The young prince was the third child of his royal parents. As was the custom of his time, he had been turned over to a varied succession of wealthy governesses for his upbringing. His parents were rarely seen. Afterall, the King and Queen of France were very busy in those days: there was a Revolution underway.

When the safety of the royal children could no longer be guaranteed in Paris, the young prince was sent away to a distant castle in an isolated and inaccessible region. He was fitted with a full household staff (many of them English, to ensure they didn't side with the rebels) and supplied with plenty of money. The lands of the castle provided food, water and fuel; and a nearby village supplied everything else that was required, from books to high-end baked goods that its own impoverished citizens could scarcely dream of purchasing. No noble governess was appointed, as by this time most of the aristocrats had either fled the country or been imprisoned. Thus his only overseers were his own servants. And any etiquette book of the era would have warned about what kind of a person even a well-born gentleman becomes when he associates only with his lessers. "Familiarity breeds contempt" refers not to animosity born of getting to know someone: it refers to the dangers of becoming friendly with one's servants, and the unfavorable influence this has upon one's character.

Thus isolated in his lonesome and chaotic household, the young prince grew up in a strange state of informality commingled with the inherent arrogance that one of his own status would be expected to show toward inferiors whose very jobs were to simply do his bidding. Without others of comparable rank to teach him responsible use of his power, he learned only thoughtlessness, selfishness and rudeness.

Any hope that these bad habits could be quashed before becoming a permanent part of his character seemed to be dashed when the castle received the news that his parents had been executed. In the chaos that followed their deaths, it appeared that he had been completely forgotten: nobody came to look for him, neither to deliver him nor detain him. Even the news of the royal deaths had only been related to the household through the newspapers, not by any special messengers or family friends. For good or bad, the prince was forgotten, and as such was left to continue on in his sparkling palace full of servants who counted themselves lucky to still have jobs. The outrage the prince felt at having been so thoroughly abandoned by his family and friends, further deformed his good nature.

Nevertheless, the prince's days were not wholly unhappy ones. He entertained himself with riding, hawking, hunting, playing games with the other servant children, reading from his enormous library, listening to music played by his own musicians, and learning what he could about art and interior decoration — an excellent pastime given he had more indoor space than he had any personal need for. He learned to paint portraits of himself, design clothing and furnishings, and other such tasks as helped to further beautify his gilded prison.

Meanwhile, his healthy diet and love of sports ensured that he grew big and strong. By the age of ten he was so tall and well-formed that he could have easily passed for fifteen. ("He's a great-great-grandson of Charlemagne," the servants would whisper, "You know that man was eight feet tall. He'll be a big one, too.") His taste in fashion was fanciful and somewhat outdated due to his total isolation, but he dressed well to the best of his ability and took pride in his appearance. All in all, he was making the best of his bad situation. The king and queen were dead. Their eldest son had died as well. Their eldest daughter was alive, but had fled the country; and girls couldn't inherit the throne anyway. But there remained this younger son. And, technically, upon the death of his father, he had succeeded to the title of King of France.

The question was, could he return to Paris to claim his rightful title? And would there be any advantage for him to do so? France's own military was in shambles, between the Revolution and disastrous foreign wars. There was famine and a financial crisis. There were reports that things had grown so dire in the cities that they were cannibalizing the dead. And certainly he would have plenty of enemies — those who had been opponents of his parents would remain so, and a whole new batch of rivals would appear once his existence was made known.

The housekeeper Mrs. Potts, the butler Lumiere, and the steward with his ridiculously ungallic name of Cogsworth (so impossible to pronounce in French that most of the household simply called him "Big Ben" in reference to his figure) the trio debated whether it should be revealed to the outside world that he was alive and well. After some debate, it was determined by the castle's three leading servants that there was no advantage in revealing their young master's situation at this time. They had everything they needed at the castle, where even the servants lived in comparative luxury; whereas a move to Paris would put them into famine at the very least, if not something rather more dangerous. And yet, their young master was the rightful king. Surely something had to be done to ensure he wouldn't be deprived of his rightful place?

Yet as they watched the overgrown boy playing hide and seek with one of the pageboys in the castle's hallway, they figured there would be plenty of time for such things later. Like all young things, the prince wanted to grow up. He wanted to be like the adults. The only trouble was that he no longer knew any noble, well-mannered and virtuous adults he could look up to; and whatever praises could be heaped upon his servants, they were hardly anything that could inspire a young boy.

No, he was not ready to be a king — so let him be a silly little boy for a while longer. Afterall, he had nobody to show him the royal ropes and wouldn't know how to handle power, even if he received it.

