The beast had returned to his castle intending to wait up for Grimhilde. To his dismay, she had not returned by midnight. For years he had feared what would happen if the woman came back into his life; now he feared the consequences if she failed to do so.

Too anxious and excited to sleep after the recent events, he paced and prowled the dark hallways for hours. Eventually, a light came to him.

"Monsieur," said Lumiere, arching his spine to meet the distant gaze of his master, "why don't you go to sleep? Someone will announce when the woman returns."

"I want to stay up," said the prince. "She thinks she can fix this."

"Well," Lumiere said coolly, "the proof shall come when the time comes."

He was about to suggest again that his master go to bed, but the prince remained absorbed in his thoughts.

"Do you know what her name is? Has she ever said it?" asked the prince.

Lumiere tried to recall. "The kr — the woman? I don't believe that she has," he replied.

"Lumiere? What is my name?"

It was a surprising question, and it took the butler a moment to recall the answer, so rarely was it used. "That would be Louis-Charles Capet, sir."

The prince grunted thoughtfully. The name would continue unused, but it was good for him to know it. "Do you believe that the woman is really a queen?" he asked.

Lumiere hesitated. "Well, I have seen stranger things happen to royalty," he said, struggling not to chuckle in discomfort. "I think it is possible; though I don't suppose she is queen of any normal country."

"Do you think she's telling the truth, that she can reverse the spell?" asked the prince.

"Well… no, sir."

"Why not?" asked the prince, alarmed.

"Because she has lied to us about that once before," said Lumiere with an air of submission. "But," he added, instantly seeing the dismay he had caused his master, "I may be wrong."

The prince made another thoughtful noise, then without saying anything else he climbed down from the ceiling and retired to his bedchamber.

Lumiere watched the lumbering creature retire, and only when he was very sure that the master was safely tucked away, he began to laugh: not a cackle of amusement or satisfaction, but of surprise and disbelief. That had been the first time in years he had pried more than three words from the prince.

He soon found himself boasting about it to Babette; his poor Babette who had been quite the Venus, quite the Cleopatra, quite the Messalina, before being merged with a feather duster. Their romance had been hot and heavy before they were transformed, a thing which their monstrous little forms deprived them of the power to maintain in the normal fashion; but they remained attracted to each other, and did as much as they still could. With he a candelabrum, it was a bad combination, for he was constantly at risk of catching her feathers aflame when he touched her. He had found ways to put his flames out, but they tended to reignite by themselves if he became excited or surprised – and that was constantly, with her.

Since the transformation, their favorite rendezvous point was inside of an empty cabinet, now very scorched from years of this use. After the usual frivolities, the two sat cuddling together, Lumiere trying to keep his arms high so as not to ignite her.

To find anything to talk about, in a castle where nothing new ever happened, was normally a challenge; even for Lumiere, who had been hired expressly for being a more outgoing and fun-loving creature than certain others on the staff. Yet the butler hadn't had much good feeling to share for a while. Still, tonight there was suddenly much to talk about – or rather, to gossip.

"I helped Mrs. Potts and Omphale to attend her when she slept last night!" Babette chirped happily. "I got a look at her clothes – oh, they are filthy! That woman must be some kind of vagrant! If you think the master lets himself get dirty, you have seen but the work of an amateur!"

"Well, she keeps veritable merde in her pockets. What more can be expected?" laughed Lumiere.

"That's what I would have expected from a demon – that is, I supposed that she is just disgusting, and likes it. But she wanted a bath as soon as we could get it, and she cleaned herself up, although she didn't want us to launder her pockets. She said she had too many valuables inside. But then, I would think a human would want to eat sometimes, and yet she refused anything we offered – even water."

"What else did you offer?" asked Lumiere. "We've barely had food for years."

"Bouche boiled some pinecones."

Lumiere raised an eyebrow in disdain. Boiled pinecones to guests, really! "I suppose I can understand her viewpoint."

"And then," Babette added cheerfully, "she gave me a piece of soap as a tip!" She declared it proudly, like this was an accomplishment.

Soap actually was a rare treasure in the castle. The prince's coffers were filled with money and jewels, but without the ability to go into town to spend any of it, they were no better than decoration. The goods which money could buy were what were coveted.

"I suppose the woman isn't all bad," said Lumiere. "Though — I dread to think what price she might force us to pay for it!"

Whispers about the woman continued into the daylight. When Grimhilde was not back by noontime, the beastly prince scaled the castle walls and perched himself upon one of the rose-tiled turrets, watching the paths for as far as his eyes could perceive, seeking any sign of her.

For the rest of the day he remained like this, anxious, frightened even, by every passing moment which added evidence to the case that she would not be returning.

