Beauty and the Beast (Hariana)

Prologue

The prince scowled. He paced a pair of heavy gilded doors that were shut to him. From beyond, he could hear music and laugher. The party, his party, had already begun. Crystal clinked as guests toasted the night and wandered about the ornate ballroom, their eyes no doubt widening as they took in the portraits of faraway places, rich tapestries, and solid-gold serving plates were just a few of the many items. And they all paled in comparison to the beauty of the guests themselves. For the Prince did not invite just anyone to his parties. He invited only those he deemed beautiful enough to be in his presence. So they came from all over the world, each one as much an display as the inanimate objects in the room.

Standing in front of the closed doors, the Prince barely noticed the servants as they bustled about him, nervously putting the finishing touches on his costume. His majordomo hovered nearby, pocket watch in hand. The older man hated the Prince's utter lack of respect for time. In turn, the Prince took great pleasure in wasting the majordomo's. A maid stood next to the Prince, a feather brush in her hand. Gingerly, she painted a white line on the young man's face. The paint glided onto his smooth, flawless skin with ease. Finished, the maid pulled back her hand and cocked her head to the side as she took in her work.

The mask had taken hours to paint, and it showed. It was exquisite. The Prince's face had been transformed by the pain of paint. No detail had been spared, down to the faintest tracings of gold feathering and blue accents around his eyes and the dusting of rogue that sharpened his already striking cheekbones. Matching the latest fashion, two beauty marks had been perfectly placed—one beneath his right eye and one above his crimson lips. Underneath the masquerade makeup, the Prince's green eyes shone coolly.

Stepping back, the maid waited as the head valet draped a long jeweled coat over the Prince's shoulders and then carefully inspected it to make sure not one jewel was out of place. Satisfied, he nodded at the maid, who then dusted the Prince's wig with powder. Then both bowed and waited with bated breath for the Prince to act.

Lifting one gloved hand, the Prince gave a single haughty wave. Instantly, a footman appeared. "More light," the Prince ordered.

"Yes, Your Highness," the footman said, turning and reaching for the candelabrum placed nearby. He lifted it so it illuminated the Prince's face.

The Prince held a small mirror. It was silver, with flourishes along the back and a delicate handle. Holding it up so he could see his face, the Prince preened.

He turned left, then right, then left again before looking straight on at his reflection. He nodded once, and then, as though it were only a dishrag, the Prince dropped the mirror.

The maid, who had nearly fainted in relief at the Prince's nod of approval, gasped as the mirror began to fall. Not even bothering to turn at the noise, the Prince had the majordomo open the doors to the ballroom. As he entered, the footman lunged forward, catching the mirror just before it hit the floor.

The servants let out a collective sigh as the doors swung shut behind the Prince. For the next few hours they would be able to relax, out of sight of their cruel, spoiled, and unkind master.

Unaware of his servants' thoughts, or perhaps aware but unconcerned, the Prince made his way across the ballroom. It was a sea of white—per his invitation. Many of the guests were hard to distinguished, save their masks. The result was enchanting. His mouth remained pulled down, however, and his solemn expression did not indicate any pleasure at seeing such beauty in his castle. He never allowed others to see if he felt joy or pain. It afforded him a sense of mystery, which he enjoyed immensely. As he walked, he heard the whispers of young women wondering excitedly if this would be the night he singled them out for a dance. A smug smile tugged at his lips, but he tamped it down and continued on his way.