The Provincial winters were usually mild, but this year seemed a strange exception. Lumiere and Cogsworth had been obliged to hire additional workers just to chop enough wood to keep the castle warm. From the constant fires in the fireplaces, a layer of ash was coating the floors, and black soot was building up on the walls.

Standing in the hallway, the young prince ran a finger along one of the sooty walls, frowning at the dark smudge left on his pale skin. The mural he had painted here — a grand scene of cherubs and columns in perfect symmetry — was getting ruined. He clenched his fists. How could his sanctuary, his carefully curated masterpiece, fall to such squalor?

"Mrs. Potts!" he called sharply, his voice echoing through the vast corridors.

The housekeeper appeared quickly, wiping her hands on her apron. "Yes, master?"

"Look at this!" He gestured at the wall, his tone dripping with indignation. "It's filthy. My work is being ruined. Why hasn't this been cleaned?"

Mrs. Potts hesitated. The water pumps had frozen in the bitter cold, making it nearly impossible to fetch enough water for cleaning. But she knew better than to explain; the young master would only hear excuses. "I'll see to it immediately, sir."

The prince folded his arms. "Good. And make sure it's done right. I want these walls as clean as they were the day I painted them."

"Of course, master," she said with a bow, though her heart sank at the thought of the effort it would take.

As Mrs. Potts left to relay the order, the prince paced the hall, glaring at the blackened walls. It wasn't just about the soot. The dirt felt like an affront to his control, a stain on the perfect image he had cultivated for himself and his home. He prided himself on being a connoisseur of beauty, a creator of elegance. Anything less than perfection was unacceptable. He was not exactly a neat-freak, but he did have strong opinions about what he liked and didn't. Certainly, most children do; but most learn to soften those opinions and to accommodate the very mild inconvenience of being exposed to an unattractive sight, or a disagreeing thought, or of having to wait, or of being told no. For the young prince, these lessons had never come. Why, he was a mere toddler when he was last spanked for saying mean or rude things to people; and certainly, as he grew up watching the squabbles and vulgar talk of servants who believed that he did not hear them, he knew worse things than that were spoken by adults to one another.

Reaching the ground floor, the prince could see sparkling snow through the massive windows in the antechamber, and a bright moon without. Moved, he went to look upon the night scene.

Nose pressed to the cold glass, he observed a beautiful landscape of the snow-covered gardens, dimly alight from the moon and from the glow of the castle itself. He wondered if he should call for his paints and canvas, so that he might copy the lovely sight. He could see it now — the shadowy snow was mostly a gray color, but with a little lapis blue mixed in, and the shadows were a type of raw umber —

But as he gazed, a figure trudging through the garden broke the serenity, leaving a trail of jagged footprints in the immaculate snow.

His jaw tightened. Another blemish. Another disruption.

Without thinking, he stormed to the door, throwing it open. The icy air bit at his face as he shouted into the night, "Hey! What are you doing out there?"

Grimhilde the Enchantress had been human once. She had even been a member of the nobility once. She wasn't sure what she was now, but it was definite that she was no longer mortal. Too many hundreds of years had passed for that to be the case. It was probably some consequence of those beauty spells she had cast back in the day, something that had aimed at giving her eternal youth. She had been so concerned with her looks back then, with being the fairest in the land. She had nearly murdered her stepdaughter over it, when the girl's beauty had surpassed her own. That had been the catalyst for her downfall: once the girl had married a prince from a neighboring Stadt, and told everyone about the things her wicked stepmother had done, Grimhilde couldn't very well return to the castle or her former position. They'd have walled her up and never let her out again. So now, like the Wandering Jew of lore, the Wicked Queen found herself simply roaming and rambling, forever and ever.

It had taken a few decades before she realized that beauty wasn't everything; in fact, for someone in her position, it could even be a hazard. Wandering alone, usually begging her money or shelter, attractiveness could draw a certain unwanted attention. People might be extra nice to a pretty girl, for sure — but they also might expect things that one didn't want to give, just because they were attracted.

Over the centuries she had been to many lands and learned many languages. Everyone had been speaking a Provincial French for weeks now: she presumed, therefore, that she was now in France. But small villages and forests looked much the same anywhere in Europe: she rarely went to the cities anymore. What was she going to do in a city? Shop? Even if she wanted to seduce some wealthy fool and live a life of luxury, it could only go on for so long before her perpetual youth either raised suspicion that she was a witch, or she would be forced to disappear to prevent the discovery, abandoning anything she'd built. Fifteen, twenty years of luxury — a flash in the pan to an immortal. Ah, eternal youth, endless beauty — what was it all for if nothing else was permanent?