It was a little before sundown when he observed her arsenic-green gown and long blonde hair plodding up the pathway. She had an armload of something. The prince rushed down to meet her, bypassing the doors by sliding down the castle walls and racing across rooftops. Reaching her at last in what remained of the front garden, he was surprised to see red stains on her clothing.

"You're covered in blood!" he exclaimed, shocked.

"Yes, but on the good side I got a free alembic," Grimhilde replied with no emotion. Her arms were loaded with glassware which she had to haul with caution.

The servants had been as anxious for Grimhilde's return as the prince had been. Someone was waiting at the entrance and opened it for her – a first for her.

The prince followed her into the antechamber. Whilst he felt relief that the witch had finally returned to lift the curse from him and his house, he was being reminded again just why it was that he feared her.

"…Did you really kill someone for an alembic?" he asked in disbelief.

She replied with her customary flatness. "Adam, I would never kill a perfect stranger for an alembic."

"So does that… mean you killed a perfect stranger for something else?" he asked hesitantly.

Grimhilde was anxious to set down the heavy armful she had. "If you keep mixing words around all day, you can make anything sound bad," she answered impatiently. "I require a table!" she commanded, shouting her order.

A four-legged table hurried out to meet her. She put the glass alembic and other distillation supplies on it.

"And where is your steward?" she asked Adam. "I have some instructions for him."

The subject quite changed, Adam helplessly turned to the stairwell and bellowed loud as he could that unpronounceable English name: "Cogsworth!"

In a moment, an ornate clock of wood and brass came scrambling down the stairs. Breathless, he forced a smile. "Yes, sir?"

The prince wordlessly motioned that Grimhilde was to take command from here. She stepped forward.

"Are you the steward?" she asked, head held high.

"Yes. I am Benjamin Cogsworth, the steward of this castle," the clock answered with an automatic formality, bowing to her.

"Very good," said the queen. "Now, see here. I have made some arrangements for you in the town. Once a fortnight, a man will come to the bridge before the castle, and leave a cart full of supplies: sugar, flour, candles, soap, oil. All the usual things one buys in town. He does not expect to meet anyone; he only expects to find a pouch of money waiting for him each time. He will leave the cart, retrieve it when he comes with the next. You shall be very careful to ensure he is paid. He comes tomorrow for the first time."

The queen said nothing else, merely climbing the stairs in a swish of skirts. Cogsworth and Adam were stunned. They remained where they were, almost frozen.

"So…" said Adam, the reality suddenly hitting him. "We are going to have food again?" There was a warm feeling in his breast that he hadn't felt in a long time; a spark of joy.

Cogsworth could scarcely believe it either. "I'll… ah… I will let Bouche and Lumiere know, so they can prepare the pantry," he said, ready to burst with excitement. He nearly laughed. "Food again! Candles again! It's unbelievable!"

Anticipating the first happy event he'd known in years, the beast forgot all about his concerns regarding just where the enchantress had acquired her science supplies, which now sat forgotten on the table before them.

There was one more day before the delivery of groceries would come, one more dinner to manage before the reinforcement would arrive. Lumiere had been insistent that pinecones were too humiliating a dish for a respectable household to serve to any guest, even to someone like that woman. "We've lost our bodies, but we mustn't lose our dignity," he commanded.

Since it was summertime, the fruit trees were producing; but it was late in the season and the best fruits were long picked over. The servants managed enough cherries to make two small dishes.

The beast could not easily handle dainty utensils like forks and spoons in his massive paws. It was simpler for him to eat directly from the bowl, much like a dog. Some of the more dexterous castle staff (mainly spoons and knives) had removed the stones and stems from the harvested fruit and prepared a bowl for him to eat from. Not considerably better mannered than a dog, he was content to eat it in the kitchen, where the fire from Bouche's stove offered some light. Grimhilde, observing him from the doorway, was offered a plate of fruit for her own dinner, but she politely refused.

"I really would not wish to put you out," said Grimhilde. "If someone else needs more food, he should have it." She eyed the beast as she spoke.

Adam looked up from his dish of food, his face a mess with fruit pulp. "Do you not eat?"

"I am able to eat," answered Grimhilde, "but it is not necessary. If I went a hundred years without food, I'm sure it would do me no harm."

The beast was realizing something about her for the first time. "Do you… not die?"

"I do not die; or at least, not the way anyone else would," she replied stiffly. "I remember the night I discovered it. There was a storm. I had… well, I was being chased, by a group of men. I climbed what I thought was a hilltop, to evade them, but too late I discovered that it was a cliff. I was trapped. I sought to push a large boulder down on them, as they pursued me. Then a bolt of lightning struck the cliffside. I fell, and the boulder tumbled after me. It crushed me flat. I was trapped like that for a week, at the bottom of the valley."

"But it didn't hurt you?"

