Chapter Text
"No," Gaby says for the tenth time in as many minutes, pulling her basket closer and trying to wend her way through the uncooperative crowd in the marketplace. People keep stopping to stare, and she can hear whispers following in her wake. She's so done with these provincial busybodies that she could just scream.
But she can't; she must keep up appearances, can't afford to alienate potential customers. They already think she's strange for taking up the mantle of town blacksmith and artificer, but her father's been tinkering with devices her whole life to improve the efficiency of the shop. She knows her way around as well as he. She has a better touch with delicate pieces, like clocks and watches. If only Gaby’s fellow townspeople placed as much faith in her father’s inventions as he deserved, she'd be doing just fine.
Instead of, for instance, dodging the attentions of the most pompous, preening, self-absorbed blowhard in the county. She ducks into a side alley and hears the Mayor’s son calling her name.
"I said no," she says, spinning on her heel to face him.
"I'm sorry." Napoleon looks genuinely apologetic — but she's seen his act with other girls far too often to fall for anything he says. "I thought women liked public declarations of affection."
"Women," she says, poking him in the sternum with one finger to punctuate her words, "are not. identical." He takes a step back, frowning. "We're not machines, you can't just swap our names out like gears in your flowery little speeches."
"I know," he says. "You're much prettier than the rest of them."
Gaby stares at him, unimpressed. Were she not the object of his attentions, it'd be entertaining to see the usually-composed and silver-tongued rake fumbling for words. Not that she’ll let him know that.
"And cleverer. You read more than anyone else I know."
She rolls her eyes and turns her back. "Goodbye, Napoleon," she says, continuing towards home.
"Wait," he says. "Wait, please, you can't say my offer wasn't tempting - you'd be taken care of, and, and- I'd let you keep your shop!"
"Let me?" She halts, leveling a glare at him over her shoulder. "Let me?"
"No. I meant. Hell," he says, sighing. "Gaby. I do mean it. You're beautiful, and clever, and interesting. I want to get to know you better, and I don't want to see you lose everything. Please, come to dinner with me tonight. Let me try."
"No," she says, seeing his shoulders droop. "Not tonight. But I'll give you a chance - one chance. If..."
"Anything," he replies promptly.
Gaby thinks about it for a moment. "Bring me a book I've never read before." And with that, she leaves him alone in the alley.
* * *
“Hell,” Napoleon says again after she’s gone. He’s not illiterate, but he knows Gaby’s test is going to be well nigh impossible.
For as long as he’s known her - their whole lives, roughly, given the size of their town - she’s always had a book within reach, even when she’d been at work in the smithy. The library contains more than one tome singed by errant sparks, thanks to her. Rumor has it that she’s got stacks of books in every room of her house, and that the bookseller goes to her when he’s having a difficult time finding something by a particular author.
Napoleon could ride to the city. He’d gladly take the day and a half to get there, if it guaranteed success. But then he’d be faced with eliminating everything she’s ever read from his options. Does she know everything she’s ever read? She’s sharp enough to recognize it if she sees it, surely.
He’s doomed.
Trudging back to his manor, he lets himself ponder why he’s pursuing her. It could be the challenge; that always adds zest. She’s pretty, but that shouldn’t merit a spontaneous proposal in the town square. An overture to courtship, maybe, but marriage?
He’d meant it, though. She’s interesting, and the thought of her destitute genuinely perturbs him. Since her father’s disappearance less than a year ago — or, more accurately, since he’d found out ten months ago that it had been her father who’d disappeared — he’d kept an eye on her.
At first, it had been idle curiosity, sparked by seeing her work alone at her father’s forge though she’d been dwarfed by the contraptions she’d navigated with grace and no mean skill. Then it had been worry, when he’d heard that she was struggling financially. Now, he’s so used to looking for her that his day isn’t complete without seeing her.
Maybe he’d gotten tired of her indifferent smile, the way her eyes would skim over him as if he were just another person in the crowd. Maybe he’d wanted her to look forward to seeing him for a change. Like most women would.
Hell, he thinks. I don’t need to prove anything.
His mood isn’t helped when he arrives home and runs into his father in the hall. “Good, you’re back,” the Mayor says in greeting. “We’ve got that meeting tonight with those tradesmen from the city that want to use our ferries. I need you to-”
“I know,” Napoleon says. “Charm them, then fleece them. I could do it in my sleep.”
