II.
THE next three days had passed like leaves caught in an autumn wind, scattering memories behind them—Monsieur Levi, the bookkeeper pressing his oldest copy of Romeo and Juliet into her hands, Madame Laurent's tearful embrace and gift of dried lavender "to help you sleep in strange places, child," the quiet evenings with Papa, both of them trying to memorize every moment with each other they had left.
Now, on the morning of the third day, Belle woke before dawn, though she'd barely slept. The compass Papa had given her still lay warm in her palms where she'd held it through the dark hours.
She'd spent half the night watching its needle swing wildly during the storm from two nights ago, remembering that strange blue light in the castle windows. But now it pointed steadily north as if nothing unusual had happened at all.
Her trunk stood packed by the door—two changes of clothes, her mother's blue dress, a few precious books, and the compass. Everything else would stay behind, waiting for her. Belle dressed in her sturdiest dress, a simple blue cotton thing that could withstand hard work, and braided her hair tightly back. Her fingers trembled as she smoothed down her skirts one final time in their small mirror.
"Belle?" Maurice's voice, softer than usual, called from the door. "Are you awake?"
"Yes, Papa." The words caught in her throat. This would be the last morning she'd hear him call her name like this, at least for seven years.
When she arrived in their kitchen, warmth bloomed in her chest despite her grief. Papa had made her favorite childhood porridge, the way Maman used to make it—with honey and dried apples they'd preserved together last fall. He'd even set out their special bowls, the ones with hand-painted violets they only used on birthdays. The sight nearly undid her.
They sat down together, the morning light casting long shadows across their small table. Belle found herself studying every detail of her father's face as if painting a portrait in her mind—the gentle creases around his eyes, the way his mustache twitched when he was trying not to cry, the familiar ink stains on his fingertips. His hands shook slightly as he stirred his porridge, barely eating.
"Remember when you were small," Maurice said suddenly, his voice rough, "and you insisted on 'helping' me in the workshop? You were so tiny, but you wouldn't rest until I let you hold the hammer." He gave a watery chuckle. "Nearly smashed my thumb instead of the nail."
"And you never scolded me," Belle whispered. "You just showed me how to hold it properly and let me try again." She reached across the table and squeezed his hand. "Papa, promise me you'll take care of yourself? Don't forget to eat when you're working, and—"
"Oh, my Belle." Maurice pulled her into a fierce hug, and she buried her face in his shoulder like she had as a child, breathing in his familiar scent of wood shavings and oil. His arms trembled around her. "I should be the one taking care of you. I should be—"
"No," she cut him off gently, pulling back to meet his eyes. "We've discussed this. It's done now, and I made my choice. I would make it again." She tried to memorize the exact shade of warm brown in his eyes, the same color as her own.
A sharp knock at the door made them both jump. Through the window, Belle could see the same black carriage that had brought Monsieur Dubois days ago, though the man himself was mercifully absent. In his place stood a silent driver dressed in dark livery, his face oddly shadowed despite the morning light. Something was unsettling about the way he stood—too still, too straight, as if he were more statue than man.
The driver knocked again, more insistently this time. Belle felt panic rising in her throat. There wasn't enough time. How could she possibly say goodbye in just these few moments? She clutched her father tighter, trying to press seven years' worth of embraces into one.
"Your mother would be so proud of you," Maurice whispered fiercely. "As proud as I am. Remember everything I taught you about mechanisms and gears—it might be useful. And Belle, if anything feels wrong, truly wrong, find a way to let me know. I'll come for you, contract or no contract."
"I love you," she whispered back, tears flowing freely now. "I'll write as soon as I can. Don't forget to wind your pocket watch every night, and please don't stay up too late working, and—" She broke off, knowing she could go on forever, listing all the little ways she wanted to care for him even from afar.
"I love you too, my brave girl." His voice broke on the words. "Be careful, Belle. Be safe."
The driver remained eerily silent as he collected her trunk, moving with an unnatural grace that made Belle's skin prickle. He helped her into the carriage with gloved hands that felt too cold, even through the leather. As the carriage pulled away, Belle pressed her face to the window, watching her father's figure grow smaller until he disappeared around a bend in the road. Only then did she allow herself to weep openly, clutching the compass to her chest like a lifeline.
The carriage door closed with a sound like fate itself, and Belle pressed her face to the window, watching their little cottage grow smaller and smaller until it disappeared around a bend in the road. She clutched Papa's compass tightly, its familiar weight anchoring her as the carriage wound its way up into the mountains. The driver never spoke, never moved except to handle the reins, and something about his silence felt heavier than simple discretion.
