As Old As Time: A Twisted Tale (Twisted Tale, A) (23 page)

Of course she had cooked with her father. But would it have been different? Would it have been the same?

“So…everyone…who’s…not a…prince…can do this?” the Beast asked, breaking the silence.

“More or less,” Belle said with a shrug. “My father can. I think generally girls are taught more than boys…but most people can fend for themselves.”

“Because you get married and cook for your husbands,” the Beast said, showing what he knew almost like he had read it in a book somewhere.
A Spoiled Prince’s Guide to Life Among Peasants.

“Sure. Yes. Cook for our
husbands.”
Belle slammed a cleaver down on a chicken leg, separating the drumstick from the thigh in one stroke. “Good little wives.”

The Beast’s eyes widened at her unexpected violence.

“What did…what did I say?”

“Oh…nothing,” Belle said with a sigh. “I don’t want to be a
good little wife.
I want adventure. I want…to be the hero in the story. But everyone else just wants me to…
get married, obey my husband, have seven or eight kids, wash his socks…YOUR SOCKS ARE DISGUSTING, GASTON!
”

She whacked off another leg.

If her mother had been around, would she have been home for the would-be wedding? Would the Enchantress have turned them all into pigs for accosting and embarrassing her daughter?

“Gaston? The…hunter you mentioned before?” the Beast asked meekly.

“A wedding ambusher. A surprise groom. An utter clown.” Saying this aloud made her stop.
Clown.
That was exactly correct—why hadn’t she thought of that before? Hiring a band, getting a cake, and throwing a surprise wedding wasn’t normal or romantic. Especially since she didn’t return any of Gaston’s affection. He couldn’t even seem to see that. The whole thing was creepy and bizarre. And, in some ways, not that far removed from throwing someone into your own private prison for trespassing on your property.

“He’s the big man in town,” she said more calmly, putting the cleaver down for a moment. “
Everyone
wants to marry him. He’s tall, handsome, strong, deadly with a shot, has these absolutely
amazing
blue eyes, is always the life of parties…”

The Beast stopped mixing for a moment to regard her. She noticed that there was a telltale fluff of flour on his muzzle. He saw where her eyes went and discreetly flicked out his long pink tongue to take care of it.

Belle shook her head and rolled her eyes.

“But,” he began, confused, “if he’s so…handsome and perfect and everyone else wants to marry him, why doesn’t he marry someone else? Someone who
wants
to marry him?”

She smiled, blushing, and turned back to the chicken. “This is going to sound positively vain, but he thinks I’m the prettiest girl in town. He doesn’t want
me
…he wants, you know,
the prettiest girl in town.
He feels he deserves it, because he’s the handsomest man in town.”

The Beast looked down at his big ugly paws covered in dough and then up at her again.

“You are…pretty,” he said gruffly. “So don’t you want to marry the handsomest man? Don’t
you
deserve it?”

“Haven’t you been listening to a
word
I’ve been saying?” Belle asked, putting her hands on her hips—carefully, so the chicken juice wouldn’t get all over her. “He’s dumb, he’s arrogant, he’s self-centered, he kills a
lot
of things, he’s loud, he doesn’t read…”

“I don’t read, either,” the Beast mumbled, looking into the bowl.

Belle sighed.

“I’m also big,” he continued, even more softly. “And loud.”

“And apparently self-centered enough to make this all about yourself, instead of
me,
which is whom we were talking about,” Belle said with a not-quite-serious glare.

The Beast immediately looked contrite.

“betyouwouldhavemadeaprettybride,” he added under his breath, working at the dough, pretending to use all his concentration.

Belle laughed. “Thank you.” She hadn’t even really thought of that point—had Gaston arranged some flowers or a veil for her as well? She couldn’t imagine him not caring how the prettiest bride in town would look next to the most handsome groom. It was funny to imagine him speaking with the hatmaker, maybe figuring out what to order…

“DAMMIT!”

