Beast within the Beauty || A Beauty and the Beast Retelling

Chapter Eighteen || To Write with a Beast

The slip hovered across the room, drifting until it fell in my waiting palm. Reluctantly, I unfolded the crumpled bit of parchment. It read a single word, written with fine swirls of ink: Ismae.

The perfectness of the letters suggested that he took his time with each stroke—that he had let the ink dry before folding the paper. I ignored Aurore's incessant calls requesting to read the note and let her imagination go crass.

I flipped the strip of paper and pressed my own pen to it in reply. What?

My maid took the slip of paper and later returned with the following: I hate to see that you trap yourself in your rooms all day. Please return to your old habits. I have grown saddened without your company.

I did not fail to notice that he refrained from using adorations. Carefully, I mapped out the bare space that I could write in. I will not leave my rooms until I am certain that I will not cross paths with you in my venturing. I sent it back with the maid, watching it float out of the room.

After long, a servant returned and gave me a new strip of paper, one that had been torn from a different page. I am in my chambers. The whole castle is empty. I rarely leave my rooms if you exclude each time I leave to dine at a table where I hope to see you seated. If you choose to step outside your chambers, bear in mind that you have no duty to speak with me. Do it for your own sake.

I huffed a breath and dipped my pen into the glass bottle of ink. Unfortunately for you, I still do not feel inclined to leave my chambers. And no, I do not want to guess how many years you have lived tonight or any other night for that matter.

I felt pitiful as I handed the note to the servant and even more when I later accepted the paper that held his response. It must have annoyed them, to deliver the notes to the each of us. I appreciate knowing that but I am afraid I will have to ask you the same thing tomorrow as well.

I wrote my next reply, leaving enough room for him on the note. The response will always be the same. There are many things I wish to do to you and none of them involve guessing your age. You are only wasting your time.

I awaited his response, drumming my fingers on the wood of my desk. I sat impatiently, fidgeting every time I thought I heard the door slide open. Minutes passed, enough time that I suspected he had written multiple responses and scrapped them upon deeming them unfit. When I finally received his response, my guess was confirmed. The paper I was given was torn from a different page.

It appears that it is not only my time that is being wasted. What do you say we spare the servants running back and forth to deliver our notes? Our chambers are quite far from each other. How about you come to my bedchambers, wearing what you hide beneath that robe, and tell me exactly what you want to do to me, hm?

I scoffed, the tips of my ears heating up at the change in his wording. I knew why it took longer for the note to arrive in my hands, knew why he hesitated to write those suggestive words. And the mention of my nightgown...I vaguely recalled him making mention of an enchanted glass through which he could keep an eye on me. Stop watching me. With a breath, I rolled my wrist and wrote: You make it sound as though I intend to spread my legs open for you, which, I assure you, my dear lord husband, is not the case.

I hesitated, wondering if I should cross the entitlement. There was no shame in reminding him that we were married. I gave the note to Aurore, who certainly would read the words and smirk to herself. I could imagine him reading the note, certain that his lips would form a smile once he read the mocking endearments. Before long, a maid stepped in with his response.

I have not insinuated that in any manner. I rolled my eyes. That was an outright lie if I had ever seen one. Though I must admit, I would not mind it if you were to do so. In fact, I would rather enjoy the prospect.

It will remain a prospect, though unlikely. I sank my pen into the ink. Forgive me for the accusation, I had assumed you to insinuate that. You certainly are the salacious sort.

I received his reply shortly afterward. I consider myself to be the tender sort, but I can act as the salacious sort if being correct would please you.

I tsked, writing what came to mind. My correctness is of no matter to me. While I do not think you anything tender, I feel the need to point out that one can be multiple sorts.

In your eyes, what sorts have I been, aside from salacious? I could visualize the smile that certainly played at his lips when he wrote this.

Vexatious and a fraud. I folded my paper over and watched it drift away.

Soon, his response came to me. And what types have you been?

I had no intention to answer that for him. You are supposed to tell me that.

My eyes skimmed across his response. I am sure you are capable of telling me, being someone so astute.

I responded with three words: But I insist.

I returned to waiting for his response but it never came to me. For a moment, I thought that perhaps he had not received it—that the paper failed to reach him. But once reason seeped into my head, it occurred to me likely just chose not to respond.

That night, I left my rooms to get a book from the library. My breath quivered with every step I took, fearing that he would materialize before me and remind me of what I wanted to forget. For that reason, I walked quietly, as though pillows softened my steps.

When I arrived at the library, it occurred to me that my rage had subsided. But rather than call on him as to make amends, I stood in the library in search of a story. I had not chosen one of the prior wives' records or a story that captured every method of killing known to man—none of that. I selected a book with a cracked spine and feathered corners, intrigued to learn that it was a story detailing the events between a man and a woman. It narrated the romantic tale of how they met and fell in love. Clearly, it had been read frequently.

That was not the last of my trips outside my rooms. In fact, that was the first of many. Each time I left my chambers, I was wary and kept a keen ear for any unwanted company. But the outings went smoothly—I returned the books I borrowed and selected new ones to read and cherish.

And to my relief, his lordship allowed the privacy.

Author's Nonsense

Privacy never lasts all that very long, does it?