Chapter 13 Isabeau
thirteen
Isabeau
Papa’s hands were different. Clean. Unbloodied.
Not at all like the last glimpse I’d caught of them tangled in those grotesque rose vines.
They moved with the confident precision I remembered from my childhood, turning over the dark purple flower between his fingers like it was both precious and dangerous.
I could smell the earth beneath us, rich and familiar, nothing like the musty scent of the abandoned castle bed.
“Do you know what this is, Isabeau?” Papa asked, his voice exactly as I remembered. Gentle but firm, always teaching, always guiding.
We sat at the edge of the forest behind our cottage, sunlight filtering through leaves to create patterns on his weathered face.
He looked younger here, in this dream-memory, the lines around his eyes less pronounced, his shoulders unburdened by the weight of raising a daughter alone after Mama died.
“Atropa belladonna,” I answered automatically. “Deadly nightshade.”
He smiled, that small curl of his lips that always appeared when I demonstrated knowledge. “And what do you remember about it?”
“It’s poison,” I said, eyeing the plant with appropriate wariness. “The berries especially. Three can kill a child, ten an adult. The ancients used it to make their pupils dilate—belladonna, ‘beautiful lady’—because they thought it made women more alluring.”
Papa nodded, the sunlight catching in his white hair. Not a single rose petal marred its purity in this dream. “Very good. And knowing this, would you ever touch it? Use it? Bring it into our home?”
I shook my head emphatically. “Of course not. I’m not stupid.”
He chuckled, the sound warming something deep inside me that had been cold since the night of the sacrifice. Since I’d learned of his murder at Gaspard’s hands. “No, my curious little bell, you certainly are not. But what if I told you that you’re only seeing half the truth?”
I frowned, studying the purple-black berries and bell-shaped flowers with new intensity. “What do you mean?”
“Watch,” he instructed, pulling a small knife from his pocket.
The blade caught the sunlight as he carefully cut away several of the plant’s leaves, avoiding the berries entirely.
“These leaves, properly prepared, can ease pain. They can help those with certain stomach ailments. They can even assist women during difficult childbirths.”
My eyes widened. “But it’s poison.”
“Parts of it are,” he corrected gently. “But not all. Sometimes, Isabeau, the things we fear most have aspects we’ve never bothered to understand.
” He held the leaves in his palm, offering them for my inspection.
“Your mother knew this. She used these very leaves in her remedies for Mrs. Thibault when her baby came early.”
Mama. The mention of her sent a pang through my chest. I had so few memories of her, just fragments really. The scent of herbs drying in bunches from our rafters, her amber eyes crinkling at the corners when she smiled, her voice humming lullabies as she worked.
“She did?” I asked, hungry for this new connection to her.
“Indeed,” Papa nodded. “Your mother understood better than anyone that nothing in this world is entirely what it seems on the surface. ‘Never judge a book by its cover,’ she would say. And she was rarely wrong.”
I reached out cautiously, touching one of the leaves with my fingertip. It felt cool and slightly fuzzy. Nothing like the deadly weapon I’d always imagined it to be.
“But how do you know?” I asked, withdrawing my hand. “How do you separate the healing from the harm? The safe from the dangerous?”
Papa’s eyes crinkled at the corners, so much like Mama’s had. “That, my curious little bell, is why we learn. Why we study. Why we question everything we think we know.” He tucked the leaves carefully into a small pouch. “Knowledge is what transforms fear into understanding.”
Around us, the dream-forest seemed to shift, colors becoming more vivid, sounds sharper. A raven cawed somewhere nearby, the sound eerily familiar.
“But everyone says women shouldn’t concern themselves with such things,” I said, repeating what I’d heard countless times in the village. “Father Simon says curiosity is the devil’s tool, especially in girls.”
Papa scoffed, the sound so familiar it ached.
“And what do you think Father Simon would say about belladonna? That the whole plant is evil? That it should be destroyed rather than understood?” He shook his head.
“Some men fear what they cannot control, Isabeau. They label it dangerous rather than admit their own ignorance, and that happens mostly against women.”
The words settled over me like a blanket, warm and somehow essential. I’d heard Papa say similar things when I was younger, usually after I’d returned from the village in tears because someone had mocked my interest in his inventions or my questions about how things worked.