Consequently, Grimhilde's magical talents came in handy. A ploy which she had used even in her heyday for gaining trust and sympathy, was that of disguising herself through occult means as an old woman. Now, it was her custom: a withered old woman, wrinkled, ugly as sin, a slightly wild look about her. No one ever tried to corner that creature in a locked bedroom.

Whilst wandering alone through this massive French forest, she happened upon the unusual sight of a very large and very ornate castle, existing practically by itself. Peculiar: usually a small village was built up at the foot of such a grand dwelling, to attend the needs of the inhabitants; but this appeared to be miles away from anything else. In the forested darkness, she could see the fires burning within. People were certainly inside.

Shivering in the cold, she wondered if this might be a good place to spend the night. It certainly looked warm and inviting, which was her only concern for the moment. But its lonely location made her wonder if it was really the house of a noble, or if it was something else. Maybe a dragon's lair? Or an illusion by a fellow spellworker? In the latter case, she knew it could be dangerous to ask for anything without offering something back. She truly was a poor beggar woman and didn't own very much, but in the pockets of her cloak were odds and ends of varying value. Among the sundries which ranged from jewels to food to animal parts to literal trash, there were a few finished magical pieces that might impress a fellow occultist. One was a rose which she had fixed so that it would never wilt. It was a trinket of little importance to her — she had made it merely because she happened to have all the ingredients needed at the time, five or six months ago when the flower was in bloom. Perhaps now it would serve to impress whomever was at home, be they magical or not — for even an aristocrat might be pleased to entertain a skilled witch for an evening or two.

As she made her way to what she presumed was the front entrance, despite that there were no visible guards, she was mildly surprised to see the castle door open ahead of her. A young man, very strangely dressed, was revealed behind it.

"What are you doing out there?" he cried.

The enchantress looked him over. Surely no nobleman would be answering his own door, she thought. Perhaps he was a liveried servant? Or could he be another magic man?

"Out here?" replied the old beggar woman with a laugh, which she had intended to seem amiable but which really just sent shivers down the boy's spine. "Why, anything I can do out here, I can do in there. Won't you let me in?"

The prince hesitated. She was not only a stranger, but an ugly one. And an ugly one who had already uglied up his beautiful landscape. Her too-friendly demeanor further alarmed him for reasons he couldn't put his finger on.

"No," he replied. And quickly he shut the door, wanting nothing more to do with her.

Surprised by the rudeness of the servant (surely he was a servant, if he wasn't a wizard) Grimhilde continued undeterred to the doorway. Maybe he was under orders to admit no one. But she wasn't going to give up so easily — she could already feel the warmth inside, and she didn't know any spells for keeping warm beyond simply building a fire. She knocked this time.

"Go away, you horrible old witch!" replied the young man through the door.

While the statement wasn't exactly untrue, Grimhilde knew perfectly well that he didn't have any reason to know that. He was just jumping to conclusions, nevermind that she was a witch and had done things that some would call horrible. He was simply shouting insults at her. And she didn't enjoy being insulted any more than anyone else.

Ah, that young man was going to pay!

Lumiere was with the scullion boy and the cook, the trio attempting to melt sufficient amounts of snow to create the mop-water needed for cleaning the upstairs. Immersed in this task, all three were startled by a sudden knock upon the kitchen's exterior door.

"Did we send someone else out for snow?" asked chef Bouche.

If so, Lumiere did not suppose such a person would politely knock. "I will see who it is," he said, and he went at once to open the door.

A gust of freezing wind preceeded the unappealing vision of an old woman, in a dark hooded cloak, standing alone in the moonlight upon the kitchen doorstep. Even Lumiere, who was accustomed to a lesser class of person than was his master, would have admitted she was of a somewhat frightening appearance. Still, alas, that's what age did to a person!

"Hello?" he asked of her, somewhat puzzled as to the reason for her appearance.

"Oh, sir," she responded pathetically. "I am an old woman who has traveled far, and has farther to travel still. The night is so bitterly cold. Won't you let me in to warm my poor old bones?"

Lumiere's own eyes could vouch for her story. He did not hesitate at all in his reply. "Why, of course, madame! Good gracious, how far you must have traveled! Here, warm yourself by the fire." He opened the door wider to let her inside.

The old woman entered slowly. She smiled as she was enveloped by the sudden warmth of the room. "Cooking something?" she asked, seeing the fires and pots before her.

"Heating some water for the master," Lumiere replied.

He meant to direct her to a stool where she might sit down, but before he could speak again, the woman asked: "The master, eh? Is this the castle of a nobleman?"

Now Lumiere hesitated, unsure how to answer. "I believe there are no more noblemen in France, is it not so? The titles have been abolished."

