So there were beasts in the forest after all.
Once the land around the cottage had been cleared of growth, there had been a sense of elation around the cottage. Father and Rob had tilled immediately, borrowing what they needed from neighbors, and all of us but Astra had assisted with planting. It was then our elation fell—because it was then we realized the true struggle of living off the land. We could plant, but we could not grow. Only the seasons could. And while the seasons took time to work, we still needed food.
Father and Rob searched for trade work. Callista was able to hire out embroidering a gown here and there for old friends in town. Astra would have been the better choice—her embroidery would befit a queen—but she would rather starve than face the humiliation of serving those who had once been peers. I tried to offer my own services, but my talents were in reading and writing, luxuries unaffordable to our neighbors. Anyone who could afford such a tutor for their children would hire a real scholar, not a peasant girl.
It weighed heavily on Father—having so many mouths to feed and only a few capable of work. I wanted to tear Astra’s hair out for her pride, but it would have only added to Father’s burden, so with burning cheeks, I asked Callista if she could teach me to improve my own needlework. She tried, and I tried, but a future where I could practice enough to be of use was far distant. The crops would provide for us before I could.
I worked late one night by the fire, squinting to see my stitches by the flickering light. Father came and leaned on the worn mantel above me.
“I should have made arrangements with Stephan,” he said quietly. “It was clear he fancied you, and if I hadn’t waited, you might be happily married and safe from this ruin.”
I pricked my thumb.
After sucking the wound, I choked out, “He asked me to marry him, Papa. I said no.”
“Oh.” Father’s eyes studied me, too bright in the firelight, and I prayed they couldn’t read anything they might find. “I wasn’t aware.”
Astra was in the kitchen, and she heard. She held her tongue for three days, until one evening we carried firewood in together, and she looked down at her raw hands, at a splinter that had sunk into what had once been her nimble thumb, used for delicate stitches and lifting porcelain teacups, not for doing the work of a man at the remote edge of a forest, so far removed from the idea of high society it may as well have been a place in the sky. Then she looked at me and said coldly, “You didn’t deserve him.”
We both knew who and what she meant.
He should have asked me,her eyes said.I would have said yes.
I had no doubt she would have. In that moment, the frozen shell of my heart thought they made a perfect pair indeed.
At least now there was one less mouth to feed at the cottage. I sighed, trying to pull my collar higher to ward off the chill from my wet hair. I breathed into my hands and pressed my slightly warmed palms to my cold ears. The castle loomed at my back, casting dim light from its windows, but not quite enough to reach the bench where I’d retreated.
“Don’t turn around,” said a voice behind me.
I stiffened, barely registering the request in time to obey. I trembled with more than the cold.
“Why?” I rasped.
The answer I received was a sheet of parchment floating onto my lap. It was the letter I’d written, though it could hardly be called that.
“What does it say?” His voice was still surprising in its softness, as it had been at the gate, but upon a second listen, I heard the thinnest edge of a growl.
I ached to turn, but I held myself stiff.
“It asks what you want with me,” I said.
There was a long pause. He’d come silently; perhaps he had left the same way. Perhaps I was alone again. I tried to hold my posture, but my mind became more and more convinced that at any moment, he would seize me from behind.
I leapt to my feet and whirled, gasping for breath.
But he was gone, as was the parchment.
Chapter
3
The beast could not read. I don’t know why the realization surprised me. Perhaps because if a beast could speak, I imagined he could do anything.
I had adopted Father’s term for him, “beast,” but what did it mean, really? His rumbling voice had certainly been human enough, even if it snarled like a wolf at the edges.
When I could no longer abide the cold of the garden and finally returned to my room, I found a book of loose sheet music waiting outside my door. I hesitated, looking around, trying to determine if the beast had left it for me or if it had been a gesture by the castle itself. In the end, I cleared my throat and whispered “Thank you” before gathering the music and slipping into my room. I serenaded the moon with the violin until I was too tired to lift the bow, and then I curled around the instrument and fell asleep in my window seat.
The next day, I took my violin—myviolin, how presumptuous of me—back to the ballroom for the harpsichord’s accompaniment. I practiced the two new pieces I’d learned the previous evening, playing through each until I could read without faltering, even if not with perfection. It was perhaps unwise to have accompaniment before I mastered my own playing, but the harpsichord felt almost like company, and I was helpless to resist.
