Beast’s breathing had that deep, steady quality that suggested he was close to sleep, but not quite there. I’d learned to recognize the difference. How his muscles went loose in stages, how the rumble in his chest changed pitch as consciousness slipped away from him. Tonight, he lingered on the edge just as I did, perhaps still alert to potential danger after our encounter with the wolves.
My fingers found his fur automatically, combing through the coarse outer layer to the soft down beneath. The texture was grounding, real in a way that my circling thoughts weren’t.
Our strange relationship had evolved so far beyond what I could have imagined when I first followed that raven to his castle door. When had fear turned to fascination? When had fascination become something else entirely?
“My father,” I began, not really expecting Beast to respond, just needing to unravel my thoughts aloud, “was always particular about questions. He said there’s power in asking the right one, that a well-formed question is already half its own answer.”
Beast’s ear twitched in my direction, a small acknowledgment that he was listening despite his near-doze. The amber of his eyes caught the dying firelight, two low flames in the darkness.
“He used to tell me that when I was struggling with one of his inventions. I’d get frustrated, ready to throw whatever gear or spring was giving me trouble across the workshop, and he’d say,‘Isabeau, are you asking what’s wrong, or are you asking why it isn’t working?’” I smiled at the memory. “As if there was a difference. But there was, of course. One led to blame, the other to understanding.”
I shifted, careful of my bandaged arm, to face Beast more directly. His massive head rested on paws the size of dinnerplates, claws that had torn through corrupted wolves now retracted and harmless.
“I’ve been asking the wrong questions this whole time,” I continued, my voice dropping lower as if someone might overhear us in this abandoned castle. “I keep asking what happened to you, what happened to this place. But those questions only get me so far. I need to ask why it happened. Who caused it. What they wanted because I gained part of that answer from the journal.”
A log shifted in the fireplace, sending up a shower of sparks that briefly illuminated the bedroom. In that flash of light, I could have sworn Beast looked almost human. Something in the set of his eyes, the way his mouth seemed poised to speak before shutting.
The thought struck me suddenly, embarrassingly obvious in retrospect. He couldn’t speak, but he could communicate!
“Can I ask you?” I sat up straighter, excitement cutting through my exhaustion. “Directly, I mean. Yes or no questions that you could answer with a nod or shake?”
Beast’s eyes widened slightly, and for a moment hope flared bright in my chest. Then, slowly, with a heaviness that felt like physical weight dropping between us, he shook his massive head. The sorrow in his gaze was unmistakable, a deep well of frustrated communication I couldn’t begin to fathom.
“Why not?” I pressed, then immediately felt foolish for asking a question that required more than yes or no. “I mean, is it the curse? Does the curse prevent you from answering questions about what happened?”
This time his nod was immediate, emphatic. Something in my chest loosened slightly. At least I wasn’t imagining things. There was indeed a specific prohibition against him telling me what I needed to know.
“Whoever did this was thorough,” I muttered, sinking back against the flat pillows. “They didn’t just take your human form. They took your voice, your ability to communicate what happened. Almost as if they knew someone would come looking for answers.”
Beast made a low sound in his throat, not quite a growl, not quite a whimper. Agreement, perhaps, or frustration that mirrored my own.
I huffed in irritation and flopped back onto my side of the bed, throwing my uninjured arm over my eyes. The curse was clever in its cruelty. Beast’s body transformed, his voice silenced, his ability to directly explain anything about his situation stripped away. It left us both floundering in the dark, grasping at fragments of truth without any way to assemble them into a whole.
“I wish I at least knew thy name,” I said softly into the crook of my elbow. “It feels wrong to keep calling you Beast, like I’m agreeing with whoever did this to you, letting them erase who you really are.”
Something nudged my arm. Beast’s paw, gentle but insistent. I peeked out from my self-imposed darkness to find him watching me with an intensity that made my breath catch. He jerked his head toward the bedside table where Queen Charlotte’s journal lay, its leather binding catching the last of the firelight.
“The journal?” I asked, sitting up again. “You think there’s something in there that could help me understand?”
He nodded, then used his snout to flip open the journal to its earliest pages, where Charlotte had written about her husband and children with such clear affection.
“Are you in here?” I whispered, a new kind of excitement threading through my voice. “Is your name in these pages?”
Another nod, more eager this time. I pulled the journal into my lap, skimming the passages I’d already read with freshpurpose. The queen had written extensively about her family—King Henri, her husband, and their three sons, the princes who had apparently been the light of her life.
I looked up at Beast, his eyes so like my own, and felt my heart skip in my chest. A wild hope took root, spreading its tendrils through me before I could think to guard against it.
“Are you King Henri?” I asked, though even as the words left my mouth, I knew it couldn’t be true. Charlotte’s journal had described her husband as tall and lean with eyes like a summer sky. Nothing like Beast’s amber gaze.
As expected, Beast shook his head firmly.
“But you are someone from the royal family?” I pressed, needing to be certain.
His nod was immediate, almost eager.
“One of the princes, then?” My voice rose with excitement. “One of Charlotte’s sons?”
This time his nod was accompanied by a soft sound, almost like a sigh. Relief, perhaps, at finally being recognized for who he truly was. Not just a beast, but a prince. A man with a name, a history, a life before the curse turned him into something else.