Her thoughts were cut off by an explosion from the Beast: he had grabbed the bowl of dough and now threw the whole thing to the ground, smashing it into a thousand tiny clay pieces. The pâte brisée stayed as one ugly lump on the floor—splatted so thin she could almost see the design of the stones below it.

The Beast was roiling, in full beast mode, on two legs but about to drop down to four, his face contorted in a snarl that almost made her afraid.

“What just happened?” she asked slowly.

“I JUST TURNED TO GET SOME MORE BUTTER AND IT TIPPED!”
he howled. “It was my…
paw
! It got caught!
STUPID!
I shouldn’t be doing this!”

“You’re right. You
shouldn’t
be doing this. You
shouldn’t
be acting like a big spoiled child who throws a tantrum whenever things don’t go his way. How old are you? Twenty? A twenty-year-old
prince
acting like this?”

“I’M NOT A PRINCE. I’M A BEAST!”
he roared at her. His hot breath gusted over her like the fetid wind of a rotten summer—or one of her father’s steam experiments gone horribly wrong and getting ready to blow up.

“Really? Then why do you bother trying at all?”

She reached up and tugged on his cloak’s golden clasp. “Why do you bother wearing
any
clothes? Or living inside? Or fighting your curse? Why not just give up and become a real, total beast?”

His mouth moved silently, gaping like a fish—whether to keep from biting her or out of being unable to find the right words she wasn’t sure.

“IT’S HARD!”
he finally shouted.

“Of course it’s hard. You’ve never cooked before,” Belle said crisply. “I suppose being a prince also means you can do everything perfectly on the first try?”

She turned and walked back to the chicken and prepared to begin working on it again.

The Beast was silent.

He started to lean over and peel the dough up off the floor.

“Don’t you
dare
put that back in another bowl,” Belle said without looking at him.

“I wasn’t!” the Beast said immediately.

“I was just…going to go get a new bowl,” he added quickly.

Belle couldn’t quite hide her grin as he shuffled awkwardly over to the dustbin.

Two hours later the kitchen was full of complex, amazing smells. Belle felt slightly drunk from the warmth, the scents, the complete exhaustion. Making dinner with a beast was hard work. And then making him clean up even harder. He didn’t protest, but handled an inanimate mop even more awkwardly than a beast with malformed hands should, having never touched anything like it before.

Belle wiped her brow. It was kind of amazing to cook in a kitchen like this. She never had any particular desire to pursue a more culinary life; food was fuel to be enjoyed in between books.
But if I had to cook, boy, a kitchen like this would be amazing. The space
…
the ingredients
…
the size of the stove
…

“Just what on earth is going on?” Cogsworth demanded, stomping into the room as giantly as his little padded wooden feet would allow. He stopped as soon as he saw the Beast, who was ripping off his apron. “Oh, master, I’m so sorry, I was just…”

Lumière was close behind.

“Well, well, what have we here?” The candelabrum made a noise like he was taking a great sniff. Belle wondered if he—if any of them—could smell. Or taste. They could obviously see, but how much of the rest of their lives were deadened by the curse? “Chicken? Mushrooms?
Love?
”

His flame flickered like he was waggling his eyebrows. Cogsworth hit him.

Belle smiled. “Your master and I made dinner for
ourselves
tonight.”

Cogsworth spluttered. “That’s highly—”

“—
enterprising
of you,” Lumière said with a bow, cocking a questioning eye at the Beast.

“It wasn’t
my
idea. But we did it,” the Beast said proudly.

“Well, then, we shall leave you to it,” Lumière said, ushering Cogsworth out with a wave of his flaming hand. “A night off! What shall we do?”

“…Cribbage, perhaps?”

Belle watched the two of them go almost fondly, then checked the dining room.

