Beastly Beauty

Seventy-Three

Beau kept a box of memories inside his head, full of treasures. Sometimes he would take the box out and turn them over in his mind, as if they were bits of sea glass or polished pebbles—the small stone house, sunlight streaming in through its windows; a bowl of clementines on the table; the sound of a woman singing.

They were his and his alone. He had never shown them to another soul. Now Arabella was asking to see them. It would be easier, he thought, to hack through his own rib cage and show her his beating heart.

Tears were welling in her eyes, turning them into shimmering silver pools. “Tell me,” she said.

“The man had come out of a bar, drunk. I thought he’d be an easy mark, but he felt me take his wallet and pulled a knife. When it was over, I was on the ground with a blade in my chest. Somehow, he missed my heart.”

Beau’s gaze was still on the ceiling; Arabella’s, too. They didn’t see another court lady walk in—one who had not walked freely in the corridors of the castle for decades—Lady Campossino.

Tall and strongly built, she wore a sky-blue gown and no jewelry. Her long brown hair trailed down her back. She sat down on the only chair in the room. The other ladies recoiled at the sight of her like a nest of cobras that had spotted a mongoose.

“What happened next?” Arabella asked.

“Raphael found me. He took me in. Patched me up. He saved my life. When I got better, he told me it was good my face had been spared, for it would be his fortune. He taught me everything he knew—how to pick pockets and locks, how to rob shops and houses. I worked on the streets of Barcelona for years. Until things got too hot for us, and we left for the countryside of Spain, and then France. I was fifteen, and I started working as a kitchen boy in the houses of the wealthy. I was tall. The maids always thought I was older than I was. A few lovelorn looks, some stolen kisses, and they’d tell me anything. Where the silver was kept, the jewelry, the strongbox.”

He opened his eyes and turned his head toward her. “So there it is. My story.”

Arabella wiped her eyes with the heel of her hand. “Liar. You’ve told me nothing. You were only ten years old when you stole the wallet. Why were you on your own? Where were your parents?”

Beau drew in a breath. This was exactly what he’d feared—that Arabella wouldn’t stop. That she’d try to dig up all the dark things he’d buried.

“Beau,” she pressed.

His breath came out in a rush; his words followed it. “My mother died in childbirth. The baby, a girl, died with her,” he said. “My father was heartbroken. He started drinking. He fell off a bridge one night and drowned. I was nine. My brother, Matteo, was three. There was no one to take us in, so we were put in a workhouse. They separated us and beat us for any reason, or no reason at all. I heard him. I heard Matti screaming as they hit him. He was so little, Arabella …” Beau’s words fell away. His throat worked. It was a long moment before he could gather himself. “One night, I took him. And ran.”

Lady Orrsow entered the room quietly. The others motioned for her to join them, but she would not. She stood alone, barefoot, her white hair trailing down her back, tears trailing down her cheeks.

Hesma pointed at her and giggled. Campossino heard her. Shaking her head, she walked over to Hesma and said, “That’s enough.”

“A nine-year-old and a three-year-old on their own?” Arabella said. “How did you survive?”

“We stole eggs from henhouses,” Beau replied. “We drank milk from cows in the field. Pulled carrots out of gardens and apples off trees. We slept in barns. But then the weather turned, and it got harder to find food. Matti was always hungry, always cold. He needed to be warm and dry. So I took him to a convent in the city’s old quarter and begged the nuns to look after him. They were a poor order and said they couldn’t, but I promised I would pay for his keep. I stole the money. By myself, at first. Then with the gang. I kept back coins. Raphael never found out.”

“Where is Matteo now? He must be, what … thirteen years old? Has he left the convent?”

“He’s still there. He’s sick. It’s consumption.”

Arabella paled at his words. She knew that people with consumption rarely got better. “I’m so sorry, Beau.”

“Don’t be, Arabella. Don’t be sorry,” Beau said fiercely. “He’s going to get better. He is. I’m going to take him away. I promised my mother I would take care of him. I’ve broken every other promise I’ve ever made, but I won’t break that one.” He sat up, agitated now, and leaned forward, his forearms on his knees. Shafts of morning light played across his face, emphasizing the new hollows in his cheeks, the faint lines in his forehead. “He cried so hard when I left him. Sometimes I still hear him. Calling for me. Begging me not to go. It never fades. It only ever gets worse.”

“What do you mean?”

Beau looked at her, his eyes deep wells of pain. “My parents were poor,” he said, “but my mother wanted more for us. She sold the only thing she had of value—a little gold bracelet—to pay the fees for me to go to school. I still see her. In my memories, my dreams. She’s heartbroken at what I’ve done. At what I’ve become.”

“Beau, what happened to you and Matti wasn’t your fault,” Arabella said.

“Pffft. It certainly was,” Iglut said, under her breath.

Campossino heard her. “Do I need to explain to you what stop means?” she asked.

“I just … I wish things had been different,” Beau said brokenly.

As he spoke, Iglut told Campossino where she could go. Sadindi slapped Orrsow. Orrsow, outraged, knocked Sadindi to the floor. Hesma shoved Romeser. And then a loud, heated brawl erupted as the ladies vied for dominance.

Arabella, watching in distress as they noisily pummeled one another, felt violently whipsawed between emotions. One moment, fury gripped her. Then hysterical laughter burbled up, only to be replaced a second later by a stark and crushing grief. “I wish things had been different,” she said with a heavy sigh. “That’s an understatement, Beau. It’s the understatement of the year. No, make that the century. One hundred long, helpless, hopeless, joyless, terrifying, stultifying, gray, and rotten years. Oh, if only things had been different. Why can’t we go back in time?”

She struggled to rein herself in, but the dam burst and then, like a raging flood down a dry riverbed, racking sobs came.

Beau, worried, took her hand and squeezed it. Arabella squeezed back, weeping. After a moment, when the flood lessened to a trickle, she looked down at their entwined hands and in a faltering voice said, “I know you won’t be the one to break the curse. I know that you don’t have … feelings … Goodness, this is awkward … I know you don’t love me. But I promised I would do my best to get you out of here, and I meant it, but there’s no time to waste. The sooner you leave, the sooner you can get to your brother.”

There was a shadow in Arabella’s voice, something that did not want to be seen. Beau heard it and puzzled at it. He might have pressed her on it if he hadn’t been trying so hard to hide something himself.

“Beau? Did you hear me?” she asked, releasing his hand and standing. “We should go. There’s so much work to do. Beau? You’ve gone quiet. Is something wrong?”

Beau looked up at her. “Yes, Arabella,” he said. “Something is wrong. You are wrong. I do love you.”