4

Summer turned gradually, peacefully, to autumn. I had been in the Beast’s castle for over six months. I was no nearer the answer to the riddle of the magic that Lydia and Bessie hinted was laid on the Beast and his estate; nor did my sixth sense develop any further. Or at least—I didn’t think so. I found I could read more of the books in the library with comprehension; if I stopped and tried deliberately to envision, say, a motorcar, I managed only a headache, and my reading was spoiled. But if once I slipped into an author’s world, nothing in it disturbed me, and I could slip out of it again when I closed the book. But perhaps there was nothing really mysterious in that. I had accepted Cassandra and Medea, and Paris’s choice among three goddesses as the reason for the Trojan War, and other improbables long before I read about steam-engines and telephones; I had accepted my life in this castle, for example. The principle was probably the same.

I continued to listen to Lydia and Bessie’s conversations without acknowledging that I could hear them, but I learned nothing that was useful. I had trouble, sometimes, when I inadvertently made comments I shouldn’t have been able to make. But Lydia was straightforward and trusting and never—I think—suspected. Bessie may have; she was the quieter of the two, and I didn’t know her as well; and she said nothing that would indicate one way or another. Perhaps the Beast had warned them. I didn’t see the princess’s dress again, nor the convent schoolgirl’s dress, and neither of them referred to that incident; although, once or twice, Lydia said with meaning during minor squabbles: “Now we know how stubborn she can be.” Whereupon I won.

I occasionally heard other things talking to one another, especially the plates and trays and glasses on the grand dinner table; but they spoke in a language that I had never learned. I understood a phrase, sometimes, by not listening: It was usually something like “Here you, move over,” or “I won’t have this, it’s my turn,” that would spill into my mind. But mostly I heard nothing more than echoes behind the clink of silver and crystal. This, with Lydia and Bessie, served to make me feel far less lonely; and the castle never again seemed as immense and solitary as it once had after I’d heard, once or twice, “Hsst—wake up, you,” and seen a startled candle burst into flame.

And I always knew where the Beast was. If he was at a good distance, I could ignore him. If he was nearby, it was like listening to the soughing of wind through tall trees—it was there, and while I could choose not to pay attention to it, I couldn’t pretend it didn’t exist. Usually this latter situation prevailed. “Beast,” I said, exasperated, about a week after the night I’d fainted, “do you always lurk like this?”

“I like to watch you,” he said. “Does it disturb you?”

“Oh—well,” I said, off balance. “I suppose not.”

When I looked out over the forest from my bedroom window there was a rosy flush of autumn leaves among the evergreens, and I began to wear a cloak again on the afternoon rides. I thought of my family as little as possible, putting them out of my head, and resisting any attempts to return to them. Although I had almost contrived to forget what the Beast had said that night many weeks ago, just before I fainted, it was nonetheless the reason that I had since then chosen never to think about the future. When I did remember my family—and I dreamed of them very often, nor were they ever far from my conscious mind, even if I would not entertain them there—I thought of them as I had left them. I avoided thinking about how much the babies must have grown, and whether Ger and Father had had time to build the extra room on the house as they had planned. I never allowed myself to think about seeing them again. And much deeper than all of this in my mind, where I probably couldn’t have reached it even if I had wanted to, was the thought that I couldn’t leave my Beast now even if the opportunity were offered. I still wanted to visit my family, and I missed them desperately; but not if leaving this world to return to theirs meant that I could not come back here. But I was only dimly aware of the smallest part of this. Consciously I understood only that to save myself needless pain I must not think about my life before I had come to live in the castle.

And every night before I left him in the dining hall the Beast asked, “Beauty, will you marry me?” And every night I closed my eyes, my heart, and my mind, and replied, “No, Beast.”

This magic land was not entirely free of the lashing storms of autumn. In October there was a day heavy and grey with foreboding, and that night I had difficulty sleeping, as the clouds crept lower and lower, and hung themselves balefully around the castle’s high towers. It was past midnight when the rain finally broke through; but even then it was nearly dawn when I fell uneasily asleep, and dreamed. I dreamed of my family, as I often did, but never before had I dreamed of them with such vividness.

They were eating breakfast—I could even smell the thick porridge as Grace spooned it into bowls. Everyone sat around the kitchen table, and there were two conversations going on at once. Ger and Father were having a friendly argument over the cutting of floorboards; Hope was telling Grace that Melinda had managed to find some thread from her own large supply that would just match the green cotton she wanted to make into a dress. Grace set the full bowls around while Hope cut bread, and Father passed the plate of fried ham. The babies were wielding spoons, sort of; Richard was mashing his bit of bread into the bottom of his bowl with the back of his spoon, to the accompaniment of much interesting splashing. Mercy tried to help, till their mother prevented her, and also rearranged her son’s hold on his spoon. “It’s nice to have the cool weather back,” said Grace; “cooking over the fire in the middle of summer exhausts me.”

“Yes, I like fall,” said Hope, “after harvest, when everyone has the first bit of breathing space since spring sowing. That was quite a storm we had last night, though, wasn’t it? But this morning is fair; it must have blown itself out.”

