He haunted my dreams worse than he haunted my days. Sometimes with a different face or in a room we’d never entered, but always with the same heat and the weight of his body on mine.
Never an end.
My eyes burned. Everything burned. A fire along every raw nerve, the heat of his touch was never extinguished, only sank deeper and deeper and deeper. My fingernails pierced my skin. My breaths hitched in my narrow throat.
I looked at the bird once more.
It fluttered and struggled alone.
And then my fingers fluttered as I reached out to lift it. It squawked and twisted, probably terrified to be held by a grip it couldn’t escape. I nearly dropped it at the thought, but I held on, rotated it and saw that one leg was a stump. The castle grounds seemed to house no predators, so it must have been born at a disadvantage. Or perhaps there were predators I could not see. It would not be the first time.
I found its nest in the overhead tree branches, then returned it gently. But I knew it would fall again. Because what was lost would not regrow, and it would continue to struggle, so there was nothing to do but fall.
It hurts, Mama.
That afternoon, when I went to the library, my chair had been moved.
Rotated, more accurately. Turned to face the window. I couldn’t see its occupant, but I saw a thin line of purple velvet at the arm. A pair of pointed black ears rose above the tall chairback, one of them flicking sideways at my entrance.
I stared in shock at the most evidence I’d ever had of the castle’s only other occupant.
“What are you doing?” I finally asked, unable to help my nervousness at any change.
In answer, he started reading.
Beast’s voice was halting, and he read slowly, stumbling over easy words. Some he skipped entirely or mispronounced in such a way I could only glean the meaning from spotty context. Nevertheless, I stood and listened, and my smile grew with every sentence. He was reading from the book of folklore, the story of the man and the mistreated mule.
It was a mere two pages; it must have felt like eternity to him. I was not so far removed from my initial lessons that I’d forgotten how daunting a full page seemed at first. But he persevered through the entire story, and somewhere along the way, I claimed the stool he usually sat on and placed it behind the chair so I could sit with my back against his as I imagined he did to me when I was the one reading.
I listened to his rough voice, to the catches and little snarls, and I wondered if it was only the result of reading around fangs or if what I heard was some hint at a rural dialect. Faint vibrations reached through the wooden chairback to me, and for some reason, there was comfort in feeling his voice against my shoulders.
When the story ended and he fell silent, it seemed too soon.
“Now I’m convinced we should switch our names,” I said, smiling.
“You mock me.”
“I don’t.” I didn’t want him to think that. “I enjoyed listening. Truly.”
I heard the gentle rustle of the book closing. Then he said, “I never knew it dried out your mouth.”
“With practice, that eases. You’ll find a rhythm.”
“I imagine it will take years of practice.” But he didn’t say he wouldn’t do it.
He’d shared something with me. Something vulnerable.
“Do you enjoy music, Beast?” I hoped he couldn’t feel my pounding heart through the chair.
“I do.”
“Wait here.”
I hurried down the hallway to my room and gathered my violin and sheet music.
When I returned, my chair was empty and once again in its usual orientation, but I could still see the flicker of black ears behind it. I settled with straight posture and concentrated on my instrument, fiercely telling my roiling stomach to be calm as I triednotto imagine each book an enchanted audience member.
My largest performances had only ever been at dinner parties, and most of them held within the first few years of my learning, with sweet pats on the head from the little old ladies of society to encourage me. I played the violin for myself, not for any acclaim, so my family, my tutor, and the walls of my own home had been my only repeated audience.