"Oh, it hurt. But that was how I knew something unnatural had transpired. Nobody ought to have survived that, but I did; and there have been many more incidents since then. I've frozen solid in the wintertime and thawed unscathed; I've gone months without food or water; I've been the loser in knife fights; and I am sure I have drowned at least once. But, here I am." She held out her arms in display.

The prince was intensely interested, despite the way that his preoccupation with licking fruit pulp from his fur made him seem distracted. "Are you — um — are you a fairy? Or an elf? Or a nymph?" he asked, offering possibilities.

She almost looked as if she would blush. "Oh, I am just an old crone who experienced an unforeseen side-effect from a spell. I used to be very preoccupied with my looks, and I did spells on myself to stay young and beautiful. I am sure that is what did it. I had to be the fairest of them all. I even had a magic mirror, that I would use to investigate rivals. I would ask if anyone was more beautiful than I was, and if anyone was…" She gestured with her hands the slitting of a throat.

"A magic mirror?" asked the fascinated prince, interest in this mysterious object overriding any weight to her first actual admission of being a murderer. "How does that work?"

"You don't know about magic mirrors? Haven't you an Albertus Magnus in that library of yours?"

"A what?"

"A spellbook. It has the recipe. You just take any old mirror and…" she stopped.

"What?" insisted the prince. "Tell me."

"No," said Grimhilde, drawing it out like she was changing her mind. "Maybe in a year or two. But at your age, you would only use it to look at all the women undressing."

The prince was a bit shocked by the accusation, which truly had never occurred to him. Though now that she had put it into his head, it didn't sound like a terrible idea. "I wasn't going to…" he muttered sadly.

Grimhilde smiled kindly. "It isn't important right now. We don't have time for making mirrors anyway. Tomorrow we will find some more ingredients, and soon we'll have the spell upon you all fixed. That's really what you want, isn't it?"

Indeed, it was what he wanted more than anything in the world. And she knew it.

"Well, I suppose I ought to have some rest in preparation. I'll see you tomorrow, Adam."

She turned to leave. But suddenly the beast called out to her:

"Wait!"

She stopped.

"Tell me your name," he said, his voice gruff despite the underlying plea.

"It's Grimhilde."

"Grimhilde? What a horrible name!" declared the prince.

"What do you mean?" she asked, seemingly unfazed. "It's a beautiful name. It means, 'a ruthless woman who wears a mask in battle.'"

The prince was skeptical. "You joke."

"No, it's a very typical name… or it was at one time. The German countries were all little city-states at war with one another, so battle was very important. All of our names are battle names. Wilhelm — the willful helmet-wearer. Sigmund — the protector of victory. Mathilda — the one who is strong in battle with a mask."

"Why would anyone wear a mask in battle?" asked the prince.

"So the enemy doesn't slice your nose off with his sword," said Grimhilde. "It would be part of your armor. I think in French it's called a casque corinthien."

"Oh! Like on the pictures of Athena," said the prince, who like any art-lover of his era had seen plenty of depictions of the classical gods.

"Correct," said Grimhilde.

The man had unhitched the cartful of groceries an hour ago; after a too-long wait to ensure he had gone away, the burlap sacks were dragged to the kitchen by the bulkier servants. At last it was time for the unveiling. The staff gathered round to see what treasures awaited.

It was the steward and the butler who had the honors of opening the packages. Cogsworth hauled out a paper bag filled with something heavy. He tore it open and examined its contents.

"Sugar!" he cried, delighted.

Everyone oohed and ahhed. It had been years since there was sugar in the castle!

More packages were opened, revealing coffee, wheat flour, semolina, salt, starch, cheese, spices, and butter. Another bag was loaded with bottles of wine, olive oil, medicines, vinegar, ink. The third bag had goods like paper, soap and candles.

Bouche was ecstatic. "Flour! Butter! Spices!" he squealed in delight. "I can cook a real dish again!"

"What was the last one you did, then?" asked one of the serving platters. "Was it the candle-wax flan?"

"No, but I remember it well," said Bouche. "It was the stewed rat dressed in library-paste béchamel."

The servants began dragging the goods to their appropriate shelves and cabinets.

The only thing that could have tempted Adam away from the unveiling of the food was seeing Grimhilde at work on the spell which would soon put an end to his curse. However, he was finding it all somewhat disappointing, as it seemed to largely require that one sit and wait for ingredients to mix together, so they would eventually become new ingredients, which then also needed mixing.

"I need you to come down from the ceiling so I can get a drop of your blood. I promise I will try to make it painless," she called.

The beast didn't love the idea of giving up blood, but he could suppose it was necessary. He leapt down from the ceiling of the gallery which Grimhilde had commandeered for her potion-making. The room shook with his landing.

Grimhilde used a long pin to stab the pad of his paw. A drop of blood formed, which she squeezed into a bowl filled with another whiteish substance.

