Chapter 9
Stella is still ugly, but at least she’s clean.
She sits at the other end of the long dining table, a book in her hands that I have no doubt she stole from the library I specifically told her to stay out of. I have to admit though that I enjoyed her prank. It’s been a long time since someone messed with me like that, and I forgot how much fun it could be.
I watch her as she reads, trying to figure her out. She’s still wearing the same clothes she showed up here in, but at least they’re free of dirt stains now. Her hair is wound into a braid that lays across her left shoulder, but it has a mind of its own and bits of it have escaped around her face.
The strands look rough to the touch, and her features are too harsh, too blunt to be appealing. It’s almost like someone took features from five different people and shoved them all together regardless of how they fit.
But is that her real face?
After her outburst at dinner last night, I began to replay the last four years in my mind. I vaguely remember Milly mentioning something about the looks of the women, but I didn’t pay much attention. What did it matter to me how the curse affected the women?
But now I’m wondering what all those women really looked like…Some of them had been vocal like Stella, asking questions or trying to flirt, and I recall mentioning on occasion how unattractive I found them.
Now that I’m thinking about it though, they also seemed confused by the comments. Like they were surprised that I found them physically lacking. And Stella asked if she appeared like a banshee to me. As if she appeared different to everyone else…
“What do you really look like?” I ask, breaking the echoing silence.
Stella’s eyes flash to me, surprised.
“Are your eyes really green? Or is that just…the curse?” I go on, trying to sound as uninvested as possible. Judging by the subtle smile on her lips, I’ve failed.
“Why do you want to know?” she asks, slowly setting her book on the table.
She’s a guarded creature, never exposing too much of herself and always ready to fight. But she sometimes forgets to put up her walls, especially when she’s entertained. Which seems to be primarily when she thinks she has the upper hand.
“I don’t like the thought that the curse has been stealing my own sight from me,” I answer evasively.
Her eyes narrow and her finger taps the corner of her book. “What do I get if I tell you?”
A grin escapes me despite my prior intentions not to enjoy her presence. Joy leads to attachment, and attachments are just weaknesses with smiles.
“Is there something you want, my Lady Lion?”
Her eyes narrow at the nickname and my smile expands. I haven’t had this kind of fun in years. I should have toyed with the other women who stayed here, seen if they puffed up when prodded the way Stella does.
She twirls the stem of her glass, eyeing me. The way she leans against the table, lips pursed, I feel like I’m the one who’s a guest in her home. So I mimic her posture to let her know that she’s not the one running this show. She’s just one of my thespians.
“Tell me everything you know about the curse,” she says after a few moments.
“Deal,” I scoff, waving my hand dismissively. “But in exchange, you have to answer all of my questions about your appearance.”
“Deal.”
“Are your eyes green?”
She smiles, setting her chin on her hand. “Yes.”
“Your hair?”
“No, first you tell me one thing about the curse. Tit for tat, Princess.”
I laugh at her jab and try to think of some obscure, unimportant detail. “I’m bound by magic to come to this dining room every night at sunset.”
Her smile turns to a glare. “That’s not fair, I already knew that.”
“You didn’t specify that my information had to be new,” I remind her, sipping on my water.
She growls and I can’t help but compare her to Narcissus, my orange tabby cat. Temperamental, unpredictable, too curious for their own good. They could be siblings.
“Now tell me what your hair is like,” I request lazily, not wanting to let her know how desperately I want her answer.
She rolls her eyes, her fingers moving from her glass to the tail of her braid. “It’s dark, medium length.”
“And the texture?”
She squints at me, and I try not to fidget under her gaze. “It’s sort of…wavy with a little bit of curl.”
“Is it soft? Does it look soft?”
“Um…” she looks at the tail of her braid, brow wrinkled. “Yeah, it’s soft. It gets kind of frizzy in the heat, but it looks soft right now. Why? What does it look like to you?”
“Rough. Are you pretty?”
Her expression falls and I get the sense I’ve disappointed her somehow. And I wasn’t even trying. “Not particularly. I’m easily overlooked, not necessarily as ugly as you seem to think I am, but I wouldn’t turn your head. Now tell me more about the curse.”
I don’t know why her answer bothers me. Perhaps I hoped she was pretty underneath the curse. But for what reason, I can’t fathom. I have no use for beauty when what I need is an escape.
“As you already know, we’re both stuck here,” I groan, stretching my neck. “I can only leave the grounds at certain times, and you can’t leave until three months have passed.”
“What else?”
“Apparently all the women appear ugly to me for some reason that wasn’t disclosed to me when that hellish Poet cursed me.”
“Who was the Poet?”
“Don’t know.” I mindlessly spin the water in my glass. “I would recognize her if I saw her again, but as I’m sure you’re aware, Poets are quite rare and very difficult to find. Believe me, I’ve tried.”
“Why did she curse you?”
“Why don’t you ask the maids?” I toss back at her with a smirk.
To her credit, she doesn’t appear guilty about the snooping she did earlier. And I respect her for it. If you’re going to make unpopular choices, commit to them. That’s why everybody loves me, I never apologize. Or at least that’s what I tell myself.
I see her reaching for her book and suddenly I don’t want her to go. Not because I like her company—of course not—I just haven’t gotten to the point of the conversation yet.
“I have a proposition for you,” I blurt, silently cursing myself for my lack of tact. I’m usually quite good at this.
“I’m not that kind of kitty,” she sasses, her green eyes flashing as she smirks, willfully misinterpreting my words.
“I’m not sure you’re a kitty at all. You might be a bear—a grizzly.”
She chuckles. It’s not a bad sound, as far as laughs go.
“Your book is from my library,” I nod to the tome in her hands, “But I’ll let it go seeing as how we might benefit each other.”
“How’s that? Do you want me to read you a bedtime story?”
“If you promise to keep the claws in. I won’t have my sheets shredded.”
“Oh, I’ll shred something.”
I laugh, loving her quick wit. It’s unfortunate that I couldn’t have more time by myself between female visitors, but at least this one is entertaining.
“I’m looking for a way around the curse,” I explain, getting to the point before she can bolt for the door. “I hired a Poet a few years ago to tell me how to do it, and he assured me that there is a way. But it’s proven difficult to find. A second set of eyes, however, may be useful.”
As I speak, Stella leans forward in her chair, her interest unmasked. “Why me?” she asks cautiously.
“You are clearly well versed in history and what I need requires historical knowledge. No one else in the manor is as fluent in it.”
She’s quiet for a moment, and then she smiles. “You’re looking for an artifact, aren’t you? That’s why you asked me so many questions about artifacts earlier.”
While I didn’t intend to tell her more than necessary before she accepts my proposition, I should have known that she was smart enough to puzzle some of it out on her own.
“Finding it means we’re all free,” I say, sidestepping her question. “You, me, the staff. You won’t have to wait the standard three months if we can get around the curse now.”
She considers me silently and I have no idea what her answer will be. There’s a dancing way about Stella. One step forward, two to the side, one step back. She’s making up the rhythm as she goes, and I don’t know which way she’ll move next.
“I’ll think about it,” she says, standing, a serene smile on her face. The knowledge that the curse has altered her appearance hasn’t made her any less unattractive. But I’m finding it less unpleasant to look at her now that I know it’s not completely real.
“Fine,” I shrug, leaning back in my chair. “If you decide to help, I’m in the library every day.”
“Fine. If I decide to help, I’ll let you know.”
When she turns to the door, a book tucked under her arm, I glare at her back. A weaker person would crumble at my fake disinterest. But not Stella. In fact, as she walks away, I wonder which one of us truly has the upper hand.
Somehow, I don’t think it’s me.