TFT 01 Beauty and the Beast Read online

  Duval left as Emele arrived. The ladies maid carried a strangely shaped pillow, which she set about embroidering when she took up her customary position at Elle’s bedside.

  Elle lay still for an hour before she tried moving. Just because Duval said she needed two to three weeks of rest didn’t mean she—Elle bit her tongue to keep from howling. When she moved the pain ripped brutally through her body. She had to stay stationary, there was no way she could drag herself all the way to Noyers.

  Elle closed her eyes in an attempt to smother the tears that threatened to fall.

  Emele sympathetically patted Elle’s hand and skirted around the bed like a mother hen stuffed in a puffy pink dress. She roused Elle for tea and a reading lesson, but Elle didn’t have the heart to try.

  All the hard work Elle did was for her family, and now because of one stupid mistake everything was going to unravel.

  “Enter,” Severin growled when a servant tapped on the door.

  Burke, Severin’s personal valet, swept inside with great pomp. The man moved like a peacock and had the wardrobe to match. Today he was in prime form as his feathers were displayed with all smugness. He wore ridiculously high heeled shoes that were tied with a blue ribbon and decorated with bows. His petticoat breeches—which were more puffed than even the most daring fashion devotee wore—floated around him like a skirt. He wore a fine waistcoat and a flowing cravat, all giving him the air of a fashionable idiot, but Severin was not deceived. Burke had the mind of a bear trap.

  “What is it?” Severin asked.

  Burke slid a wicker basket across Severin’s desk.

  The basket held a sewing needle and a small spool of black thread, a black handkerchief, a chunk of crusty bread that had the density of a turtle shell, several long and oddly bent hair pins, a belt knife, and a silver whistle.

  “These are all the items the girl carried on her person?” Severin asked as he held up the bright whistle in the dim light. A gift from a lover, perhaps? It was probably the most expensive item out of the bunch as the belt knife had been sharpened so many times the blade was cheaply thin.

  Burke nodded.

  Severin tossed the whistle back in the basket. “She must be a villager from Belvenes. Give the items to Emele for storing until the girl is able to stand—but confiscate the belt knife.”

  Burke dipped forward in an outlandish bow, took the basket, and left.

  Severin sighed—the sound was more guttural than he meant for it to be. The girl was a headache Severin didn’t want to deal with. His servants were acting like she was a visiting empress, which wouldn’t have bothered Severin if they ceased their tendency to pepper him with irksome questions about the girl’s health, treatment, and ignorant inability to read.

  “One would think they would have as bleak an outlook as I do pertaining to our curse. All those wasted times and raised hopes,” Severin shook his head like a dog, redirecting his thoughts. He needed to go over the notes from his last meeting with his half brother, Crown Prince Lucien.

  Severin found the papers and read the first paragraph when there was another knock on the door.

  “Enter,” Severin said, setting down the papers.

  Duval stepped inside Severin’s study, a smile twitching on his plump face as he passed his slate to Severin.

  Mademoiselle Elle is resting. She has been informed that she will be bedridden for two to three weeks.

  “She can go then?”

  Duval flatted his lips at Severin and plucked the slate from the illegitimate prince’s fingers. He meticulously wiped the slate with a handkerchief before writing.

  No. She must stay in bed for two to three weeks.

  Severin narrowed his eyes at his castle’s attending barber-surgeon. “How long do you plan for this intruder to stay here?”

  Up to six months.

  “Absolutely not,” Severin said. “The break in her leg couldn’t have been that bad—the bone didn’t separate much or break through the skin. It shouldn’t take months for her to heal.”

  Duval wrote on his slate.

  If you want her to be healed enough to survive the journey back to her village it will be six months.

  “Three months. That is all I am giving her. Keep her out of my sight, the less I hear of her the better,” Severin said.

  A pleased smile twitched on Duval’s lips, and Severin flattened his cat ears as he wondered if he hadn’t made the exact orders Duval wanted.