“Well, don’t fall asleep on me tonight,” his father says, “and don’t flirt with any of the wives this time, it draws attention to the fact that you’re still unwed, and they might start to suspect you have a bastard or two running around to throw a wrench in the business.” He frowns. “You don’t, do you?”
“No!” Napoleon says, appalled.
“Good. I won’t have our fortune frittered away on blackmail payments to any of your whores. Bad enough I had to pay through the teeth to cover up that incident with the duchess’ maid last year.”
“Yes, I remember,” Napoleon says. And you never let me forget it, he doesn’t add, knowing the cost of courting his father’s ire. “If that’s all, I ought to get ready for this evening.”
“Fine, fine, go,” his father says, waving him off.
Napoleon heads to the staircase, going up to his room — and then, when he hears the door to his father’s study close, turns right back around and slips off to the stables.
* * *
“Have you heard?” Thomas asks, leaning over the fence as she works on his cart. “The Mayor’s son is still missing.”
It’s been a week, and it’s all everyone’s been talking about. A week after her father disappeared, many still didn’t know, and those that did, no longer cared to talk about it. Gaby leans harder into the file than she probably needs to, and the rusted bolt finally gives way. “I’ve heard,” she says, then gets the pedal drill to clean out the threads.
“My brother George says he’s run off with some girl, and he’ll be back when he gets bored.”
“Maybe he got lost while he was hunting,” Gaby says. “Got thrown from his horse and it kicked him in the head.”
“Think it would be an improvement?” Thomas brays a laugh at his own joke. She gives him a terse smile and redoubles her efforts.
She regrets it later, of course, shoulders aching by the time the wheel’s back on its axle, running smooth and straight. At least Thomas pays promptly, and in coin instead of harvest shares. She needs to eat now, not four months from now.
The rain barrel’s full, so she takes a long drought from the dipper and splashes some water on her face. There are hoofbeats on the road, uneven like the horse is limping. It’s thrown a shoe, maybe. She wipes her hands on her apron and goes out to see who it is.
She recognizes the horse before she does the slouched rider. “Oh my god,” she says. “Napoleon?”
He slides gracelessly from his saddle; she sees there are deep marks on his saddlebags, as if from long thorns or… claws? The horse is bleeding from matching scratches on its flank, exhausted, but skittish as she approaches. She shushes it, catching the reins, talking quietly, easing it over to the trough and tying it up to the hitch before turning back to the bedraggled man.
He looks worse than his horse. “Wolves,” he explains, waving her off. “But.” He fumbles at the buckle of the saddlebag and pulls out a blocky oilskin parcel, presenting it with the sorry shade of a flourish.
Gaby takes it, bemused, picking apart the knots in the binding string until the oilcloth falls open.
“Well?” he asks as she gapes. “Do you know it?”
“...no.” She doesn’t even think she can read it; most of the pages seem to be filled with gibberish, where the lavish illustrations don’t sprawl across the pages. She flips to the front and finds what looks like a name: Jacobus Hořčický de Tepenec. “I don’t recognize the author, either.”
The smile Napoleon gives her is bone-weary but triumphant. “And there’s plenty more where that came from,” he informs her. “So, what are you doing for dinner?”
And then he collapses into the dirt.
* * *
“Somehow, I doubt this is what you had in mind,” Gaby says, steadying the bowl of broth he’s lifting to his lips. She’s ensconced him on her couch and given him a cursory once-over. He’s filthy and exhausted and dehydrated, but mostly in one piece aside from a set of welts along his thigh. She’d bet it matches up with the scrapes on his saddlebags and the cuts on his horse, but his riding leathers proved tough enough to protect his own hide.
Wolves, indeed, she thinks dubiously.
“It’s not exactly haute cuisine,” Napoleon says, smiling, “but you let me in your home, that’s… something, isn’t it?”
“I can turn you right back out, if you prefer.”
He groans piteously. “Please, let me rest, I need my strength to go back out into the cold night.”
“It’s only two-thirty in the afternoon, and it’s June.” She pauses. “You’ll need your strength for your father, though, if rumor is to be believed. He’s sworn to throw you in the public stockade this time.” She catches the spoon before it slips from his trembling fingers. “Ah, that’s what I thought. You’ll be glad to know I didn’t send word to him that you were back.”