The journey seemed to take both forever and no time at all. As they climbed higher, the familiar French countryside gave way to darker woods, the trees pressing closer to the road, their branches reaching out like grasping fingers. The air grew colder, and mist crept along the ground in ethereal tendrils. Belle tried not to stare at the driver's reflection in the carriage window—there was something wrong about it, something that shifted and wavered like a mirage in the desert heat.
Belle had seen the castle from their village a thousand times, but never quite like this. As they approached, it seemed to grow before her very eyes, towers spiraling impossibly high into the clouded sky. The stone walls were dark with age and something else—a kind of shadowy patina that seemed to shift when she wasn't looking directly at it. Her compass grew warm in her hands, its needle spinning wildly before pointing resolutely toward the highest tower.
The carriage passed through iron gates that opened silently at their approach, though Belle missed seeing the guards who operated them. In the courtyard, Belle saw garden statues that almost looked like real people frozen in place. Roses grew wild everywhere, climbing the walls in tangles of thorns. As they passed one statue, Belle could swear it turned its head to watch them.
The carriage stopped at the front steps, but no guards or servants came out to meet them. The driver stepped down without a sound and lifted her trunk as if it weighed nothing at all. He set it on the steps, then got back in the carriage without even looking at her.
Belle watched him drive away through the gates, leaving her alone in front of the huge castle doors. Her trunk suddenly seemed heavier as she grasped one end and began to drag it up the stone stairs. The sound of metal scraping against stone echoed oddly in the empty courtyard, making her wince.
Halfway up, she had to stop to catch her breath. Twenty more steps at least, their grey stone worn smooth by years of use. As she looked up at them, she could have sworn they stretched higher than they had a moment before, like the castle itself was mocking her efforts.
"Come on," she muttered to herself, wiping damp palms on her skirt. "You can do this."
She had just managed to drag the trunk up three more steps when a gust of wind whipped around her, catching her skirts and nearly making her lose her balance. The roses that climbed the castle walls shivered, their thorns casting strange shadows that seemed to reach for her.
Finally, trunk scraping behind her, Belle reached the massive front doors. She stood there for a moment, trying to catch her breath, her arms aching from the effort. The doors loomed over her, carved with scenes that seemed to shift in the fading daylight—were those figures dancing or running in terror?
She reached for the heavy iron knocker, but before she could grasp it, the door creaked open on its own. She stepped into a grand entrance hall, where dust floated in the weak sunlight streaming in through high windows. The marble floor seemed to ripple under her feet, though when she looked down, it was perfectly still. Somewhere in the shadows, she heard the soft tick of a clock, though she couldn't see one.
"H-Hello?" Her voice echoed in the emptiness. "I'm Belle. I've come about the…arrangement?"
The trunk slipped from her tired fingers, hitting the marble floor with a bang that made her jump. The sound echoed strangely, almost like something else was echoing it back from deep within the castle.
"Oh, my dear, you shouldn't have tried managing that all by yourself!"
Belle turned to find a plump, older woman about her father's age hurrying toward her from a side corridor. She had kind eyes and grey-streaked hair tied back neatly into a bun beneath a white cap, wearing a simple black dress with a white apron.
"I'm Mrs. Potts, dear," the woman said, reaching for one end of the trunk. Despite her age, she lifted it with surprising strength. "Let's get this sorted before the sun sets. Chip! Come help with the young lady's trunk!"
A boy of about seven or eight appeared from the same corridor, all gangly limbs and bright eyes and messy sandy blond hair. He grinned at Belle, showing a chipped front tooth that must have given him his name.
"New maid?" he asked eagerly, grabbing the other end of the trunk. But his mother shot him a warning look, and his smile faded and he immediately fell silent.
"This way, dear," Mrs. Potts said to Belle, leading them down the corridor. "You must be frozen after that long ride. We'll have some tea in the kitchen before showing you to your room."
As they walked, Belle couldn't help but notice how Mrs. Potts kept glancing at the windows, watching the fading light outside. The boy, Chip, stayed unusually quiet, though she caught him looking at her curiously several times.
The kitchen, when they reached it, seemed to be the only warm place in the castle. A huge fireplace warmed the room, with a pot of stew bubbling over the flames. Fresh baguette loaves cooled on the wooden tables that filled the middle of the room. Copper pots hung from the walls, and dried herbs dangled from the beams above. But what caught Belle's eyes were the windows. They were tall and beautiful but covered with thick iron bars that cast dark shadows on the floor.
