Chapter 15 Isabeau
fifteen
Isabeau
Beast left me alone again, disappearing into the forest like a shadow retreating from sunlight.
I couldn’t decide if he was checking his territory, hunting more food, or simply needed space from the human who had suddenly invaded his solitude.
Either way, I found myself once again the sole occupant of a castle built for hundreds.
My footsteps echoed through halls that had forgotten the sound of life.
At least I wasn’t hungry anymore. The memory of our shared meal brought an unexpected smile to my lips from Beast’s irritation when I’d taken over, showing him how humans actually cook meat instead of tearing it raw with teeth and claws.
He’d been so proud of that pheasant, until I had to clean it.
The way his eyes had narrowed when I took a stick before he could chomp it in half still made me want to laugh.
Those massive teeth, capable of crushing bone, reduced to watching as I carefully skewered the plucked bird and held it over the flames.
His paws, deadly weapons that could disembowel a man, had proven comically inadequate when faced with the delicate task of striking flint.
In the end, he’d surrendered with a huff that ruffled my hair, backing away to watch me work like I was performing some arcane ritual. Perhaps to him, I was. How long had it been since he’d eaten like a man instead of a beast?
The question haunted me as I remembered how carefully he’d torn his portion with those fearsome teeth, trying but failing to avoid making a mess of his fur. So much humanity trapped in that bestial form. So much sadness in those amber eyes when he thought I wasn’t looking.
The meal itself had been simple, but it felt like a beginning. A tentative bridge across the chasm between human and beast. Between woman and monster. Between prey and... whatever we were becoming to each other.
Now, with him gone and my belly full, curiosity drove me to explore this crumbling palace that had become my sanctuary.
The sitting room where we’d eaten connected to several other grand spaces.
A music room with a pianoforte whose strings had long since rotted away, a drawing room where some old maps were laid out, and a formal dining hall that could seat sixteen nobles around its massive oak table.
But it was a narrow doorway half-hidden behind a faded tapestry that caught my attention. Unlike the grand arches leading to the main rooms, this opening was small, unadorned, clearly not meant for noble eyes.
My father had once explained how the great houses were designed with separate pathways for servants. This allowed them to move invisibly through the walls like ghosts, appearing only when needed and disappearing just as quickly.
“Let’s see where you lead,” I murmured, ducking through the low doorway into a dimly lit corridor.
The air changed immediately to a cooler, more stagnant inhale, carrying the faint scent of old cooking fires and human labor rather than the perfumed elegance of the main halls.
The ceiling hung low enough that a tall man would need to stoop, and the walls were plain stone without ornamentation.
This was the castle’s backbone, the practical pathways that had kept it functioning in its decennary.
Doors lined the narrow hall, most hanging open to reveal small, cell-like rooms with narrow beds.
The servants’ quarters, where those who maintained the castle’s grandeur had laid their heads at night.
Most rooms contained little more than a bed frame with a rotted mattress, perhaps a small chest for personal belongings, and a hook for clothing.
Lives reduced to their utility, defined by the service they provided.
I peered into each room as I passed, wondering about the people who had lived here. Had they been treated well? Had they found moments of joy in their labor? Had they fled when whatever tragedy befell this place, or had they perished alongside their masters?
My attention caught on something practical.
A pair of house slippers tucked neatly beneath one of the beds, forgotten in whatever hasty departure had emptied this castle of human life.
I knelt, pulling them out to examine them.
They were simple things, made of felted wool with leather soles.
Clearly designed for quiet movement through sleeping households.
The previous owner’s feet had been slightly larger than mine, but after days of bare feet on freezing earth and stone, I wasn’t about to be picky.
I slipped them on and covered the cuts on the bottom of my feet, sighing as warmth immediately enveloped my aching soles. The slight drag as I walked was a small price to pay for the buffer between my broken skin and the cold floor.
The corridor continued past the sleeping quarters, curving slightly before opening into a space that made my heart leap with practical joy.