“It’s funny, the way the roses never seem to lose their petals, even with the wind,” murmured Grace, and she and Hope glanced towards a vase on the table that held a dozen gold and red and white roses. “Or the way they never grow over the windows,” said Hope. “They’ve never been pruned, have they?” Grace shook her head.

Ger glanced over at them. “Pruned?” he inquired.

“The roses. Beauty’s roses,” said Grace. “They never need pruning. And they don’t seem to care about storms that take the heads off all the other flowers within miles of here.”

“And after they’re cut, they live a month to the day, looking as if they had just been brought inside, and then they die in a night,” said Hope.

Ger smiled and shrugged. “It’s a good omen, don’t you think? The flowers so beautiful and all? I wonder if they’ll bloom all through the winter? That’ll make the townspeople talk.”

“I think they’ll always bloom,” said Father. “Summer or winter.”

Ger looked at him. “Did you dream about her last night?”

“Yes.” He paused. “She was riding Greatheart towards the castle. She was wearing a long blue habit, and a cloak that billowed out behind her. She waved at someone I couldn’t see. She looked happy.” He shook his head. “I dream about her—often, as you know. And I’ve noticed—oh, just recently it’s occurred to me—she’s changed. Changing. First I thought, I’m forgetting her, and it made me very unhappy. But it’s not that. She’s changing. My dreams are as vivid as ever, but the Beauty I see is different.”

“How?” asked Grace.

“I don’t know. I wish I did. I wish I knew where the dreams come from—whether I dream truly.”

“I think you do,” said Hope. “I believe you do. It’s like the roses; they comfort us.”

Father smiled. “I like to think that too.”

Then Mercy said in a clear thin treble: “When is Beauty coming home?”

Her words were like a rock in a quiet pool that I, the dreamer, was looking into: I saw only the beginnings of wonder, surprise, and a little fear in the faces of the rest of the family before the image was shattered, and my sleep with it. My first coherent thought, as I awoke, was: I was wearing the blue habit yesterday; I saw the Beast, and waved at him, as we cantered back towards the castle.

Dawn came clear and pale through my window. The storm was blown away and the sky was blue and cloudless.

I was still tired; I nodded over my teacup, and walked slowly downstairs and out into the garden.

“Good morning, Beauty,” said the Beast.

“Good morning,” I returned, and yawned. “I’m sorry. The storm kept me awake most of the night.” I was tired, and didn’t mean to add: “And I had an upsetting dream just before I woke up,” and I yawned again, and then realized what I’d said.

“What was it?” he asked.

“It’s not important,” I mumbled. We had been walking towards the stable as we spoke, and I went inside to let Greatheart out. He ambled through the door, pricked his ears at the Beast, and wandered off in search of grass. The meadows were still wet from last night’s rain; I was wearing boots, but the hem of my dress was soon soaked through.

After several minutes’ silence, the Beast said: “Was it about your family?”

I opened my mouth to deny it, and changed my mind. I nodded, looking down and kicking at a daisy. It shook itself free of raindrops that the sunlight turned into a halo. “Must you read my mind?” I said.

“I can’t,” said the Beast. “But in this case your face is transparent enough.”

“I dream about them a lot,” I said, “but it was different this time. It was like watching them—it was as if I were really in the room, except they couldn’t see me. I could see the knots in the wood of the table—not because I remembered them, but because I saw them. Ger had a bandage wrapped around one thumb. I recognized the shirt Father was wearing, but it had a new patch on one shoulder. I saw them.”

The Beast nodded. “Did you hear them too?”

“Yes,” I said slowly. “They—they were talking about me. And the roses. My father said he had dreamed about me—I was riding towards the castle, I was wearing my blue habit, and I looked happy. He said he wished he knew if he dreamed truly; and Hope said she was sure he did, that the dreams and the roses were to comfort them.”

“She’s right,” said the Beast.

“How do you know?” I asked.

“The roses are mine,” said the Beast. “And I send the dreams.”

I stared at him.

“He dreams about you nearly every night, and tells the rest of your family about it the next day. It does comfort them, I think. I am careful not to let him see me.”

“How do you know? Can you see them?” I said, still staring.

He looked away. “Yes; I can see them.”

“May I?”

He looked at me, and his eyes were unhappy. “I will show you, if you wish it.”

“Please,” I said. “Oh, please show me.”

I put Greatheart away, and the Beast took me back inside the castle, up stairs and down hallways and up more stairs to the room I had found him in on the very first night. He closed the curtains and the door, and I noticed that the small table that stood behind the Beast’s armchair glittered strangely. He went over to it and peered at it; then he picked up a glass that stood on the mantelpiece, and said a few words as he poured a little of its contents onto the tabletop. He replaced the glass and said to me, “Come here, stand by me.”

I could see that on the table a thick plate of what looked like pale nephrite lay. The glitter had died, and there was a cloudy grey swirling like harbour water just after the turn of the tide. It cleared slowly.

