in the most banal possible conversation.
“Do you think it will rain?”
He leaned back in his chair. “It’s hard to tell with spring weather,” he said. “It changes too quickly. It could rain all morning and be clear by dinner.”
“True,” she said. Well, it’s a boring conversation, but better than nothing… “Sometimes in Lostfarthing, you get a light rain, and then the fog comes up from the ground so thick you can’t see your feet.”
“I’ve seen that,” he agreed. “Here and—err—elsewhere.”
She finished the last of her meal and pushed the plate away. “You said that there’s a library in the house. Could you show me where it is?”
“I would be honored,” he said, but made no move to rise.
Bryony raised an eyebrow.
“Bryony, will you marry me?” asked the Beast.
“Are we going to do this every night, then?” she asked.
“It seems likely, yes.”
She sighed. “No, Beast, I do not want to marry you. You’ve been a very considerate kidnapper, but I am not quite resigned to my fate yet.”
“I should hardly expect you to be.” He stood up and pulled out her chair. She had a brief impression that he could have picked up the chair—with her in it—in one hand and tossed it over his shoulder. She rose as gracefully as she could and took his arm.
The Beast’s library was as large as the dining hall and had a ceiling that vanished up into shadow. A ladder with wheels attached to it stood ready in case one needed the highest volumes. In the center, lit by oil lamps, stood a semi-circle of shorter bookcases arranged around two large wingback chairs.
“Good heavens,” said Bryony. “You have hundreds of books!”
“Thousands,” said the Beast. “There is another storeroom besides this one. I cataloged them once or twice, long ago. These are merely the ones I wish to have close to hand. The house cannot create new books—or rather it can, but the insides are gibberish—so I have read all of them, already.”
Bryony turned slowly in a circle. Even at a book a day, there were weeks…months…years… Each bookcase seemed to represent decades.
If he’s read them all—even if he’s a fast reader—that’s—dear lord…
She now had at least a partial answer to one of her questions.
The Beast had been here for at least a century.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
She took several volumes to bed with her. One was of poetry. She hadn’t read poetry in years. She hadn’t read anything in years, and was a little embarrassed at the sheer greed that the Beast’s library awoke in her.
As for the notion that the Beast was a great deal older than she had suspected…Well, she didn’t quite know what to make of that. There was no grey in his fur. He did not seem particularly arthritic. Perhaps Beasts aged differently than humans.
And will I grow old and die here, in this strange gilded cage, while he remains unchanging?
There was an old, old story she remembered, about brother and sister turned into swans. They had lived for a thousand years as swans, and then a saint had prayed over them and changed them back. For one moment they had been human—and then a thousand years of age caught up with them, and they crumbled into dust.
At that point, you have to question whether being a swan is really that bad…
This line of thought was not terribly helpful.
She tried to lose herself in the novel that she had selected. A young heroine in a strange, possibly haunted house, lots of ghosts and treacherous servants, exactly the sort of thing she had loved in the city.
It did not work quite so well in the Beast’s manor. “At least you can leave,” she told the heroine. “And I’d give a lot for a human servant to talk to, even a treacherous one.” She sighed. A few pages later she added “The dear sweet children in distress are clearly the evil masterminds. Idiot.” A few pages after that she gave up entirely.
Bryony pulled the bed-curtains closed. It
“Do you think it will rain?”
He leaned back in his chair. “It’s hard to tell with spring weather,” he said. “It changes too quickly. It could rain all morning and be clear by dinner.”
“True,” she said. Well, it’s a boring conversation, but better than nothing… “Sometimes in Lostfarthing, you get a light rain, and then the fog comes up from the ground so thick you can’t see your feet.”
“I’ve seen that,” he agreed. “Here and—err—elsewhere.”
She finished the last of her meal and pushed the plate away. “You said that there’s a library in the house. Could you show me where it is?”
“I would be honored,” he said, but made no move to rise.
Bryony raised an eyebrow.
“Bryony, will you marry me?” asked the Beast.
“Are we going to do this every night, then?” she asked.
“It seems likely, yes.”
She sighed. “No, Beast, I do not want to marry you. You’ve been a very considerate kidnapper, but I am not quite resigned to my fate yet.”
“I should hardly expect you to be.” He stood up and pulled out her chair. She had a brief impression that he could have picked up the chair—with her in it—in one hand and tossed it over his shoulder. She rose as gracefully as she could and took his arm.
The Beast’s library was as large as the dining hall and had a ceiling that vanished up into shadow. A ladder with wheels attached to it stood ready in case one needed the highest volumes. In the center, lit by oil lamps, stood a semi-circle of shorter bookcases arranged around two large wingback chairs.
“Good heavens,” said Bryony. “You have hundreds of books!”
“Thousands,” said the Beast. “There is another storeroom besides this one. I cataloged them once or twice, long ago. These are merely the ones I wish to have close to hand. The house cannot create new books—or rather it can, but the insides are gibberish—so I have read all of them, already.”
Bryony turned slowly in a circle. Even at a book a day, there were weeks…months…years… Each bookcase seemed to represent decades.
If he’s read them all—even if he’s a fast reader—that’s—dear lord…
She now had at least a partial answer to one of her questions.
The Beast had been here for at least a century.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
She took several volumes to bed with her. One was of poetry. She hadn’t read poetry in years. She hadn’t read anything in years, and was a little embarrassed at the sheer greed that the Beast’s library awoke in her.
As for the notion that the Beast was a great deal older than she had suspected…Well, she didn’t quite know what to make of that. There was no grey in his fur. He did not seem particularly arthritic. Perhaps Beasts aged differently than humans.
And will I grow old and die here, in this strange gilded cage, while he remains unchanging?
There was an old, old story she remembered, about brother and sister turned into swans. They had lived for a thousand years as swans, and then a saint had prayed over them and changed them back. For one moment they had been human—and then a thousand years of age caught up with them, and they crumbled into dust.
At that point, you have to question whether being a swan is really that bad…
This line of thought was not terribly helpful.
She tried to lose herself in the novel that she had selected. A young heroine in a strange, possibly haunted house, lots of ghosts and treacherous servants, exactly the sort of thing she had loved in the city.
It did not work quite so well in the Beast’s manor. “At least you can leave,” she told the heroine. “And I’d give a lot for a human servant to talk to, even a treacherous one.” She sighed. A few pages later she added “The dear sweet children in distress are clearly the evil masterminds. Idiot.” A few pages after that she gave up entirely.
Bryony pulled the bed-curtains closed. It
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