"If you take the county from a Count, you're still left with a Count," answered the woman.

"And if you take the name from a Count?"

"A man of no account."

Lumiere laughed at her wordplay. Their affable chat went on, and within minutes the pair were talking like the oldest of friends, and he was calling her "granny." Their cheerful parley was interrupted when the scullion boy announced:

"The water's ready!"

"Let's get it upstairs, and let us hurry," he replied. "Mrs. Potts and Babette are waiting." He turned to the old woman. "Please, remain where you are. Once we are done with this, I will see about bringing you something to eat. And I am sure we can find a bed for you to spend the night in."

"Oh, you are too good to poor old Granny," she answered sweetly.

The men departed, hauling the heavy pots of water in their arms. Grimhilde was left alone by the fireside.

She actually had achieved everything she had originally wished for — a promise of a warm meal and a warm bed. She could let things be, and simply count her blessings.

But there was still the matter of that wicked young man who had insulted her.

She rose from her seat. The man was likely to be somewhere downstairs, perhaps still guarding the front door. If she moved fast, she might be finished with him before the butler returned. And if not, she would surely have a story to explain herself by — got lost looking for the bathroom, she would say.

The prince had sensed that the monstrous old hag was trying to get into his castle — certainly, she had stated as much through asking that he let her in. Yet he could also perceive that she wasn't willing to accept no for an answer. She would get in somehow.

He had thought about calling the servants to help, but he was afflicted by that terrifying certainty which a ten year old brain can hold that if he were to turn his back on the door, or yell aloud, that she would manifest all the greater and come breaking down the entryway.

Therefore, to defend himself and his home from the horrific force without, he was left with only the tools immediately at hand. These tools were: a decorative staff that had been hanging on the wall, and a table. Really, taking into consideration the limited resources, it was not a bad plan. He turned the table on its side and used it as a barrier between himself and the door. He took the staff as a weapon, ready to beat any malevolent forces with it. He focused on the door, ready for attack.

Consequently, when the disgusting old monster emerged from the entryway beside him, he screamed aloud and for just a moment truly believed that he could faint. The shock nevertheless filled him with adrenaline, and activated the human fight-or-flight response.

Fight! Stand your ground! Defend yourself! his overgrown body cried.

"Frightened, dearie?" asked the old woman with a deep, slow laugh. She could see perfectly well that he was. The wicked old witch began to laugh, realizing that she was what he had prepared against.

The utterly terrified prince tried to stand up an inch or two taller, and be brave. "How did you get in here?" he replied. "Monster! Get out right now!" He clutched the metal staff, ready to swing it if needed.

She merely stood there laughing at him with that slow, deep, creepy laugh.

Suddenly, behind the old woman there appeared the figure of Lumiere, running through the hallway. He had been alarmed by the prince's scream, and upon entering and seeing what was afoot, he realized there was a delicate situation to smooth over.

"What? Granny?" exclaimed the butler. "I thought I had told you to stay put. Master — I apologize, this woman is a visitor in the servant's quarters, she did not mean to frighten you."

Grimhilde noted the address. "You are the master of this house?" she asked amiably, pushing off Lumiere's concerned effort to lead her away.

"I am," answered the prince. He still clutched the staff in his hands. "And you have not been invited in. Get out of here, now."

"Oh, master," protested Lumiere, "have a heart, she won't be any burden to you —"

The old woman ignored Lumiere and came towards the prince. The latter, seeing Lumiere's calm regard for the woman, grew a little more easy, though he still felt certain that she was not to be trusted.

"Oh, I didn't mean to frighten you, dearie," said the old woman, reaching into her cloak. "In fact, I had hoped to meet the master of this house. I would be a most inconsiderate guest if I did not provide a host's gift."

"Whatever it is, I don't want it," the prince answered rapidly. He leapt over the table and in a single motion unbolted the front door.

Focused on her action, the old woman proceeded as before. From a pocket in her cloak, she produced a single red rose — still lush and pristine despite the cold weather and despite that any normal flower should have become withered and mangled by being stored in such a way.

"Oh," the old woman began slowly, "but you see, this is not just any rose —"

"I don't care!" screamed the prince. "Go away! Go away now!"

Lumiere stepped towards him, hands clasped in plea. "Please, sir. She means you no harm."

Meanwhile the old woman began babbling on like ad copy in the Mercure de France, talking of the virtues of roses, how once he smelled it he wouldn't regret it, how there was no better rose than this rose, etc etc etc.

The prince was just appalled. "I don't care if it's the most beautiful rose in the entire universe, it won't make up for having your ugly face here!" he snapped with all his power.

"Don't be deceived by appearances," said the old hag, with a twinkle in her eye. "Beauty is found within."