  “Good evening, Duval,” Severin said before returning his attention to his paperwork.

  The barber-surgeon waddled out of the room, closing the door behind him. Severin was able to get to the bottom of the first page of notes before there was another knock at the door.

  Severin dropped his hands—and the notes he held—to the desk with a thump and breathed out heavily—eliciting a growl deep in his throat. “Enter,” he said, his deep voice lowered in warning.

  Emele glided into the room with a smile, raising Severin’s ire. “What,” he said, his voice flat and void of questions.

  Emele smiled and presented her smaller and supposedly more feminine slate to him.

  Your Highness, if you wouldn’t mind coming to speak to Elle—

  Severin swiped his paw/hand across the slate, erasing the chalk words before bothering to read them all. “No.”

  Emele pursed her lips and took her slate back to write on it some more.

  But she’s a lovely girl, and I—

  “No. I suggest you rid yourself of whatever ridiculous idea you have floating around your frill infused head. I will not interact with this intruder. Tell the other servants to stop gossiping and hoping.”

  Emele moved, as if to write again.

  “Good night, Emele,” Severin said.

  Emele’s shoulders drooped, and she left the room.

  Severin’s ears flicked as he listened to the ladies maid traipse down the hallway. He relaxed and gathered his papers, keeping one ear cocked as he immersed himself in papers. He was on the fourth page when he heard another set of footsteps.

  It was a confident plod, which bespoke much of the walker’s confidence and pushy tendencies.

  The hair on the back of Severin’s neck stood on end, and he leaped to his clawed feet. He grabbed a stack of papers and hustled through the study, slipping outside to the balcony. He secured his papers and gracefully climbed over the balcony banister.

  Only one person in Chanceux Chateau walked like that, and Severin avoided confronting her at all costs as he usually came out on the losing side—cursed prince or not.

  Severin dropped down to a walkway on the next floor, disappearing from sight just as the door to his study was thrown open.

  The footsteps moved around his study before disappearing back into the hallway, making Severin’s shoulders collapse in a sigh of thankfulness.

  He had escaped, this time.

  Elle briefly opened her eyes and glanced at the door. Emele was there with a clutch of women. Most smelled like food—kitchen maids most likely—but there was a housemaid and two scullery maids.

  They stood together, exchanging slates and reading messages as they gawked at Elle like a flock of birds hoping for scraps. The housemaid was forever smoothing her clothes, and the kitchen maids continuously wiped their hands on their white aprons if they weren’t writing out a message.

  Elle was surprised, even the scullery maids—the lowest of all servants—were schooled in writing, busily trading slates with each other.

  Emele smiled when she realized Elle was awake, and began pushing the women out of the room. The female servants smiled at Elle, and the housemaid resisted Emele long enough to curtsey at Elle before she was shoved out of the door.

  Emele closed the door behind them and leaned her back against the fine wooden surface, smiling sheepishly. Her mouth formed an ‘O’ shape when she was shoved aside like a kitten as the door was flung open.

  A short woman who was plump like risen dough stood in the entryway, beari
ng a tray on one hand and the door knob in the other. Although she was petite, she manhandled the door shut with enviable strength before waddling to Elle’s bed side.

  Behind her Emele, who had been smashed into the wall, slid to the floor before picking herself up and fluffing her hair and extravagant skirts.

  The newcomer set the tray down and smiled at Elle. She too wore the familiar black mask with maroon edging that all the female servants wore, but she smelled like cinnamon and her butter blonde hair was covered by a white coif.

  Elle studied the woman’s jacket and shift. “You’re the…cook?” Elle guessed. It was unusual for a woman to be the head cook, particularly in a chateau.

  The doughy woman smiled, pleased, and nodded before she removed covers from Elle’s dinner tray.

  The tray was filled with cheese, venison, pike, minced pies, peas, strawberries, and candied fruits.

  Elle stared at the venison—she had never had deer in all her life, it was only a dish for the rich.

  The cook soundlessly laughed at Elle’s shock and helped her sit up so she could eat.

