Mrs. Beast (26 page)

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"Reality check."
 
Elora smirks over her crystal ball, "What say we have a boo for her?"

    
Instead of showing his usual interest, Croesus bares his teeth and dives at his tail.

    
"Fleas!" Elora shouts.
 
"Not in my palace."
 
She zaps Croesus with an Orkin ray.
 
"Must have picked them up this morning in Bremen Bog."

    
Croesus heaves a relieved doggy sigh.

    
Elora snaps her fingers and music emanates from the crystal ball.
 
Runyon sits on his throne, strumming a lute and warbling a ballad.
 
The Great Hall is again packed with court members and subjects.
 
Dukes, Earls, and Counts nod and doze in French Provincial chairs while their wives fan their flushed, enamored faces.

    
"For my final sahwection, I will pway,
Wandering Runyon
, the tenth mewody based on my book.
 
After the performance, sheet music may be purchased from Bwockhead.

    
The ladies drop their fans, applaud and squeal.
 
A Countess swoons.
 
A Duchess removes her bloomers and throws them at the throne.
 
Runyon strums the lute, rounds his lips, and sings:

        
Ah, she was a gwimmering girl with roses in her hair whose silken voice cawd and faded through the misty air.
 
Though I am weak with wandering o'er woods and peaks I will find where she has gone, and kiss her wips and feet . . .

    
Croesus jabs a paw in his mouth and gags.
 
The throne-room crowd jumps to its feet; the women are weeping.
 
Runyon sets his lute aside and accepts the praise with an air of resigned melancholy.

    
"What a cheap actor," Elora snipes.

    
Runyon summons Blockhead to his side. "They idowize me, but they keep asking,
Is the story true?
 
Are you the real Prince Beast?
 
Is Beauty your wife?
 
Where is Beauty?
"
  
Runyon's face pinches with indignation.
 
"You must find Beauty.
 
Get rid of these people; tell them I'm heartsick. They'll wove me even more.
 
Then meet me in my private chamber."

    
Elora and Croesus watch Runyon scurry through the castle corridors to his private room.
 
The prince impatiently rummages through stacks of parchment piled high on his Louis XIV desk.
 
"Where is that wonderful wetter I wrote for Beauty wast month?
 
I know I transcribed it from canvas to paper--Aha!"

    
Runyon holds up the letter, seats himself, and dips pen in inkwell.
  
Elora zooms in on his addendum.

    
    
P. S.
 
If you don't come back, I will divorce you.
 
No, I will declare you dead, and I will marry someone else.
 
And I will have your stupid father beheaded.

    
"That should do the trick," Runyon gloats and blows on the ink.
 
Blockhead shuffles in.
 
Runyon rolls up the parchment, seals it with wax, and shoves the scroll into Blockhead's hands.

    
Elora slyly arches an eyebrow. "I believe a word in the ear of our resident expert on intercepting communiqués is in order."

    
Croesus curls the tips of his ears to resemble a pair of horns.

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Chapter Eleven

Among The Ashes

    
The Lake of Longing is perfectly round, a half mile in diameter, and five hundred feet deep.
 
Though the sun occasionally shines on its waters, the rays cannot penetrate to its bottom.
 
Because there is no vegetation, there are neither bugs nor fish nor waterfowl.
 
The forest animals do not drink here; only the ferryman's oar disturbs the lake's still surface.

    
Beauty steps out of the wood onto a shore coated with woman's head moss, soft and resilient as the Vatican's velvet prayer kneelers. A few yards away, at the lake's edge, a woman on her knees stares into the water.
 
Her dress is of plain cloth and cut, and her blond braids are wound in a knot above each ear.
 
A rowboat floats unmoving beside the woman, and a rope leads from the boat up the shore to a man lying on his back.
 
"Good day," Beauty calls.
 
She walks a few steps closer and repeats, "Good day."

    
The man does not stir and the woman does not break her concentration.
 
Curiosity goading her, Beauty approaches the woman and leans over to see what is so captivating.
 
She sees nothing unusual at first. The woman is entranced with her own countenance. However, in her reflection, the woman's hair is not braided, but a mass of golden ringlets, and her dress is not plain, but a confection of satin and lace.
 
Interesting
, Beauty thinks, but her main concern is crossing the lake.

    
"Pardon me," she says loudly.
 
"Is this your boat?"

    
"Lean Lisa, is that you?" the woman cries at Beauty's reflection next to hers. "Heart alive!
 
That’s best face you've ever longed for."
 
