Sixty-Four
Arabella, laid bare, spoke.
“No more, thief. You have my story now. And your answers.”
Elge, unable to contain herself, scurried back across the room to Beau and sat down with a whump beside him. “Can you imagine the guilt? The shame?” she whispered exultantly.
Arabella closed her eyes. Her hand clutched at her robe, fingers knotting in the fabric. Her chest spasmed, as if someone had just plunged a knife into it.
Iglut turned the blade. “All those people trapped like insects in amber. I think they see. I think they feel. Imagine being immobilized in a clockwork body, fully conscious, but not able to move or speak.”
LaJoyuse nudged Iglut aside. “Arabella bore up stoically at first,” she said to Beau. “She had hope. After all, the clockmaker said the curse could be broken if she learned to love. Every time a man crossed over the drawbridge, every time he came into the castle, she hoped he would become her suitor. But they all left again as soon as they discovered the real Arabella. And who could blame them? Who could love a beast? She tried her best to recover, to carry on, to never lose hope or faith. But after failing again and again to find love, after watching those around her suffer, knowing all the while that she was the one who caused their suffering … well, it became too much. Hope was no longer a comfort to her; Hope was a torment.”
“So Espidra locked me away,” Hope said. “And my sisters, too.”
“And when we were gone, Arabella gave up,” said Faith. “She lowered the portcullis and that’s where it has remained.”
“Until now,” Elge said, clapping her hands like a child. “Until you.”
“Now? Me?” Beau said. “I—I don’t understand.”
“Oh, don’t you?”
And then he did, in a shock of realization so strong, so visceral, he felt sick.
“Becauuuuuuse …” Elge prompted, elbowing him in the side.
“Because,” Beau said, his voice barely a whisper, “I’m the latest suitor.”