone. Please, Belle, will you marry me?"
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