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Snow drifted past the window, falling like frozen stars. The flakes settled in a white blanket that cloaked the castle grounds. Belle pressed her hand against the glass, watching the darkening skies. Despite the storm, the frosty courtyard looked warmer than the West Wing.
Belle shivered. She could still see traces of how the West Wing used to be: gray marble floors, an oil painting of a handsome prince, and vases filled with lavender and lilies. The flowers were dead now, their scent overshadowed by the moldering curtains. Only one flower remained, displayed under a glass case.
The girls in Belle’s books would say the rose looked ethereal, using words like velvety green and ruby red to describe the leaves and petals. But Belle’s gaze kept returning to the case. It protected the rose, yet…
It also smothered the flower behind a wall of glass. It’s strange how beauty and possession were so closely linked.
She scanned the rest of the dusty room. Why did the Beast want to keep the West Wing hidden? Perhaps it served as his private retreat? Belle eyed the ragged curtains. She didn’t see the appeal.
Belle peered out the window again. She could just make out the village lights along the horizon. Beyond them, the world awaited. It seemed absurd that the Beast wanted to stay in this decrepit castle his entire life. Absurd, and boring. What did he even do here? Arrange flowers? Sulk in his forbidden West Wing? Smash furniture whenever it looked at him the wrong way?
Belle would never be happy with that kind of life. She’d grown up reading stories of epic quests and grand adventures. She longed to explore other kingdoms, meet open-minded people, and write a story of her own.
But that dream was gone, smothered as thoroughly as that beautiful rose under its glass case.
Belle brushed her hands across her dress, drifting closer to the perfect flower. The rose presented an enigma, and Belle had always liked puzzles. Besides, the Beast didn’t strike Belle as the superficial type. There must be a reason he kept it in the forbidden wing. Perhaps the flower was a gift from a former lover. Maybe the Beast was saving it for their return so he could declare his undying—
There was a crash.
Too late, Belle realized she’d knocked over one of the flower vases. Blue glass littered the floor, sprinkled among bits of broken furniture. The wind died down as though the world was holding its breath.
Then, a snarl echoed through the castle.
Quick footsteps thudded down the hall. The door to the West Wing flew open, framing the Beast’s twisted horns and frayed cloak. His teeth flashed as he took in the scene.
“Why did you come here?” he growled.
Belle flinched, stepping away from the glass. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean any harm.”
The Beast’s nails bit into the door frame. His blue eyes were winter ice, the coldest part of a frozen lake. “Well? Is the West Wing as miserable as you expected?”
Belle stared at the smashed furniture and ripped tapestries lining the room. A thick layer of dust coated the tables, and ragged claw marks tore through the floor. The West Wing seemed beyond saving, but… maybe they could make the space into something beautiful. She’d spent her whole life fixing tattered books, music boxes that wouldn’t play, and birds with broken wings.
That was the problem, Belle thought; she didn’t know how to give up on broken things. The world was like a magical theater where fairytales and realities intertwine, and she was forever rewriting the final act.
The Beast crossed the room, his shoulders a hard line. “I warned you never to come here,” he grumbled.
Red light flickered at the edge of her vision. Belle ignored it, meeting the Beast’s eyes.
“I know. You’ve made it perfectly clear that I’m disliked and unwelcome. I thought the West Wing would help me understand why, but…” She shrugged. “I guess I just have that effect—” More light flashed. Belle broke off, staring up in surprise.
The rose started glowing as the distance between her and the Beast shrank. Golden sparkles swirled around the blossom, and the red petals shone like a second sun.
The Beast froze, staring at the flower in shock.
“Has that happened before?” Belle asked, her voice faint.
The Beast tore his gaze away. “It doesn’t matter. My curse is none of your concern.” He retreated to the far wall, letting the shadows eclipse his face. “If you really wanted to help, you can leave this wing and forget you saw anything.”
Belle studied what she could see of him. She had prepared herself for all manner of discoveries in the West Wing. A lonely and cursed Beast wasn’t one of them.
“When I was a child, my father used to tell me the story of a snow witch who put ice in a little boy’s heart,” Belle said. “The boy grew to be cold and cruel, but his friend continued to keep him company. She never gave up hope that she could help him change.”
The Beast rumbled a sad laugh. “What a foolish girl.”
