My skin prickled with goosebumps, my body remembering the chill it had been fighting since my plunge into the river. The beast had abandoned me without warning, leaving me to fend for myself in this strange bedchamber that smelled of dust andsecrets. I’d figure out clothing after I solved the more pressing issue of not freezing to death in this stone tomb of a castle.
I pushed myself up from beside the armoire, my muscles screaming in protest. Every inch of me felt beaten, used, stretched beyond natural limits. The ghost of Gaspard’s cruelty lingered in the bruises on my wrists and face, while the beast’s claiming had left a different kind of ache between my thighs. Not wholly unpleasant, but a constant reminder of what had transpired in the forest.
My legs wobbled beneath me as I staggered toward the hearth. Ancient logs rested in the grate, arranged as if waiting for a servant who would never return. They looked dry enough to burn, having been protected from the elements by the stone chimney above, but logs alone wouldn’t ignite without kindling and spark.
“Think, Isabeau,” I muttered to myself, my voice sounding foreign in the musty silence. “What would Papa do?”
The thought of him sent a fresh wave of anguish through my chest. Papa, suspended in that grotesque garden of blood-drinking roses. Not dead, not alive, but something in between. I pushed the image away, focusing on the task at hand. I couldn’t help him if I froze to death first.
I scanned the room, looking for anything that might serve as kindling. My gaze landed on a writing desk pushed against the wall near the bed. The wood had warped with age and humidity, but the drawer might contain paper or parchment.
One step. Another. My hand shot out to steady myself against the bedpost as my vision swam. I’d lost track of how long it had been since I’d eaten or properly rested. The water test, the forest, the beast—it all blurred together in a nightmare from which I couldn’t seem to wake. At least the metal chain left my neck.
The desk’s drawer stuck when I tried to open it. I braced my hip against the wood for leverage and yanked harder, nearlytoppling over when it finally gave way with a groan of protest. Inside lay what might once have been a journal, its pages now yellowed and brittle with age. Perfect for kindling, if I could find a way to light it.
“Flint and steel,” I whispered, resuming my search. “Every proper hearth has them.”
I dragged myself back to the fireplace, sinking to my knees before it. My hands traced the ornate stonework, fingers searching for a box or niche where fire-starting tools might be stored. The stone was cold against my naked skin, a reminder of my vulnerability in this strange place.
Nothing obvious presented itself, but something about the right side of the hearth caught my attention. A single stone didn’t quite match the others, being slightly lighter in color, with edges that looked less worn. I pressed against it experimentally, and to my surprise, it gave slightly under my touch.
“Please,” I whispered, applying more pressure. The stone slid inward with a grating sound, revealing a small compartment carved into the wall. Inside sat exactly what I’d been searching for. A flint striker and a small tin box that rattled when I picked it up. It was a good thing Papa taught me how to use these, even though women weren’t meant to be taught it.
The box contained fragments of charred cloth, ancient but still serviceable. I arranged a small nest of torn pages from the journal in the grate beneath the logs, then placed a piece of the charred cloth atop it. My hands trembled as I struck the flint against the steel, once, twice, three times before a spark finally caught.
The cloth began to glow, a tiny ember that threatened to die with the slightest breeze. I bent close, blowing gently until flames licked at the paper beneath. The kindling caught quickly, paper curling and blackening as fire consumed it, but I knew it wouldn’t be enough to ignite the larger logs.
I needed something in between—smaller pieces of wood to bridge the gap between paper and log. My eyes darted around the room, landing on a delicate end table that had already partially collapsed. One leg had broken entirely, leaving the table listing to the side like a sinking ship.
“Forgive me,” I murmured, unsure if I was addressing the table’s long-dead owner or the beast whose property I was about to destroy. Either way, necessity outweighed sentimentality.
I crawled across the floor, unwilling to trust my legs for even the short distance. When I reached the table, I grasped the broken leg and pulled. It separated from the tabletop with minimal effort, already half detached by time and decay. The wood was dry and brittle in my hands, perfect for my needs.
Breaking it into smaller pieces proved more challenging. I tried snapping it across my knee, but my strength had abandoned me hours ago. Instead, I braced one end against the stone floor and pressed down with my weight until it cracked with a satisfying snap. Three more times I repeated the process until I had a handful of splinters and sticks.
I transported my bounty back to the hearth, arranging the smaller pieces atop the now-dwindling paper flames. The fire licked at the new fuel, testing it before catching hold and growing stronger. Only then did I add the larger fragments, building a careful structure that would eventually ignite the waiting logs.
The process exhausted what little energy I had left. I collapsed beside the hearth, basking in the growing warmth as the fire established itself. Heat caressed my naked skin, chasing away the chill that had settled in my bones. For a moment, I allowed myself to simply exist in this small comfort, watching flames dance and shadows play across ancient stone.
But the luxury of rest was short-lived. Clean, dry, warm. These were the requirements for survival, and I’d only begunaddressing the second. The problem of bathing still remained, and I doubted my ability to haul water from whatever well or stream served the castle.
Unless...
Papa had spoken of the grand houses in Durand, how the nobles had developed systems to bring water directly to their bathing chambers. Cisterns on the roof collected rainwater, which gravity then delivered to various rooms through copper pipes hidden in the walls. If this castle had been home to nobility, as the quality of the furnishings suggested, perhaps it had such amenities.
The thought of clean water—of washing away the river’s muddy grasp, Gaspard’s lingering touch, and the beast’s dried seed from between my thighs—gave me strength I didn’t know I possessed. I pushed myself upright, steadying against the mantel until the room stopped spinning.
The green dress still lay where I’d dropped it, but I left it behind. Better to bathe first, then dress in clean fabric against clean skin. I shuffled toward the door, each step a negotiation between will and weakness. The hallway beyond stretched in both directions, a gallery of doors leading to unknown chambers. Some hung broken from hinges, others stood firmly closed against whatever horrors had befallen this place.
Logic suggested that bathing facilities would be close to bedchambers. I turned right, away from the direction the beast had disappeared, testing doors as I went. The first revealed another bedroom, smaller than mine but similarly furnished. The second appeared to be some kind of dressing room, with empty wardrobes lining the walls.
The third door opened onto exactly what I’d been hoping to find.
A bathing chamber, larger and more luxurious than anything I’d seen in my village. Dominating the center was an enormouscopper tub with curved sides resembling a beast’s claws gripping the floor. It could easily fit two people,or one Beast, I thought before banishing the image from my mind.
Beneath the tub sat an iron grate with space for hot coals, designed to heat the water from below. Clever. Almost as clever as Papa’s shower system at home, which heated water in a tank before allowing it to rain down from above.
Papa… The thought of him brought fresh tears to my eyes. He would have loved to see this place, to examine its mechanical wonders, to understand how it all worked. I wiped the moisture from my cheeks, focusing instead on the task at hand. I could mourn later, when I wasn’t in danger of collapsing from exhaustion.
