Beastly Beauty

Nineteen

The child watched from the corner of her cell as the woman sat down at the table.

“Another visit? So soon? You must be worried.”

“Not worried, bored,” said Lady Espidra, placing a carved rosewood box on the table.

The child took a seat across from her guest. She smiled sweetly, then said, “What shall we play? Canasta? Whist? How about bridge?”

Espidra’s thin lips thinned even more.

“Find out who did it yet?” the child taunted.

“No, but we will.”

“The visitor is ruffling feathers. He certainly ruffled Lady Rega’s. I heard the carnage all the way down here.”

“Don’t be so smug,” Espidra chided, opening the box. “You don’t have much longer. You’re fading fast.”

The child held her hands up in front of her face. She could see Espidra through them. “Be careful what you wish for,” she said as she lowered them. “You need me. You can’t exist without me.”

“Nonsense. I can’t wait to be rid of you,” Espidra retorted.

She reached into the box, pulled out a folded game board, and opened it. A neat grid of half-inch squares had been carefully drawn upon it. Happy little hand-painted cherubs frolicked in fluffy white clouds around the grid’s border. They blinked their eyes now, startled by the light. Some chattered or giggled; others flew around the board. Espidra handed a small stand carved from bone to the child. She placed a second one down on her side of the board. Then she pushed a cloth sack across the table. The child opened it and pulled out an ivory tile. It had a letter drawn on it.

“A!”she crowed.

Espidra snatched the bag back and pulled out a Z. Glowering, she tossed the tile back into the bag, shook it, drew out seven new tiles, and put them in her stand. After the child had done the same, Espidra took a small hourglass from the box, turned it upside down, and placed it on the table. Glittering bloodred sand flowed through it.

“Rega’s a problem. Always was,” the child said, rearranging her tiles. “But you know that, and you use it. You use her.”

“Nonsense. She’s Arabella’s creature.”

The child frowned ruefully. “The old Arabella wanted nothing to do with her.”

“What did the old Arabella want?” Espidra asked archly. “Shall I tell you?”

“No.”

“Far. Too. Much.”

The child rolled her eyes.

“You know it’s true,” Espidra insisted. “She refused to be what girls should be.”

“And what is that?”

“Sweet, gentle, and kind. Also? Forbearing. Unselfish. Obliging. Accommodating. Forgiving. Uncomplaining. Self-sacrificing. Gracious. Submissive …”

“Are you finished?”

“I’m just getting started. Understanding. Undemanding. Amiable. Trusting. Docile. Untroublesome. Agreeable. Amenable. Sympathetic. Empathetic. Caring. Self-effacing. Soft-spoken. Peaceable. Compliant. Compassionate. Patient. Tractable. Unoppressive. Even-tempered. Mild. Charming. Obedient. And nice.”

Sighing, the child picked up several of her tiles and began to lay them down on the grid. “Funny thing, isn’t it? Men want the whole world, and because they want it, they take it. Caesar, Alexander, Tamerlane, Attila, Charlemagne, Ashoka, Genghis Khan … and soon a new man, a short one … Bonaparte. But a woman? She is not allowed to want things, never mind take them. She must not take the lead, take initiative, or take charge. She must not even take a piece of cake.” She placed her last tile down and brightened. “There! Seven letters. One hundred and seventy-four points.” The little cherubs, seeing the word, clapped their pudgy hands.

“Floruit? That’s not a word,” said Espidra.

“It is. In fact, it’s one of my favorite words. It comes from the Latin florere, which means to bloom, to flourish, to be at the peak of one’s powers. Rather like me.”

Espidra snorted.

“Are you challenging it?” the child asked, reaching for more tiles. “If you do and you’re wrong, you lose your turn.”

Espidra’s lips cinched tight, like the strings of a miser’s purse. She picked up one of her own tiles, put it back down again, then picked up another.

“Here we go … doomed!” she exclaimed, laying her tiles down to incorporate the o in floruit. “That’s one of my favorite words. It means likely to have an unfortunate and inescapable outcome. Also rather like you. That’s what … let’s see … one hundred and fifty-two points.”

The cherubs looked at the word. Their smiles faded. Their wings drooped.

The child regarded her opponent with a look of contempt. “You’re like some poisonous mushroom, feeding on broken things. No wonder you’ve grown so strong.”

“Tsk tsk,” said Espidra, reaching for the bag of tiles. She turned the hourglass. Then she and the child battled across the game board for over an hour, until all the tiles had been used and their scores were tied.

“Shall we play again?” the child asked, sitting back in her chair.

Espidra was quiet for a moment, then she said, “Have you given my offer any consideration?”

“Not for a second.”

Espidra’s gaze hardened. “You try my patience, girl. Leave. While you still can, or it will not go well for you.”

The child leaned forward, her gaze equally flinty. “Where are the others?”

“How should I know? Gone? Dead? Not here, at any rate.”

“I don’t believe you. I think you locked them away, too.”

“Think what you like; the clock is ticking. Au revoir.”

The child watched as Espidra stood. As she crossed the room. As the heavy iron door swung open, then slammed shut.

The child’s glow, already wan, dimmed. She looked down at the board and picked out seven letters from the words there—E-S-P-I-D-R-A—and began to rearrange them.

The painted cherubs watched her, curious at first, but they fearfully flew away and hid behind the clouds when they saw what she had spelled out.

DESPAIR.