The Eye of the Beholder (35 page)

"You are very strong," Lysander said, his rumbling voice low. "But even the strong feel weak at times."

"You cannot imagine what it is like to feel as though the world is constantly shifting beneath your feet. You cannot know what it is like to have everything that is familiar stripped from you, without warning." My voice was hoarse from tears.

There was a momentary silence. I stared into the growing fire and heard Lysander shifting in his seat, but I did not look over at him. My thoughts were on my mother, and I unwound one of my hands from the cup so that my fingers could wander up to my miniature.

"You are unhappy here," Lysander said, the words a statement and not a question. Though it seemed that he had tried his best to keep his voice neutral, I could hear a tinge of sadness in his words.

I sighed deeply. "I have been unhappy for many years."

"You have told me little of yourself and I have not wished to press you," Lysander said, his voice hesitant.

"Because you did not wish to intrude upon my privacy or because you did not care to know?" I asked bluntly, turning to look at him.

He winced. "Both," he admitted. His candor disarmed me and it must have shown, for he smiled humorlessly. "I will not insult you by being anything less than honest. When you first arrived, I did not care to know anything of you. It was of no importance to me.

"But, Mira, I have changed. I am not who I once was. It is the truth, whether you believe it or no. I did not ask sooner because I thought myself indifferent, but I now hesitate to ask because I do not wish to intrude upon your privacy. But if you wish to talk, I am here and I will gladly listen."

I was very touched by this unexpected gesture of friendship, but I was still uncertain. My fingertips moved over the surface of my miniature sadly. My mother was the only one with whom I had ever really shared everything. She was the only person who had ever known just what was hidden in the depths of my heart.

What would it be like to have a confidant once again, one with whom I could share my innermost secrets? Though I did not know why I chose Lysander as my confidant, the choice simply felt right. Something within me told me that if I were to share my full self with anyone, I should share it with him.

Chapter 33: Deepening Trust

Though I had never been foolish enough to fancy Mira happy in the castle, she had at least seemed to be present. Now her mind seemed always far away, and the distant look in her eyes clearly told me that she wished to be somewhere other than my castle, somewhere other than with me. To see this and recognize it was agony for me, and it tormented me day and night.

My love for Mira only increased with the passage of each day. When I rose in the morning, she was the first thought on my mind, and the anticipation of seeing her caused me to hurry through my morning preparations. The waste of one precious moment with her was unthinkable and, when she was not with me, I thought of her nearly constantly. In my dreams, I was a man again and could hold Mira in my arms. To be so close to her without the ability to make her the promises I wished to make was a torment I could scarcely endure. I desperately longed to tell her my secret, but this thought had only to pass through my mind and I could feel how the spell began to stretch to the point of snapping. No matter how remote the chance Mira might grow to love me, divulging my secret would certainly separate me from her forever.

The more the days passed, the more it seemed to me that, even if I could tell Mira about the spell, even if I could make her promises, they would be worthless; Mira clearly felt nothing for me. How could I even have entertained the thought that she might one day love me? If by some miracle she were to look past the baseness of my personality and see my earnest desire to change, how could she ever think me anything more than a beast? She had no idea that there was a man within me.

Would it even matter if she did know? Would that make her love me any more than my beastly appearance does?

This was the thought that tormented me the most, but it was simply too painful to contemplate. I knew it was cowardly of me, but it was far easier to blame my beastliness for my inability to make Mira love me.

"You have given me an impossible task," I growled aloud, as I restlessly prowled my chamber. I doubted the enchantress could hear me, but giving vent to my feelings thus was the only relief left to me. "Mira does not know what I am. There is no future for her should she choose to love a beast. Perhaps she might grow fond of me over time, but she could never see me as anything more than a pet. Is that what you wanted? Have you not punished me enough? Must I suffer this as well?"

But no matter how hard I tried to take refuge in my righteous indignation, no matter how much I tried to forget the past, I could not deny the truth: I did deserve to suffer. If the enchantress's spell had imprisoned me, it was a cell of my own making. If her spell had been designed to torment me, I deserved my suffering a thousand times over.

I was not the only inhabitant of the castle who had begun to lose hope. The servants had as well, and I had seen Mira studying them with a puzzled look on several occasions. Her confusion was understandable. After all, their cruel and boorish master had become much more tractable, so it was only natural to expect that the servants would be happier as a result. What Mira did not understand was that the fate of the servants was tied to mine. If Mira could not love me, we would all soon perish in our enchanted forms.

All my efforts, all of my struggle seemed worthless, for my despair had begun to overtake me. As I watched Mira laboring in the garden, I thought of all the things I would never have, and the thoughts nearly made me run wild. I wanted to roar like the beast I was, to tear things apart, and I very nearly gave into the temptation. Turning away from the windows with a snarl, I raised a paw, prepared to smash a nearby table to bits, but found that I could not. Everywhere I looked, there was evidence of the care Mira had taken to make my chambers comfortable and attractive for me. To destroy anything would be to spit upon the thoughtfulness she had shown, and I was horrified that I even contemplated it.

"Mira… If only… If only…" I spoke the words aloud, and the amount of pain in my voice was nearly unbearable.

Go to her.

Why punish myself any further? To see her, to watch her, to hear the sound of her voice were merely reminders of all the things I could never have. But if I did not spend every last possible moment with her, I knew I would regret it for whatever remained of my life. The only peace I had ever felt had always been experienced in Mira's presence. When I lost her for good, I would suffer, and there was a part of me that wished to greedily horde every last moment with her.