  Past the cook Emele held up a slate that read Bernadine. Elle, suspecting Emele hadn’t tutored her yet to a level where she could read names, let her gaze slide across the slate unintelligently, but held the information close.

  The cook, Bernadine, conveniently set up the tray for Elle’s use and watched her dig in. When Elle looked up from her buttered peas the cook was studying her the same way she would study a piece of meat while looking for the best cut.

  The cook cast off the look and smiled when she realized Elle was staring at her.

  Elle uneasily swallowed her peas and mentally reviewed her conduct. Everyone seemed to assume Elle was from the village of Belvenes, which was roughly an hour walk from the castle. This suited Elle perfectly as she didn’t really want the cursed prince to find out who had plunged through his ceiling. Had Elle acted out of character as a mere village girl?

  Elle nibbled on a strawberry as Bernadine and Emele exchanged scribbled messages. When she finished eating the cook took the tray and bustled out of the room.

  “Can I sleep now?” Elle asked Emele as the ladies maid fussed with the curtains. The less time she spent awake the better. Unconsciousness stopped the pain—the pain from her leg, the pain from her arms, and the pain in her uneasy heart.

  Emele did not acknowledge the request.

  Elle stared at the decanter of alcohol sitting on a chest across the room. Emele parked herself between it and Elle and settled down with her slate.

  Elle groaned when Emele wrote book on the slate before picking up a leather bound book. “I don’t want to practice reading I want to sleep,” she protested.

  Emele held up the book with a resolved smile.

  Elle sighed, “Book.”

  Chapter 2

  A Holiday

  It was pouring rain when Crown Prince Lucien arrived at the hunting lodge. Severin, having arrived an hour earlier, escaped the downpour entirely and had the privilege of watching his half brother leap from his carriage and splash to the lodge door.

  By the time Lucien entered the lodge he was drenched. His fine blue waistcoat was soaked and his petticoat breeches were spattered with mud. But even though he should have looked like a drowned rat, Lucien managed to wear his pricey—ruined—clothes like they were fit for a king—mostly because they were.

  Severin slipped his papers out of the packs he transported them in. “It’s a good look on you,” he said as a puddle collected at Lucien’s feet.

  Lucien sourly scrunched up to his face before turning to guards—who were wearing waterproofs—waiting just outside the door. He spoke to them in a lowered tone Severin could barely hear over the rain and gestured outside.

  The guards nodded and exited the small hunting lodge before pairing off and setting out on patrols.

  “You already had your men search the grounds?” Lucien asked, swatting cobwebs from a chair before he sat. The hunting lodge was a long forsaken lodge of the royal family’s. It hadn’t seen use in over a decade before Severin was cursed and placed himself in exile at Chanceux Chateau. Since then the brothers took to handling their joint business at the lodge, keeping Severin out of the public eye and allowing him to keep his post as his brother’s commanding general.

  “I did, but another patrol would be wise. Our enemies would dearly love to see both of us killed in one strike,” Severin said.

  Lucien chuckled and leaned back in his chair. “I doubt anyone is brave enough to try killing you now, brother.”

  Severin shrugged. “What news do you bring?” he asked, setting an inkwell on his table.

  “Very little. As long as you are cursed, preparations for our war with Arcainia are limited at best,” Lucien said

  Severin held in a sigh. “I told you, it would not be wise to march against Arcainia. We have been at peace with them for forty years and they have done nothing to offend us. Why do you insist on going forth with your plans?”

  Lucien shrugged one shoulder. “Conquest, expanding our rule. The question is why shouldn’t we overtake them?”

  Severin rubbed one of his velvet ears. “As I am unfit to lead our armies in this cursed condition the question is moot point.”

  “I agree, so when are you going to break the curse again?” Lucien asked, latching to the topic eagerly.

  “Attempting the same activity multiple times and expecting a different result is not only pointless but insane.”

