Beauty: A Retelling of the Story of Beauty and the Beast

“You will leave tomorrow morning?” His voice was a little unsteady. I looked up at him, around at all of them. “I must. I’m sorry. Please try to understand. I promised.” Father tried to smile, but didn’t quite manage it. “You were well named,” he said.

“Wear your ring,” said the Beast, “and remember me.” I laughed, and my voice was shrill with excitement. “I couldn’t forget you, dear Beast,” I said, and bent down. His hands lay, fingers curled a little upwards, on his knees; I kissed the right palm, and looked into the shadows for a moment, where his eyes watched me. The glitter of them was stran

“I can deny you nothing,” he said at last, “if you truly want it. Even if it should cost me my life.”

“For a week it will remain fresh and blooming, as it is now; but at the end of the week it will droop and die. You will know then that your faithful Beast is dying too. For I cannot live without you, Beauty.”

I sat farther out on the window ledge, spraying him with birdseed as he stood below. “Oh—er, sorry,” I said. His face split into a white smile, and he said, “Aren’t you coming for your walk in the garden? The sun is getting high,” and he brushed cracked corn and sunflower seeds from his shoulders.

I was stronger than I knew, although I didn’t know why.

I liked and needed solitude, for study and reflection; but I also wanted someone to talk to.

Grace would have looked magnificent in a throne. I feel foolish.

I was not used to being struck dumb more than once in a conversation. I must be more tired and overwrought than I thought.