Cursed

19. Daurien's Painting

19. Daurien's Painting

It was an accident. I hadn't meant to give it to her, just to show her my beloved library and tell her she was welcome to borrow from it whenever she wished. Now that I had however, I didn't regret it. Not one bit. It just seemed like the right thing to do. Seeing her amazement, the absolute adoration in her eyes, every bone in my body told me that it was meant for her. All the books my father and his father and his father and all their fathers before that had collected over the years from all over the world suddenly seemed to have just one purpose. That purpose was to make Belle happy. It seemed to have succeeded.

We called for some tea and a small table sat itself between us. The fire was lit for the room was chilly. She couldn't seem to stop looking about with those wide hazelnut eyes of hers. Every time she looked away I broke into a grin. How I was able to hide it from her I didn't know.

"How did you ever manage to get so many books?" Her gaze was somewhat distant. It was in my direction but she might as well had been looking right through me at the shelves of books.

"The mansion has been in my family for generations. The books were acquired by the men of the family when they were on their business travels. All the men in my family were very scholarly and well studied."

"Oh," was all she replied. I desired to continue our conversation. I always did, but she seemed so distant at the moment. I wanted to remind her that I was here, to bring her back to the present. The only thing that was on my mind however, was her. Belle.

"Belle," I said as it was the only thing I could think of, "It means beauty in French, but you are American, not French." It came out as a statement though it was supposed to be a question. She understood, regardless.

"My mother was French. She wanted me to be beautiful both on the inside and outside like herself. She was practically perfect, from what I remember anyhow," her eyes grew sad and glossy, "It's too bad her wish didn't come true." I did not understand. Was she speaking of her mother's wish that she be beautiful? It was the only time she had ever mentioned her mother so there was no other wish she could possibly have been referring to but could she really not see her own beauty? Certainly she could at least see her outer beauty, if not the inner beauty that I saw the moment she offered to take her father's place as my prisoner. Could she truly be so utterly blind? Surely she saw in the mirror what I saw now as I looked at her.

A tear escaped her lashes and I longed to comfort her.

"What happened to her?" I asked, hoping I was not crossing a forbidden boundary.

"Am I that obvious?" she laughed humorlessly and wiped the tear away with the sleeve of her top, "She died. It was a long time ago. I don't even know why I still get all emotional like this," she began to rant, "I know lots of other people who have lost someone who they loved and they don't start bawling every time they think of them. I mean she died when I was five, most people barely remember the people they lost at the age of five. And I remember every gawdamn thing about her. I remember her face and her smile and the exact shade of those blue eyes she didn't pass on to me," I began to realize that she was letting out a stream of thoughts that she had been holding in for awhile. They were definitely not meant for my ears. It seemed that she had mostly forgotten she was not alone. I sat silent and remained motionless, doing my best not to disturb her as she let out long overdue emotions, "I remember the shape of her hands and the feel of the calluses on her fingertips from playing the guitar. And I remember her voice that sang me to sleep and read me bedtime stories. And all the things she told me so that I would never be afraid," she was crying. She looked at me suddenly and her expression changed, "Gawdammit, I'm such a mess. I'm sorry."