The Eye of the Beholder (12 page)

"It is obvious that we do not agree about your father. Perhaps I am wrong. But perhaps you are wrong."

For a moment, I thought I had said the wrong thing, for she moved as if to push the door open, but then she turned. I could see from the flash of her dark eyes that she felt she had been challenged and was determined to meet that challenge.

"I cannot see how that could be possible," she said, her mouth set in a firm line.

"And yet you fault me for my unbending opinions," I said, feeling a small and somewhat satisfying surge of triumph.

To my surprise, the tension left her body, and she moved over to one of the armchairs and sank into it. Her face was shadowed, but I could partially see it. The light that shone in her bright, warm eyes was especially striking.

"You have bested me," she admitted.

I smiled and was taken aback by the sensation. It had been some time since another person had caused me to smile. For some reason, this made me wish to make some sort of concession to her and so I answered, "You may take solace in the knowledge that it was not an easy battle."

She smiled as well, and looked every bit as astonished as I had felt when the expression had crossed my own face. "I suppose it might be nice to have someone with whom I could talk," she said, hesitantly. "The castle is very silent, and I am not accustomed to such solitude."

"One never grows fully accustomed to it," I mumbled.

"How long have you lived like this?" Though she seemed hesitant to ask such questions, I could see that her curiosity was destined to get the better of her.

"Longer than you can imagine."

She frowned, and I could see that my elusiveness displeased her. Her hand moved impatiently forward to return a stray curl to its place. I could see that I was losing her, and was dissatisfied that I would have to admit more to her than I would have liked.

"Understand that it is not my aim to be obtuse," I said. "There are simply some things of which I may not speak, and I ask you to accept and respect that."

"Very well," she said with a sigh.

"Thank you," I said stiffly, finding it hard to speak the words. I hurriedly moved to another topic. "What is your name?"

Even though her face was shadowed, I could clearly see the blush that stole over her cheeks. How odd that such a question caused her to blush.

"It is Mirabelle," she murmured, speaking so incoherently that even my sharp bestial ears had trouble catching her words.

"Mirabelle?"

"Yes." She looked down at her hands, which were folded in her lap.

"What is wrong with your name?"

"Just as you have things of which you will not speak, so have I," she said, forcefully. She leaned forward, bracing herself on the chair's arms, and I could clearly see her face again. Her hands gripped the chair very tightly, and her expression was a mixture of tension and embarrassment.

"Very well," I said, parroting her earlier words. I did not know what else to say, for I had not been expecting such a complex reaction to such a simple question.

She seemed conscious of her behavior, for she slowly let out a breath and eased her grip on the arms of the chair. "But everyone calls me Mira," she said, in a tone that made an attempt at evenness and failed.

"Mira it is then."

"And what is your name?"

I considered the question for a moment before responding. It was impossible to know how much or how little knowledge she might have of me and my reign all those hundreds of years ago; therefore, answering such a question was rather perilous. There would be serious consequences if I disclosed forbidden information. I was also certain that the same wrath would be rained down upon me if I offered subtle clues to my identity and how I had become what I had, thereby aiding Mira in uncovering the truth for herself. I simply could not risk it. Until the spell was broken, I could not so much as hint at the truth for fear it would doom me to an eternity as a beast.

"I have no name," I said finally.

"No name?" Her astonishment was clear.

"Why would I have a name when I am surrounded only by servants who cannot speak?" I hoped that this explanation would be enough to satisfy her.

I knew from the pensive look on her face that she was thinking about what I had said to her. After a moment of contemplation, she spoke again. "I suppose that is reasonable. But what am I to call you?"

An interesting question indeed. I supposed I could instruct her to call me "beast" but, somehow, I could not force myself to say the word. I knew what my appearance was, what it had been for all these hundreds of years, but I could not stomach the idea of such an overt expression of it. Underneath all the fur and claws, I was still human, even if I and my mute servants were the only beings who knew it.

"Call me whatever you like," I said at last, feeling a strange weariness come over me.

There was a note of sympathy in her voice when she replied. "I shall think of something--if that is agreeable to you."

"Aye, it is agreeable to me." I studied her with new interest. Was she concerned she might offend me? And why should that matter to her?

"Could I…" she began, but her voice trailed off and I watched as she swallowed. It took a moment for her to gather her courage but, when she did, she made the request that I had been dreading the most. "Might I see you now?"

It occurred to me that I felt every bit as much dread at this prospect as she did, for the tone of her voice told me she was frightened. I wanted to refuse her, but I knew that would be foolish of me. I had committed to pursuing some sort of relationship with this maiden, and I certainly could not do it all from the shadowy corners of the castle. At some time or other, she would have to see me, and perhaps it was best that she saw me immediately. If the sight was too intolerable for her to bear, it was best I knew it now before I devoted any further time and energy to my attempts to woo her.

"If you must." Even though I was resolved on this course of action, I could not help but express my reluctance.

"If you would rather I did not…" she began, but I did not allow her to finish.

"I would rather you did not and, doubtless, you will feel the same once you have seen me. But I cannot remain in shadow forever, and so it stands to reason that now is as good a time as any for me to reveal myself."