  “No, it is not. All you need is an empty headed girl to fall in love with you and the curse is broken. Truthfully I think that’s the cheapest price I’ve ever heard of for ridding oneself of a curse,” Lucien said.

  “She must fall in love with a beast, Lucien. You seem to forget that. If it were so easy to get a woman to love me I would have done it already for my servants’ sake—not that I haven’t tried.”

  “But this time I think I have the perfect candidate. She’s the daughter of a minor noble—and she loves animals!”

  Severin looked down at the table and speared a paper with the tip of his claw. “I have new orders for Rangers Twenty Five, Fifty Two, and Seventy Eight,” he said, speaking of Lucien’s elite troops. They were agents of intelligence trained for observations, combat, recon missions, and spying. Although the Rangers technically were Lucien’s, Severin was key in the creation of the organization, and he moved them around like his personal chess pieces—with Lucien’s permission of course.

  “Let’s see what you’ve got,” Lucien said.

  Severin handed over papers describing the targets and desired information as well as timeframes.

  “It looks agreeable to me, except this,” Lucien said, removing one of the three packets. “Ranger Seventy Eight can’t be spared right now.”

  Severin frowned—which was more of a barring of fangs. “What is he doing?”

  “A personal intelligence collection mission for me, although recently we’ve fallen out of contact.”

  “Ranger Seventy Eight is one of our best intelligencers. Please do not tell me you are risking him with plans for your little war?”

  “Tempting, but no. It’s a local case. Should I be afraid of betrayal? There’s been no word for a week or two,” Lucien frowned, fiddling with the frilled throat of his white undershirt.

  “Track him down immediately. A missing Ranger as knowledgeable as Seventy Eight is no small matter,” Severin hissed.

  Lucien smiled. It wasn’t his pretty one he used for portraits and ladies, but the smug smile he wore when he was about to get his way. “Yes,” he agreed. “Since you can’t use Seventy Eight, who would you like to send instead?”

  The brothers planned for hours, pouring over maps, moving diagrams and arguing army locations before dusk closed in on the hunting lodge.

  “What if we move the southern army to Duke Villette’s for the winter? His people are usually plagued by bandits. I imagine he would welcome the military strength,” Severin said.


  Lucien scrubbed at his eyes. “Can’t we be done? We’ve talked strategy and military movements for hours. Don’t you have any supply requests from your housekeeper?”

  Severin finally set aside his quill pen. “I do,” he said, handing over a packet of papers before he started straightening his materials and packing up.

  Lucien sipped at a cup of lukewarm tea, frowning at its flat taste as he paged through his brother’s expenses.

  For the most part Chanceux Chateau was self sustaining, but there were more exotic goods that had to be bought and imported—like spices, tea, and cloth.

  “Did you ruin your wardrobe or something?” Lucien asked as he looked at the budget sheet for cloth and wool.

  “No. Why?”

  “Your housekeeper is requesting lace, silks, and satins by the yards,” Lucien said.

  “Oh. That.”

  “What is it?”

  Severin massaged the back of his neck. “A few weeks ago a girl fell through the roof of the little hall.”

  “What?”

  “She’s a peasant from Belvenes. She broke her leg when she fell. She’s staying at the Chateau until she recovers enough to walk. Emele and Bernadine have taken a liking to her. I expect the extra cloth is for her.”

  “Is she pretty?” Lucien asked, leaning eagerly across the table.

  Severin rolled his eyes.

  “Is she?” Lucien demanded.

  Severin leaned back in his chair, trying to recall the few brief moments he saw the girl. While her eyes were passably pretty her lips were too full and her nose was too long for her to be considered a true beauty. Her bangs were jagged, and although her ink black hair seemed nice enough Severin was willing to bet his horse that Emele had her work cut out for her whenever she attacked the girl’s mane. “For the lower class, perhaps.”

  “Oh,” Lucien said, starting to lose interest.

  “Her name is Elle, I believe,” Severin added.

  Lucien paused for a moment as if considering something. He opened his mouth twice before shaking his head. “Peasants,” was all he said in the end.