She began to laugh again. She had just made up her mind about what she was going to do to this young man.

"I want you out!" the prince screamed, now raising the staff as if to hit her. He looked at Lumiere. "Help me throw her out!"

"Master, really," objected Lumiere. "You are overreacting! She is only a poor old woman."

It did not escape Grimhilde's notice that the servant was refusing the direct orders of his master. She'd have never stood for that back in Württemberg when she was queen — nor in any situation where she was mistress over a servant. What kind of a household was this? Still, she could hardly bring herself to object to an action that so helpfully advanced her own interests.

The prince now ran to the stairwell and began to call out for his footmen to assist. Grimhilde shook her head, reflecting that the footmen and porters ought to have been minding the front door the whole while. Meanwhile Lumiere continued to plead his case.

"You really ought to be ashamed," cried the butler, "throwing her out on a night like this! She could die out there in such cold!"

"Good!" answered the prince.

The plodding of footsteps could be heard in the stairwell, growing loud on approach. The prince began to scream for the men to hurry up. The cacophony attracted the attention of others in the castle, and from another entrance Cogsworth appeared, breathless, come to investigate the reason for the commotion.

"Hullo! What is going on here?" he panted.

Grimhilde could now see that her original tactic was not succeeding, indeed was getting out of hand, and that she would have to alter her strategy. Her mistake had been to operate on the assumption that the man at the door was only a porter or a guard, not the master of the house. Right from the outset he had appeared to be very put off by her grisly disguise. He would probably have responded better to her real appearance — though she certainly did not want to encourage a young man's amorous side. Did it matter, though? Things had fallen to the point that she no longer maintained any hope to stay the night, so what was the harm?

To remove her disguise was simple. The rare metal that was steel would cause it to shed. Holding the rose in her teeth, she began to dig through the pockets of her cloak for a little shard of the stuff that she kept. It had broken off from a knight's sword, ages ago; but to her it was still good, and nicely portable. All of the literal garbage in her pockets was useful material like that.

The footmen emerged just as she pulled forth the steel shard. The prince didn't even have time to explain what he wanted before the old hag lifted the shard to the crown of her head, and swept it downward towards her feet.

To the amazement of all in the room, her body — or rather the appearance her body had— was swept off with it. Each stroke loosed another strip, like peeling an orange. The servants froze in place at the sight before them, and even the prince watched in gaping awe.

Soon, her old woman persona was laying tattered on the floor, and melting slowly into oblivion. Amidst this debris stood Queen Grimhilde, in all her sinister beauty.

The prince was so astonished that he stumbled backward on the stair, and fell to the floor.

The noisesome crescendo had cut to silence. The beauty stood before them. Her old appearance which was scattered on the floor gave off a green glow, illuminating her form in a most chilling manner. Despite her motionless stance, the wind from the still-open door kept her skirts and hair in a constant movement.

"Is this more to your liking, young man?" she asked in a tone that now bore no pretense of friendliness.

The prince attempted to rise, but had fallen with his foot on the hem of his cape. When he stood he was pulled back down, and in his existing state of shock, this was interpreted as an order to stay put.

"You are a witch," he answered.

"And certainly you knew that, since you called me one?"

He was mute. He tried to even remember the last fifteen minutes, which in this commotion had come to seem like the passage of an age.

"Well, it is no matter now, young man. You were right! Let us have bygones be bygones, and accept this rose as my apology for having frightened you."

She took a step forward, holding the rose out to him. The prince attempted to withdraw but remained entangled in his cape, and could not move. The fact was, he did not want the rose. He had not wanted it even before he knew this woman was a witch, and he certainly did not want it now that there was no doubt about the matter.

"Keep your rose," he answered. "I don't need it."

"You will offend me if you don't take it," the wicked queen replied.

The young prince was growing more suspicious by the moment. Before he could ask her why she was so insistent that he take it, Cogsworth leapt into the exchange.

"Madam," he said, struggling to put on a professional and courteous air, although he was terrified as anyone. "On behalf of our master, allow me to accept your tremendous gift, and say how beautiful — "

Grimhilde cut him off. "It is not a gift for you, it is for your discourteous master, undeserving though he is."

Lumiere now hissed at the prince in the harshest of whispers. "You're upsetting her all the more! Just take the gift and apologize, before she puts a curse on us all!"

The prince tried for the third time to rise, more forcefully than before. It did not cause his cape to cease being underfoot. His sudden movement only made him stumble again, throwing him a few more inches toward the feet of the enchantress.