“Is that why you taught me to read?” I asked. “Even though the other fathers didn’t teach their daughters?”
“I taught you because knowledge is freedom,” he replied simply.
“And because your mind is the sharpest I’ve ever known, including my own.
” His hand reached out, cupping my cheek.
It felt so real I could almost believe he wasn’t gone, that I wasn’t actually lying in an ancient bed in a forgotten castle, claimed by a beast and hunted by a murderer.
“You asked the best questions even as a tiny girl. ‘Why is the sky blue, Papa?’ ‘How do birds know where to fly, Papa?’ ‘Why does bread rise when we bake it, Papa?’”
I laughed despite myself, the sound strange in this dream-that-wasn’t-quite-a-dream. “I must have driven you mad with all my questions.”
“Never,” he said fiercely, his eyes suddenly intense. “Never apologize for your curiosity, Isabeau. It is your greatest gift. It will save you when nothing else can.”
Something in his tone changed the atmosphere of the dream. The forest around us darkened slightly, as if clouds had passed over the sun. “Papa? What do you mean?”
He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a whisper even though we were alone. “Trust the questions your mind asks. When something doesn’t make sense—like a beast who shows mercy, or a respected man who shows none—question it. Look deeper. Find the leaves hiding among the poisonous berries.”
My heart quickened. He was talking about Beast. About Gaspard. About everything that had happened since his sacrifice.
“How do I know what’s real?” I whispered back. “Everything I thought I understood has changed.”
“By learning,” he answered simply. “By looking beyond what others tell you to see. By trusting yourself.” His fingers squeezed mine gently. “I love your curiosity, Isabeau. I’ve always loved how you refuse to accept simple answers.”
The dream began to blur at the edges, Papa’s face becoming less distinct. I tried to hold on, to keep him with me for just a moment longer. “I miss you,” I said, my voice breaking. “I don’t know what to do without you.”
“Yes, you do,” he replied, his voice fading even as his smile remained clear. “You already know more than you realize. Trust your questions, little bell. They’ll lead you home.”
The dream dissolved around me, Papa’s face the last thing to fade, those kind eyes looking at me with such pride that it physically hurt. I reached for him, but my hands grasped only air as darkness closed in once more.
And somewhere nearby, a raven cawed.
Something heavy pressed me into the mattress, pulling me from Papa’s fading face in my dream to a new reality of fur and weight and warmth. For one terrifying heartbeat, I thought Gaspard had found me. That his hands would be the ones gripping my flesh, his voice hissing threats in my ear.
My body went rigid, muscles tightening to fight or flee. Then a low rumble vibrated against my back, familiar and strangely comforting. Not Gaspard. Beast.
His snout dragged along my shoulders, hot breath dampening the thin fabric of the borrowed green dress that had twisted around my body during sleep.
The panic that had seized my chest began to ebb away, replaced by something I couldn’t quite name.
Not quite relief, not quite anticipation, but somewhere in the shadowy territory between.
I rolled onto my back beneath him, wanting, no needing to see his face.
His massive form loomed over me, blocking out the weak morning light filtering through tattered curtains.
Those amber eyes, so unnervingly like my own, gazed down with an intensity that took my breath away.
Not the vacant stare of an animal, but something deeper.
Something human trapped behind a bestial mask.
“You came back,” I whispered, my voice rough from sleep.
Beast’s only answer was another low rumble, his head dipping to nuzzle at my neck.
I felt his teeth graze my skin. Not threatening, but reminding.
I belonged to him now, marked and claimed.
The thought should have terrified me, should have sent me scrambling for the knife still hidden beneath my pillow.
Instead, I found myself tilting my head, giving him better access.
His massive paw moved with surprising delicacy, hooking into the neckline of the dress and tugging. The ancient fabric gave way easily, tearing from bodice to hem. Cool, darkened morning air kissed my exposed skin, raising gooseflesh across my breasts and belly.
Beast’s manhood pressed hot and insistent against my thigh, already emerged from the sheath of fur that had concealed it in his resting state.
I didn’t know the proper words for it. Mama had died when I was fourteen, before she could have such conversations with me.
Papa, for all his progressive thoughts on female education, had drawn the line at explaining the mechanics of coupling.
And the working women’s crude terminology never seemed to fit this. .. connection between me and Beast.