I saw my sisters in the parlour. Grace was sitting, head in hands, and Hope stood in front of her, hands on Grace’s shoulders. “What’s wrong, dearest?” she said. “What’s wrong?” Morning sunlight streamed in the window, and I heard Ger’s laugh, faintly, from the shop. “Is it something about Mr. Lawrey? I just saw him leaving.”

Grace nodded slowly, and spoke into her hands. “He wants to marry me.”

Hope knelt down and pulled Grace’s hands away from her face, and they looked at one another. “He has asked you?”

“Not quite. He’s much too proper—you know. But his hints—and he just told me that he wants to ‘speak’ to Father. What else could he mean?”

“Of course,” said Hope. “We’ve suspected all summer that this was coming. Father will be pleased—he thinks Mr. Lawrey is a very good sort of young man. It’ll be all right. You’ll make a lovely minister’s wife, you’re so good and patient.”

Grace’s eyes filled with tears. “No,” she whispered. “I can’t.” The tears spilled over and ran down her pale face. Hope reached out and touched her sister’s wet cheek with her hand. Her voice was a whisper too. “You’re not still thinking of Robbie, are you?”

Grace nodded. “I can’t help it,” she said through her tears. “We never knew. And I don’t love Pat Lawrey—I still love Robbie. I can’t seem to think of anyone else. I can’t even try to. Have I been terribly unfair to Mr. Lawrey?”

“No,” said Hope, as if she weren’t quite sure. “No, don’t worry about that. But Father will encourage him, you know, and he’ll start courting you in earnest. Oh, my dear, you must try to put Robbie out of your mind. You can’t waste your life like this. It’s been six years.”

“I know,” said Grace. “Do you think I’ve forgotten a day of it? But it’s no use.”

“Try,” said Hope. “Please. Mr. Lawrey loves you and would be good to you. You needn’t love him as you did Robbie.” Hope’s voice was unsteady and she had begun to weep also. “Just be good to him—time and his love for you will do the rest. I’m sure of it. Please, Grace.”

Grace looked at her like a lost child. “Must I? Is this the only way left to me?”

“Yes,” said Hope. “Trust me. It’s for your own good—I know it. And it would please Father so much. You know how he worries about you.”

“Yes.” Grace bowed her head. “Very well; I will do as you say,” she whispered.

The mist gathered around the picture again, and then across it, and my sisters disappeared. “Oh, poor Grace,” I said, “poor Grace. I wonder what did happen to Robbie?”

As I spoke, the mist disappeared like a fog before a high wind, and a man stepped down from a ship’s side to the dock. There was a brisk wind blowing across a harbour I knew well: I had grown up on it and beside it. I could see one of the warehouses that used to belong to Father. It had had a new addition built onto it, and it was freshly painted. The ship the man left was two-masted, but the second mast had been snapped off a third of its length from the deck, and a spar lashed to the stump. The rest of the ship was sadly battered also; there were gaps in her railing, hasty patches on her sides and her deck; most of the forward cabin had been torn away, and canvas sheeting turned the remains into a sort of tent. The men who manned her were ragged and hollow-eyed, nor were there many of them; but they stood to attention with a pride that showed in their faces and in their bearing. Several men from the shore came hurrying up to the one who had just stepped off the ship. They made a curious contrast: These men were stout and healthy, and well-dressed. The man they confronted was much taller than they, but thin and pale as if he had been very ill recently and had not yet fully recovered. His black hair was streaked with white.

“Please excuse me, masters,” he said; “we lost both our skiffs over the side during storms. I thought it would be best to tie up at the dock rather than trust to luck in hailing another ship in the harbour. You see,” he added with a grin, “I’m afraid we’ve lost our anchor also, and the old tub is leaking so fast that I thought it would be well that my men be near enough to leap ashore when the time comes. We’re not fit for much swimming.”

I recognized the grin when I hadn’t recognized the man. It was Robbie.

“But who are you, sir?” said one of the men who approached him.

“My name is Robert Tucker, and my ship—what’s left of her—is the White Raven. I sail—or I used to—for Roderick Huston. I set out six years ago with three other ships: the Stalwart, the Windfleet, and the Fortune’s Chance. I’m afraid we ran into rather more trouble than we were expecting.” I couldn’t see the faces of the men he was talking to. One young lad, dressed like an office boy, detached himself from the group and ran off to spread the news. After a pause, Robbie went on: “Can you tell me what’s become of the other three? We lost track of them entirely, four years ago, during a storm—the first storm,” he said wryly. “And where might I find Mr. Huston? Things have changed, I see, since we’ve been gone,” and he nodded towards the warehouse I had noticed. “He must have written us off long since. We’ve not been anywhere that we could well send a message from. I tried, once or twice, but I don’t suppose they ever arrived.”

And then the mist obliterated the picture once again, and I found myself staring at the top of a table in a dark room in the Beast’s castle. “Robbie,” I said. “He’s come home—he’s alive! And Grace doesn’t know—oh dear—Beast,” I said, turning to him, “is what I’m seeing happening now? Has Robbie only just docked? And Grace only just had her conversation with Hope?”

The Beast nodded.

