Belle opened the front door of her cottage. Taking in the picture-perfect pastoral scene in front of her, she sighed. Morning in the small village of Villeneuve began the same way each day. At least it had for as long as Belle had lived there.

The sun would rise slowly over the horizon, its rays turning the fields surrounding the village more green, gold, or white, depending on the season. Then the rays would move along until they touched the whitewashed sides of Belle's cottage, which stood right on the outskirts of the village, before finally illuminating the thatched roofs of the homes and shops that made up the village itself. By the time that happened, the villagers themselves would be stirring, preparing for the day. Inside their homes, men would sit down for their morning meals while the women readied the children or finished stirring the porridge. The village would be peaceful, as though still shaking off sleep.

As Belle walked into the village, it came alive.

Belle had watched it happen hundreds of times. Yet this morning, like every morning, it still amazed her as she stared down at the little town, full of the same people going about their daily routines. Narrowing her warm brown eyes, she sighed at the mundanity of it all. She often wondered what it would be like to wake up differently.

Belle shook her head. It did her no good to wonder or wish. This was life as she'd always known it, the life she had shared with her papa ever since they had moved from Paris many years earlier. It was a waste of time to dwell on the past or the what-ifs. She had things to do, errands to run, and—she looked down at the book clutched in her hand—a new adventure to find.

Within minutes, Belle was making her way down the cobblestoned main street. As she passed other villagers, she nodded distantly. While she had lived in the village most of her life, she still felt like a stranger there. It, like so many in the rural French countryside, was isolated and insular. Most of the people Belle passed on her way had been born there and most would spend the rest of their lives there. To them, the village was the world. And outsiders were viewed with caution.

Belle wasn't entirely sure that even if she had been born in the village she wouldn't still have been treated as an outsider. She didn't have much in common with most of the others. And if she was being honest, she tended to enjoy reading more than idle small talk—traveling to distant lands and having wondrous adventures, even if only in the pages of her favorite books.

Weaving her way through the street, she listened as the rest of the villagers greeted each other. She felt a pang of loneliness watching them talk to one another. They all seemed perfectly content with the monotony of their morning routines. No one seemed to share her desire for something new and exciting, for something more.

Belle reached the baker's stand, the sweet smell of freshly baked bread wafting through the air. As always, the harried baker was holding a tray of freshly made baguettes and muttering to himself.

"Good morning, Belle," the baker said.

"Morning, monsieur," Belle answered, standing beside him.

"Where you off to?"

"The Bookshop. I just finished the most wonderful story about a beanstalk and an ogre and..."

"That's nice," the baker exclaimed, uninterested. He had other thoughts on his mind. "Marie, the baguettes! Hurry up!"

Belle sighed. She wasn't surprised by the baker's reaction. It was the same reaction she got any time she mentioned books. Or art. Or travel. Or Paris. Anything other than talk of the village or the villagers was met with indifference—or, worse, disdain.

Just once, Belle thought as she walked away from the baker's stand with a baguette in her basket, I'd like to meet someone who wanted to hear the story of Jack and the Beanstalk. Or any story, for that matter. She started to walk more quickly, more eager than ever to get to the Bookshop, get a new book, and return home. At least in her own cottage, she had no one to bother her or judge her. She could just get lost in her stories and imagine the world beyond the provincial town.

Absorbed in thoughts of what new bookish delights might be awaiting her at the Bookshop, Belle didn't even notice the attention she was getting. Nor did she pay any mind to the barely concealed comments her presence sparked. She had heard them all before. It was not the first time she had passed by the barber shop and heard the old man with the white beard saying her head was up on some cloud. The washerwomen, their hands pruned and covered in suds, also loved to whisper among themselves whenever they saw Belle. "Funny girl," they would say. "Doesn't fit in" was another favorite. To the gossipy women, this was the worst offense of all. It never occurred to them that Belle chose not to be part of any crowd.

Finally, Belle arrived at her destination—a one-story building with two windows. Pushing open the doors, she breathed a sigh of relief as the quiet and serenity of the building enveloped her. The hubbub and noise outside faded away, and for the first time that morning, Belle felt at peace. Hearing her enter, a kind man in a long black robe looked up from his book. The man was tall and slender, with warm eyes that crinkled as he smiled at Belle.

"Ah, Belle," the Bookseller greeted her.

"Good morning," Belle answered, coming in. "I've come to return the book I borrowed."

"Finished already?" Belle smiled in return. The well-read Bookseller was one of two people in the entire village Belle felt she could talk to. The other person was her father.

Belle climbed up the moving ladder that helped one to be able to pick up the books on the shelves. "I couldn't put it down. Have you got anything new?" She turned and her eyes lingered on the town's library. Calling it a library was an exaggeration, to say the least. A few dozen books lined two small dusty bookshelves. Scanning the shelves now, Belle saw the same well-worn spines and faded titles. It was rare for anything to be added to the inventory.

"Not since yesterday." Despite the fact that she had anticipated this, Belle's eyes showed her disappointment.

"That's all right." Belle nodded and moved in front of the shelves. Her fingers brushed the familiar books, most of which she had read at least two times. Still, she knew better than to complain. Picking one up, she smiled back at the older man. "I'll borrow this one."

"That one? But you've read it twice."

"Well, it's my favorite. Far-off places, daring sword fights, magic spells, a prince in disguise."

"If you like it all that much, it's yours!"

"But sir..."

"I insist."

"Well, thank you. Thank you very much!"

Book in hand, Belle left the Bookshop and made her way back out onto the village's main street. Opening the first page, she planted her nose firmly in the book and blocked out everything else. She patted a girl's head playing out in the street and ducked under water thrown from a window. Someone had washed their clothes, that was clear.

While she had been disappointed not to find anything new, this book was one of her favorites. It had everything a good story should have. As lonely as she could be at times, she couldn't stand unwanted attention—hated it, in fact.