"Sit down, dear," Mrs. Potts said, pulling out a chair by the fire. "You look half frozen."
Belle sank into the chair, grateful for the warmth. But even in this cozy kitchen, shadows crept in the corners, growing darker as the sun began to set.
Mrs. Potts busied herself by pouring tea into a delicate cup. "Sugar?"
"Yes, please," Belle said, touched by the older woman's kindness as she wrapped her cold hands around the warm cup. "Thank you. I…I wasn't expecting anyone here to be so kind."
Something flickered across Mrs. Potts' face—worry? Fear?—but it vanished as soon as the look had come. "We take care of our own here, dear. Though…" She glanced at the barred windows, then at the darkening sky. "You must be very careful. The castle…it's not always what it seems."
Belle furrowed her thin eyebrows into a frown. "What do you mean?" she asked, quietly and confused. "The Prince—"
Mrs. Potts' hands shook as she set down the teapot. "We don't speak of the Prince, dear. Not ever. It's safer that way." She straightened her apron nervously. "You'll be working in the kitchens with me to start. Early mornings—we start before dawn to have the master's breakfast ready."
"How many people work here?" Belle asked, warming her hands on the teacup.
Mrs. Potts hesitated. "Not as many as we used to. There's me, Chip, of course—my boy—Monsieur Lumiere and Cogsworth, the master's personal attendant and the Head of House, whom you'll meet later. A few maids, the stable master…" Her voice trailed off. "We manage."
"And what will my duties be?"
"Helping with meals mostly. Bread needs to be baked fresh daily. Vegetables to chop, dishes to wash. And…" Mrs. Potts glanced at the barred windows. "You'll need to learn the schedule. When to serve meals, when to clear them. Some…some days we leave trays outside certain doors. We never enter those rooms. Never."
"But why—"
But Mrs. Potts held up a trembling hand, silencing Belle's question with a look of such intensity that it sent a shiver down Belle's spine. "You shouldn't ask too many questions, dear," she said quietly, her voice hushed. "Not yet. You're new here, and there are…things you must learn on your own. For your safety and ours."
Belle swallowed her questions, feeling a knot tighten in her stomach. She had so many things she wanted to ask—about the Prince, about the strange warnings that seemed to linger in every corner of this castle.
But it was clear that whatever secrets lay behind these walls were closely guarded, even by the servants who seemed kind enough. The air in the castle seemed to pulse with a quiet menace, as though it was listening to every word she spoke.
As they sipped their tea in the dimly lit kitchen, the shadows grew longer, and the warmth of the fire seemed to shrink in the face of the encroaching darkness. Chip sat quietly at the table, kicking his legs absently, his wide, curious eyes never leaving Belle's face. She tried to give the boy a reassuring smile, but he quickly looked away, his expression far too troubled for one so young.
Before Belle could ask anything more, there was a sudden clang of a door from the hallway outside, followed by brisk, purposeful footsteps. The air seemed to grow colder as a tall, thin man appeared in the doorway. He was dressed in elegant but worn clothing, his long face framed by graying hair. His eyes, sharp and distrustful, flickered over Belle with an intensity that made her uncomfortable.
"Ah, Mademoiselle Belle, I presume?" he said, his tone clipped and formal. "I am Monsieur Cogsworth, the Head of House. I trust Mrs. Potts has explained the rules to you?" His eyes darted briefly to the barred windows before returning to Belle.
"She was just beginning to," Belle replied, forcing herself to meet his gaze steadily.
"Good, good," Cogsworth muttered, almost to himself. "We run a tight schedule here, and I expect you to adhere to it. The Prince is...very particular." The way he said it sent a chill down Belle's spine, and she could see Mrs. Potts stiffen at the mention of the Prince.
"I understand," Belle said, though she didn't understand anything at all. Every question she had was being met with more mystery.
"See that you do," Cogsworth said curtly. "Dinner is served promptly at eight each evening. Your duties will include helping in the kitchen and assisting Lumière with the dining arrangements. You may hear...things in the castle. Strange things. But you are not to investigate. Do you understand?"
Belle nodded slowly, the pit in her stomach growing. "Yes, sir," she said softly.
Cogsworth gave a curt nod, then turned on his heel and strode out of the kitchen, leaving a tense silence in his wake.
Mrs. Potts let out a slow breath and gave Belle a weary smile. "He's not as bad as he seems," she said, though her voice lacked conviction. "Now, let's get you settled in, shall we?"