“So you do have a heart,” Napoleon says lightly.
“Oh, I do. But it’s clockwork,” she says. “Didn’t they tell you? Cold, and calculating.”
He smiles, leaning in. “Need someone to wind you up?”
Gaby drops the spoon back in the bowl, and the broth splashes in his face. “If I did, it wouldn’t be you.” She stands and brushes down her apron.
“Oh.” He wipes his cheek with a corner of the quilt. “I haven’t earned a little credit? After I stole that book from—”
She whirls on him just as he realizes his mistake. “You stole it? From whom?”
“It’s,” he tries, then he sets the bowl aside on the table, pushing himself up to a more-or-less sitting position. “There’s an abandoned castle in the forest, about half a day’s ride away. Unpleasant terrain, marshy and with great prickling thickets everywhere. I thought, if it was that hard to get to, maybe it hadn’t been looted. Someone might have left something behind.”
Gaby frowns. “There aren’t any royal estates that close.” If there were, Napoleon’s family wouldn’t get away with half of what rumor says they do.
“Not on official records.” Napoleon’s eyes go unfocused with the effort of recall. “I had to climb over the hedge, the gates were rusted shut, and inside, it was… almost pristine. The gardens were still neat and the fountains were still running.” He shakes his head, as if clearing it. “The castle was open, though, abandoned and overgrown. It was all empty.” He takes a deep breath. “But. I found a room that seemed inhabited. There was a fire crackling in the hearth, and a pair of plush armchairs, and a table in between holding a couple of filled wine glasses and a book. That book.” He nods towards it. “Like the place was waiting for me…” Napoleon looks down at his hands, swallowing hard.
“So you took the book and ran.”
“I left,” he corrects, “at a reasonable pace, given the circumstances.”
“Fair enough,” she concedes. “I don’t know if I would have made it that far. Which means you’ll have to come with me.”
“I beg your pardon?” he asks.
“We’re returning this, first thing in the morning. Don’t you know anything about magic?”
“The Fae hate blacksmiths.” He ticks the familiar points off on his fingers. “You can’t hurt someone with magic worse than they’ve hurt you without suffering thrice over for it, and every spell has an ending.”
“Well, yes. But more to the current point, you don’t steal magical objects unless you want to get cursed.”
His forehead crumples up. “You think that book is magical?”
“Napoleon, I don’t recognize that language. Do you know how many languages I speak? Do you know how many more I read?” She shakes her head. “No, you walked into an enchanted castle and walked out with an enchanted book, and something chased you for it.”
“Wolves,” he tells her again. “I didn’t see what tried to snag me, but I heard wolves, the whole way back.”
“You’re a thief and a liar,” she says, not as an accusation but as a statement of fact. “So bring your gun, if it was a wolf, but I don’t want that book under my roof for any longer than it has to be.”
“Then dinner - a real dinner?” he asks, wry instead of hopeful.
“Deal.” They shake on it.
* * *
Gaby reins her horse in at the gate. It didn’t seem so terrible, getting here, no marsh, no briars. “No wolves,” she adds aloud. Their mounts are jumpy; Napoleon’s is downright skittish, its back rippling every so often as if it’s being beset by flies. “How long did it take you to get to the castle and back?” she asks.
“A few hours, maybe,” he hazards.
“You were gone a whole week,” she says.
Napoleon laughs. “I wasn’t.”
“You were.” His eyes go wide, but he follows her lead when she dismounts. “How did you get in?” she asks, surveying the imposing gate and the high, wild hedge.
“Over the wall.” He points to the left. “I’d be happy to help you.”
Gaby’s glad she put on trousers this morning. “Fine,” she says with a sigh. “But you’ll lose a hand if it goes astray.” There’s a gust of cold wind that smells faintly of iron and of flowers, and something creaks over by the entrance. “...wait.”
“Oh, hell,” he says, getting his gun.
“I thought you said these were rusted shut.” She walks over to the gates. They swing open at her touch, shrieking in shrill protest but going easily enough.
“They were!”
“Someone wants their book back,” she murmurs, and walks in. Shaking his head, Napoleon follows, keeping his firearm at the ready, just in case.
The grounds themselves are as he’d described: impossibly neat gardens and a great hulking castle with spires and turrets and buttresses all crumbling and slowly being eaten by the creeping flora.