“What a stubborn boy,” Belle returned. She hugged her arms across her chest. “I know you don’t want to face this,” she said, nodding at the enchanted rose, “but you can at least tell me how the magic affects you and the rest of the castle. I live here, too.”
The Beast pushed off from the wall, walking closer to the window. “I don’t owe you any explanations,” he muttered. “Especially after you broke my trust and trespassed where you don’t belong.”
“If you hadn’t locked me in a crumbling castle with a bunch of talking antiques, I wouldn’t have had to,” she reminded him. “I’m not asking you to free me; I’m asking if there’s a way to break the curse.”
The Beast paused near the flower. Its red petals glimmered through the glass, bathing his face in warm light.
“The spell isn’t difficult to break,” the Beast said. His voice echoed through the room like brittle branches breaking in the wind. “It’s impossible.”
Belle raised an eyebrow. “Well, we won’t know until we try,” she mused.
He frowned. “Did you not hear what I said?”
Belle leaned against a cracked pillar. “That depends. Are you talking about the part where you said I’m not welcome here, or the bit where you refused to tell me anything specific about the curse? I’m not daft—I know the spell must have turned you into a beast and everyone else into talking figurines.”
“You have no right—”
“Then treat me like a person instead of a prisoner!” Belle exclaimed. “I’ve been nothing but kind to you, yet you continue to stare at me like I’m some sort of witch. I haven’t cast any spells on you. I doubt I’ll be much better at breaking them, but I’m hoping we can work on the curse together.” She gave him a level stare, crossing her arms. “Which brings us back to my question: how do we end the curse?”
“Get out of my castle,” the Beast growled.
He lunged forward. Belle ducked, and his claws swiped the empty air above her head.
“I’m sorry if I went too far,” Belle said. “We don’t have to talk about it right now if—”
“GET OUT!”
The Beast struck again, tearing through an ancient armoire. Belle stifled a scream, stumbling into a small table. The corner dug into her hip—hard enough to bruise. She darted around it, running for the West Wing’s door. It groaned open on rusty hinges, mingling with the sound of ripping fabric and splintering furniture. The Beast’s growls followed her into the hall.
An icy feeling slithered down her spine, pulsing in time with her pounding footsteps. The Beast was serious. This wasn’t about her skipping dinner or asking to see her father; this was about him no longer wanting her company because she’d betrayed his trust.
Belle ran down the crumbling stone stairway. She grabbed a dark red cloak from the balustrade, fastening it over her shoulders. The cloak billowed behind her—a mockery of the cape heroes wore.
An anxious candelabra and a confused clock waited at the bottom of the stairs.
Lumiére slid across the last step. His metal base clanged against the gray stone, and his candles threw off glittering sparks in the hollow entrance room.
“Where are you going?” he asked.
“I can’t stay here,” Belle exclaimed. She brushed past him, running to the main door. “I know I made a promise, but…”
“Please wait,” Cogsworth said. He trundled after Lumiére on creaky wooden legs, his golden pendulum swinging frantically.
Belle ignored him. She grabbed the door handle, straining to open the heavy oak. A blizzard burst through the slim gap. Snow lashed her pale cheeks, and the cold nipped through her cloak with icy teeth.
“Please, please wait,” Cogsworth repeated. His wooden arms dropped, and his voice faded to a whisper. “You’re our last hope.”
Belle hesitated. She glanced at the castle behind them. Snowflakes drifted through the door, landing near a small table. A stack of books sat on top, pressed wildflowers peeking out from their pages. It was such an unlikely sight in the Beast’s castle that she couldn’t help but wonder if the books were a sign for her—a symbol of hope struggling amidst the darkness.
Above them, the Beast roared. The chandelier trembled, and wind-blown snow began melting into the red rug, spreading like pools of blood.
Belle shook her head. The Beast wasn’t a broken music box she could fix. His gears had sprung loose, and she had no idea how to put him back together again.
“I’m sorry I can’t be the savior you deserve,” she murmured. The wind drowned Lumiére and Cogsworth’s protests, slamming the door behind her.
Outside, the blizzard raged. Belle shivered, pulling her cloak tighter around herself. Thick clouds covered the moon, bathing the world in darkness.
Somewhere nearby, a wolf began to howl.