Under the circumstances, an apology did seem like a smart move. The trouble was, firstly, that the prince wasn't sorry; for everything before him appeared to confirm that he had been right all along. Secondly, he hadn't been obliged to apologize for anything in years, and did not claim much skill in the practice.

The servants looked pleadingly at him. The prince grumbled.

"Fine," he said flatly. "Sorry I called you a witch, even though it's true."

Grimhilde wrinkled her nose at that. If the apology had really been the point, she would have scolded him for his insincerity. But… "I accept the apology. Take it." She held the rose out to him. The rose was the catalyst for her spell, and she needed him to accept it before she could take further action.

The prince reached for it, whilst endeavoring once again to stand. This caused a misalignment of hands. Grimhilde, meaning to pass off the rose, instead dropped it to the floor.

"Well, pick it up," she said quickly. Her eyes widened in expectation.

Cogsworth took a step forward, bending as far as his rotund figure allowed.

"Sir," he said softly. "Please. Take the flower, apologize, and let's be done with this."

"And you, servant," the witch queen cried to Cogsworth, "learn your place. It is not for you to speak for your master."

"I beg your pardon, but we have equality now, in France."

"Equality…?" said the witch, puzzled.

"Indeed. You see, the philosopher Jean-Jacques Rousseau argues that there is a natural and an unnatural inequality in man. Natural, being those traits such as health, strength and beauty which are innate to the species but beyond any control, and unnatural being those conditions agreed to by common consent —"

"Oh my God, Cogsworth, just shut up!" cried the prince in outrage. He hated it when Cogsworth started on philosophy. "Look, look, I'm taking the stupid flower. Here!" He snatched it up at last and waved it around for everyone to see. Outside, there was a rumble of thunder: a storm was coming in.

Suddenly the prince was startled, and he dropped the blossom. "Ow! Stupid thorns…" He examined his hand to see if he was bleeding. He was.

And that was all that the evil queen required.

The grand feminine figure menaced towards the prince, leaving the green light behind and coming into the natural dim of the room. The little splinter of steel was once again in her hand.

"You know, I was a queen, once," she said with a regality that made one believe it. "And you, with a castle of this size, I should take it that you are… what, a duke?"

"Duke of Normandy, and Prince-royal," answered the prince slowly, wondering where she was going with all this, and concerned by it. He was still on his knees upon the floor. "But titles have been abolished."

"Well, an ex-duke and an ex-queen — I still outrank you," she said. "But I will give you a new title. How will you like that?"

The prince was becoming afraid again, sensing something sinister. "I don't want it. Whatever you're trying to give me, I don't want it."

She stood directly in front of him now. Outside of the castle a storm was coming in, and the new clouds crossed over the moon. The room grew several shades darker in the absence of the lunar light.

"Besser Ritter, als Knecht," she said and tapped him on the sides of the head with the shard, imitating the adoubement ritual. Then, in the old German knighthood tradition, she slapped him. "Oder Biest," she added.

The prince was sent reeling from the shock of the slap, which was harder than he could have imagined. He worried that he would pass out: he felt dizzy, and the world became a blur. That was all he noticed, before he really did indeed pass out.

Everyone else in the room observed something far more terrifying. Lumiere averted his eyes.

It was not a roaring transformation of scintillating lights and gilded beams — it was dark, obscured, and sudden, with a horrifying silence all the while. Yet a transformation did occur. The young man was no longer there. In his place was a creature of uncertain description — horned, fanged, furred, taloned, bipedal despite legs made for crawling, pawed hands, bulkier than a buffalo yet gangly as an orangutan.

The silence shattered with a low, unexpected laugh. Grimhilde, the so-called evil queen, chuckled softly—natural, subdued, not the sharp, menacing cackle one might expect. It didn't last long, but it was enough to cut through the heavy tension in the room. Then came the sharp sound of leather soles skidding over stone, followed by the solid thud of two bodies colliding. Lumiere, furious and impulsive, had launched himself at the queen. Though her magic made her formidable, her body was just human, and the two crashed to the floor in a fierce struggle.

"You filthy kraut!" Lumiere spat as he grappled with her, the insult landing with a venom that went beyond its mere meaning. Kraut. Like "witch" earlier, the word stung not for its truth but for the malice behind it. With a flash of her hand, the queen drove the shard she still held into his arm. Lumiere recoiled, hissing in pain as though stung by a needle. She scrambled away, clutching the shard like a weapon, her voice cutting through the chaos.

"I have crafted this spell to punish him for his rudeness," the queen continued, her tone oozing false authority. "But there is still a chance to stop it. Do as I say. Bring me the following items..." She listed a bizarre array of things: black dust, hide glue, a kettle, paint, a scrap of rag, an eggshell. The servants, uncertain and fearful, scattered to gather the odd ingredients. In half an hour, they returned, the room now filled with tension and dread and all the weird things she'd requested.