Gaby takes a deep breath, once and then again, focusing on the sweetness of the air and the merry trickle of the fountains. “I smell roses.”
“They’re everywhere in the gardens,” Napoleon points out. “Do you have a favorite color?”
“For roses?” she asks. “Yellow.” Gaby’s mother had once grown a yellow rosebush in the back garden, but no one else had known how to tend it, so it eventually faded and passed, following its owner.
“Ah!” Napoleon reaches out towards a nearby bush of sunshine-bright blossoms. As he does, there’s a snap of a twig and a sudden deafening
ROAR
filling the air, furious and feral and immense. A great blur of brown and crimson launches itself at them, teeth bared and paws outstretched, razor-sharp claws glinting in the morning light.
Napoleon ducks, rolls under the arc of its leap, grabs Gaby’s hand and they run.
* * *
Their flight leads from the gardens, around a fountain, past the stables, through a gap in a low stone wall and into a courtyard, around a well, under a curtain of vivid fuchsias hanging from a stone arch and into a space so suddenly dark that they scramble to a stop, tucking themselves out of sight in the shadows. Pressing her sleeve over her mouth to muffle her gasps as she tries to catch her breath, Gaby waits for her eyes to adjust, listening for signs of their pursuer over the pounding of her heart.
Napoleon looks much more composed, flushed and breathing hard, but there’s a spark in his eyes and the ghost of a grin at the corners of his mouth.
“Don’t tell me you enjoy this?” she hisses.
“Have you ever gotten chased by a boar while hunting?” he asks, and when she shakes her head, he shrugs. “Not all that different.”
There’s a deep, resonant howl out in the garden, like a mountain voicing its displeasure. Gaby lifts her eyebrows.
“...maybe it’s a little different,” Napoleon concedes.
She can start picking out details in their surroundings now: multiple hearths, pits in the nearby wall with sunlight filtering dimly down through one of the chimneys; broad tables standing crooked on warped and split legs; scattered and dented pots and pans in the corners along with the detritus of animals nesting. A warmer, stronger light highlights the steps of a wooden staircase that spirals up into the stone like a worm screw.
Something crashes and splinters outside. “Up we go,” Gaby mutters, and Napoleon follows.
* * *
The staircase leads to a narrow hall, which leads to a second, narrower hallway that splits off in two directions; the warm light emanates from a room off to the left, and the right leads deeper into the darkness. Gaby scowls, resenting being led around by an empty building, of all things, but she knows magic tends to have its own way whether she cooperates or no.
“What do you think that was?” she asks in a whisper, cautiously creeping down the hall to the left.
“The former owner might have had a pet lion?” Napoleon follows with his back to her, watching the dim passages for pursuit. He doesn’t sound convincing — or convinced.
“Guardian chimera, maybe,” she muses. “But sphinxes usually ask riddles before trying to eat you. And there weren’t any wings.”
“Not all sphinxes have wings. Kemetian ones don’t.”
Gaby stops in the hall, and Napoleon bumps into her. “How do you know that?”
“My family transports a great many things,” he informs her loftily. “Including art.”
“Smuggles, you mean,” she says scornfully.
“There’s no real difference. Aside from whether it appears on official tax rolls, and that’s a mere formality.”
Gaby rolls her eyes. Everyone knows his family profits significantly for overlooking that ‘formality.’ Sooner or later, the King will find out, and it won’t be pretty. Then again, it’s entirely possible they both won’t live to see that day. She lets it lie.
The light is coming from a cosy sitting room, tidy mostly for the fact that it’s almost bare. There’s a rug with a faded pattern in its well-worn pile, ragged fringe lying neatly as if it were just brushed down, and a merrily-crackling fire in the hearth. Aside from the dusty bookshelves, the walls are bare, and the curtains somewhat moth-eaten.
Nearly as Napoleon described, there are chairs surrounding a small table that holds filled wine glasses. The crystal is spotless, the liquid a rich merlot free of dust, and the chairs all look comfortable and inviting, if mismatched in size.
“Three seats,” Gaby observes, standing transfixed in the doorway. “Not two.”
“Fantastic .” Napoleon sighs.
It begs the question: who else is expected? Their unseen host, or another guest? Gaby doesn’t plan on staying around long enough to find out. She pulls the book from her shoulder bag and cautiously enters the room, heading for the table.
