When Rose had left her family to suffer the romantic attentions of a monster, she had imagined that the worst days of her life were ahead of her. The day after she spilled ink on The Beast’s book was to prove her right, but for very different reasons than those she had imagined. Her restless night had left her fatigued and emotion raged through her with the symptoms of an ague, wracking her body with shivers and sickness.
Rather than waking her with breakfast, as he usually did, The Beast simply left it on the dining room table, where she found it after giving up waiting and trekking wearily downstairs. It was cold, and the yolk in the egg was long-since hardened. After eating, a part of her wanted to find The Beast in the garden, but she could not imagine such a course of action ending happily. With nothing better to do, she returned to the project of cleaning the house. Apart from the old servants’ quarters, she had now completed her work downstairs, so she went upstairs to work through the guest bedrooms. She had no idea where The Beast slept, but she knew if she found it she would be closing the door and moving on. Thankfully, the first room she tried was clearly long disused.
Cleaning afforded Rose plenty of time to dwell on the events of the previous evening. It was clear The Beast hungered for her, but maybe it was simply the hunger of a predator rather than romantic desire. If that were the case then it would explain the lengths he went to restraining himself when it struck him. It must be awful, she thought, to be a being of good moral fibre afflicted with a hunger for flesh. No wonder he was so angry with her after she had taunted him while his curse was at its strongest. He had called her a little girl. Rose remembered her first meeting with The Beast, when he had noted so pointedly that he had expected her elder sister Marguerite. It made sense now: he had been hoping for lady to court, and instead he had been sent someone he saw as a mere child. Yet still he had taken her in, fed her, and taken it upon himself to teach her to read. Any company was better than none, she supposed. It hurt to imagine how lonely he was.
When had she begun to think of him like this? The first time she had seen him, the monster that meant to win her love, she had been appalled. Since then he had often frightened her, but when she thought of him it was his moments of kindness that first came to mind — not his eagerness to lavish his fading wealth on her, but his thoughtless sincerity. The same imperfect control that betrayed his anger and his hunger had also shown her his deeply felt care: his willingness to hear of her sadness and his obvious desire to replace it with joy; the nervous deference he showed when presenting her with breakfast; his unwavering belief that with patience and effort she could learn to read, no matter how many words she stumbled over. Her sister had once warned her that the worst men would shower her with gifts and complements to win her adoration, only to crush her spirit over time with snide remarks and subtle revisions of the past that left her doubting herself. The Beast seemed to be the precise opposite. With every moment he would take pains to see to her comfort, her happiness and her betterment, only to throw everything into doubt with a few seconds of snarling fury.
She realised that she was not being honest with herself. It was not only his kindness that attracted her, but also the times he had treated her poorly. The thought of the threat he presented stirred as much fascination as fear, although she remembered well that when the danger had been most apparent her overriding emotion had been terror. His constant orders were also a point of concern. He commanded and assumed she would obey. And whenever he did so she complied without question. At first she had been intimidated, but she was coming to believe that he imposed his will upon her for her own benefit. More than that, she enjoyed dong as she was told. She knew that as long as she did as she was asked there was nothing more required, and in that gave her a kind of freedom. At home, she had constantly striven to be useful, to be worthy of love. Now she knew that she was doing enough simply by obeying.
She knew she wasn’t worldly enough to know if she was in love. Less than a month had passed since her arrival at the house, so it seemed unlikely. But she couldn’t deny that she was infatuated by The Beast. She trusted him. She wanted him to desire her, to take possession of her. She knew that her feelings might wane over time, but she could not imagine it. In any case, even if she convinced him to extend her time as his hostage, she didn’t doubt that he would release her if he thought it was to her benefit. With these facts established, she made a plan.
For as long as it took to win back The Beast’s regard, she would be the model of obedience. She would not rouse his anger, nor pressure him to treat her romantically. Once they were comfortable together again, only then would she show him that she was a grown woman worthy of his attention. She would learn poise and cultivation. She would become the refined lady he desired. The decision comforted her and as she descended the stairs to attend her reading lesson she felt happy to have formulated a plan that would serve her goals.
The lesson confirmed her worst fears about the damage she had done to her relationship with The Beast. She would have preferred his rage by far to the coldness he treated her with. Before, he had sat beside her offering gentle encouragement and occasionally commenting on the book with dry humour. Now he stood behind her chair, speaking only to correct her mistakes.
When the lesson was nearly over, she turned the page to find she had reached the book’s concluding lines: a poem for the dead.
How vain the Tears that fall from you,
And here supply the Place of Dew?
How vain to weep the happy Dead,
Who now to heavenly Realms are fled?
Repine no more, your Plaints forbear,
And all prepare to meet them there.
Something vital poured out of her. Only the previous day, she had looked forward to finishing the book and sharing her sense of achievement with her teacher. Now their relationship was a wreck. How fitting that the reality should be marked with a literal epitaph — except that where the poem in the book rejoiced that the spirits of the dead lived on in heaven, for her the facts were reversed. It was her spirit that had died. Now she could only pass the days until her body followed.
“That will do for today,” said The Beast. “I will see you at dinner.”
After he left, Rose tried to shake herself from her despondence. Her punishment was deserved, she told herself. There was nothing to do but remain meek and obedient. Only once The Beast had forgiven her could she consider changing his view of her romantically. That was her plan, and she would stick to it. She was not looking forward to dinner.
Listless, Rose had no idea how to fill the time until dinner, so, she ***********ed a book at random from a nearby shelf. With some struggle, she deciphered the text on the cover: Lexicon Technicum: or, An Universal English Dictionary of Arts and Sciences: Explaining not only the Terms of Art, but the Arts Themselves. This did not strike her as a pithy title. Carefully replacing the book, she tried another. This one was called Epodes, and was by someone called Horace who didn’t seem to have a last name. Rose opened it to discover that it was poetry written in a foreign language. Sighing, she gave up and returned to her room. There she paced and fretted until the clock struck seven.
Dinner held no surprises. The Beast had moved the sturdy trunk he used as a seat away from the head of the table. He and Rose now sat facing one another with the table between them. The Beast served her food as he always did, but he did not speak, and after a moment’s consideration she thought better of trying to strike up a conversation. The meal was coq au vin, but it could have been anything; she could no more taste it than she could grow a tail.
Rose finished eating before The Beast and sat uncomfortably for a minute or two before asking: “May I be excused?”
The Beast flashed her a look of annoyance and then huffed out a breath of resignation. “You may,” he said. Rose fled. That night she dreamt of the forest again, but the black dog was nowhere to be seen. She was simply lost.