Beastly Beauty

Sixty-Two

Arabella remains on her knees, her forehead touching the cold ground, her fingers digging into her ribs.

For a long moment, there is only silence; then it is broken by the rhythmic, ringing pok-pok-pok of heels on the cobblestones.

A woman emerges, spectral and imperious, wearing a gown the color of ashes. She parts the crowd as she makes her way across the courtyard.

Arabella raises her head. Her cheeks are tearstained. Her eyes are hollow.

“I am Lady Espidra,” the woman says as she approaches her. She gestures to the grim retinue trailing her. “And this is my court.”

The duchess, always perfectly in control, starts to fray. “Who summoned you here?” she asks, confused by the new faces.

“Why, Lady Arabella did,” Espidra replies, with a wintry smile.

The duchess points at three small, glowing girls standing at a distance from Espidra’s court. “And those children? They are with you?”

Espidra follows the duchess’s gaze; her smile congeals. “Not for long,” she says.

Lady Elge steps forward. “Go! Shoo!” she says to a few straggling members of the prince’s retinue. “Leave this place. While you still can.”

Spooked by Elge’s too-wide smile and her glassy puppet’s eyes, the courtiers do as they’re told, stumbling over themselves in their haste, but the duke is outraged by Espidra’s presumptuousness and starts to bark commands.

Espidra holds up a hand. “You misunderstand, Your Grace. You are no longer in charge here. I am.”

“Valmont! See these women out!” the duke bellows. “I will not be ordered about in my own—”

Espidra approaches the duke; she puts a clawlike hand on his shoulder. At her touch, he collapses inward like a rotting apple. She presses down, and with a soft, surprised sigh, he drops to his knees. Then she walks to the duchess and renders her powerless, too.

The duke and duchess’s courtiers, afraid now, back away as Espidra turns her soulless eyes on Arabella. “A girl who cannot control her emotions is no better than a beast … isn’t that what your mother told you?” she taunts.

Like a jackal, she circles Arabella, and as she does, she begins to speak in rhyme. The color drains out of Arabella’s face as she realizes what this is. An incantation. A spell. A curse.

A girl who’d rather break than bend,

Has caused a prince’s bloody end.

So selfish, willful, awkward, wrong,

To her, all shame and guilt belong.

Be what you are, a feral beast.

On creatures wild and furry feast.

Spend forever more in woods so deep,

Among the moss and dead leaves sleep.

To make your penance even worse,

I’ll wrap this castle in the curse.

And doom for all eternity,

Each and every one I see,

To a fate far worse than death.

Alive, though they do not draw breath.

Clockwork figures, each a mime,

Imprisoned, captive, slaves of time.

Next hope and faith I shall efface,

As I your foolish dreams erase.

And with my court work hand in glove,

To bring about the death of love.

That’s how I kill a mortal’s soul,

And take my baneful, bitter toll.

Ah, how I relish my dark task.

Was silence all that much to ask?

“No!”Arabella screams, sick with fear. “Please! I didn’t mean to hurt him! Please!”

But Espidra merely laughs.

“Help my child … someone, please! Do not let this be the end of her!”

It is the duchess. She has somehow struggled to her feet and is staggering toward Espidra.

Espidra fixes them with a smile of feigned sorrow. She offers the duchess her hand, and as the duchess takes it, she gasps. She tries to back away, but cannot move. It’s as if her feet have been fastened to the ground. Small, frightened cries escape her as she fights to free herself.

“What have you done?” the duke shouts, rushing at Espidra.

But his body seizes before he can reach her. A sound rises, a grinding, metallic whine, as if someone is winding a music box. Or a clock. The duchess’s body stiffens. The duke freezes in place. Their eyes turn shiny, like a trophy animal’s. Circles of painted color bloom on their cheeks.

The courtiers and servants are transfixed by fear now, unable to tear their eyes from the grotesque transformations. Espidra moves among them with a bright, malicious glee. She taps a countess, pats a maid, runs her hand over the head of a child. Everything human, warm, and alive drains away at her touch until one after another, they all become clockwork figures.

Too late, those whom she has not yet touched realize what is happening. They try to run, but the courtyard gates slam shut.

Only Arabella, still on her knees, does not try to flee. “Please do not punish these people for my transgressions,” she begs.

Her words are cut off by a new voice. “Lady Espidra!” it booms. “I command you to stop!”

Espidra whirls around. Her face crumples into a hateful grimace. She knows this creature. She envies his might, covets his power.

The one who spoke proceeds into the center of the courtyard. The tapping of his walking stick over the stones sounds like a metronome.

Arabella looks at him through a blur of tears. And knows him.

He is the clockmaker.