There’s a low rumble behind her, like stone grinding on stone. Gaby turns just in time to see the beast pounce on Napoleon, the crack of the gun followed by the splintering of wood as their momentum takes them through the wall, into the next room, and out of sight.
* * *
The beast has Napoleon wrapped in its great limbs as they roll across the floor. It snarls and snaps its teeth, but Napoleon jams the discharged gun into its maw sideways, keeping its jaw from closing on his neck. The wood cracks and the metal bends, but it holds just long enough.
“Stop!” Gaby says, hopelessly. Some guardian creatures can understand speech, but most only listen to their masters or mistresses, not the interlopers they’re set to target. “Stop, please.”
Astonishingly, the beast does, tossing the gnarled remains of the gun to one side with a shake of its maned head, but it keeps Napoleon pinned to the ground with one great paw on his chest. “Thief ,” it growls.
Gaby wets her lips and swallows hard. It can speak to her; it’s willing to listen. That’s something, at least. “I know,” she says, holding out the item in dispute. “We brought it back. He’s sorry.”
Napoleon lifts his eyebrows, and she juts her jaw out at him.
“Trespassers,” the Beast says. “Thieves.” It snatches the book from her hands.
Now that she’s regained a small measure of composure, Gaby is free to notice that the Beast is nothing like she’s ever seen before. Lion, yes, but also bear and boar and something horned. And its eyes… its eyes flash blue, fury less feral than its bared fangs. Almost human.
There’s a heavy tangle of crimson cloth wrapped around its shoulders, a glint of gold caught in its folds. It takes her a minute to realize that it’s a cloak-pin. The beast is wearing clothing, after a fashion.
“Wait,” she says, reaching out. “We’re sorry. We didn’t think anyone lived here.”
Any one, not any thing. Three chairs, three glasses of wine. The Beast shifts back, not like a cat or a dog sitting but like a man on his knees, resting on his heels. Napoleon scrambles backwards, to his feet, still cornered but no longer pinned.
“Gaby…” he says in a wary drawl, hand dropping to the hilt of his dagger.
“Don’t,” she says. “This is our host.”
She thinks - she thinks - the beast might be smiling, at that. It’s hard to tell. It rises to its feet, and it’s tall, so tall it dwarfs Napoleon, who’s not a small man by any stretch of the imagination. “This is my home,” it confirms. “And not only did this one—” it nods at Napoleon "–trespass on my land and steal one of my books, but he was about to take one of my roses, defacing my garden. Why should I not kill him for his offences?”
“I never intended—” Napoleon flattens himself against the wall as the Beast levels a glare his way.
“Unintentional harm is still harm. Why should I not kill both of you?” the Beast says.
“Don’t you dare— ” Napoleon says, but Gaby can see this is going to end up bloody, fast.
“Do what you want with me,” she says, “but let him go.” Napoleon’s posturing will get him killed; his silver tongue is sharp enough to cut his own throat, in this place. Gaby can be patient, she can be careful, she can wait and plan and escape.
“Hrm,” the Beast says. Its eyes look at her, and soften somewhat. “Very well. He may go if you stay. There are conditions to being my guest, but in exchange, I will guarantee your comfort.”
“You can’t—” Napoleon says. “Gaby, be reasonable.”
“What are the conditions?” she asks.
* * *
The first condition was, of course, that Gaby make no attempt to escape. Fair enough. There are more ways to leave than sneaking off into the woods in the dead of night, anyways. The Beast may tire of her company in a week, given how well she gets along with her usual neighbors, and ask that she go.
Condition number two: she has free rein of the grounds, save the western wing of the castle. She doesn’t plan on staying long enough to find that an inconvenience. It does pique her curiosity, but she knows better than to trespass where magical dangers lurk, unlike some people.
The third condition: she must have dinner with the Beast every night.
It is this last that stymies her. What reason does it have? What are its dinners like? Will it hunt for their meal, and expect her to eat as it must, from some raw carcass? She tries to imagine the Beast shaping its paws to delicate silverware and almost laughs at the absurdity.
Instead she says: “Yes. All right. I agree.”
Napoleon sighs, closing his eyes as if pained. It’s a binding vow, in a place like this, suffused with magic as it is. (There’s a reason fae don’t like blacksmiths - magic is repelled by that much cold iron. But Gaby is far from her smithy, here.)