The prince lay motionless in the corner, his transformation complete, though none could say if he was still truly a prince at all. Lumiere, guilt gnawing at him, couldn't shake the feeling that he'd let a danger into their midst. He silently prayed this was some trick, a mere jest from a mischievous spirit who would soon be on her way.

Grimhilde, with quiet precision, began combining the ingredients in the kettle. Her movements were methodical, almost ritualistic. While she focusedly mixed the ingredients in special combinations, the prince awoke on his own. He was dazed and in pain. He groaned aloud, and was immediately frightened by the sound which he made: it was loud, deep, roaring. He squealed in fright, and again it was not his voice he heard.

Mrs. Potts, seeing that he had come to, hurried to him. His appearance was frightening, disgusting even, but she tried to remember that it was her young master, and to comfort him as if this had happened to one of her own children.

"There there," she said, not daring to embrace him, but petting him softly. "You've had an accident, but the nice lady over there is going to fix everything. Just be patient —"

The prince really noticed his arm for the first time: huge, furry. Expecting that this was something laid on him which should come off, he tried to brush it away without effect. Frightened, he began to pull at it, clawing himself, and growing all the more scared when he saw that he was beginning to bleed. Whatever was this thing he looked at, it moved with him, it shared pain with him, it controlled his place in the room. He was scarcely conscious of his own increasing screams, but everyone else could hear them plain as anything.

The queen did her best to ignore him as she continued with the spellwork.

The outside storm was now fully formed. It hammered the castle with hail whilst a ferocious wind rattled the windows on their settings. Occasionally there chanced a flash of lightning, followed by an immediate and deafening thunderclap.

The newly-made beast-prince screamed and sobbed louder than all of it. The combined sound was cacophonous, and the queen's mutterings as she mixed her questionable ingredients were obscured within the noise.

When it appeared that she had combined everything together as needed, she began to stir the gritty mash with the little sword shard. Wands, Grimhilde firmly believed, were for charlatans who needed to conceal magnets, flame throwers and flower bouquets inside. Anything that could be done with a wand could be done with something else just as readily — one's own two hands in most cases. But the shard was presently used not for a wand substitute: it was for the drop of Lumiere's blood she had on it. It wasn't just an instrument; it was a key to something far more sinister.

The servants, watching in silence, expected her to use the finished potion on the prince, to reverse the curse she had placed upon him. But Grimhilde had other plans. Without a word, she seized the kettle and strode out of the room, her footsteps echoing in the stone halls. The storm outside howled like a living thing, wind whipping her skirts into the air, rain pelting down in sheets, and hailstones battering her with their icy ferocity. Yet, she moved with purpose, her figure a dark silhouette against the wild tempest.

As she stepped into the open, she leaned protectively over the kettle, shielding its contents from the storm's fury. She stood for a moment, her hair wild in the gale, eyes narrowing as she aligned herself with the fierce wind. Then, with a voice low and sharp, she uttered the final words of the incantation — words waiting for this moment: "…And transform!"

She tossed the kettle-contents at the castle and watched as the thick powder was blown across the building.

Then, despite the howling of the wind, and the beating of the hail, and the roaring of the thunder, she could also hear the screams of agony coming from within the castle walls. They arose all at once, the voices of the entire staff in a unified horror. She knew her spell had succeeded.

Shielding her eyes from the relentless hail, she could just make out the transformations of the castle walls. One could perceive the vague change in the shape of the decorations, the blackening of the bright stone facing. In the distance there were more screams just audible amidst the storm: the groundskeepers, swineherds and milkmaids who lived on the attached lands were being affected as well.

Anxious to get back indoors, Grimhilde, now cackling in her youthful manner, returned to the castle through the front entrance again. In the anteroom she shook hailstones from her clothing amidst a chaotic scene of what looked like rubbish strewn all about. It was only on a close glance that one could see the little faces and perceive the movement of the objects. They were the castle's staff, transformed into furnishings and housewares — but still alive, still conscious, still mobile. Right now they were in shock: they barely noticed her, overwhelmed as they were in the fresh horror of their transformation. Their terrified sobs and screams filled the room.

In the corner was the young beast-prince. He had balled himself up, and he trembled visibly. The new-made beast looked upon the scene before him in silence, tears streaming from his wide eyes and wetting his fur. He made no sound, in contrast to everything else around him.

Then a great shadow appeared before him — the only human figure still left in the room. It was the witch-queen. She towered above him, and he feared she might have another ghastly adoubement in store; but terror froze him, and he could do nothing for or against it.

