Fifty-Nine
Beau’s heart felt as if it were made of glass.
And Espidra’s words had opened a crack in it, thin and spidery. He pushed against them, not wanting to believe what she had just said. “That’s not true. It’s not, Arabella, is it?” he asked.
Arabella closed her eyes and nodded, and the crack widened.
“When you … when you were a beast?” Beau said, remembering the sharp claws, the curved fangs.
“Oh, no,” Iglut cut in. “When she was still very much a girl.”
“And this Constantine … who was he?” asked Beau.
“Arabella’s fiancé. Never in your life did you see such a man!” said Elge breathily. “I mean, you’re not bad, Beau, and I certainly wouldn’t kick you off the couch, but the prince?” She rolled her eyes as if she’d just eaten the most delicious bite of cake. “He was as handsome as a god.”
“And stinking rich,” said Lady D’Eger, snatching a roll from Beau’s breakfast tray.
“The duke and duchess decided he would be Arabella’s husband,” Iglut explained. “They wanted an alliance with a royal house.”
Elge tugged on Beau’s sleeve and directed his attention toward a mirror on a nearby wall. “Strong magic happened in this place,” she said dramatically. “So strong that it etched itself into the looking glasses. Now they replay it for Arabella, so she never, ever forgets. It’s part of the curse!”
“Curse?” Beau echoed.
Elge pressed a hand to her chest. “Yes!” she said. “The direst curse imaginable! It happened at the stag hunt.”
“Enough, Lady Elge.”
It was Lady Romeser. She was wearing a gown the color of crushed plums. Her face, her hands, every visible inch of her skin, was mottled by bruises, some old, some fresh.
“She does that to herself, you know,” Elge whispered to Beau, smothering a giggle.
“Take a seat, Elge,” Romeser said. “I won’t ask you again.”
Elge’s shoulders slumped. “You ruin everything,” she huffed as she walked to a chair, scuffing her feet the whole way.
“Before a royal wedding, tradition decrees that families of the bride and groom celebrate with a stag hunt. Arabella’s father hosted it,” Romeser explained, walking to the mirror. She pointed at the glass. “Look there …”
“No,” Beau said. “I won’t.” He turned to Arabella. “Unless you say I can. You. Not them.”
He understood something now that he had not before—that he was gazing at memories that lived deep within Arabella. And that viewing them was an intimate act.
Arabella’s eyes were still closed. The tears she’d held back now spilled down her cheeks.
Hope approached her, guarded by Faith; she touched her hand. “You can do this,” she whispered to her. “You can.”
Arabella opened her eyes.
And breathed one word. Yes.