"Why does this spell take so long?" asked Adam, growing testy, and annoyed by the pain. "The one you did at first only took a few minutes."

Grimhilde began mixing the ingredients together like they were batter. "What, you think I turned your servants into furniture because I wanted that? How does it even make sense? It was just a spell I knew I could do easily… and your servants had been annoying me with bad service and nationalist insults." She stopped her mixing. "Now, hold still. I need to rub this on you, to prepare you for the next step."

She began to slather the prince's fur with this white, creamy substance. Immediately he began to feel a chill.

"What is that stuff? It's freezing."

"Thawed snow, the tears of an almond, the toil of a thousand bees, the thoughts of a monstrous whale, some herbs, and of course your blood."

The prince grumbled. He knew enough to recognize that was the recipe for cold cream, but he figured he'd better let Grimhilde do whatever she needed. The beast looked, and felt, ridiculous with his fur covered in sticky grease. Grimhilde had taken the rest of her cold cream potion and hurried outdoors, without explaining what she was about; thus leaving him to stand, awkward and confused and oily, while he waited for her return.

He no longer knew what to think of this witch-woman, who for so many years he had lived in fear of. She was stunningly beautiful, undeniably, and to most fifteen year old boys that alone would have been adequate to win their esteem. But between the harm she had done him, the insolent way she spoke to him, and her numerous disgusting habits like wearing blood-soaked clothes and carrying about feces and animal parts, the prince could not muster a feeling of attraction nor, even, comfortability towards her. Yet as he got to know her, he was discovering she had something else to speak for her: she was interesting. She was intelligent. And, perhaps most unusually, she was fallen royalty, just like him. Whatever admiration he had for her was far short of romantic, but she was beginning to feel like a strange cousin come to visit (which, given the marriage habits of royalty, she likely was) rather than an enemy.

Finally, when Grimhilde returned, she was holding before her a rather large, brightly glowing, shimmering rose. It was gorgeous to behold, emitting its pink light, radiating with its venusian properties.

"Here, catch!" she said, and tossed it carelessly at him.

Adam caught the flower in his paws.

"Take very good care of that," she said. "Your life is bound up in that flower."

Now Adam was flabbergasted. "And you just threw that at me?"

"It is your responsibility, not mine," she said in her usual calm and slightly testy tone. "So take very good care of that rose. Put it where it won't be molested or mangled. Don't let anyone else touch it. Anything happens to it, it's on you, and I cannot promise it will be reparable. Not even by me."

The prince was distressed by the sudden responsibility. "Is this part of the spellwork?" he asked.

"Yes. Everything else I will do from here onward is tied to that rose — and to you."

Adam tried to hold it very carefully by the stem, wincing as he pricked his paws on the thorns. "What should I do with it?"

"Put it away for safekeeping."

Adam called for Mrs. Potts, who being busy in the kitchen took a fair amount of time to hop upstairs. While they waited, Adam asked Grimhilde: "So… how much is left to do?"

"A great deal," she replied. "And recall, we are not working one, but two different spells."

"But, this will break the spell?"

"Nothing can break the spell. I can only cast a new spell to override the first. Something to beautify what I made ugly; but it is far easier to create ugliness than it is to create beauty."

At last Mrs. Potts arrived in the gallery. She was surprised to see her master with his fur matted in oil and and holding a large glittering flower, but she simply smiled and asked what the matter was.

"I need to take care of this rose," said Adam, rather gently, to Mrs. Potts. "It is very important. Where will it be safe?"

The housekeeper was drawing a blank. "Sir," she said, "the only way I can guarantee it will be safe is if you won't go around breaking whatever furniture it's in." He had a bad habit of doing that.

"I won't," said Adam, very gravely. "This rose is of the utmost importance."

"He'll die if that rose gets damaged," warned Grimhilde, boredly, her eyes apparently fixed on something more interesting that was outside the window.

Now Mrs. Potts understood. "Well," she said, "I suppose we'd best keep it in your room, sir, where no one else will disturb it. I'll find a cover for it; there may be a bell jar downstairs that escaped the curse. I'll have someone to bring it up to you."

She hopped downstairs at once, while the beast gingerly transported the most important blossom in the world to his bedchamber, where surely it would be safe. He put it upon his favorite table, the one decorated with all the gesso carvings of naked people – he wouldn't dare overturn that one, no matter how mad he became.

Then it was on to collect more ingredients for the spells.

Blood. Blood. Blood and bits of puke. Adam and Grimhilde were covered in it. A massacred forest deer — the source of the substances. But Grimhilde had been able to acquire what she needed: in a jar, she had trapped the ethereal essence of the death rattle.