The wicked queen explained the situation to the dumbstruck prince: he had been transformed into a beast for the rest of his life as punishment for his insults against her. The staff were likewise transformed to retaliate for their insolence.

To this explanation the prince could make no reply, frozen in fright as he was. Every person he knew was scattered around him, groaning and screaming as household homunculi, their little bodies terrifying puppetlike monsters of wood, metal, porcelain, cloth or sculpted gesso.

In the meantime, Grimhilde did not wish to go outside in the raging storm for the third time, but she also did not dare sleep inside the castle — she would be strangled in her bed by some vengeful sentient coat-rack for sure. She figured she would merely pass a while in the warm and toasty indoors — wandering and roaming as she eternally was wont to do. As an immortal, she didn't need sleep the way that regular humans did, although like a regular human her mental faculties dulled whenever she was long deprived of it. She was already sleep deprived and felt it was no harm if she withstood more.

Humming a tune to herself, she climbed the stairway. Her magic had made little change to the interior of the castle — it was still decorated with fine art and furniture, and its weird gothic elements had been plentiful even before she applied her hand to it. It was simply that now some of the furniture had merged with the household staff. Still, the whole population of Paris would have needed to be in the castle if every item would merge — the majority of furnishings were still just dead wood and giltwork as before, sparkling undisturbed in their usual locations.

It had been a long time since she was inside a real palace, and she was impressed by the modern conveniences, and the spacious rooms. When she found the library she nearly flipped. She had been thought to have a large collection of books back in her heyday, possessing an unheard of 90 titles. That was back when books were copied out by hand. Here, thousands of volumes were stacked before her on shelves that reached hundreds of feet into the air. In curiosity, she pulled down a book at random: it was a dictionary of French and English words. She walked a few paces and pulled out another book, and found it was another dictionary of French and English by a different author. Closer examination showed that a full four shelves were devoted to this single topic.

A few feet ahead she could hear a muffled cry. Locating its source, she found it was a book that had merged with a person. He was terrified and baffled by his sudden change in form and the attendant darkness that came of the book being closed at the moment. The queen picked him up from the floor and opened it. A face stared back at her.

"What's happened? What's happened?" desperately cried the face, eyes scouting about for whatever information it could find in its limited view.

"You have been transformed into a book," answered the queen in that bratwurst tone. "Everyone in the castle has been transformed."

"How? How can this be?" cried the book, who previously had been the chief librarian.

"Well, I had to do it to teach your master a lesson about insulting people he doesn't really know," she replied flatly. "I put a curse on everyone."

"You monster!" cried the stunned book. "How could you? He's only ten years old! What could he have done to merit this? Couldn't you have just given him a spanking and been done with it?"

The queen was surprised at this. "You say your master is only ten years old?"

"Yes! An overgrown ten, granted — but ten."

The queen pursed her lips thoughtfully. A young man of fourteen or fifteen was legally old enough to be married, and having his life on track should have known better than to shout insults at people. A boy of ten was a bit different.

"Interesting," she said aloud. She began to close the book, but he objected.

"Please! Have mercy! Don't close me again!"

The queen obliged, and set him in a standing position upon a shelf, pages cracked slightly open. She leaned against a shelf and continued her conversation. "So your ten year old master. Where are his parents?"

"The king and queen…?" replied the book, perplexed at what seemed irrelevant history in such a shocking moment. "They were guillotined. The rebels caught them, a few years ago. We were sent out here to stay safe, where no one could find us. Everything was brought here for safekeeping. Even this library is the national library, sent for safekeeping."

The queen's frown deepened as she realized she had messed with greater matters than she had intended. She thanked the book for his information, and would have given him a reward could she think of anything a book would be in need of. (It was customary to tip a servant and, afterall, she did like to reward in equal measure with her punishments. But she could think of nothing for him.)

Through the grand windows she could see the storm outside was clearing up. The gold hues of dawn simmered behind the dark clouds. Grimhilde descended the numerous staircases until she was once again in the antechamber. Some of the servants had gone off, but many remained laying on the floor in a state of confused exhaustion. The prince was just as she had left him, not having shifted an inch.

She approached the young man (really, boy) again. Her manner with him was somewhat altered from before, and she knelt as she spoke to him. He still made no movement in response to her presence. The shock and terror remained apparent on his face, but one could also see sleepiness and fatigue setting in.

"It seems we are both getting a lesson about not judging by one's appearance," she said to him. He made no answer. "I am going to go for a little walk, while I think about what is to be done. Do not be afraid. I shall have a solution for you soon."

The prince still made no reply. The queen managed a sorry smile for him, and patted him gently on the head.

And with that, she left for her walk.