“Then I swear to your safety and comfort, as best as I am able, for as long as you abide by your agreement, and your friend–” the Beast says this with a snarl "–is free to go.”
Napoleon scowls back at it, his earlier lack of composure masked by defiance. “And what if I refuse to leave?”
“You will go,” the Beast says, gnashing its teeth at him. “One way or the other.” It reaches for him.
Gaby darts between them, trusting that its vow will hold even if she puts herself in harm’s way. “No, please, don’t hurt him.” She turns around, the back of her neck prickling at the potential danger hovering there. “Just go, Napoleon.”
Napoleon draws himself up to his full height. “I can’t let you be punished for my sake, Gaby,” he says, genuine regret in his voice.
“I’ll be fine,” she says. “I’ll see you again someday, I’m sure.”
“Good.” He brushes dust off his vest. “Because you still owe me dinner.”
“You’ll get it.” On impulse, she curls her fingers around his lapel and kisses his cheek. “Please go,” she whispers. He might be a rake and a thief, but he doesn’t deserve to be torn to shreds. “Please.”
His eyes are wide and startled when she draws away, and he gives a stilted nod. “All right.”
With one last reproachful look at the Beast, Napoleon leaves.
* * *
The trick to avoiding magical repercussions is not getting caught up in things like binding oaths to supernatural creatures in the first place. Napoleon knows better; he’d hoped that Gaby did, too, but admittedly, she’d been put in a tight spot.
He steadfastly refuses to dwell on his part in putting her there. He’ll admit it, but he won’t brood about it.
Not when he has far more productive uses of his time. Such as taking advantage of not being bound by any of the promises he’d just witnessed.
Sure, the Beast had sworn that he was free to go, but Napoleon hadn’t promised to leave.
Moreover, Gaby had sworn that she wouldn’t trespass on the western wing, but Napoleon had made no such oath. And if the Beast wants a place avoided, then that’s probably the first place Napoleon should look to find a way to free Gaby from her captivity.
Every spell has an ending, after all.
The castle is like a bloody maze, though, and he’s starting to suspect that the hallways are moving around on him. He’s pretty sure that he’s passed the same staircase landing three times - he recognizes the broken vase in the corner - even though he’s been counting his turns. And his compass is no help; the needle spins lazily but never settles for more than a moment, as if the whole building is rotating.
He stops in one shadowy alcove, keeping an eye and an ear out for the Beast, and sighs. “Look,” he says, to no one in particular, hoping the magic shaping the castle will respond, “I have no intention of harming your master. I simply want to free my friend.” Something groans a few floors up, like a roof making overtures to collapse. “I’m worried about her. Can you at least… show me that I have nothing to fear, for her sake?”
Something squeaks softly nearby, and Napoleon risks a glance out into the hallway. A door stands ajar where he’d swear there hadn’t been one before.
He takes a deep breath and a leap of faith.
* * *
They are alone.
Gaby stares at the Beast; the Beast stares back. If she didn’t know any better, she’d say it was wary of her.
“Do you—” she starts, then bites her lip, considering. “Do you have a name?”
The Beast turns its head away, its face falling into shadow. “I did. I was called… Illya.”
It’s a strange name, old-fashioned, like what royal cousins name their sons to assert their fading aristocracy, or what nouveau-riche ladies name their dogs. Certainly not what Gaby expected.
But then, would ‘George’ be any better? She smiles at her own folly.
“My name is Gaby,” she tells it. A dreadful thought occurs to her. “Do… do you get many visitors?”
“No,” Illya says.
“About a year ago, did an… an older man, about so tall,” she gestures, “come by on a big palomino horse, with a cart?”
“I saw him pass the grounds,” Illya tells her. “But he did not trespass. He continued north, deeper into the forest.”
The relief that washes over her is mixed; she is not the captive of her father’s murderer, but the mystery of his disappearance grows more tangled. The last she’d seen of him herself, he’d been headed east, to the next town over, not into the forest. He had no reason to be anywhere near here.
“Who was he?” Illya asks, voice gentle.
She blinks, surprised. “...my father. He’s been missing.”
“You thought I—” It pauses. “I understand. But I swear to you, I did not harm him.”
She nods, believing it. Illya still has the book clutched to its chest. “I’m sorry about that, by the way,” she says, gesturing to it. “Napoleon was trying to impress me.”