The woman twists her head and squawks like a hoofed hen.

    
"Trina, my turtle dove!"
 
The man, wakened from his snooze, rushes to her side.
 
"What is the matter?"

    
"Do stop fussing, Harry.
 
This woman surprised me."

    
Harry nods to Beauty, then catching sight of the women's reflections, he whistles long and low.
 
"If that don't beat all.
 
No wonder you were spooked, my darling.
 
In all my years as ferryman, I have never seen a woman's reflection appear in the Lake of Longing as she truly looks.
 
That's how the lake got its name; it reflects people as they long to be.
 
Isn't it a marvel, Trina, a woman content with her appearance?"

    
Trina smiles weakly.

    
"I'm Harry the ferryman, and this is Trina, my intended."
 
Harry kisses Trina's hand wetly.
 
"She's the finest, fastest, most respected spinner in Grimm Land.
 
Notice her lovely broad, flat foot, earned from treading the wheel.
 
This dear broad thumb, she earned from twisting the thread."
 
Harry, still holding Trina's hand, proudly displays Trina's right hand thumb, as flat and round as a buttermilk pancake.
 
"That lower lip hanging down over her chin, she earned from licking the thread.
 
Can't understand why she bothers looking in the lake for a different self.
 
I would have no other."
 
Harry slips his arms around Trina's waist and squeezes her hip.

    
"Pleased to make your acquaintance.
 
My name is Beauty.
 
I wish to cross the lake to Charmed Kingdom."

    
"It will be my privilege to ferry you across," Harry says and heads for the boat. Trina grabs his arm.

    
"We can't go until tomorrow," Trina insists.
 
To Beauty she says, "Tonight is Midsummer Eve, and Harry and I will leap over the fire together, as sweethearts do, and we'll never be parted."

    
"Trina, my sugar plum, it takes only an hour to cross the lake.
 
I wouldn't miss jumping the Midsummer fire with you for all the gold in Charmed Kingdom."

    
Watching Harry hustle to the boat, Beauty says, in admiration of his good character, "A fine man."

    
"He's mine!"
 
Trina caws, her expression a mix of fear and ire. "Why are you here?
 
Where are you from?
 
What do you want?
 
A husband to jump the fire?"

    
“I have a husband, Miss Trina."
 
Beauty runs her hands over her bulging belly. "I come from the Kingdom of Fleur de Coeur where my husband, Prince Runyon, reigns.
 
I need to cross the lake on his behalf."

    
Trina's long lip quivers like a bowl of raspberry gelatin.
 
Beauty has never used royal clout to cower a commoner, and she dislikes having been forced to do so.

    
Harry hustles back, rope in tow.
 
He places one foot on the boat and extends his hand to Trina.
 
"Remember, left foot first, Lambkin, keep the big one on the ground."

    
"Harry, can't you see
Princess
Beauty is in the family way," Trina chides and takes the satchel from Beauty's hand.

    
"Thunder and lightening!"
 
Harry snatches his hat from his head and bows.
 
He thrusts the rope at Trina, sweeps Beauty into his well-muscled arms, and lifts her into the boat.
 
He hauls in the anchor, leaving Trina to step in unassisted wearing an expression that would have been tight-lipped if not anatomically impossible.

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Meanwhile, in the Kingdom of Fleur de Coeur, Jhoron sobs at her cottage door as Blockhead rides away on Hermes the mule, mumbling as he goes, "Rotten rats, wild goose chase, gonna miss my little bride." Neither of them knows he will be back within the hour.

    
Upon reaching the juncture where the south road crosses the west road, Hermes brays and locks his knees.
 
The mule's nostrils snap closed and his eyes roll wildly.
 
Blockhead dismounts and scratches his head.

    
"Good afternoon, fellow traveler," says a man who has stepped from behind the boulder marking the crossroads.

    
"This dang ass won't move," Blockhead grunts, applying his shoulder to Hermes rump.
 
He raises his head suddenly and asks, "You smell something burning?"

    
The man is finely dressed as a prosperous merchant.
 
His broad-brimmed hat is unusually large of crown.
 
He jiggles a purse of coins on his belt, which distracts Blockhead from noticing the man has hooves instead of feet.

    
"It appears you're between a rock and a hard place," the man says.

    
"Yes, sir, and this ain't the half of it," Blockhead groans.
 
"I had to leave my sweet bride alone in our little cottage to track down Princess Beauty and give her this letter.
 
Where do I
 
start?
 
She could be anywhere . . ."