Beauty (11 page)

Rumplestiltskin stared at her. ‘How?’ he asked, his mouth drying. He knew the answer before she spoke and his heart was heavy with the decision he would have to make.

‘I can give you something which will kill her, should you feel that is your only recourse.’ She turned to Rumplestiltskin and in the candlelight he was sure he could see hundreds of years of life in her eyes and a dead heart beating inside her. No good came from magic, his conscience screamed, and he trembled slightly. She looked so very ordinary but in her soul she was a crone. No good could come from a crone. ‘This,’ she said, and lifted one of her precious spindles.

‘How does it work?’ he asked, after swallowing hard. Ever since Domino he had known that one day a decision would have to be made about Beauty. And somewhere in his soul, and in his love for the king, he’d known it would be his decision to make. ‘And will it be painless?’ He paused. ‘We all love her, you see.’ He wondered if he was justifying his actions to himself or to her. ‘Hopefully, I will never have to use it.’

‘I will need it returning,’ she said. ‘Especially if you decide some less extreme action is called for.’ She carefully lifted it and handed it to him. ‘One prick of her finger and she will die,’ she said, her voice devoid of emotion. ‘And it will be painless. Like going to sleep.’ She smiled at that.

‘It’s poison then,’ Rumplestiltskin said.

‘She’ll bleed to death,’ the witch replied. ‘But I assure you she won’t feel a thing.’

His hands trembled as he took it. ‘I must be sure not to prick myself on the way back then.’

‘I’ve given you this magic,’ she said, leading him out of the room and locking it with the keys that hung from a chain around her neck. ‘It can’t hurt you. A curse cannot touch the one who wields it.’

‘And what do you want in return?’ he asked.

‘You will leave your daughter with me until you bring my spindle back,’ she said, softly.

Rumplestiltskin felt as if all the air had been sucked from his lungs. His daughter? His only child.

The witch squeezed his hand. He was surprised at the warmth of her fingers. He’d expected them to feel like the touch of a dead thing. ‘She will want for nothing and I shall teach her many things. She will be happy here and I am lonely. I have been lonely for a long, long time.’ She smiled again. Her lips were thin. ‘And when you return you may reclaim her if you so wish. This I promise you.’ She shrugged. ‘Perhaps she will also be safer here. Dangerous times lie ahead.’

Rumplestiltskin felt the weight of all his responsibility to the kingdom settle on his shoulders and his heart grew heavy. He had no choice.

‘I will come back for her,’ he said.

‘I’m sure you will,’ the witch replied.

He did not wait for his daughter to wake because he knew he would not have the strength to say goodbye, but left her a letter telling her he loved her very much and that he would return soon to take her home. He kissed her forehead and left his darling daughter, Rapunzel, there where she slept.

By the time he got back to the kingdom two months had passed and much had already changed. The king was dead; killed in a riding accident while out with the princess a mere day after Rumplestiltskin had left. While Beauty mourned for her father, the Beast revelled in her new power. She held masked balls for the wild young things of the city and took her vicarious pleasure not only from their bodies, but also from torturing those unfortunate enough to be in the dungeons. If there were no prisoners there, they were brought in, innocents chosen at random to feed her blood lust, their houses wrecked and looted by the soldiers knowing they would not return.

She redecorated the third ballroom to suit her tastes; decadent red and black and gold, and music played long and loud as the young people danced and enjoyed each other, and girls from the dairy came and never left again alive.

The ministers kept these secrets and managed the kingdom around her as best they could until the bell rang once again and they could let out a collective sigh of relief. None challenged her because her mother’s magic was at her fingertips, and they had seen the unrecognisable bodies that left the dungeons. They kept their own counsel and shuffled around the castle trying to look invisible as they did exactly as they were told. With the king gone and Rumplestiltskin away, only the first minister had the true affection of their queen and they left the management of the Beast to him.

It could not go on, Rumplestiltskin thought, as he held Beauty’s hand beside her father’s grave and cried with her for his oldest friend. It just could not go on.

Whispers of murders and torture, wild parties and patricide; that was only two months into the new reign and it would only get worse. Beauty was sweet and kind, but the Beast was stronger, he was sure of that. That Beauty had unknowingly killed the king, he had no doubt. He’d spoken to the terrified stable boy who whispered that the girth on the king’s saddle had been nearly cut through and that it had been the princess herself who had prepared his horse for him. Who would be next? Her father’s friends?

He sat up late into the night, turning the spindle in his hands. One prick, the witch had said, and that would be that. He wished it could be done while she was the Beast. Somehow that would feel easier. But the Beast rarely slept and her magic would protect her from danger. It had to be Beauty he murdered.

He went to her rooms the next afternoon. It was a beautiful day. The city was full of life. A rose, Beauty’s favourite flower, sat in a glass on the window sill. She sat on the edge of her bed and laughed with delight as she reached for the spinning wheel, happy that he’d thought to bring her a gift from his travels, especially a thing she had never seen before in her life, and in that moment where she was joyous he saw her delicate finger touch the spindle.

It was done.

Her eyes widened for the merest moment and then the spinning wheel slid from her hands to the floor and she fell backwards onto her bed. Rumplestiltskin stood and cried, silently begging her forgiveness, for what seemed like forever, before he laid her out on the bed. He was so absorbed in his grief and guilt he failed to notice the sudden unnatural silence around him.

He did, however, notice that the princess, one arm flopped over the side of the bed, a tiny drop of blood striking the floor from her pricked finger, was still breathing.