“Then it’s not too late,” I said. “Yet. Oh dear. If Robbie sets out for Blue Hill today it’ll take him nearly two months—and he wouldn’t, besides: He’ll stay and see to the ship, and his men. And he’s not well—you can see that just by looking at him. I wonder if he’ll even send a message. You can never tell with these desperately honour-bound people; he may think he has to put it off for some reason. Oh dear,” I said. I walked away from the table, and paced up and down the room several times. The Beast wiped a cloth carefully over the table and then sat down in the big chair near it, but I was preoccupied and paid him little attention. “Grace must be told. If she gets herself engaged to that young minister—if she even feels that she’s encouraged him to believe that she would accept his suit—she’ll go through with it. She’ll feel she must, Robbie or no Robbie.

“Beast—could you send her a dream—telling her about Robbie?”

He shifted in his chair. “I could try, but I doubt that I would be successful. And even if I were, she would not believe it.”

“Why? Father believes.”

“Yes, but he wants to—and there are the roses that remind him that there is some magic at work. Grace often dreams that Robbie is safely home. She knows that the dreams are wraiths of her own love, and so she has trained herself not to believe. She would not believe any dream I sent. And—well—both your sisters’ minds are strongly pragmatic; I’m not sure I could send them anything at all. Your father is different—so is Ger, for that matter; so is Mercy. But neither your father nor Ger would mention dreaming of Robbie, you know, to save your sister pain; and Mercy is too young.”

I paused in my pacing. “You know a great deal about my family.”

“I have watched them many hours, since your father rode home alone. They have grown very dear to me, perhaps for your sake; and I have watched to see that they were well.”

“Then let me go home—just for a day—an hour—to tell Grace. She mustn’t marry Lawrey—she’ll be miserable for the rest of her life, after she finds out that her heart was right about Robbie. And then they’ll know too that I’m all right, that I’m happy here, that they needn’t worry about me anymore. And then I’ll come back. And I’ll never ask to leave again. Please, Beast. Please.” I knelt down in front of him and put my hands on his knees. The room was still dark, the curtains unopened, and his face was hidden in the darker shadows of the wing chair; all I could see was a glitter of eyes. There was a long silence, while I could hear nothing but the quick heave of my own breathing.

“I can deny you nothing,” he said at last, “if you truly want it. Even if it should cost me my life.” He took a deep breath; it seemed that he would suck in all the air in the room. “Go home, then. I can give you a week.” He leaned forwards. There was a bowl of roses on a what-not at his elbow; he lifted out a great red one, like the one Father had brought home nearly eight months ago. “Take this.” I took it, the stem still wet, cool against my fingers. “For a week it will remain fresh and blooming, as it is now; but at the end of the week it will droop and die. You will know then that your faithful Beast is dying too. For I cannot live without you, Beauty.”

I looked at him, appalled, and with a little gasp and gulp I said: “Can you not send me as you send dreams? It would be much swifter. And—and you would know when to bring me back, before—anything happened.”

“I could,” he said. “But you must take Greatheart with you, and I cannot send him thus, as I have already told you; it would drive him mad.”

“He could stay here, with you,” I said.

“No; he suffers me only for love of you. You must take him with you. If you leave at once, you will be home in time for supper.”

Those words, “home in time for supper,” filled my whole world and echoed in every part of my head, and I spared no further thought for any of my scruples at leaving the poor Beast. All the longing to see my family that I had suppressed so urgently over the last few months surged and poured into me till I could scarcely breathe. I stood up, looking through the thick walls of the castle to a little house on the far side of the enchanted forest.

“Wear your ring,” said the Beast, “and remember me.”

I laughed, and my voice was shrill with excitement. “I couldn’t forget you, dear Beast,” I said, and bent down. His hands lay, fingers curled a little upwards, on his knees; I kissed the right palm, and looked into the shadows for a moment, where his eyes watched me. The glitter of them was strangely bright, as if reflected by tears; but that must have been the blur in my own vision. As I turned away, I saw his right hand close slowly.

I ran to my room, down a hallway and around the first corner, pulled out a silk scarf, and bundled a few things into it; then a loaf of bread from breakfast and a few oranges into another scarf, and knotted them hastily together. It did not occur to me, that day, to wonder why breakfast had not yet been cleared away. I grabbed my cloak and bolted downstairs. Greatheart knew at once that something was up. I fastened the rose to his headstall as I had done with another rose, when we had first followed the path that we were about to retrace. I pushed my small bundles into the saddle-bags, and mounted; Greatheart had thundered into a canter before I was settled in the saddle. I grabbed the reins.

The silver gate winked at us across the meadows; we were beside it, it seemed, before I had my feet in the stirrups. But when I looked back, the castle was far away, the gardens only a memory outlined in delicate green. I pulled Greatheart to a halt for a moment, a strange and unexpectedly queasy moment for me; but I thought, Nonsense; I’ll be back in a week. We jogged through the gate, and it swung silently shut behind us.