Next on the list, the gilded sunbeam. It was easy and pleasant to obtain: Grimhilde and Adam climbed the castle turret before dawn, and captured a solar ray just as it broke the nearby clifftops.

For the spark of joy, Grimhilde caught it from an upbeat little servant who had taken the form of a teacup.

The live rose — they already had that. There was but one last thing they needed: the true love's warmth, to melt it all together.

Lumiere and Babette were summoned to the gallery. Now was the time to put them, and their passionate love, to the test.

The butler and chambermaid felt awkward and nervous standing before the prince and queen who towered above their own monstrous little forms. They'd have liked to hold hands for comfort, but Babette had no hands, and Lumiere's mitts of hot wax would have scalded them if she did. But if all went well, soon this would be remedied. They would be human again at last.

"Well, let's get on this," said Grimhilde, uncorking an empty glass jar. The glass was slightly blackened, like it had been smoked in something. "You two have true love. So, let us see it."

Lumiere and Babette eyed one another, unsure what to do. How does one display true love?

"Um. Oh, how I love you, Lumiere!" declared Babette rather artificially. She was very nervous, and the actual emotion she felt was more towards timorousness than true affection.

Grimhilde groaned. "This is not the village Christmas play. Come! Real emotion."

Eyes watching for Grimhilde's reaction, Lumiere gave Babette a peck on the cheek.

"Better," said Grimhilde. "Perhaps you could —"

Before she could finish, Lumiere mustered the heat of passion from his little waxen entrails and he scooped Babette into his arms, flung her back and kissed her passionately. His candle flames fizzled brightly.

"Wonderful!" cried Grimhilde, corking her jar. "I think that shall do. Thank you, Lumiere, Babette."

"Can we stay to watch the spell?" asked Babette eagerly.

Grimhilde shrugged, signifying they could do what they liked. Her rather elaborate still was set up across the room, and she carried the jar to it. "I believe we have everything needed to start," she said.

"Don't you need the rose?" asked Adam.

"We shan't need it till the final step," said Grimhilde, setting the jar beside the contraption. "First, we have to mix these items together, and purify them."

She poured everything but the jar of true love into her alembic, a small oil burner providing the heat. And then… nothing. The process clearly was not swift.

"That shall take a few hours," Grimhilde warned. "It's possible we shall not be able to combine the true love till tomorrow."

There was a groan of disappointment from Adam, Lumiere and Babette.

"Tomorrow! Another day?" whined Adam.

"Indeed," said Grimhilde, "probably another day. But what is one more day? The castle doesn't seem so bad now. I don't think I could have collected a spark of joy here when I first arrived. You can wait a little more."

Lumiere struggled to be courteous. "It may be difficult for one who is not afflicted to understand what it is like for those of us that are."

"I understood it perfectly well when I placed the affliction," said Grimhilde, testily. She examined her lab equipment as she spoke. "Nevertheless, it takes time to make these ingredients. Otherwise, I promise you, I would have removed the whole thing on the very first evening I did it, disguised as the old hag."

"Why did you wear that disguise?" asked the prince, perturbed now that he was thinking about it. "I wouldn't have called you ugly if you hadn't been ugly."

Grimhilde turned her eyes toward him and glared. "Do you like to be called an overdramatic, spoiled, suicidal rat-eater? I can prove all of it's true."

Adam winced. "But why the disguise?" he asked again.

"It attracts less attention. It's easier. People don't become so attached to it. The world is a terrifying place, and to be attractive has a way of attracting its inhabitants. They might be a little nicer, more courteous, when you look like an attractive young woman, but it's all artificial. They just like the ideal the beauty represents, and flee when they discover there is any real emotion or personality or character beneath. Or worse, they continue to be drawn to the beauty alone while they despise the personality."

"Perhaps you wouldn't have so much trouble with that," said Lumiere, "if you were a bit nicer to people."

Grimhilde's eyes went wide at the remark. Clearly Lumiere had hit a chord with her.

She began to laugh — a crazy, explosive sort of cackle. Her audience was distressed by the sound of her wild voice's echo across the gallery.

"Lumiere," she said, giggling, "it is only in the persona of the old hag that I can afford to be nice to anyone."

There was excitement in the house as the first real dinner in years was to be served. They had hoped for it to be a celebratory feast after the transformation, but with that delayed for another day, the ability to produce a feast was felt enough of an event to celebrate.

Grimhilde was invited, but had required some coaxing. She argued she was too tired after the work she'd done: but Babette reminded that if it was true what was said in the old maxim, Qui dort dîne ("one who sleeps, eats") then it must also operate in reverse, and eating would prove as refreshing as sleeping.

The wardrobe, a friendly female who was originally one of the prince's musicians, came forward and offered Grimhilde a fresh outfit to wear for dinner. Throwing open her doors, she watched as Grimhilde blinked disbelief at the fine women's clothing presented.