She looked both uneasy and unhappy, but she did not protest further. Instead, she merely nodded, her eyes fixed on my corner of the chamber, but some distance from where I actually sat. Before moving, I took a moment to observe her features one last time, for I found that I wanted to fix her face in my mind. Shaking such thoughts aside, I stirred and moved into the dim light of the single nearby candle, emerging slowly so as to delay the horror of revelation as long as possible.

My paws were the first part of me that I allowed to be exposed, and I watched as the tension in Mira's posture increased at the sight. Her eyes studied them, moving slowly over my retractable claws, which I had decided to expose in the interest of disclosing the worst as quickly as possible.

"At least I can assure you that you need not bear this particular sight--I can conceal them when I wish," I said, bitterly. I retracted my claws and I could see the relief in her eyes. "Shall I continue?" I half hoped that her response would be negative.

But it was not. She nodded curtly and I continued to move slowly into the light. As I revealed myself, I watched the expression on her face change to one of utter terror, until I could bear it no longer. I averted my gaze as I moved my head into the light, for I knew that I could not bear to see the revulsion on her lovely face as she looked into my hideous visage.

The only sounds in the room were the crackling of the fire, the faint hissing of the candles, and the sound of Mira's labored breaths. They came very quickly, even more quickly than when she had become aware of my presence in the chamber. I remained with my gaze averted, allowing her the time she needed to compose herself.

To my relief, she recovered swiftly. Her breathing slowed to an almost normal pace and, though her voice was shaky when she spoke, her tone was fairly even.

"Thank you," she said.

"Is the reality better or worse than what your father described?" I asked, unable to stop myself. I still could not look at her, and I did not know why I asked her such a question, for her response had the potential of causing me great pain.

She hesitated for a moment before speaking, and I realized she was concerned about saying something that would cause me pain. "I will be honest with you. You are very frightening, just as Papa said you were. But I am not one to judge solely based on appearances."

Her words were far more gratifying to me than I would have liked, and I found my gaze inadvertently drawn to her at last. The pity I saw in her eyes angered me, and I fought very hard to keep my temper in check. I did not want her pity. I did not want anyone's pity. If anything, the world should once more wish for my pity.

"You may go now," I dismissed her, unable to maintain my facade any longer.

I could see that she was reluctant to go, that she worried she had said the wrong thing. She remained in her chair for a moment, attempting to catch my eye, but I averted my gaze. I heard the soft sound of her sigh and then a rustling of satin as she rose from her chair. The door creaked as she opened it, and she hesitated there for a moment.

"Good night," she said, at last. The unhappiness in her voice was evident, as if she wished for the power to say something better, but did not know what.

I could manage no more than a soft growl and then she was gone, closing the door softly behind her.

Chapter 12: An Enigma

The beast did not approach me again for many days. I was glad, for the beast's mannerisms and our conversation had left me with a great deal upon which to reflect. I found him nearly as perplexing as he was frightening, and the more I thought about his behavior and tried to understand it, the more mystified I became.

Papa's description had been no exaggeration. When the beast had slowly emerged into the dim light of the library, I felt a sensation I had never before experienced in my life. It was difficult to breathe and I could not help but feel a sense of utter peril. I had been frightened before, but I had never feared for my very life as I did during those first few moments I had laid eyes upon the beast. Never before had I seen such a creature and, in truth, a part of me could not help but hope that I never again would. Such thoughts shamed me, for I liked to think of myself as a tolerant person of some understanding. Was I any more justified in judging him by his appearance than he would be were he to judge me by the smallness of my stature? He could not help what nature had made him.

In spite of being scared of him, I could not help but pity him, and I knew it was the cause of his capricious behavior during our meeting. I had looked at him with pity in my gaze and he had not liked it. However, the pity I felt was not meant to be of a patronizing nature, but as an expression of my compassion for his situation. Yes, incredible as it seemed, I felt compassion for him. How could I not? He so obviously knew little of love, and I could not help but feel compassion for any being so deprived of one of life's keenest pleasures.

The beast's utter aloneness was truly awful. How could he face a life without any sort of genuine, binding companionship? Worst of all, I believed that we both knew the chances of his ever knowing it were quite slim, for how could I be expected to be a friend to him? How could I possibly learn to care for one who had grievously injured the father I loved so deeply?

It had become my daily habit to walk for a while in the castle's desolate gardens. I knew if I did not fall into some sort of routine the unrelieved monotony of my days combined with my sorrow would drive me to madness. Upon waking each morning, I felt as though I would burst from unhappiness, and a vigorous walk in the garden was the only thing that alleviated the sensation. Moreover, it gave me a chance to breathe fresh air and, if I closed my eyes, I could almost convince myself--just for a second--that I was free. But even this bit of relief would not be available to me much longer. The weather grew increasingly cold and bleak, and each day I was forced to cut my walk shorter.

Several days after my meeting with the beast, the air was so frigid and the sight of the castle and forest so forbidding, that I had only the energy to stand outside for a few minutes, my fingers stroking the petals of a vibrant rose the color of sunset. My eyes filled with tears, and I bowed my head until my face rested against several of the roses, but even the softness of their petals against my skin, and their divine scent filling my senses were not enough to dispel my gloom.