“With a book?”
“I… I enjoy reading.”
At this, she sees what must be a smile on Illya’s face; as terrible as all those teeth are, it’s good to know it can smile. “Do you?” It holds out one massive paw, and she stares at it, uncomprehending. “May I show you something?”
“Um,” she says. “I suppose?”
She places her hand in its paw and it leads her from the room, down the corridor, and across what must have once been the great hall of the castle, its roof caved in and open to the sky, tendrils of greenery cascading down in the sunlight that streams through the great gash in the ceiling. The floor is cracked and caked with mud and leaves, but there is a well-worn path through the detritus that shows pale marble beneath, and it is this that they follow, to a great set of double doors as tall as Gaby’s entire house, chimney and all.
The doors open at a touch, into a dark, cavernous space that Gaby can barely discern the details of, after the brilliance of the room behind them. He leads her forward, and says, “Light.”
Candles flicker on, all around them, and Gaby gasps. She hadn’t even considered that the rare book might have been a part of a library. It’s immense.
“It is at your disposal,” Illya tells her. “The whole castle is.”
“Except the western wing,” she murmurs, dampening her own enthusiasm a bit. Reminding herself that she isn't truly free, here.
Illya inclines its head in acknowledgement.
There is a stack of books on a nearby side table, and Gaby gives them a glance. Fairy stories, contract law, a history of the royal family… Perusing the nearest shelves, she can tell that the whole collection is equally eclectic. She almost walks into a spiral staircase, she’s so engrossed.
Glancing up, she notices the second storey. She'd thought it a vaulted ceiling.
“Oh ,” she sighs. “This is incredible, Illya. Thank you.”
The creature’s face is difficult to read, but it looks pleased.
* * *
The western wing doesn't seem like much, at first. It’s as run-down as everything else he's seen, eerie sitting room aside.
Then Napoleon finds the gallery, and his heart skips a beat before he tamps down his acquisitive impulses. The paintings are in appalling condition, anyway: some have water damage from hanging on a cracked and moldering wall, many are faded by sunlight and weather streaming through the broken windows, and a few have even been ripped down, gashes torn through the wallpaper in a familiar pattern.
Clawmarks.
One painting is slashed to ribbons in its frame, more viciously than the others. Napoleon stoops to piece what he can together and sees a fair-haired young nobleman, eyes vibrantly blue. Whoever he’d been, he'd been very handsome.
The Beast must have hated him very much.
Napoleon gathers what he can and tucks the scraps in his pocket for later. Someone might remember the man.
A shimmer of light at the end of the hallway catches his eye and he moves towards it. A double door leads to what was once a stately study. Beneath the accumulated grime, Napoleon can make out smooth dark wood on all the walls, with intricate carvings edging the coffered ceiling, which itself still bears traces of gilt accents, now tarnished and dull.
The furniture is all kindling, broken and smashed - save for one table by the window, which holds a marble pedestal topped with a bell jar, its glass clear and unclouded.
A golden glimmer hovers within. Truly hovers, for as he draws closer, Napoleon can see a pocket watch floating in midair, perfectly suspended within its protective dome and gleaming with the strange light that comes only with enchantment.
“Hello ,” Napoleon says. His fingers itch.
He thinks of the book, and of the rose, and reconsiders.
He scrutinizes the watch instead. It is very finely made, an engraved pattern of roses circling a shield with a lion salient - an old variation of the crest of the royal family, used now only by distant relatives. Below the crest is a banner with one word in ornate script.
“Decennium,” Napoleon murmurs. Ten years… An anniversary gift? From the royal family? Or—
Maybe he’s getting used to being pounced. Maybe the Beast makes a noise as it leaps. Because when it lands, Napoleon’s already rolled out of its way — right into the table, knocking both it and the jar over.
The Beast roars and twists, already coiling for another lunge, as Napoleon cuts himself on the broken glass, scrabbling for hope and coming up with the watch.
“Don’t—” the Beast snarls.
The watch practically hums with magic in Napoleon’s palm. “Don’t what?” he asks, shifting back and away.
“Please,” the Beast says, making a visible effort to gentle its voice. “Give it back.”
“Why?” Napoleon asks, closing his fingers more tightly. “What is it to you?”
