What did they mean? What connection did they signify? And would understanding that connection be the key to saving Papa, to breaking Beast’s curse, to making sense of this strange new world I’d found myself thrust into?
Questions without answers swirled in my mind as consciousness began to fade. But unlike previous nights, fear no longer accompanied them. Instead, I felt only curiosity and a strange, burgeoning hope. Whatever mysteries awaited me, I wouldn’t face them alone. I had Beast. Not just as protector or mate, but as partner in this bewildering journey. A partnership like my parents shared.
As sleep finally claimed me, cradled against his massive form, I made a silent promise. I would solve the puzzle of the roses. I would save my father. And somehow, I would free the man trapped within this bestial form. The man whose eyes mirrored my own.
The garden behind our cottage bloomed with impossible vibrancy, the way places only do in dreams or distant memories. I knew I was dreaming the moment I saw Mama’s hands moving among her herbs, those familiar fingers that had wiped my tears and mixed her remedies with equal tenderness.
Dead hands don’t pluck leaves. Dead women don’t hum lullabies. But there she was, her auburn hair so like mine, caught in the afternoon light. Her amber eyes focused on the bundles of herbs she was tying with practiced efficiency.
My heart squeezed painfully in my chest. How many years had it been? Four? No, closer to five since fever had taken her, leaving Papa and me alone to navigate a world suddenly tilted off its axis. I’d been fourteen then, old enough to understanddeath’s finality but too young to be without a mother’s guidance.
She looked up, and I gasped. Dream or not, the sight of her face—whole, healthy, alive—stole my breath. Those high cheekbones that men in the village used to stare at. That full mouth that could curve into either stern disapproval or secret mischief depending on who was watching. The tiny scar above her left eyebrow from when she’d fallen from a tree as a girl.
“There you are, little bell,” she said, using Papa’s nickname for me as if it had always been hers too. “Hand me that twine, would you? Master Girard will be here soon.”
My body moved without conscious thought, smaller than I remembered being, hands reaching for the ball of twine on her workbench. I was a child again in this dream, perhaps ten or eleven. Before womanhood had complicated everything. Before men began looking at me the way they once looked at her.
“Is he sick?” I asked, my voice higher than I was used to hearing it.
Mama shook her head, tying off another bundle of what I now recognized as feverfew and yarrow. “No, but half the village is. There’s a fever spreading through the poorest quarters. Master Girard is helping me distribute this tonic.”
The name struck a chord in my memory. Master Girard, the town’s apothecary. A stern man with kind eyes who’d once given me a honey stick when I’d accompanied Mama to his shop. Part of me missed him. He was one of few who let me study herbs after Mama passed.
The garden gate creaked, announcing a visitor. Mama straightened, wiping her hands on her apron as Master Girard’s stooped figure appeared around the corner of our cottage. He looked exactly as I last saw. Thin as a rail, with a shock of white hair and spectacles perched precariously on his beaked nose.
“Madame Dubois,” he greeted, removing his hat. “I came as soon as I could.”
Mama smiled warmly. “You’re right on time, Henri.” She gestured to the table where dozens of small glass vials sat filled with amber liquid. “The tonic is ready. Three drops in water, morning and night. It won’t cure the fever entirely, but it should reduce it enough to prevent the worst outcomes.”
Master Girard approached the table, examining one of the vials with professional curiosity. “Remarkable clarity. Your skill grows with each batch.” He cleared his throat, suddenly awkward. “About payment—”
“No,” Mama interrupted gently. “Not for this. These people can barely afford bread, let alone medicine.”
Master Girard’s eyebrows rose. “All of it for free? That’s...” He gestured vaguely at the table laden with vials. “That’s weeks of work, Laurette. And these ingredients—I know what wild honey costs, what feverfew fetches at market.”
“And I know what a child’s life is worth,” she replied, her voice soft but unyielding. “More than coin.”
Something passed between them then, some adult communication I couldn’t fully grasp at that age. Master Girard nodded slowly, his eyes never leaving my mother’s face.
“Very well. I’ll ensure it’s distributed fairly, and without charge.” He began carefully placing the vials into a padded basket he’d brought. “Though you realize the other members of the council won’t approve. They believe illness is an opportunity for profit.”
Mama’s laugh was sharp, almost bitter. “Yes, I’m familiar with Councilor Beaumont’s philosophy on the matter. ‘God sends sickness to test our industry’, isn’t that what he says while charging triple for remedies during outbreaks?”
“Among other charming sentiments,” Master Girard agreed dryly. It never needed spoke aloud, but they were close friends.He was always respectful, and often delighted spending time with my father. Master Girard finished packing the vials and straightened, basket handle looped over his arm. “This will help many, Laurette. I’ll make sure of it.”
After he left, I watched my mother continue her work, sorting herbs with the same precision Papa used when assembling his inventions. The question that had bothered my young mind finally bubbled to the surface.
“Mama, why didn’t you make him pay?” I asked bluntly. “We need money too. Papa’s water pump didn’t sell at the fair, and winter’s coming.”
She looked up, surprised, then set down her herbs. “Come here, little bell,” she said, patting the bench beside her.
I climbed up, my feet dangling above the garden soil. From this angle, I could see the silver threads beginning to appear in her dark hair. Threads that wouldn’t have time to multiply before death claimed her.
Mama didn’t meet my eyes right away. Instead, she stared at her hands, turning them over as if seeing both the skill they possessed and the labor they’d endured.
“Imagine I were sick, Isabeau,” she finally said. “Burning with fever, delirious with pain. And imagine you knew how to make me well, but you couldn’t because we had no money to buy the herbs, and no one would help us without payment.” Now she turned to me, those amber eyes—my eyes—filled with a gentle challenge. “How would that feel?”
The tears came immediately, hot and sudden. The very thought of Mama suffering, knowing the cure but unable to provide it, cracked something in my chest.
