“Oh, stop that. You’re not frightening me.” I settled back into the chair, the bird in my lap, and began the familiar task of plucking feathers. “Besides, there are parts of this you wouldn’t want to eat. The innards need to come out, and the feet aren’t much good unless you’re making both for soup.”
Beast watched me work for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then, with what might have been a resigned huff,he returned to breaking branches. We fell into a strange companionable silence, the only sounds the crackling of the fire he’d already lit in the hearth, the snap of wood between his teeth, and the soft rustle of feathers as I prepared our meal.
I stole glances at him as I worked, noting how methodically he approached his task. He wasn’t just breaking enough wood for today’s fire. The pile growing beside him would last for days, perhaps longer. He was preparing for my continued presence, for my comfort beyond this moment.
“Thank you,” I said again, softly.
Beast froze mid-motion, his massive frame going utterly still. He turned to look at me, and something in his expression made my heart twist painfully in my chest. When was the last time anyone had thanked him for anything? When was the last time he’d had anyone to care for, anyone who saw beyond his fearsome exterior to the intelligence within?
He dipped his head in what could only be described as a bow, the gesture so formal, so human, that tears threatened again. Then he returned to his work, and I to mine. This mundane task brought me peace.
Not safety—not quite, not yet—but the beginning of understanding. The seedling of trust. The possibility that in this castle of dust and shadows, with this creature of fur and fang, I might find something I’d thought I lost forever.
Home.
fifteen
Isabeau
Beast left me alone again, disappearing into the forest like a shadow retreating from sunlight. I couldn’t decide if he was checking his territory, hunting more food, or simply needed space from the human who had suddenly invaded his solitude. Either way, I found myself once again the sole occupant of a castle built for hundreds.
My footsteps echoed through halls that had forgotten the sound of life. At least I wasn’t hungry anymore. The memory ofour shared meal brought an unexpected smile to my lips from Beast’s irritation when I’d taken over, showing him how humans actually cook meat instead of tearing it raw with teeth and claws.
He’d been so proud of that pheasant, until I had to clean it. The way his eyes had narrowed when I took a stick before he could chomp it in half still made me want to laugh. Those massive teeth, capable of crushing bone, reduced to watching as I carefully skewered the plucked bird and held it over the flames. His paws, deadly weapons that could disembowel a man, had proven comically inadequate when faced with the delicate task of striking flint.
In the end, he’d surrendered with a huff that ruffled my hair, backing away to watch me work like I was performing some arcane ritual. Perhaps to him, I was. How long had it been since he’d eaten like a man instead of a beast?
The question haunted me as I remembered how carefully he’d torn his portion with those fearsome teeth, trying but failing to avoid making a mess of his fur. So much humanity trapped in that bestial form. So much sadness in those amber eyes when he thought I wasn’t looking.
The meal itself had been simple, but it felt like a beginning. A tentative bridge across the chasm between human and beast. Between woman and monster. Between prey and... whatever we were becoming to each other.
Now, with him gone and my belly full, curiosity drove me to explore this crumbling palace that had become my sanctuary. The sitting room where we’d eaten connected to several other grand spaces. A music room with a pianoforte whose strings had long since rotted away, a drawing room where some old maps were laid out, and a formal dining hall that could seat sixteen nobles around its massive oak table.
But it was a narrow doorway half-hidden behind a faded tapestry that caught my attention. Unlike the grand archesleading to the main rooms, this opening was small, unadorned, clearly not meant for noble eyes.
My father had once explained how the great houses were designed with separate pathways for servants. This allowed them to move invisibly through the walls like ghosts, appearing only when needed and disappearing just as quickly.
“Let’s see where you lead,” I murmured, ducking through the low doorway into a dimly lit corridor.
The air changed immediately to a cooler, more stagnant inhale, carrying the faint scent of old cooking fires and human labor rather than the perfumed elegance of the main halls. The ceiling hung low enough that a tall man would need to stoop, and the walls were plain stone without ornamentation. This was the castle’s backbone, the practical pathways that had kept it functioning in its decennary.
Doors lined the narrow hall, most hanging open to reveal small, cell-like rooms with narrow beds. The servants’ quarters, where those who maintained the castle’s grandeur had laid their heads at night. Most rooms contained little more than a bed frame with a rotted mattress, perhaps a small chest for personal belongings, and a hook for clothing. Lives reduced to their utility, defined by the service they provided.
I peered into each room as I passed, wondering about the people who had lived here. Had they been treated well? Had they found moments of joy in their labor? Had they fled when whatever tragedy befell this place, or had they perished alongside their masters?
My attention caught on something practical. A pair of house slippers tucked neatly beneath one of the beds, forgotten in whatever hasty departure had emptied this castle of human life. I knelt, pulling them out to examine them. They were simple things, made of felted wool with leather soles. Clearly designed for quiet movement through sleeping households. The previousowner’s feet had been slightly larger than mine, but after days of bare feet on freezing earth and stone, I wasn’t about to be picky.
I slipped them on and covered the cuts on the bottom of my feet, sighing as warmth immediately enveloped my aching soles. The slight drag as I walked was a small price to pay for the buffer between my broken skin and the cold floor.
The corridor continued past the sleeping quarters, curving slightly before opening into a space that made my heart leap with practical joy. A kitchen. Not the formal kitchen where grand meals would have been prepared, but what appeared to be a secondary kitchen for the servants’ use. It was smaller, more intimate, but equipped with everything needed to feed a household.
Iron pots hung from hooks on the walls, a massive hearth dominated one wall, and sturdy wooden counters lined the perimeter. Unlike the grand rooms above, the kitchen had a timeless quality to it. Dust-covered and abandoned, yes, but still recognizable, still useful. My mother would have felt at home here. I could almost see her at the hearth, stirring a pot of something fragrant while humming under her breath.
My practical side took over as I began opening cupboards and storage bins, taking inventory of what might still be usable after all these years. Most perishables had long since rotted away, leaving only memories in the form of stains and scents. But in the back of the pantry, sealed barrels promised more lasting treasures.
The first barrel I managed to pry open contained wheat—dry and preserved, protected from moisture and vermin by the tight-fitting lid and what smelled like some herb tucked among the grains. Another barrel revealed dried beans, their hard surfaces still intact despite the years.
A blissful sigh escaped me before I could catch it. After days of uncertainty and terror, the sight of these basic staples felt like finding gold.