I had no idea of direction, hadn’t thought to ask the Beast before I left, but Greatheart jogged steadily along the carriage-road as if he knew where he was going. I remembered that the road ran out within a few miles of the grey gates; but the dark afternoon shadows lengthened across the sand-colored road, and it still showed no sign of ending. I had a queer, sixth-sense feeling that just beyond the first shadow up ahead that I couldn’t see through, the road ended, but had unrolled as far as the next shadow by the time we had reached the first. Greatheart trotted tirelessly; I knew that we still had a long way to go, and we should reserve our strength, but when I slackened the reins, the horse leaped forwards into a gallop. I let him run, the sun sparkling in his pale mane as it lifted and fell with the motion, the pale road unfolding just beyond the edge of sight.

We stopped once, and I slacked the girths and fed Greatheart pieces of bread and orange, but we were both eager to go on. I tried to make him walk, but he fretted so that I told myself that he was wasting more energy than if I let him jog; so we jogged.

The sun sank beyond our sight, and twilight crept out from behind the trees and spread across our way; the road glimmered faintly. Then something else, a golden glimmer, showed among the trees for a moment and was gone. Then it showed again. It might be lamplight from a house. I leaned forwards and Greatheart broke into a gallop again, and galloped till the reins were slippery with sweat; and then we burst through the border of the trees, and we were in the meadow behind the house, lamplight gleaming through the kitchen window, goldedging the roses that hung near it, and laying down a little golden carpet on the grass verge between the back door and the kitchen garden. Greatheart plunged to a stop, then threw his head out and neighed like a warhorse. There was a moment of dreadful silence, then the back door flew open, and Hope said, “It is Greatheart!” and I slid out of the saddle and ran to the door. By the time I got there, everyone else had come outside, and we laughed and hugged one another, and Greatheart, who had followed me for his share of the attention, was petted and kissed, and most if not all of us were crying.

The babies, left alone in the kitchen, had made their way to the door and were looking curiously at the confusion outside. Mercy slid down the two steps to the ground and stood, precariously, clutching one of the posts of the chicken-wire fence that protected the garden from the little creatures that never came out of the enchanted forest. “Mercy,” said her grandfather, after the initial uproar had subsided, “do you remember Beauty?” “No,” she replied, but when I walked over to her she smiled at me and held up her arms. I picked her up, while the more timid Richard made a dash from the door and wrapped himself in his mother’s skirts.

“Come in, come in,” said Father. “You must tell us everything.”

“Wait, I have to put Greatheart away—is there space for him?”

“We’ll make space,” said Ger.

“I’ll set another place at the table,” said Grace. “We’re just sitting down to dinner.” All our voices sounded strange, breathless, and creaky; I found it difficult to think clearly. Grace and Hope and Richard went back inside the house while the rest of us went out to the stable. “Would Mercy like a ride?” I said, with laudable presence of mind; my own earliest memories were of wanting to sit on horses. “Try her,” said Ger. “She and Richard are old friends with Odysseus now.” Mercy was arranged on Greatheart’s saddle and held by the leg from both sides, and we safely navigated the few steps to the stable. Ger went inside to light a lantern. “Big” was Mercy’s comment when she was lifted down.

Besides Odysseus’s brown blazed face, there was a new chestnut face that looked over Greatheart’s old stall door. “Cider,” said Ger. “Five years old; a nice little mare. I hope they’ll get along. We can tie Greatheart in a corner, here. There’s plenty of hay.” I pulled off the saddle. My head was ringing.

“Hurry up, can’t you?” begged Father, who was holding Mercy. “I mustn’t ask you anything till we go back inside and join the girls and the suspense is killing me.” Just then Hope appeared in the doorway. “Are you going to stay here all night? We’ll die of suspense, and the food will get cold, in that order.” Ger took my saddle-bags, and we walked back, I with an arm each around Hope and my father. “I don’t believe it yet,” I said. “Neither do we,” said Hope, and hugged me again.

It wasn’t until we were inside the house and in the light that something that had been bothering me obscurely struck me with full force. I looked at Hope, who was still standing near me: “You’ve shrunk,” I squeaked. I was looking down at her, and seven months ago I had looked up, several inches. Hope laughed; “My dear, you’ve grown!” Grace, the taller of the two, came to stand next to me; I was even an inch or so taller than she. “There! We always told you you’d grow; you were just too impatient, and wouldn’t believe us,” she said, smiling.

“Seven inches in seven months isn’t bad,” said Ger. “I hope this trend will not continue too much longer.”

“Oh, stop it, spoilsport,” Hope said. “And look at the roses in your cheeks!” she said to me. “Enchantments agree with you. I’ve never seen you look prettier.”

I grinned. “That’s not saying much, little sister.”

“Now, children,” said Grace mock-seriously. “No fighting. Let’s eat.”

“Do we have to wait till after dinner to hear your story?” said Father plaintively. “At least tell us: Are you home for good and ever now?”

“No,” I said, as gently as I could. “I’m afraid not. It’s just a visit.” In the joy of coming home the real reason for my visit had been brushed aside and buried; now I recalled it. I cast a quick glance at Grace, who was smiling at me. “I’ll tell you all about it after dinner,” I said. “I’m hungry…. You could tell me about what’s been happening here since I’ve been gone. It seems like years. I half-expect to see the babies all grown up.”

