A Beast's Tale

Chapter 20

She wasn't humming the next morning.

I awoke when the latch clicked in the door. I heard her light footsteps until they left the wooden floorboards for the carpet. She set the breakfast tray on my desk with almost no sound, and then she crossed to the window and opened the drapes, and nothing left her lips until she called her usual morning greeting to me: "Good morning, Prince Chevalier."

There was something off about her voice.

"You're not humming," I mumbled.

"My throat's a little sore this morning, Prince Chevalier."

There was no roughness in her voice. It sounded clear—and flat. Without a smile. Fake though it might be, she always wore a smile when she bid me good morning, and I heard it in her voice. It wasn't there today.

I pushed back the blankets and sat upright. She was standing at the bureau, her back toward me as she removed clothes from the drawers, and I didn't have to rub the sleep from my eyes to notice another glaring problem. Her uniform was wrong. She wore a winter uniform, with long sleeves and a long skirt that covered every inch of skin except her hands, neck, and face, and she was tense. I saw the rigidity in her shoulders. And when she turned around to set the neat stack of clothing on the sofa at the foot of my bed, she turned to the right. She always turned to the left.

I had a sinking feeling in my stomach. The fire. Crying on the riverbank last night.

If he'd touched her...

I climbed out of bed. She didn't look in my direction, and she continued angling herself so I couldn't see the left side of her face, and I already knew. Hot anger surged through my veins. I clenched my fists at my sides and walked toward her. "Look at me."

She froze. I heard her suck in a breath.

"Look at me," I repeated, forcing my voice to remain steady.

She turned toward me and lifted her head, her movements slow and reluctant. She'd tied her hair back in a ponytail, but she had it covering her ears instead of tucked behind them. I still saw the discoloration on her left cheekbone. When I reached out to tuck her hair behind her ear, she flinched.

"It's nothing. I-I tripped on the way home yesterday, and—"

I cupped her cheek in my hand, brushing my thumb across the bruise. She made a small sound in her throat.

"Did LeBeau do this to you?"

"N-no, I—"

"Roll up your sleeves."

Her eyes darted toward mine, wide, scared, confirming my suspicion. This wasn't her only injury. "Prince Chevalier—"

"You heard me."

She swallowed and dropped her eyes to her hands. They shook as she pushed her sleeves back, and there they were. More bruises. I took one of her hands in mine, tracing a light finger around her wrist where he'd grabbed her—restrained her. Rage churned in my chest. The bruises encircled both wrists, and her hands were shaking, and I was already planning what I would do to him when I got my hands on him. He would regret this.

"Are there more?"

She bit her lip.

"Show me."

"I don't—"

"Show me."

She drew her hand from mine and pushed her collar to the side, exposing one bruised shoulder. I caught the fabric as she released it and pulled it back again to inspect the injury. These were worse than the ones on her wrists, almost black where his fingers had dug into her skin. The picture was becoming painfully clear. He'd grabbed her. Hit her. Pinned her down—