Beastly Beauty

Ninety-Two

One year later

The beautiful carriage rumbled over the castle’s new stone bridge.

Inside it sat three men. On top of it sat three children.

“This is dangerous, don’t you think?” Faith asked.

“Not a bit!” Hope shouted.

“We’ll be fine!” bellowed Love.

“We’re all going to die,” Faith sighed.

As the carriage picked up speed, Love lay flat on her belly and hung her head over the side, the better to see its passengers. She enjoyed their banter, their good-natured taunts, their friendship.

Percival was talking. “Why are you going into town this morning?” he asked Beau.

“To rob a bank,” Beau teased.

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” said Percival. “I still can’t believe the duke made you his chancellor of the exchequer. That’s like putting the fox in charge of the henhouse.”

“Yes, it is,” Beau agreed. “The duke’s a shrewd man. Think about it: Who knows how to get into the henhouse better than the fox? So who better to keep all the other foxes out than a reformed fox?”

“He has a point,” said Valmont. “You can’t deny it, old friend. Since he’s taken over, he’s made the treasury impenetrable, rooted out corruption, and found new ways to fund the realm’s building expenses. Those are some remarkable achievements, if you ask me.”

“Once a thief, always a thief, if you ask me,” said Percival.

Beau shrugged. “One does have to keep the old fingers nimble.” He held up Percival’s gold pocket watch and let it swing like a pendulum.

Percival, scowling, snatched it back.

Love sat up and let her hands skim the wind like birds. The carriage trundled along through the forest toward the town. The men had business there: Percival with the duke’s wine importer. Valmont with the duchess’s jeweler. And Beau with the realm’s new minister for capital improvements.

“On a day such as this, it seems even mortals cannot fill the world with problems,” Love said, smiling up at the sun.

“Mortals can always fill the world with problems. It’s their greatest talent,” said Faith.

“Look!” Hope said, pointing ahead of them, at the town coming into view.

“Paradisium!” Love exclaimed as they passed under the town’s newly painted sign.

A year ago, Ville des Bois-Perdus had been a gray place, its road pocked and potholed, its buildings falling to ruin. Now the roads were smooth. A new fountain burbled in its square. Trees had been planted all around it. The market hall had a new roof. Old people sat on benches talking to one another. Children ran and played in the sunshine. Soon they would attend a newly built school. The beautiful village that had been drawn in silver thread a century ago was coming to life.

The carriage stopped, first at a warehouse for Percival, next at a goldsmith’s for Valmont, and then at a building site for Beau. The three sisters jumped down at the last stop and went on their way, disappearing down a winding street. Their work at the castle was done; they were needed elsewhere now. A hospital had just opened in the town, and the people who came there to be helped—their bodies injured or ravaged by disease, their heads filled with frights or sadness—had need of the children.

Beau was out of the carriage, a basket in his hand, before it even came to a halt. He stood by the building site for a moment, his eyes searching. Then they lit up, as they always did when he saw his wife.

Good architects build buildings, he thought. Great ones build dreams.

She was standing at a folding wooden table, going over plans for the new school with her head mason. Her hair was neatly coiled at the nape of her neck. Her clothing was practical: a brown twill skirt, a simple white shirt, a tan waistcoat, and black boots.

Matteo was by her side, fetching the right drawings for her, finding the right notebook. He was still too thin for Beau’s liking, but there was color in his cheeks and he no longer coughed.

Arabella had wasted no time reuniting them. Only hours after the curse had been broken, as soon as it was light enough to see, they’d started to rebuild their bridge, with the help of servants released from the clock. A week later, they’d hurried across it and made their way to the town where Arabella had bought horses, saddles, and provisions, and then the two of them had set off for Barcelona. He hadn’t wanted her to go, he’d argued with her, but she would not be dissuaded. They’d battled wolves and weather, and narrowly avoided bandits, but after a week of hard riding, they’d arrived at the convent.

Beau had been so afraid he’d be too late, he couldn’t bring himself to knock on the door; Arabella had to do it. But then the door opened and Sister Maria-Theresa had greeted them, and moments later, he was sitting on his little brother’s bed, holding him in his arms.

Arabella had sent for doctors, the best in the city. She had the finest foods brought to the convent, things the nuns could never have afforded, and enough of them to feed everyone. She’d had wagonloads of firewood delivered to warm the abbey. After three months, Matti had recovered enough to make the trip back to Arabella’s castle, where the clear mountain air restored him completely.

Beau was deeply grateful for his new life, and yet one thing had continued to trouble him—the emerald ring still stitched into his old jacket. So one morning a few weeks after his wedding, he’d ridden off before dawn to the merchant’s manor. No lights were on when he arrived; no servants were yet about. Quietly, he’d slid out of his saddle, crept to the front door, and placed a small box on the step. The ring was inside it, wrapped in a piece of paper with two words written on it: Forgive me.

As he’d turned to go, he’d cast a final glance at the manor, and at the place where he’d jumped on Amar, his horse, and galloped down the road to perdition.

There was a way back from that road. He knew that now. So did Arabella. On the hard days, and there were still many of them, she thought too much of time lost. She thought of relatives, of her servants’ families and friends, all dead and buried. Of Percival and Phillipe’s cottage in the woods, fallen to ruin. And then the tears would come. When they did, he would take her hand gently and lead her to the mirror. Sometimes it took ages before she could meet her own gaze and speak those same two words—Forgive me—to the girl in the glass, but it didn’t matter. He stayed with her, arms enfolding her, for as long as she needed.

Arabella was rebuilding a town and, little by little, her life—as she and Beau built a life together.

As Beau walked across the building site, he saw Matteo roll up a drawing and hurry off to deliver it to a carpenter. And then, as if Arabella felt Beau’s eyes on her, she turned around, and her lips, her face, her entire being broke into a smile. For him. Beau motioned to an old oak tree. She joined him there and helped him spread a blanket beneath the tree’s sheltering branches. Beau placed his basket in the center of the blanket, and they both sat down. He leaned across the basket and kissed Arabella, and as he did, he tugged on the slender piece of graphite she’d threaded through her coiled hair to keep it in place, just to watch that hair fall down around her shoulders.

“Once a thief, always a thief,” she said, laughing as she snatched it back.

“Percival said the very same thing.”

“He’s right.”

“Maybe so. But you’re a bigger thief, my darling Bells.”

“Me? What did I steal?”

“My heart. And promise me one thing …”

Arabella arched an inquisitive eyebrow.

Beau kissed her again, then he whispered in her ear.

“That you’ll never give it back.”