“Not yet,” said Hope, rescuing Mercy’s cup just before she knocked it on the floor.

It had been a good year for them, happy—except for the loss of the youngest daughter—and certainly prosperous. Ger’s reputation had spread till he had more work than he could do. “I could just about keep abreast of it—I hate turning people away, particularly if they’ve come from a distance—but then, a month ago, Ferdy was called away. He’d become nearly indispensable to me in those six months; but an uncle in Goose Landing was badly hurt by a falling log, and they needed somebody to help look after the farm; their children are all very young. So Ferdy went, and I’m afraid we won’t be getting him back. I have Melinda’s oldest boy working for me now; he’s a little young, but he’s doing well. But it’ll take time for him to learn everything he needs—I need him—to know.”

“And what’s suffering for it worst is the extra room we’re trying to build on the house,” said Father. “We’d hoped to have it finished by winter, but we won’t now.” Father’s carpentry business had improved to the point where he could specialize in what he could build at home, in the shop. “I’m too old to crawl around on other people’s roofs,” he said, “and I like working at home. Beds and trunks and cradles, and chairs and tables, and the occasional wagon or cart, mostly. And some repairs. I seem to make a terrible lot of wheels. I get a little fancy work now and then—that’s what I like best—scrollwork on a desk, carved legs on a table.”

“Nothing much new from us,” said Hope. “I run after the babies, and Grace runs after me. This year’s cider turned out really well—even better than Melinda’s, if you can believe it—we’ll all have some, after dinner.”

“That’s where the new mare gets her name, as you might expect,” said Ger. “We were all feeling so smug about it, and then this horse comes along—we bought her from Dick Johnson, you remember him?—with a coat of just the right color.”

“We couldn’t resist,” said Hope.

“Yes,” said Ger. “And I was very unfairly accused of buying her for her color.” Hope laughed. “You may not have noticed,” he continued, “but we have a cow byre now too, built onto the other wall of the stable. Rosie has the rabbits and chickens to keep her company. Odysseus doesn’t seem to like cows for some reason, so we had to build her her own stable.”

“You’re wealthy,” I said admiringly.

“You haven’t seen the new carpet in the parlour yet, either,” added Grace.

“Not so wealthy as you,” said Hope, “judging from that wonderful dress you’re wearing.” I hadn’t bothered to change that morning, at the castle, into riding clothes; the dress I was wearing was rich and heavy, and quite ridiculous for traveling. “Come on now,” Hope continued, “we’re all finished eating. What’s happened to you?”

“The Beast is kind to you, just as he promised?” said Father.

“Yes, Papa,” I said, and paused. Pictures of the gardens, the castle, the incredible library, and the Beast himself crowded into my mind. “I don’t know where to begin.”

“Begin in the middle and work outwards,” said Hope. “Don’t be stuffy.”

“All right,” I said. So I told them about Lydia and Bessie, and the candles that lit themselves, and the way my room was always down a short hallway and around a corner from wherever I was as soon as I felt lost. I told them about how big and grand the castle was, and the enormous table where I ate dinner every night, where I could have anything I pleased by asking for it, and the way the serving trays jostled one another in their enthusiasm to decant their contents onto my plate. I told them about the little friendly birds at my bird-feeder. I told them about the huge library, with more books in it than I could ever begin to read.

“I didn’t think there were that many books in the world,” Grace said drily. I smiled and shrugged. I found that I couldn’t quite say to them: “Well, you see, most of the books don’t exist yet.” I found that there was quite a lot that I skipped over because I didn’t feel that I could explain it.

My greatest difficulty was the Beast himself. I couldn’t leave him out of my narrative, yet I had tremendous trouble bringing him into it; and when I did mention him I found myself pleading in his defense. The ogre my father had met was the Beast they all believed in; and while they were relieved to hear that he was “good” to me I didn’t seem to be able to tell them how good and kind he really was. I stumbled over explanations of how fond I had come to be of him, and what a good friend I found him. It seemed disloyal, somehow. It was he who had cruelly taken me away from my family in the first place; how could they or I forgive him that? How could I make excuses? I couldn’t tell them that I—loved him. This thought came to me with an unpleasant jolt. Loved him?

I fell silent and looked at the fire. I was holding a cup of warm spiced cider; they were right, it was very good. It was strange to cope with dishes that lay where you set them, and didn’t jump up and hurry over to you if you beckoned. And the food was very plain, but I didn’t mind that; what I did mind was a sense that I no longer belonged here, in this warm golden kitchen. You’re only just home, I told myself. It’s been a long time; of course you’ve accustomed yourself to a different life. You’ve had to. Relax.

“How long can you stay?” asked Hope. “You said that you have to go back.”

I nodded. The warmth of the kitchen seemed to retreat from me, leave me isolated. I looked around at the faces of my family. “Yes. I’m here for—for just a week.”

“A week?” Father said. “Only a week? That’s all?”

“Surely you’ll come back again?” said Grace.