"Were the scullery girls scrubbing up in ball gowns, or does he just have a bunch of nude gentleladies tied up in the basement?" asked Grimhilde, touching the clothes.

The wardrobe laughed. "Oh, no. Master used to be quite the little arteest. He designed these outfits and made them himself. I think he intended to give them to his sister for a present, but, we never heard from her again. Her loss is your gain!"

"These are very strange designs," said Grimhilde, in a tone that wasn't exactly disapproving.

"Well, he was a ten year old boy. Still, he kept up with the art journals and knew the fashions. If you could say anything complementary about that kid, it's that he had a good eye."

Grimhilde cracked a smile at that. "What of these has room for my pocket-panniers?"

The wardrobe thrust forward a wide-skirted pink dress that looked rather more childish than Grimhilde preferred, but, which she had to admit was more presentable than her old Schloss-green gown grown threadbare with years of use.

Meanwhile, the dining room was being tidied up as much as possible on short notice. Smashed furniture was removed, the floors swept and walls dusted.

Even the prince didn't really understand what was the need to come down to a formal dinner. He'd have enjoyed the food just as much in his room. However, the servants convinced him it would be fun, a celebration, a taste of the future to come. "Afterall," said Mrs. Potts, "you'll be human again soon enough, and you'll need to be able to act like a gentleman."

The prince reluctantly acceded.

The castle's first cooked meal was an aristocrat's dream dinner for sure. Pastries, breads, cheese spreads. Another luxury that had been thought lost: wine, which no French meal could be without. The only thing wanting was meat. That could be brought from town in the colder months, but was ill-advised for the long transport during summer; Adam would need to continue catching any non-vegetarian entrees, unless he would raise it himself.

The beast's fur still bore a few traces of the ointment that had been applied to him earlier in the day. He sat himself at one end of the table, finding the chair rather uncomfortable for his animalistic anatomy. It was really only the discomfort of sitting that made him remember the rule of etiquette that one should stand when a lady enters the room.

Grimhilde walked in wearing the big pink dress. Though she did not particularly look bad in it, it suited her poorly.

Adam remembered the dress, but actually felt embarrassed at the recognition. At ten, the idea of being arbiter of fashion had seemed a great aspiration; at fifteen, the idea of sewing women's clothes struck him as something regrettably unmasculine.

The pair took seats at the table.

"I apologize if my table manners might have degraded," said Grimhilde. "I haven't sat down to a formal dinner since before you would have been born."

Adam mumbled, somewhat nervously. "I'll be doing well if I can avoid swallowing the actual plates."

Grimhilde laughed, which irritated Adam. Still, it felt like a good sign that she seemed to be in an uncharacteristically good mood.

Food was brought, and they began to eat ravenously. Adam found the chair uncomfortable and perched himself on the end of it as he ate. Conversation was scarce; neither had enjoyed real food in a very long time, and both were quite hungry. Grimhilde did not need food to live, but her body still recognized it as fuel when it came; and Adam was always hungry, doubly so when the food was actually tasty.

It was not long before the meal was gobbled away. Both the ex-royals leaned back in their chairs, and sighed contently. There was a strange silence left that needed to be broken.

"By the way," said Grimhilde, taking up the task, "I don't want to alarm you, but I might have botched the spell this afternoon."

Adam suddenly felt his blood run cold. "What do you mean?" he asked, affrighted.

"It's nothing too bad," said Grimhilde very calmly. "Instead of making it that you would change when you found true love or turned twenty-one, I may have mistakenly altered it that you must have true love before you turn twenty-one, or else the spell won't work at all. I had to use the same rose for both spells, and it tangled them in a strange way that I had not planned for."

That didn't sound so bad, thought Adam. To him, age twenty-one seemed like an impossible distance away; a ticking clock didn't matter, since he would surely have things resolved long before then. "But it will still reverse with what we have?"

"Not reverse —"

"It will correct the spell?" he asked, remembering what she told him.

"Yes. So, as long as we do all that, it will be fine," she said, as the ewer of wine scuttled along the table to refill her glass. "But that is for tomorrow."

The following day, Lumiere and Babette were the first ones in the gallery. Anxious as everybody was to see the curse at an end, it could not rightly be said anyone wanted it more than they; and they had an additional stake in the outcome, now that they had provided the true love.

A cup filled of some kind of clear, distilled substance could be seen under the spout of the alembic. The oil burner had died out during the night.

"Do you think it worked?" asked Babette, approaching the distillation tools close as she dared.

"Something has happened, for sure," Lumiere answered.

"But just think — today! We will be back to our old selves again!" cried the little duster, bouncing with joy.

"So it is said. But…" Lumiere hesitated, not wanting to think such a terrible thought himself let alone subject his beloved to it. "But have you noticed how that woman always has some excuse ready? Some reason why she needs to delay a while longer?"