Mrs. Potts guided Belle through the winding corridors, her lantern casting a warm glow that flickered over the ancient stone walls. Belle kept glancing at her surroundings, trying to memorize the turns, but it all seemed like a maze, with hallways that twisted and curved unexpectedly.
Finally, they reached a modest wooden door at the end of a quiet corridor. Mrs. Potts pushed it open with a gentle creak, revealing a cozy, well-kept room. The stone walls were softened by thick woven tapestries, and the bed was covered in a simple quilt that looked inviting after the long journey.
Belle set down her trunk with a sigh of relief, taking in her new quarters. It was humble but comfortable, with a small fireplace already crackling warmly in one corner, casting a soft light over the room. A sturdy wardrobe stood against the far wall, and next to it was a small wooden table with a basin of water.
"This will be your room, dear," Mrs. Potts said, a kind smile softening the lines of her face. "You'll find it warmer than most, being so close to the kitchens."
Belle nodded gratefully, trying to push down the feeling of homesickness that welled up as she thought of the cottage she had just left behind. She was here now, and she had to make the best of it.
Mrs. Potts turned toward the wardrobe. "Now, let's get you settled with your uniform. We have something for all new arrivals." She opened the wardrobe doors to reveal a neatly hung dress, similar in style to the one Belle wore but made of a sturdier fabric in a warm, earthy brown with cream accents.
Belle stepped forward to examine it, running her fingers over the soft linen sleeves and sturdy bodice. The dress was simple but well-made, with delicate stitching along the hem and a small blue ribbon detail at the neckline that reminded Belle of the one she used to wear in her hair as a child.
Mrs. Potts watched Belle's expression with a pleased smile. "It's practical for kitchen work," she explained. "We all wear something similar. Keeps us from ruining our clothes with spills and soot."
Belle nodded, appreciating the thoughtful details. "It's lovely," she said, offering a small smile to Mrs. Potts. "Thank you."
"Think nothing of it, dear. You'll find an apron and a set of work shoes on the bottom shelf," Mrs. Potts added, gesturing to the wardrobe. "I think you'll look quite at home in it." She gave Belle a warm look as if trying to reassure her that this place could feel like a home if she let it.
Belle bit her lip, trying to hide the mix of emotions swirling in her chest. "I suppose I should change into it now?" she asked, feeling both grateful for the kindness and strangely nervous about donning the uniform, as if it were a final step into this new life she hadn't chosen.
Mrs. Potts nodded, her eyes twinkling kindly. "Yes, dear. I'll leave you to it and be back in a moment to show you around the kitchen. We'll get you settled in before the evening rush."
After Mrs. Potts left, Belle stood for a moment, staring at the uniform laid out before her. Taking a deep breath, she began to change, carefully folding her dress and tucking it away in her trunk. The new dress fit snugly but comfortably, its sturdy fabric settling around her like a shield against whatever unknown challenges awaited her in this strange castle.
As Belle smoothed the apron over her skirt and tied the blue ribbon at her neckline, she couldn't help but glance in the small mirror on the wall. The young woman who stared back at her looked different somehow—stronger, perhaps, but also more vulnerable, as if she were on the brink of something she couldn't quite see.
Taking one last look at her reflection, Belle adjusted the ribbon, remembering her mother's gentle hands doing the same for her as a child. This was her life now, and she would face it head-on.
A soft knock at the door pulled her from her thoughts. "Are you ready, dear?" Mrs. Potts called gently.
"Yes," Belle replied, steeling herself. "I'm ready."
As she opened the door, Mrs. Potts gave her an approving nod. "You look quite the part now. Come along, we've got plenty to do before supper."
Together, they made their way back down the corridors toward the kitchens, the air growing warmer and more fragrant as they approached. Belle's new life had officially begun, and though the castle still loomed with its secrets, she felt a small flicker of hope kindling inside her. Doing her best to keep up with Mrs. Potts and not lose her way, Belle followed the older woman down a winding set of stone steps that seemed to plunge deep into the heart of the air grew warmer and more fragrant the further they went, and soon the sound of clattering pots, sizzling pans, and the occasional burst of laughter reached Belle's ears. It was a welcome relief from the cold, echoing silence of the upper halls.
The kitchen, when they finally entered, was a bustling, lively place that stood in stark contrast to the dark, gloomy corridors of the castle. The room was large and warm, dominated by a massive fireplace on one side where a roaring fire crackled.