A kitchen. Not the formal kitchen where grand meals would have been prepared, but what appeared to be a secondary kitchen for the servants’ use.
It was smaller, more intimate, but equipped with everything needed to feed a household.
Iron pots hung from hooks on the walls, a massive hearth dominated one wall, and sturdy wooden counters lined the perimeter.
Unlike the grand rooms above, the kitchen had a timeless quality to it.
Dust-covered and abandoned, yes, but still recognizable, still useful.
My mother would have felt at home here. I could almost see her at the hearth, stirring a pot of something fragrant while humming under her breath.
My practical side took over as I began opening cupboards and storage bins, taking inventory of what might still be usable after all these years.
Most perishables had long since rotted away, leaving only memories in the form of stains and scents.
But in the back of the pantry, sealed barrels promised more lasting treasures.
The first barrel I managed to pry open contained wheat—dry and preserved, protected from moisture and vermin by the tight-fitting lid and what smelled like some herb tucked among the grains. Another barrel revealed dried beans, their hard surfaces still intact despite the years.
A blissful sigh escaped me before I could catch it. After days of uncertainty and terror, the sight of these basic staples felt like finding gold.
“We won’t starve,” I whispered to the empty kitchen. “Not immediately, anyway.”
Eating meat might keep us alive, but I’d been raised with bread and vegetables forming the foundation of my diet. Beast could hunt, but I needed more than flesh to feel truly nourished. These grains and beans would extend our meals, provide variety, comfort.
My hands traced the countertops as I continued exploring, finding treasures with each opened drawer or cabinet.
A grinding stone for turning wheat into flour.
Bowls of varying sizes, some cracked but many still whole.
Utensils crafted from wood and metal, designed to last generations.
And most precious of all, containers of salt and sugar—closed off from air and moisture, preserved as if waiting for someone like me to find them.
I brought each container to my nose, checking for mold or rot, but found only the clean, sharp scent of salt and the sweet aroma of sugar. Luxuries I hadn’t expected to find, yet here they were, waiting to transform simple ingredients into something approaching pleasure.
“A cow would be nice,” I said aloud, imagining milk for porridge, butter for bread, cheese for flavoring the beans.
“Chickens for eggs. Maybe a garden come spring.” I laughed at myself then, already planning a future in this place as if I’d decided to stay permanently.
As if I weren’t essentially a fugitive, hiding from a village that wanted me dead and a man who wanted me chained.
And I couldn’t forget the decaying forest around me.
How would I get the soil to take the seeds? And where would I find seeds?
Still, practicality demanded I make the best of what I had now.
I found a large bowl and added a generous portion of beans to soak once I got them under some water.
Tomorrow they would be soft enough to cook, their dried bodies swelling to twice their current size, providing enough food for several meals.
But when I reached for the water tap, nothing happened.
The pipes gurgled mockingly, but not a single drop emerged from the spout.
I frowned, examining the apparatus more closely.
Papa had taught me the basics of plumbing, explaining how water flowed through pipes using gravity and pressure.
If the castle’s system still retained water in its cisterns to this part of the castle, then a blockage or break was the most likely culprit.
I opened the cabinet beneath the sink, crouching to peer into the shadowed space. Sure enough, one of the metal pipes had separated from its adjoining piece, creating a gap where water would leak instead of flowing to the tap. A simple enough fix, if temporary.
Pushing up my sleeves, I reached in and aligned the two pieces, pushing them together with a grunt of effort. They connected with a satisfying click, but I could already see where water would seep through the imperfect joint.
“Need something to seal it properly,” I muttered, eyes scanning the kitchen for inspiration. An old dish towel, frayed but still intact, caught my attention. I tore a strip from it and wrapped it tightly around the pipe joint, tying it securely.
Not perfect. Not permanent. But functional.
I rose and turned the tap again, smiling with satisfaction as water flowed smoothly into the bowl beneath. The beans bobbed gently in the rising water, promise of future nourishment.