I was a traitor, questioned pitilessly by a beloved enemy. I twisted my hands in my lap; the cider tasted bitter. “Well—no,” I said, and my words dropped like knives in the silence. There was a sharp edge to the firelight I hadn’t noticed before, staining the corners with blood. “I—I promised I wouldn’t ask to leave again.” What can I tell them? I thought desperately. The Beast had said, “I cannot live without you.” They wouldn’t understand that I must go back.

“Forever?” said Hope, and her voice disappeared on the last syllable.

“Why did he let you go at all?” Father said angrily.

This wasn’t the time to tell them. “Just to—well, to let you know I’m all right,” I said lamely, “so you wouldn’t have to worry about me anymore.”

“Worry—but we love you,” he said. “We can’t help worrying if we never see you.”

“Well—the dreams you have about me”—I faltered—“they’re true. They help, don’t they?”

“How do you know about that?” demanded Father.

“The Beast sends them. He told me.”

“He sends dreams—very kind of him, I’m sure—but he keeps you. What kind of a bargain is that? Oh, that I had never seen his castle, nor accepted his lying hospitality!”

“Oh, please, Father,” I said, “don’t be angry. You don’t understand. I miss you all, of course, but I don’t mind that much anymore—I mean, I’d rather be here, of course, but …” I couldn’t think how to go on.

“Understand? Understand what?”

“The Beast is lonely too,” I said desperately, and there was an aghast silence.

“You can have—sympathy—for this monster, after what he’s done to you?” said Father at last. I nodded unhappily, and there was more astonished silence.

“All right,” said Ger, in the tone of one trying very hard to be reasonable. “I don’t understand what’s going on, but we know this much: There’s magic mixed up in all of this—these invisible servants you talk about, and so on—and none of us can understand magic. I guess what you’re trying to tell us now, Beauty, is that the Beast you know is not the same monster that your father met. Is that right?”

I smiled with an effort. “It will do.” And I added with unforced gratitude: “Thanks.”

Richard and Mercy had fallen asleep in their chairs, and Grace and Hope picked them up to carry them to bed. “It’s a funny thing,” said Hope, brushing a curl off Mercy’s forehead. “She said her first sentence just this morning, at breakfast. She said: ‘When is Beauty coming home?’” And a tear crept down Hope’s cheek.

We resettled ourselves in the parlour while the babies were put to bed; none of the rest of us said anything till Grace and Hope returned, bringing with them a jug of cider and a plate of gingerbread. We all had our glasses refilled; but then the silence seeped back and filled the room so closely that it was difficult to see through, like flame. Hope stirred restlessly and sighed, then reached over to pluck at a fold of my long skirt and rub it between her fingers. “You’re dressed like a queen,” she said. “I suppose you have wardrobes full of clothing like this?”

“Oh, more or less,” I said, embarrassed, although there was nothing in Hope’s face but gentle curiosity; and it was slowly being borne in on me that my stories about the castle and my life there had little reality for my family. They listened with interest to what I told—or tried to tell—them, but it was for my sake, not for the sake of the tale. I could not say if this was my fault or theirs, or the fault of the worlds we lived in. The only thing they had understood was that I would be leaving them again, to return to a fantastic destiny; and I began to see how horrible this must appear to them. And I also began to sense that there was little I could do to help them.

I smiled at Hope, as she looked pleadingly at me, and in answer to her look I said: “A lot of them are too fancy for me, and I won’t wear them. I wish I’d thought to bring you some of them; they’d look lovely on you two.” I thought of the silvery, gauzy dress I had refused to wear a few weeks ago.

My commonplace words cleared the air. “From the weight of your saddle-bags I thought you brought half the castle with you,” Ger said cheerfully.

“I—what?” I said. “Where are they?” Ger pointed to the table in a corner of the room, and I walked over to them. There was certainly more in them than I had put there. I threw back the flap of the first, and a dull gold brocade with tiny rubies sewed on it looked up at me. “Thank you, Beast,” I said under my breath; and I had a sudden, dizzy, involuntary glimpse of him leaning over the far-seeing glass in the dark room in the castle. It was night; the curtains behind him where he stood were open, and I could see a few stars. There was a fire burning in the fireplace, turning the chestnut-colored velvet he wore to a ruddier hue. Then the vision faded. I had both hands laid flat on the table in front of me, and I shook my head to clear it. “Are you all right?” said Father. “Yes, of course,” I said. Apparently my new ways of seeing rested uneasily in my old world. Then I knew where I was again, and I was looking at golden brocade.

I pulled it out. It was a ball-dress, with satin ribbons woven into the bodice, and rubies alternating with pearls. “This must be yours,” I said, and tossed it at Grace. She reached a hand out for it only at the last minute, and yards and yards of skirt cascaded across her shoulders and lap. There were shoes that matched the dress, tall ruby-studded combs for her hair, and ropes of rubies to wind around her throat.

Underneath all this was a jade-green dress, hemmed with emeralds, for Hope; then two long embroidered cloaks and hoods, and soft leather gloves lined with white fur. Underneath these were fine clothes for Father and Ger; and in a little soft satchel at the back where I almost overlooked it were dresses and caps for the babies, little pearl and sapphire pins, and tiny blankets of the finest wool.