Copper pots of all sizes hung from the walls, reflecting the flickering firelight. Several long wooden tables filled the center of the room, piled high with baskets of fresh vegetables, loaves of crusty bread, and spices in colorful jars. The scent of roasting meat, fresh herbs, and butter mingled in the air, making Belle's stomach rumble despite her nerves.
At the far end of the room, a large, broad-shouldered man was barking orders in a thick French accent. He was a mountain of a man with a thick beard and a mop of dark hair tied back in a rough ponytail. His face was ruddy, and his cheeks were perpetually flushed from the heat of the ovens. He wore a grease-stained apron, and his arms were as thick as tree trunks, covered in a dusting of flour and scars from years of cooking.
"Belle, this is Chef Thierry," Mrs. Potts said, raising her voice to be heard over the din. "He's in charge of the kitchen. Chef, this is our new helper."
Chef Thierry turned toward them, wiping his hands on his apron. He gave Belle a quick, appraising look, his bushy eyebrows furrowing. "Hmm, you look sturdier than most," he grunted, his voice deep and gravelly. "We'll see if you can keep up. The kitchens here aren't for the faint of heart."
Belle met his gaze steadily, determined not to show any fear. "I'll do my best, Chef," she said politely.
"Hmph," Thierry snorted, but there was a hint of approval in his dark eyes. "We'll see about that. There's always more work than hands to do it. Now, move aside, girl—I've got a roast to tend to."
As Belle stepped back, trying to stay out of the way, she nearly bumped into a tall, slender man leaning casually against one of the tables. He was dressed in an elegant black tailcoat with gold embroidery, his auburn hair pulled back into a neat ponytail. A mischievous smile played on his lips, and his eyes sparkled with amusement as he watched her.
"You must be the new girl, yes?" he murmured in a smooth, lilting tone, sweeping into a low, exaggerated bow. "I am Lumière, maître d and the castle's master of charm and wit." He took her hand and kissed it lightly, making Belle's cheeks flush. "Enchanté."
"Lumière," Mrs. Potts said with an exasperated sigh, though there was a fondness in her voice. "You'll make the poor girl's head spin with your nonsense."
Lumière winked at Belle, ignoring Mrs. Potts. "You are a ray of sunshine in this dark place, Belle. If ever you find yourself hungry, do not hesitate to help yourself to whatever you fancy in the kitchens." He gestured grandly to the array of food spread out on the tables. "Consider it my personal invitation."
Chef Thierry, who had been carving a large roast with quick, precise movements, shot Lumière an irritated glare. "Lumière! Less flirting, more fetching! The Prince's dinner is late already, and if he's kept waiting again, you'll be the one to answer for it."
Lumière rolled his eyes dramatically but straightened up with a mock salute. "Oui, oui, Chef! Keep your apron on—I'm merely extending some castle hospitality." He turned to Belle with a conspiratorial grin. "But do remember what I said, ma chère. The kitchens are always open to friends."
Before Belle could respond, Lumière snatched up the silver tray laden with food and disappeared down the corridor with a flourish, whistling a cheerful tune. Chef Thierry shook his head, muttering something in French that Belle suspected was not particularly polite.
Mrs. Potts gave Belle an encouraging smile and nudged her gently toward one of the tables. "Don't mind him, dear. Lumière is as lighthearted as they come, but he's harmless. Now, why don't you start with these potatoes? We have a dinner to prepare, and we'll have you trained up in no time."
Belle took a deep breath and nodded, rolling up her sleeves. She grabbed a knife from the wooden block and began peeling the potatoes, trying to steady her hands. She couldn't help but feel a strange warmth in this bustling, chaotic kitchen.
The castle's secrets still loomed heavy in her mind, but for now, here among the clattering pots and the banter of the staff, she felt a small flicker of comfort. As she worked, she could hear the distant sound of the castle's ancient clock tolling the hour.
The sun had long set, and the shadows beyond the kitchen door seemed to deepen. The thought of the darkened corridors and whatever secrets they held sent a shiver down her spine, but she forced herself to focus on the task in front of her. For now, it was enough to peel potatoes, to listen to the chatter of the kitchen staff, and to find her place in this strange new world.
Time seemed to pass quickly in the warm, bustling kitchen. Belle's hands soon grew red and sore from peeling potatoes, her fingers stained with vegetable juice, but she found comfort in the steady rhythm of the work. The kitchen was alive with the clamor of pans, the scent of roasting meats, and the laughter and bickering of the staff. Chef Thierry barked orders, but his gruff demeanor softened as he caught sight of Belle keeping pace with the more seasoned cooks.
