Beastly Beauty

Twenty-One

Beau couldn’t see in the darkness, but he could hear.

Whoever was crying was not far away.

Beau’s first panicked thought was that it was the beast, but he quickly dispelled it. The beast growled, snarled, and roared; it didn’t weep. Was it one of the maids? A kitchen boy? Had they heard him? Would they tell the others?

Beau tucked the salami back into his waistband, and then, like a night creature, he let his ears navigate him toward the sound.

Hands stretched out in front of him, he took a few careful steps. His fingers found the doorway. He felt his way out of the room and along the walls of another corridor. A sudden emptiness under his hands signaled the entryway to another room. He walked through it, ever deeper into the cellar. He turned into another room, but the weeping grew fainter, so he turned back and retraced his steps until it grew louder.

Two more rooms, another corridor, a sharp turn, and then he saw it—a thin crack of light, about two feet wide, running along the floor.

Beau stopped, surprised by the sudden glow. He walked toward it and his outstretched hands found rough wood. The light was seeping out from under a door, and the sobs, high and thin, were coming from behind it. His hands found the knob and slowly turned it, but the door was locked. His experienced fingers moved over the keyhole; they told him it was the type of lock that could only be turned from the outside. Whoever was behind that door had been locked in.

Warring impulses clashed within him. The person inside the locked room was a prisoner and clearly needed help, but he wasn’t in a position to give it. The only one he needed to help was Matti. But the prisoner had a candle or a lantern. If he could get hold of it, maybe he could still find the tunnel.

Beau’s hand dipped into his pocket and pulled out the key. He would open the door; that was enough help. Then he would take the prisoner’s light and go. His help came with a price. Everyone’s did.

Quickly, so that he could keep the element of surprise on his side, Beau inserted the key into the lock, turned it, and wrenched the door open. He tensed, ready to fend off an attack, but except for a few pieces of furniture, it appeared that the room was empty. He took a step into it, and as he did, something grabbed his ankle.

Beau yelped. He jerked his leg hard, trying to break free, but whatever had hold of him only tightened its grasp, digging deeper into his flesh. He looked down and saw that a hand was circling his ankle. A child’s hand, small and grubby.

A ragged breath trailed out of Beau. His fear trickled away and fury took its place. Why was a child locked away in a cold, damp cell? Who had done this terrible thing? The beast? Images rose in his memory—of his brother, of the cruel workhouse matron. He pushed them away.

Then slowly—holding the key in one hand and raising the other to show he meant no harm—he knelt down and peered at the child.

A girl peered back. She was sitting on the floor of the cell. Her dirty blond hair fell across her eyes. Her cheeks were tearstained. She was covered in grime, yet her face glowed with a pale, flickering light. She reminded Beau of a candle flame, buffeted by the wind.

The girl released Beau. She scrambled to her feet and backed away, trembling. She was wearing a pink dress. Its hem was ragged, its collar torn, its skirts smudged with dirt. She was small, no more than four feet tall, and Beau saw now, to his amazement, that her whole body glowed with the same pale light that infused her face. The light he’d seen spilling out from under the door hadn’t come from a candle or lantern; it had come from her.

Her eyes, huge and fearful, met his. “It’s not safe here,” she whispered. “She’s coming.”

“Who’s coming? And who are you?”

The child didn’t answer. She took a few hesitant steps toward Beau, who was still crouched down on one knee. “Don’t let her find you,” she said. “She’s dangerous. She locked me in here.”

“Who’s she? Espidra? One of the court ladies? Why are you so afraid of her?”

Quick as a snake, the girl darted past Beau and out of the cell. She was so fast, and so nimble-fingered, he didn’t realize she’d snatched the brass key from his hand until he saw it in hers.

“Hey! Give that back!” he cried, getting to his feet.

The little girl shook her head. She was no longer weeping, no longer trembling. She was backing down the hallway now, grinning, and Beau saw it had all been a ruse.

“Later, alligator,” she said, twiddling the key between her fingers. “And, hey … thanks!”