The Beast’s face contorts and Napoleon gets ready to run in case it attacks again. “...life ,” it says.
Napoleon lifts his eyebrows. “So if I break this—”
“Please ,” it says again, expression desperate despite its fearsome features.
Its eyes are very blue.
“...oh, hell,” Napoleon says.
* * *
Illya had shown Gaby to her rooms — a tidy little suite of sitting room, bedroom, and bathroom, all as neat and snug as the drawing room they’d been in before — and then had left her quite abruptly.
She’s never been this alone before. She’d always had her father, and after his disappearance, there’d still been the occasional customer at the shop, and neighbors, and the people at the market… She might have disliked most of them, but they were there.
Illya’s request for companionship at dinner makes a lot more sense, now.
So long as it doesn’t want to eat her.
No. It had sworn her safety. She’s being ridiculous.
She’s also pacing circles in the sitting room.
The rooms are well appointed, after a fashion. There’s a needlework stand by the window, which faces south, and a writing-desk, and the bedroom has a vanity with an assortment of perfumes and powders and brushes. The bathroom has an equally-dizzying array of oils and salts beside a tub large enough for two of her.
The hearth had been lit when she'd entered; candles flicker into flame and extinguish as she moves from room to room. Everything in this place seems to have its own spark of life.
The door to the armoire creaks open at her approach, fabrics spilling out as if overstuffed in the small storage space. Curiosity piqued, Gaby opens it all the way.
“Good heavens,” she says. She's never had so much finery at her fingertips. Given the magical nature of everything else here, she suspects it will all fit her perfectly.
But none of it is hers.
Gaby dresses for dinner in the plainest dress she can find. It’s ivory silk with delicate lace at the cuffs and neckline, but at least it’s not embellished with gold embroidery or tiny gemstones that wink like stars.
And she could run in it. If she had to.
Candles light her path to the dining hall, tiny beacons through the decaying splendor of the castle, which grows gloomier as the sun sets and the shadows grow deeper.
A door opens at her approach, revealing a dining hall that could seat half her town, if it had a mind to.
“Gaby!” Napoleon says when he spots her, getting to his feet. “You look lovely! Ready for that dinner?”
“Napoleon, are you trying to get yourself killed? Illya—” Too late, she spots the Beast across the table, glowering but immobile in its seat.
“Illya, is it?” Napoleon asks. “Very fitting for a former noble heir, albeit one who’s been cursed.”
“What?” She looks closer at the Beas— at Illya, who refuses to meet her gaze. “Is this true?”
Illya nods.
“He’s prevented from explaining the parameters of it, but unless I miss my guess, he was cursed for the sins of his father. Or his father’s father, or— someone in the royal family, at any rate. Scions of powerful families make tempting targets for retribution, as I can unfortunately attest.”
“Hm,” she replies, unimpressed. “Why hasn’t he killed you?”
“Because the curse… has a fail-safe.” Napoleon holds up a gleaming pocket watch. “A time limit and insurance, all in one. I think that when this watch stops, so too will his heart. And it’s already running significantly more slowly than it ought…”
“Oh, no,” Gaby says, biting her lip and making a quick decision. “Napoleon, give me the watch.”
Napoleon laughs. “Darling, this is the only thing keeping him from ripping my throat out.”
“Illya won’t hurt you while I have it. Will you, Illya?”
Illya rumbles low in his chest, but he shakes his head.
Napoleon relents and relinquishes the watch; Gaby opens the front cover and sees the second hand moving backwards with a tick... tick... tick, like the heartbeat of a great draft horse, too sluggish to keep proper time. She closes it up and tucks it away in her bodice, feeling the warm thrum of magic through the silk of her chemise, and makes her way around the table. After a moment’s hesitation, she places one hand on Illya’s where he’s clutching the arm of his chair hard enough to make the wood splinter beneath his claws.
“Illya,” she says gently. “Can you tell me the rules of your curse?”
Illya shakes his head. “Can’t.”
She thinks for a moment. “Can you tell me who cursed you?”
Illya meets her eyes for the first time since she’s entered the room. “Vinciguerra,” he says, bitterness and loathing in every syllable.
Napoleon whistles.
Gaby frowns. “Who is that?” she asks.
“The closest thing the shadow fae have to royalty,” Napoleon answers.
She considers this. “Well, I don't care. We’re still going to save him.”
They both stare at her.