Let me at least have as many memories as possible to cling to when all has been lost.

I hurried down to the gardens, reaching Mira just in time to hear her cry out in frustration about the secrets of the castle. I felt a flash of fear in my heart, but it was weaker than the sorrow I felt at my inability to tell her everything she wished to know. As we spoke, I saw that she had begun to feel a weariness of the soul, a weariness of which I was the cause. I was helpless, utterly helpless, for there was nothing I could do to restore the luminosity of soul that I had dimmed.

The hardest thing I had ever done was watching her walk away from me when she was in such a state. My initial reaction was to do something to stop her, but I resisted the urge. Perhaps what she needed most at that moment was solitude, and I would grant it to her, no matter how much it pained me.

Several hours passed, though they felt more like several days. I had every intention of staying away from her for the remainder of the day and night, and had instructed the servants not to trouble her either. If she had need of anything, she could summon them. But when she did not summon them, I fretted more and more, until I could no longer convince myself that it was best for her to be left alone.

I stood outside of her chamber door listening to her weep until her sobs were dry, and I felt as if something was being torn from me, body and soul, as if I bled internally. The agony of it almost forced me to sink to the floor, but I managed to maintain my footing on shaking legs. When her sobs ceased altogether, I lifted a paw and knocked softly upon the door.

My heart was in my throat as I waited, and I feared that Mira would not answer. When I heard the latch begin to release, I felt a relief so powerful it left me weakened.

The relief was short-lived, for the instant I caught sight of Mira's face, I was alarmed. Never before had I seen her so drawn and pale, not even in those early days when I had watched her, unbeknownst to her. Her eyes were swollen and red-rimmed, and the brilliant spark within them had dimmed, their luster dulled. Even the fiery highlights in her curls seemed subdued. She was so changed that I cursed myself for the obvious pain I had caused her. Her voice, too, seemed lifeless, and I was relieved when she allowed me to enter.

There was a chill in the air that was noticeable even to me, despite my thick fur, and I knew she needed a fire. I did not know if she would eat, but I would try my best to get her to do so. At the very least, perhaps she might take a cup of tea. My mind was entirely focused on seeing to her needs.

Thoughts tumbled through my head in an incoherent manner as I sat across from her. I wished to say something, but I had not the slightest idea what. Mira's body was there, but it frightened me how much it seemed almost like an empty shell. She barely blinked when the servants entered the chamber, and she sat woodenly as they carried out their business. A few of them glanced over at me, but I knew that whatever they read in my face could be of no comfort to them, for I felt the same concern that was fairly emanating from their own bodies.

When they were gone, I glared at the tea pot, feeling my own impotence. How could something so innocuous intimidate me as it did? I could not even carry out the simple act of pouring Mira a cup of tea, so I had to ask her to do it herself. Strangely enough, it was my inability to aide her that roused her from her reverie; my confession of my own weakness had clearly left her nonplussed.

As she sipped her tea, I offered what seemed like empty platitudes, and I winced slightly. What did I know of consoling others? However clumsy my words, they did spur Mira to talk. Her preoccupied state of mind was my salvation, for I very nearly scoffed as she talked of how I could never understand what it was like to have everything familiar stripped away.

My thoughts were diverted as Mira toyed with her miniature. I had seen with what tenderness Mira ran her fingers over it, but I had never asked her whose likeness the miniature bore, though my curiosity was very great. Whoever the miniature depicted was a person for whom Mira clearly felt a deep and abiding love.

There was such sadness in her eyes as she touched the miniature that I found myself stating what I feared most of all: that she was unhappy with me. Though she told me that she had been unhappy for some time, I knew that her presence in the castle was causing her further unhappiness.

For what had I wished? Had I truly thought that she might tell me that the castle was the happiest home she had ever known? No matter how I tried to quash them, my powers of self-delusion were much stronger than I had ever suspected.

I wanted to know more about her, needed to know more, and so I tried in my own fumbling way to ask her to tell me more. It pierced my heart to admit that, at one time, I had not cared to know, but I had promised myself that I would be honest with her, even if such honesty shed an unfavorable light on me. I would not conceal who I had once been from her. If, by some twist of fate, I were to earn her love, I would not earn it dishonestly.

Mira was quiet for some time after my confession. I could see that she was deep in thought and I sat in great suspense, hoping against hope that she might finally share something of herself with me. I wanted to ease her mind, but I could not deny that there was a selfish part of me that wanted her to need me.

At last, her hands trembling, Mira reached up and untied her miniature, cradling it gently for a moment before passing it to me. A woman smiled up at me from the portrait. She was breathtakingly beautiful. Her hair was a rippling curtain of golden waves and her eyes were a blue so vivid I could not help but suspect that the artist had embellished their shade. Her skin looked as smooth and delicate as porcelain, and her features were so delicately carved that she seemed almost more a creature of fantasy than reality. As I looked up, I saw in Mira some of the same ethereal traits.

"Is this your mother?" I asked.

Mira nodded, her eyes bright with tears. "She died when I was a child."

"I am sorry," I said softly, feeling a painful tightness in my chest at her obvious distress. I carefully handed the miniature back to her and looked away while she tied it back around her neck, giving her a moment to collect herself.