Babette considered it, her thoughts growing more serious all of a sudden. "But if she didn't mean to lift the curse, why would she have come back at all? And if she meant us more harm, she would have done it by this time. Perhaps it is not so strange that it takes a while for her spell."

"But could that be the answer? Perhaps the harm she means is what takes time."

"Oh, Lumiere! You become such a pessimist when it comes to that woman!"

"Not without reason."

"Well, I certainly hope you are wrong."

"So do I, Babette." He sighed, exasperated. "They do say that the amount of craziness increases proportionally with the amount of beauty," he continued. "And I cannot deny, the woman is beautiful."

"Does that mean I am crazy?" giggled Babette, affectionately snuggling against him.

Lumiere smiled. "No, you are the rare exception," he said, thinking all the while of the quantities of crazy she regularly supplied to him. But such little lies were the practice of love and kindness.

Soon, into the gallery walked the cause of and solution to all of their problems, the evil queen herself. She made no perceptible reaction to the presence of the butler and chambermaid, but she did greet them, and continued directly to the alembic.

"I believe it is done," she said. She took up the glass of liquid. "You know your master best. Shall we call him to watch? Or should we begin without him?"

"I think he'll be happier the sooner it is done," said Lumiere with enthusiasm. The notion that this might be the end to his miserable condition at last was enough to send a chill through his little brass body.

"Very well," said Grimhilde. And so she took the cup of distilled matter over to the jar in which she had captured the essence of true love.

Everyone held their breath as she uncorked the jar, and carefully poured in the colorless, distilled liquid. The potion began to fizz — and then, it made a flatuous noise, fell, and solidified.

Lumiere and Babette didn't know what the jar was supposed to have done, but, evidently it was not that.

"Oh no — no!" cried Grimhilde, shaking the jar desperately. Grimhilde cried out in anger. "You little fools! This wasn't true love!" She threw the jar in frustration, and it shattered in the corner of the room.

Babette and Lumiere were horrified as much by the accusation as they were by the evident failure of the spellwork.

"What do you mean it's not true?" asked Babette, shocked.

"If it were true love, it would have worked — but no. That was a dud. I knew it! I knew a pair of servants wouldn't have true love."

Babette cried out in horror. Lumiere stepped forward, becoming angry.

"The love is true enough!" he declared. "What isn't true, are these tales you keep giving us about how you'll reverse the spell! Clearly you sabotaged the work yourself!"

"Sabotaged?" sneered Grimhilde. "How could I? The carpets in this place literally have eyes. If I had sabotaged anything, I would have been seen."

"You could have done it at any time. You could have done it right now. Nobody knows what your processes are," shouted Lumiere.

"Indeed!" cried Grimhilde, her chin in the air, the evil queen evident once again. "Nobody knows these spells but me! Which is precisely why you shall stop acting as if you have any idea what is about here!"

Lumiere's courage fell. She was correct about that — he really didn't know how the magic worked. Could it really have been that he and Babette weren't in love?

"Now listen carefully," hissed Grimhilde through her teeth. "We can collect all the ingredients and try again, but if we don't have the true love, the entire spell will fail. Moreover, we don't have all the time in the world to acquire it. That impatient master of yours insisted on something that would transform him before he was twenty-one — well, guess what, now the cure has to be found before he's twenty-one, or it's not happening at all."

If a candelabrum and a feather duster could go pale, surely it would have happened at this time.

The queen turned away in disgust. "I leave it to you to inform the prince of what has transpired. I am sure he will not be happy. Make sure he holds his temper — or at least, that he doesn't do anything to the rose. If there's any hope left for this spell to succeed, and for you to be changed back, it relies upon that rose."

At that, Grimhilde stormed from the room. Babette began to weep. Lumiere could only stare after the woman, horrified.

After he calmed Babette as far as he was capable, Lumiere's immediate action was to inform Cogsworth of what had transpired. The steward was dismayed, of course, to learn of the failure of the spell; but he also understood that it was going to be a chore to tactfully inform the master of such bad news. It was decided that the prince might take the report best from Mrs. Potts, and so she was summoned.

Thus the trio of butler, steward and housekeeper mentally prepared themselves outside of the prince's door. Their plan was to enter together, at which time Mrs. Potts would break the bad news, and Lumiere and Cogsworth would guard the rose against any harm to come during the inevitable tantrum.

"This is it!" announced Cogsworth. "All together now. One, two, three!"

The trio pushed open the chamber doors in unison, then shambled their hardware bodies inside, such as they were cursed to do.

The beast's outbursts together with his habit of taking his fresh-killed meals into his room had long ago destroyed the beauty of the once-exquisite bedchamber, but the consequences of Grimhilde's protection spells had rendered even more damage. The place felt more like a mausoleum than a royal room.