"Not bad for your first day," he muttered as she carefully chopped a bundle of carrots. Belle couldn't help but smile at the small, grudging compliment.
Mrs. Potts hovered nearby, occasionally checking on Belle's progress with a nod of approval. It was easy to get lost in the warmth and light of the kitchen, to pretend that she was somewhere safe and familiar rather than trapped in a mysterious castle with secrets lurking in its shadows.
But just as she was starting to relax, the spell was broken.
A sudden, deafening crash reverberated through the castle, the sound so loud that it seemed to shake the very walls. Pots and pans rattled on their hooks, and Belle nearly dropped her knife in surprise.
The chatter in the kitchen died instantly, replaced by a tense, almost suffocating silence. Belle's heart skipped a beat as she looked around, trying to understand what had happened.
Mrs. Potts' face went pale, her kind eyes widening in alarm. "Oh no," she whispered under her breath, clutching her apron with trembling hands. Even Chef Thierry stopped in the middle of carving a roast, his eyes flickering toward the ceiling with a look that was part annoyance, part fear.
"What…what was that?" Belle asked, her voice barely a whisper. The atmosphere in the kitchen had shifted, the warm camaraderie replaced by a palpable fear that seemed to hang in the air like smoke.
Mrs. Potts turned to Belle with a forced, shaky smile that didn't reach her eyes. "It's nothing for you to worry about, dear," she said, though her voice had a quaver to it. She glanced at the door leading to the darkened hallways beyond. "But I think it's best if you retire for the evening."
Belle hesitated, looking around the room. The other servants were hurriedly returning to their work, avoiding her gaze. Even Lumière, usually so carefree, had reappeared in the kitchen looking tense, the light in his eyes dimmed. He gave Belle a quick, apologetic smile, then turned to speak in hushed tones with Chef Thierry.
Mrs. Potts placed a firm but gentle hand on Belle's shoulder, urging her toward the door. "Come, dear. You've had a long day, and there's no need for you to be about at this hour. I'll escort you to your room."
Belle wanted to argue, to ask what had caused that terrible sound, but the urgency in Mrs. Potts' expression silenced her. The older woman's grip tightened slightly, her usually gentle eyes hardening with something Belle had not seen in them before—fear.
"Please, Belle," Mrs. Potts said, her voice almost pleading now. "It's best if you're in your quarters before it grows too late."
The urgency in her tone left no room for argument, and Belle reluctantly nodded. Mrs. Potts led her through the dim, winding corridors, her steps quick and anxious. Belle couldn't help but notice how the shadows seemed to lengthen around them, the castle's flickering torches casting strange, shifting shapes on the walls.
"What was that crash, Mrs. Potts?" Belle asked again, her curiosity burning despite her rising fear. "Is someone hurt?"
Mrs. Potts shook her head quickly, her lips pressed into a thin line. "It's nothing you need to concern yourself with, dear," she said, her voice a whisper in the dark. "The master…well, he...he has his moods."
Belle didn't find that answer comforting, but she could see that Mrs. Potts was unwilling—or unable—to say more. They finally reached Belle's small room, and Mrs. Potts pushed open the door, ushering her inside.
"Stay here for the night," Mrs. Potts instructed, her tone soft but firm. "Lock the door behind me, and don't open it until morning, no matter what you might hear. Do you understand?"
Belle's heart pounded in her chest, but she nodded. The older woman's urgency was contagious, and suddenly the idea of being alone in this strange castle didn't seem so appealing.
Mrs. Potts gave her a tight, worried smile.
"Good girl," she said softly. "And Belle…if you ever hear something strange, just pretend you didn't. It's safer that way."
Before Belle could respond, Mrs. Potts slipped back out into the hallway, closing the door behind her. Belle heard the soft click of the lock turning, leaving her alone in the small, dimly lit room.
The shadows danced eerily around her, and for a moment, she was sure she heard the distant sound of something—someone?—growling far above her. The castle seemed to groan around her, the walls shuddering like they were alive. Clutching her mother's compass tightly, Belle sank onto the bed, her mind racing with questions she couldn't answer. But for now, all she could do was wait for the dawn and hope that whatever haunted this castle's halls wouldn't find its way to her door.
And somewhere, high above in the darkened wings of the castle, the roar came again, a sound Belle was sure no human could make, a voice filled with pain and rage that shook the very stones.