Beautiful Beasts

1. Rose

ADAM

It happened in the evening.

Gaston and I had spent the afternoon hunting wolves in the forest around the castle. Well, Gaston had killed the animals and I had trailed after him, out of breath. He always was the better hunter, the better sportsman.

It was an innate gift, as it had been for our father. My brother was a physical replica of that man. If you've studied a portrait of the late Duc, then you've seen Gaston. He shared his personality too. I took after my mother in both appearance and temperament.

Gaston killed two wolves that day. The light failed us early, as it was November. We trekked back home and I saw him, bloody and triumphant, to the door of his lodge. Since father was away, I invited him to dine with me at eight. Then I proceeded to the castle and took a hot rosewater bath. I was fastidious with my morning and evening toilette in those days, as compensation for being somewhat plain in the face.

I wish I had paid more attention to the scent, but in those days I took such things for granted.

Belle said what? No, I assure you I was not preparing for a party populated by young ladies! I used rosewater every day, back then.

Gaston and I were sitting down to our meal when there was a pounding on the door. To this day, the staff won't confess who admitted the woman. But a small cloaked figure strode through the main entrance and approached us boldly. Her garment was tattered and she appeared unwashed. She extended her arm towards me, offering me a flawless pink rose. It was an errant late bloom from the courtyard.

"Impudent woman," I scoffed. "What do you want?"

She lowered her arm. "I need lodging for the night. It's very cold."

"You have no business here, nor reason to traverse through these woods."

"Ah! But I hope to have business here, perhaps in the spring?" she replied, lifting the rose again. "I need work, and have come seeking a position. I see that your roses are suffering. Your gardens need help. And I am masterful with plants."

I stared, open-mouthed, as she strolled up to the table and placed the rose in a vase of wax-preserved flowers. Madame Potts had selected the finest specimens of late summer and Monsieur Lumiere had dipped them--a yearly tradition that provided beauty to our tables through autumn and winter.

"Is she mad?" Gaston wondered aloud at the other end of the table.

The woman's head snapped up so quickly the hood of her cloak fell away, revealing a beautiful--if dirty--face. "Gaston!" she cried.

"She is mad!" he gasped. "How dare you speak to me so brazenly? Who are you?"

"How do you know his name?" I demanded.

"I-I am sorry, young sirs," she stammered, looking unsure of herself for the first time since the bizarre exchange had commenced. "Talk of gardens can wait. May I just have a bit of bread and a simple room? I'll leave at first light, and I'll come back in warmer weather to see if you--"

"No. And no." I crossed my arms. "Get out."

"Please, it is murderously cold out of doors..."

"You are lucky to have stood before our fire this long! The Duke would have tossed you out by now," I barked. 

Gaston laughed aloud at the thought.

Her eyes flashed at mention of the Duke. "And are you as cruel as the Duc? Are both of you just like him?"

"Cogsworth!" I bellowed.

He materialized in seconds. "Sir?"

"See this madwoman out of the castle and off the grounds."