It didn’t make sense. Not at first. Not until he’d been outside and to the forest’s edge and seen the wall that had grown there. And even then it had taken weeks, maybe even months, for the terrible truth to sink in.

‘
T
he witch lied,’ Petra said, softly.

‘Oh no.’ Rumplestiltskin shook his head. ‘Witches never lie. But they do speak in riddles. The queen
would
die. She would bleed to death and it would be painless. But she would bleed to death one drop at a time.’ He shuddered and sipped his wine. ‘Before Beauty’s birth, the witch told the king that a spindle would send his daughter to sleep for a hundred years. Her prophesy was not destroyed by my deeds. I brought the spindle. I sent her to sleep as I killed her. She would sleep the hundred years it took her blood to drain from her body and then she’d be gone. A hundred years of waiting. And we were so nearly there, when you woke her.’

‘Your daughter?’ the huntsman said.

‘Long dead now. After a life abandoned and locked away in a witch’s tower.’

‘Locked in a tower,’ Petra repeated, her gaze misty as if she was lost in a different story.

‘So why is the first minister so keen that we find you and take you to him? You were doing something that surely they all wanted?’

‘If I had succeeded, of course. But I failed. The queen is awake, and there’s only one other person who knew of my plan and my visit to the witch.’

‘Him?’ Petra said.

‘Exactly. If I’m captured and the Beast tortures me, he knows I’ll have no choice but to give up his name. It’s better for everyone if she thinks I acted alone.’

‘Shhh.’ Toby tilted his head and frowned.

‘What?’

‘The bell,’ Toby said. ‘The bell is ringing. A dark day has come.’

Rumplestiltskin looked up at the huntsman. ‘The Beast is awake.’

‘But what about the prince?’ Petra asked. ‘He’s with her!’

‘Hopefully the first minister will look after him,’ the old man muttered. ‘But I fear he’s about to have a very rude awakening about his sweet queen.’

9

‘Perhaps he was in a dream . . .’

T
he bell rang out from somewhere at the top of the castle, a steady heavy knell, and as the prince stared up at the ceiling of his apartments he shivered slightly while his heart raced. Whatever affliction had struck poor Beauty the first minister had not been surprised by it, but the prince had also seen that he was afraid and that in turn frightened the prince. Much to his own chagrin, he wished the huntsman were here. Surrounded as he was by the kind of luxury he was used to, he still suddenly felt very alone and far from home. He loved Beauty, he knew that to his very core, but he was unimportant here. The way the minister had spoken to him made that abundantly clear.

Blue lightning flashed in jagged lines beyond the window and a moment later an almighty rumble of thunder shook the sky. He was sure the castle walls trembled. He was about to go to the window to look when the door to his rooms opened and the first minister entered carrying a silver tray.

‘I know it is early, but you have had a long night and I thought you might like something to eat,’ he said smoothly, placing it on the table against the wall. ‘And a hot drink to help you sleep.’ His smile was tight. ‘I’m very sorry to have rushed you away like that, but our beloved queen has occasional fits.’ He nodded towards the window. ‘They come with the bad weather.’ The minister had regained his usual poise, but the prince remembered all too well the urgency with which he’d spoken earlier, insisting that the prince leave. What was he hiding? ‘It’s unlikely she will be well again today, so eat now and then sleep as long as you wish. Take time to recover from your long journey.’

‘I should be with her while she’s sick. I am her husband to be, after all. It’s my job to look after her.’

‘And when you are married of course you shall. But the queen requires privacy at these times – the fits are quite traumatic for her – and you can understand why she might want to keep them private from you at this early stage. She is young and easily embarrassed. Anyway,’ he clasped his hands in front of him and they were lost in the sleeves and folds of his robes, ‘once this one has passed, which I’m sure it shall quickly, I shall teach you how best to deal with them. But for now she is well cared for, so eat, drink and sleep. Then you have a wedding to plan.’

His eyes lingered a moment too long on the tray and there was a flash of intensity, almost hidden under the first minister’s hooded brows, as he turned his gaze back to the prince.

‘Of course,’ the prince said, his mouth drying. ‘You are right. I was simply worried.’ He lifted the goblet and pretended to take a sip. ‘I shall see her tomorrow. Perhaps, if she is unwell, we should delay the wedding for a day. We can plan it together so it can be perfect.’

The first minister smiled. ‘Perhaps that is wise.’

The prince felt the red wine touch his lips but refused to let it pass. Why would the first minister bring him his food and not send a servant? He was a proud man – the prince had known enough counsellors and politicians to know they did nothing to diminish their status in the eyes of others. The minister must have wanted to ensure the prince received it and was going to consume it, and that meant he had probably added an extra ingredient between the kitchen and his rooms. The prince was spoiled and could be selfish but he wasn’t stupid. All castles housed ruthless men with their own personal agendas – what if the first minister had decided that Beauty marrying a royal was not in his best interest? She was sweet and gentle – her husband might not be. Who would wield the power then?

He looked down at the silver plate containing half a roast chicken covered in gravy and surrounded by potatoes and vegetables. ‘That looks delicious. Thank you once again. I think I’ll read while I eat it and then sleep if you think that’s for the best. But please,’ he knew he had to keep some of his urgency. ‘Tell Beauty I love her and am thinking of her.’

‘I will.’ The first minister’s eyes twinkled and he bowed before he backed away. ‘Remember to stay in these rooms. We like to keep the castle peaceful for the queen while she’s unwell.’

‘Thank you,’ the prince said, and sat at the table, picking up his knife and fork and cutting a piece of the succulent chicken. The first minister paused in the doorway and watched as the prince put the food into his mouth and then quietly closed the door behind him.