Nothing. No response. Not even the courtesy glance he usually gave when I spoke.
I sighed, sinking back against the pillows. Of course it wouldn’t be that simple. The curse was too clever, too cruel to allow such an easy victory. Night-Laurent could hear his name, could recognize the humanity it represented. But morning-Beast was too far gone, too deep in the animal skin he wore. The revelation of his identity, the confirmation that he was Prince Laurent, Queen Charlotte’s middle son was for night hours only, when the curse grew thin.
It felt like losing him twice. Finding him in the darkness only to have him slip away with the dawn.
A small sound escaped my throat, not quite a sob but something adjacent to grief. At the noise, Beast’s—Laurent’s—head swung toward me, nostrils flaring as he scented the air. Concern, at least, remained consistent across his transformations. He could still smell my distress, still cared enough to investigate it.
“I’m fine,” I said, waving a dismissive hand. “Just... disappointed. I thought maybe knowing your name would help somehow.”
He tilted his head, brow furrowing in that almost-human way that suggested he was trying to understand something beyond his current capacity. Then he huffed once, turned, and resumed his pacing.
I ran my fingers absently along my neck, a gesture that had become habit since my escape from Gaspard’s home. My hand felt only fabric but beneath it, I felt the familiar spots of bruising Gaspard had placed there and hid behind it. I hadn’t removed it since arriving at the castle. Hadn’t wanted to look at whatever marks remained beneath.
My fingers hesitated at the edge, then slipped beneath the fabric, exploring by touch what I’d been avoiding with my eyes. The skin felt smooth, unbroken. No bumps or ridges of scarring, no tenderness that would suggest lingering bruises. Whatever damage Gaspard had done seemed to have healed, just as the cuts on my palms had closed when the roses tasted my blood.
But the choker remained, a physical reminder of captivity I couldn’t bring myself to discard. It hid my neck from the world, and my bruises from my eyes. It was strange to find comfort in something given to me by a monster, but the fabric barrier felt like protection against memories that threatened to drown me every time I let my guard down.
As my fingers worked beneath the choker, they encountered something else. A thin chain, almost delicate, that I’d forgotten entirely these last few days. I traced it to the center of my throat where a small, hard shape rested against my skin.
My mother’s locket.
The realization hit me with such force that I gasped aloud. How had I forgotten? The small gold pendant had been my constant companion since Mama’s death, a final gift that Papa had pressed into my palm at her graveside. I’d worn it every day, tucking it beneath my clothes to keep it safe from village gossips who might covet such a fine thing.
“My locket,” I whispered, fingers fumbling with sudden urgency to extract it from beneath the choker without removing the fabric entirely.
After a moment of awkward maneuvering, the locket slipped free, golden in the morning light, its familiar weight settling into my palm. No larger than a robin’s egg, worn smooth at the edges from years of nervous handling. The engraved pattern—roses and leaves intertwining—was nearly invisible now, eroded by time and the oils from my skin.
I pried it open with a fingernail, revealing the tiny portraits within. Mama on the left, Papa on the right, their faces rendered in painstaking miniature by a traveling artist who’d passed through our village when I was small. Papa had saved for months to afford the commission, presenting it to Mama on her name day with such pride in his gentle eyes.
After her death, he’d replaced her portrait with one of me, but kept hers below. An imperfect likeness cut from a larger family portrait, but recognizable enough. So that she could keep me close, he’d explained, wherever her soul had gone.
Beast had drawn closer, attracted perhaps by the change in my scent or the soft sounds of remembrance I couldn’t quite contain. He stood at the bedside now, massive head level with mine, amber eyes fixed on the small golden object in my hand.
“This was my mother’s,” I explained, though I knew morning-Beast couldn’t fully comprehend. Still, speaking the words aloud helped solidify the memory, made it more real somehow. “Papa gave it to me after she died. I’d forgotten I was wearing it when... when everything happened.”
A lump formed in my throat, thick and painful. I swallowed around it, determined not to cry. Not now. Not over something that should bring comfort rather than pain.
“I miss them both so much,” I continued, staring at the tiny faces. “Mama’s been gone four years now, and Papa... Papa isstill alive, I think, feeding those roses. But he’s beyond my reach just the same.”
Laurent made a low sound, somewhere between a whine and a rumble. Not quite comfort, not quite question. Something in between that matched the in-between nature of our strange relationship.
“It hurts,” I admitted, pressing the locket against my chest, feeling its edges dig into my palm. “Every day, it hurts to remember them. But I want the pain. Need it, even. Because feeling it means I loved them. Means I still love them. The day it stops hurting is the day I’ve lost them completely.”
I closed the locket with a soft click, but kept it clutched in my hand, unwilling to hide it away again just yet. The morning light caught on its golden surface, throwing tiny reflections against the stone wall beside us.
Laurent settled on his haunches beside the bed, watching me with that intensity I’d grown familiar with. Not quite understanding, perhaps, but present. Witnessing. Sometimes that was enough.
“Do you want to hear a story?” I asked suddenly, not really expecting an answer. Morning-Beast never seemed interested in words the way night-Laurent was. But telling the story felt important somehow, a way to honor the memories the locket had stirred. And morning-Beast understood my tone in the library.
His ears perked forward slightly. Not a yes, but not a no either.
“When I was very young,” I began, settling more comfortably against the pillows, “Papa would travel to neighboring villages to sell his inventions. He never wanted to leave us, but we needed the income, especially in winter when food grew scarce.”
I turned the locket over in my hands, remembering. “I hated when he left. Would stand at the window for hours after he’d gone, watching the road, hoping he’d change his mind and comeback. It broke his heart, Mama said. Made leaving ten times harder when he knew I was counting the minutes until his return.”
Outside, a bird called, its voice carrying clearly through the broken window. The sound reminded me of mornings in the village, of waking to cockerels crowing and birds chattering in the eaves of our small house.
“So Papa invented something special, just for us,” I continued, smiling at the memory. “Two small bells, perfectly matched in tone. He kept one and gave the other to me. Whenever he was returning home, when he reached the big oak that marked the halfway point on the north road, he would ring his bell.”
