Chapter 8
Eight
Corabeth
Corabeth slept and slept and slept. She was vaguely aware of the light changing in her room.
Day turning into night into day again. In the brief moments she was awake to use the washroom, drink a glass of water, or feed the fire, she knew she should consider what her life had become, what she should do next.
But she would remember she still had no home, that she was still alone, and she would feel tired all over again.
Her dreams were no more pleasant, but at least they weren’t reality.
It must have been on the third day that a chilly whisper across Corabeth’s cheek woke her.
Her eyes fluttered open to the balcony door in her room open.
The cold breeze blew in, stroking her skin lovingly.
It was a gray and overcast day, like all the other days before and after it.
On the balcony, in stark contrast against that gray background, stood a figure clad in black with its back turned to Corabeth.
“You’re letting the cold in,” she said, her voice groggy, and pulled the blanket higher.
“Will it get you out of bed?” asked the Beast, turning its head slightly to its right. Long, black hair fell over its shoulder.
“I’m tired,” Corabeth said and closed her eyes again, hoping the Beast would leave her alone.
“Are you attempting death by starvation?” the Beast continued its questioning.
“I’m not hungry,” she replied. A headache was starting to make a nest somewhere behind her eyes.
The Beast huffed a heavy sigh. “Must be nice,” it muttered under its breath so quietly that Corabeth was sure she wasn’t even supposed to hear it. But she did. Her eyes flew open to find the Beast turned around, staring at her. She tried not to balk as she took in its appearance.
The Beast had a pale, almost gray complexion.
Its long, black hair was straight and unbound, swaying gently in the wind.
It had a pronounced forehead that cast its black, beady eyes in shadows.
Its nose was straight and long, almost beak-like.
High and sharp cheekbones left its cheeks gaunt.
Not entirely human features, but it was far less beast-like than Corabeth had expected. She suddenly felt much more awake.
The Beast watched as Corabeth sat up against the headboard. She kept herself covered with the blanket and pulled her knees up to her chest to hug them tightly.
“Who are you?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. The Beast’s gaze was unnerving her.
“What do they call me in your village?” the Beast asked and tilted its head. So much like the ravens in her backyard.
“They simply call you the Beast,” she answered a little hesitantly, half-expecting it to take offence.
Instead, a cold smile spread across its pale face. “Ah, a fitting name.”
Corabeth’s eyes narrowed a little. This Beast the whole village feared, that was supposedly their curse, looked entirely too human.
“You must have a name?” she persisted.
The Beast turned its black gaze upwards, seeking something forgotten.
“I suppose I do,” it said and looked at her again. “Once upon a time, I was called Rooke.”
Corabeth nodded, as if something had been confirmed for her.
“I gather you have one of those as well?”
“A name?” asked Corabeth.
The Beast… Rooke nodded, not taking his black eyes away from her.
“I’m Corabeth,” she said.
Something in his face twitched.
A beat of silence. “Come downstairs tonight. There will be dinner,” Rooke then said. He walked in from the balcony, his black cloak billowing after him, leaving the door open.
“Close it, please,” Corabeth implored.
“There are clothes in the wardrobe,” he said instead when he made it to the bedroom door. He unlocked it and pulled it open, revealing the dark corridor beyond.
“Wait,” Corabeth called after him. Rooke halted without looking back.
“Why are you doing this?” she asked.
Rooke remained silent and unmoving for a long moment.
“Just come to dinner,” he said, his tone giving nothing away. Then he was gone.
Another cold gust of wind rushed in through the balcony door. Corabeth threw her blanket off, jumped down from the bed, and hurried to close the glass door, but the damage was done. She would have to get a new fire going to get warm again.
She was fanning the flame, her bare feet almost frozen on the cold floor, when she realized what Rooke had done. He had forced her out of bed, driven her into action, and now Corabeth was feeling wide awake.
When the ravenous flames had swallowed new logs and the room was comfortable again, the sky had begun to darken once again. Now that Corabeth had been awake enough, she could not deny the pangs of hunger she was starting to feel. Her mind had decided to die, but the body still persisted.
Hesitantly, she opened the enormous wardrobe that loomed over her, the wooden knobs smooth in her palm.
A mix of mustiness and a bittersweet perfume hit her as she took in the row of gowns hanging before her.
Her hand slipped over the textures of cotton, chiffon, silk, lace.
She admired the deep reds, purples, and blues against her pale skin.
On the shelves next to the dresses, she found chemises, undergarments, corsets, stockings.
All of them clean, seemingly unworn, simply stale from being in the closet for too long.
Corabeth chose the simplest dress she could find—a black dress with a high neckline and long fitted sleeves. Its bodice was adorned with matching elaborate lace appliques, its skirt voluminous and layered. Even though it was the simplest, it was still the most luxurious garment she had ever worn.
Brushing through her long black hair that was now wavy from the braid she had worn, her movements slowed for a moment. What she saw in the mirror was almost… beautiful, if not haunted. Were it not for her gaunt cheeks or shadows under her eyes, she could nearly imagine herself another person.
Corabeth didn’t allow herself to linger, however.
She followed in Rooke’s steps, walking into the dark hallway and down the grand staircase.
She could only begin to imagine where the dining room in this strange manor was.
But as she reached the entranceway, the soft glow falling from an open doorway caught her attention.
The door was opposite the supposed library she had caught a glimpse of on her first night there.
Her soft steps echoed in the empty hall, the scent of freshly cooked meat beckoning her forward.
The door was cold under her touch as she pushed it open silently.
Inside, there was a long mahogany dining table, easily seating twenty people.
Each chair, high-backed and with intricate carvings, stood like a noble figure in the dark.
The only light sources in the dining room were the lit fireplace and a candelabra with three candles on the table.
Shadows danced across the large centerpiece made up of long dried roses, peonies, and hydrangeas, as though dinner had been served decades ago.
The spot at the end of the table closest to the door was set, a silver dome covering the plate.
“Hello?” Corabeth called into the darkness that enveloped the rest of the room.
A beat of silence.
“Have a seat,” said Rooke from the darkness, and Corabeth nearly jumped out of her skin. The voice came from the other end of the table. His shadow blended into the darkness so seamlessly.
Placing a hand on her chest to calm her beating heart, Corabeth walked over to the spot set for her and sat.
“Are you always in the dark?” she asked, taking in the picture before her. A single silver fork and knife, a large white plate covered by a silver lid, a crystal glass with water, and a matching stemmed glass with a dark red liquid. Wine, she guessed.
“Mostly, yes,” Rooke replied evenly.
“Does the light bother you?” Corabeth asked and looked into the darkness, where she could vaguely see his shape.
“No, I simply have no need for it,” he said. “Would you prefer it if you could see me as well?”
“It would help, yes,” Corabeth admitted, smoothing down her skirts to give her hands something to do.
All at once, candles flared to life on the opposite side of the table, although Rooke had not moved a muscle. His stoic figure remained in the high-backed dining chair.
Chills ran down Corabeth’s body when she saw his black eyes trained on her. The candlelight made his inhuman features only sharper, more pronounced. She wasn’t so sure if light had been such a good idea.