The parlour glittered like a king’s treasure house. I had taken more out of that saddle-bag than could ever have fit into it in the first place; and there was the second saddle-bag, still full, that I had not yet touched. Hope, with a string of emeralds around her neck and a green shawl over one arm, the silken fringe trailing to her feet, picked up one of the little dresses I had laid on the table, and sighed. “I’ve wanted to be able to dress the twins in something really fine; but it’s impractical when they grow so fast—and these are far more beautiful than I was dreaming of. I don’t know, indeed, what we’re going to do with all this—but I love just looking at it. Thank you, Beauty dear,” and she kissed me.

“I want no presents from the Beast,” said Father. “Is he trying to buy us off? Let him take his rich gifts back, and leave us our girl.”

“Please, Father,” I said. “Think of them as presents from me. I’d like you to keep them, and think of me.” Father dropped his eyes, and reluctantly put out a hand and stroked the fur collar of his new jacket.

Ger sighed. “I still don’t understand—and I don’t like not understanding. It makes me feel like a child again, with my mother telling me bogey stories. But I will do as you say—and, since it pleases you—” He picked up his cap, and twirled it on one finger. “Your Beast must be very fond of you, to be so kind to your family.” Father snorted, but said nothing. “Thank you both,” Ger said, and he kissed me too. “I’ve always wondered what it would be like to dress like a lord; here’s my opportunity.” He put the hat on backwards, and pulled it low on his forehead so that the feather tickled his chin. “I feel different already,” he said, blowing at the feather, and Hope laughed. “You look different.”

“Yes, I will cause quite a stir wearing this hat and white satin breeches to shoe horses. It’s a pity I didn’t ask for a new pair of bellows to be thrown in with this deal. The price of the feather alone would probably buy them.” He put the hat on straight, and Hope picked up his cloak and put it around his shoulders, and arranged the golden chain and clasps. Ger stood still while she fussed over him, with a bit of a smile pulling at his mouth. We looked at him as Hope stepped back. He still looked like Ger as we all knew him, but he was different too; you could imagine this Ger commanding armies. With his heavy hair pushed back under the cap, you noticed the height and breadth of his forehead, and the straight proud lines of his eyebrows and mouth.

“I feel silly,” he said. “Don’t stare at me so”; and he took the cap off, and the cloak, and dwindled again to Hope’s husband and the finest blacksmith in a half dozen towns.

“You looked like a lord,” said Hope, smiling.

“Fond wife,” he replied, putting an arm around her waist.

Grace had left her chair, the gold dress heaped over the back of it and spilling across the seat, to light several candles and lamps to augment the firelight. “If we’re going to be grand, we should see what we’re doing,” she said, and as she passed me, she kissed me and whispered in my ear: “Thank you, dear heart. I don’t care that I can’t wear it; I shall look at it every night, and think of you. I’ll even try and think kindly of your dreadful Beast.” I smiled.

Father stood up and smiled at me too, but it was a sad smile. “Very well, my dear, you win the day—as you seem always to do. As Ger says, I don’t understand; but there’s magic at work, so—well, I’ll do what you say, and try to be glad of what we have—of what you tell us. We shan’t let you out of our sight for the week, you know.”

I nodded. “I hope not.”

We all went to bed shortly after this. I realized that I still hadn’t told Grace about Robbie. “Tomorrow,” I thought. “Tonight would have been too soon, too much. But I mustn’t put it off anymore.” My attic looked just as I remembered it, only somewhat cleaner; Grace kept it much better than I ever had. The sheets on the bed were fresh and clean, not stiff and musty with six months’ neglect, and the bed was made up very neatly, which was not at all how I had left it. I sat on the trunk, under the window, and stared out across the meadow and into the forest.

My thoughts went back to the evening just past, of the scene around the parlour fire, when I had tried to plead for my Beast against my family’s animosity. I knew now what it was that had happened. I couldn’t tell them that here, at home with them again, I had learned what I had successfully ignored these last weeks at the castle: that I had come to love him. They were no less dear to me, but he was dearer yet. I thought of the enchantment that I didn’t understand, of the puzzle Lydia and Bessie expected to fit together; but suddenly these things mattered very little. I did not need to push them out of my mind, as I had been doing; they simply dropped into insignificance.

And in the meantime I was with my family for a week.

The house fell silent; but the quiet here was simpler than the kind of quiet I had lived in for the last six months. I stared at shadows that moved only with the moon, and my ears strained after echoes that weren’t there. I crept downstairs again and went out to the stable, where I found Greatheart flirting delicately with the new mare, who wasn’t quite ignoring him. “I’m not sure a foal next summer is on the schedule,” I told him. He rubbed his head against me. “But you’re not listening,” I added. I took his bridle down from its hook and he raised his head at once and watched me intently. I freed the red rose that hung from the strap across the forehead, and replaced the bridle, and the horse relaxed. “Good night, little one,” I said, slapping his massive hindquarters, and made my way softly back to the house. I took a deep bowl from the kitchen, filled it with water, and tiptoed back upstairs. I put rose and bowl on the window sill; and suddenly I realized that I was exhausted. I pulled my clothes off, and fell asleep as soon as I lay down.