It was stark and formal-looking. Despite her insistence they do it all themselves, someone had set either end of the very long table with a full dinner service. The Beast looked at Belle. She gave him a smile and shook her head, gathering up all the spoons and forks and plates in one gentle sweep to bring them next to each other.

When they went into the kitchen to fetch the food, they found Mrs. Potts laying everything out on a tray to bring in. She spun around guiltily.

“Mrs. Potts,” Belle said, gently chastising. “We’re serving ourselves tonight. You deserve a break.”

“Oh, I was just, I felt bad about before, I just…” she sputtered. “You’ve got an excellent skill with cooking, my dear! This is all amazing!”

“If a bit
élémentaire
,” the stove called out helpfully.

To the Beast’s credit, when he lifted the lid of the
coq
and inhaled its glorious scent—and a fair bit of steam—into his wide, animal nostrils, he did not reach in his paw and scoop up a mouthful. It looked like he sorely wanted to. Instead he put the lid back down—maybe a trifle harder than was needed. Belle smiled her approval. She was busy gathering up all the other dishes, balancing the onion tart awkwardly on one arm.

Without straining, the Beast reached over with a casual paw and took the tart from her as if it were no larger or heavier than an egg. She laughed and he smiled, overcome by the little moment’s absurdity.

“Dinner is served,” Belle announced grandly, marching into the dining room.

The Beast watched her carefully as she put the food out on the table and then served herself, using all the proper implements—then sat there for a moment before realizing she wasn’t going to serve
him
.

He quickly grabbed a ladle and did the best he could, spilling only a little.

Belle took hearty sips, pleased with her cooking. She hadn’t had to skimp or switch out ingredients like she often had to at home.

“It’s very good,” the Beast said.
“Élémentaire,”
he added, quoting the stove. As if he thought it was a compliment.

Belle raised an eyebrow at him.

“I don’t like fancy stuff,” he went on quickly, suddenly realizing how it sounded. “I like…meat.”

Belle slumped a little. So much for her attempt at haute cuisine.
Well,
I’m
enjoying it,
she thought.

The Beast’s eyes widened in horror.

At first she thought maybe he bit down on a peppercorn—wasn’t there something about dogs hating pepper?—but then she saw that he was staring at something in particular,
above
the table.

Rose petals.

Black rose petals were falling softly out of the air. They made a little pile in the middle of the table. All in utter silence. Against the dark wood of the table and the shadows on the walls, it was like a Dutch still life made real—one of the somber ones, with a skull or the like in the background.

“Not…very…romantic…” Belle tried to joke weakly.

But in the back of her head, she was counting.

Wild roses had five petals, generally; cabbage roses could have as many as one hundred. A normal “fancy” rose had between twenty-five and forty. Ten had fallen already, and the look of alarm was growing on the Beast’s face.

Nineteen…twenty…

Insomuch as the Beast could turn pale, he did; frozen with his mouth open in purely human apprehension.

Belle started to get up, to try and grab them….

Twenty-one.

The petals stopped.

Of course. Twenty-one, for his age when the curse is completed.

Where they landed on the table was now a sizable heap of velvety-black tatters.

“I’ll just…” Belle said, rising to brush them off, away from him. The part of her that wasn’t also transfixed by the terrible apparition was mildly stunned at her own reaction. While her first instinct was to be terrified, her second was to comfort the Beast and protect
him
….

But as she touched the petals, they glittered and vanished—just the way the original ones had.

The Beast sat perfectly still this whole time, but something about the way his claws gripped the table made Belle think he was about to bolt.

“Maybe it’s my mother, trying to tell me something,” she offered.

“Maybe it’s just more effects of the curse,” the Beast said darkly. “The castle grows more haunted, reminding me of my doom.”

“All right,” Belle said, taking a deep breath. She thought quickly, trying to come up with some topic to take their minds off the horrible apparition.

Or…not. They
had
to figure out how to break the curse. This was a not-so-subtle reminder of that. She might as well grab the elephant in the room by its tusks.