The beast had been asleep in what was left of his bed, the mattress now sitting at an angle against the floor. The opening of his door startled him awake.

"I'm very sorry to have disturbed you, sir," began Mrs. Potts. Meanwhile Lumiere and Cogsworth continued across the room, where the shimmering rose floated in its glass enclosure on the pornographic windowside table. "I have some terrible news to report," she continued, "though I am sure it can be remedied. You see, the enchantress's spell was unsuccessful…"

Meanwhile, Grimhilde was in her own room, sprawled on her cozy lavender bed in the east wing of the castle, already exhausted by the day's events. The wardrobe, who was named Omphale, was keeping her company.

Omphale too was disappointed by the turn of things, but there was comfort to be found in the company of the fellow disappointed.

"Isn't there another spell you can do?" Omphale asked, desperately.

"We went through all the possibilities," said Grimhilde. "I tried to please with this one, since that Lumiere person claimed he could provide the ingredients."

"Well, then can't you find true love from somewhere else?"

"That's indeed the only option now."

"But isn't there something else you can do? Could you alter our shapes individually, like you did when you disguised yourself as the old woman?"

"That isn't a true transformation. It's only a mask, a costume. You would still be furniture inside, with all the same limitations."

From across the house they heard the echoing roar of outrage from the prince's tantrum. There followed the thumping and clattering of smashed and tossed furniture.

"Tell me, Omphale," said Grimhilde. "Was he always like that, or did it only begin after I put the spell on him?"

"The master? He was always a handful. But he wasn't so violent until after the curse. When he was young, he was a… I'm trying to think of the best word… a foppish little boy. All he cared about was art, fashion, music, luxury. And when you think of his parents, it's hardly surprising."

"I know very little about them," said Grimhilde. "I understand they were the king and queen, guillotined in the late Revolution?"

"Our king and queen, yes, indeed! Oh, they were notorious. They say his mother lived in such luxury that when she was informed that people were starving because they had no bread to eat, she suggested they eat cake instead."

Grimhilde laughed. "Ah! I once knew a girl like that," she said, swiftly calming herself. "Quite like that."

"His father wasn't any better," continued Omphale. "I suppose that's why the Revolution had to happen; the people just couldn't stand the sight of the royal family eating towers of chocolate in golden rooms wearing jeweled silks when the whole rest of the country was in famine."

"Would they be pleased to know the prince has been living in squalor, hunting his own meat, dwelling with servants for his only friends? He sounds like a throwback to the warrior kings of old."

It was at that moment the doors of Grimhilde's room flew open and the beast burst in, roaring with outrage. The pleasant chat was at an end. Grimhilde swiftly rose from her bed.

The argument occurred in the rataplan-rataplan-rataplan of the French language. The beast spewed his wrath over the failed spell, over the wasted time, over doubts for whether Grimhilde would solve the problem at all. Grimhilde shot back her own defenses that she was trying her best, the options were limited, and that there was no use to fret over the past. Perceiving that the rage of the teenage prince stemmed purely out of his disappointment, she made to him a proposition that she thought might cheer him:

"Perhaps you need to have a way to spy upon me, to ensure I am not putting anything over on you. Perhaps you need a magic mirror," she said coolly.

The prince, still burning with frustration, objected. "You said I couldn't have one because I would use it to look at naked ladies!"

"Indeed. But, when one takes into account that a boy in your position could have looked forward to the droit du seigneur until recently, I suppose it's a far lesser evil."

The prince wrinkled his beastly nose in disgust. He knew tales of the droit du seigneur, where the lord of a region had the supposed right to bed any new bride in his realm. It was one more of the things the French people had risen up in revolt against, despite that the law was long abolished. But, gradually the prince's stubborn defensiveness began to soften. Grimhilde had made a peace offering. "You would really give me one?"

"Yes," said Grimhilde. "We can make it together. We could even do it tonight, if you can find all of the ingredients."

Adam sighed. Ingredients again! "Like what?" he asked, irritated.

"A mirror, and something to scratch the words onto it. And we shall need a shovel, for digging. We shall have to bury it at the crossroads."

Adam couldn't believe it. "Any mirror?"

"Any mirror. I suggest a small one, so we don't have to dig too large of a hole."

Adam tried to think. "I don't know where there could be any mirrors left in the castle. I… I had smashed them all!"

The wardrobe, still in her spot in the bedroom, cleared her throat. She butterflied her doors and then sent a dresser-drawer shooting outward. Inside of it was a silver hand mirror.

The prince walked over to her, and took out the mirror. He held it up for Grimhilde, seeking her approval.

"That will do," the evil queen said. "Now, if we want to have this tonight, we had better get started now."