Beastly Beauty

Sixty-One

Arabella lurches out of her saddle. As courtiers gasp and point, she stumbles, rights herself, falls on her knees by the broken prince.

She grabs his hand, chafes it, tries to wake him. His blood stains her skirts.

She cannot catch her breath. Emotions swirl through her like a storm. She claws at her rigid bodice, at the cruel corset underneath.

Sharp fingers dig into her shoulder. The duchess is behind her. “Dear God in heaven, Arabella, what have you done?”

Arabella’s lungs are heaving for air. She tries to get herself under control but cannot. She’s been held down for too long. Courtiers are shouting, now, condemning Arabella. The prince’s retinue lift his body and carry it inside the castle. The duke tries to help, ordering his servants to their aid, but they are coldly turned away.

“Do you see now?” her mother hisses. “Do you see what happens when girls do not contain themselves? The prince is dead. Our lives are over. We are ruined.”

Her mother is right. She should’ve kept quiet. This is all her fault. She claws at her chest. She is suffocating.

There’s a harsh riiiipppp of cloth tearing. Her jacket and corset have split along their seams. Air rushes into her lungs. She takes a deep breath, then utters a ragged cry, overcome. Her emotions are wild from having been caged for so long.

And then there is another tearing sound—deeper, louder, more fearsome than the rending of cloth.

It is the tearing of Arabella’s soul.