Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

When you look down, safe for the moment, from the uppermost balcony of the Château d’Argent, you can see almost directly below you the vastness of the sea. It is a view that inspires madness, some say, for how can you desire anything but to jump? How can you remember that you cannot fly, that you are not as endless as water, when it is all laid out below you, like something you have a chance to possess? Or, not this exactly. Like something you desire to possess. Like something you think for a moment you can possess, but the moment is simply a lie to yourself. A trap.

It was folly, to build a house in such a place, cupped in the outstretched palm of the cliffs. But then, folly has long been a virtue of this particular family. Folly, and a certain avaricious bent.

One can excuse such excesses of character, almost, from a distance, with the house lit up and gleaming like a jewel clenched in a fist of rock. From there, down by the low-tide shoreline in the shadow of the cliffs, with the fullness of the moon hanging above it, the house is serene and untouchable. The salt-limned wood of the dock creaks, rocked gently by the sea. Even the start of the treacherous and uneven path up to the house is softened by the darkness, the jut of the rock hiding the light of the moon from the waves.

Moving closer, as always, reveals the flaws in this perfection. The Château d’Argent is old, and the wind whips through the crenellations and passages of the top with biting speed. The stone is rough, and there is a certain wildness to the gardens that not even the most highly paid professionals can quite eradicate.

Although it is late, the enormous stained glass windows spill light carelessly into the night. Music and laughter drift out the open French doors onto the terrace and beyond, into the garden. The rose brambles creep and cling to the towering lattices, thick-scented red heads drooping and black in the coolness of the night. Something twists among them, sharp and glinting, just for a moment, like a piece of mirror, then vanishing.

A figure emerges from the darkness, slowly and then all at once, small at first, but rippling and growing in the shadow of the house. Its robes gain elaborate embroidery and several glinting gems, the figure growing taller and more stern.

It raises the thick, silver head of its cane and raps sharply on the door.

Although the wait for a response is long, the figure demonstrates no impatience. It simply stands, tall and unbending, until the door finally swings silently open.

“Come for the ball?” a voice drawls. In contrast to the stranger standing on the threshold, the woman who has opened the door lazes insouciantly against the open frame. She’s dressed expensively but not at all neatly, and the bottom hem of her gown is ripped and muddied.

“Isabeau d’Argent?” The figure asks. In the light streaming from the open door, her features resolve into a high, heavy brow, a solid square jaw, and piercing deep-set eyes.

“Who’s asking?” Isabeau asks. She doesn’t bother to straighten her posture. The hand on her wine glass is the only thing that betrays her impatience, tapping and swirling over the brim.

“A distant relation of yours,” the figure says impassively. Isabeau snorts, turning her face back into the house and letting the tumble of her carelessly pinned up thick dark hair swing between her and the visitor.

“You should know better than to come to me, then.”

“I require shelter for the night,” the figure demands imperiously. Isabeau goes from lounging to fierce and upright in an instant.

“Inquire elsewhere,” she snaps, attempting to swing the heavy oak door shut. The silver head of the cane, a snarling wolf, blocks the door.

“You cannot shut me out,” the figure taunts.

“Watch me,” Isabeau says, through gritted teeth. “I need nothing from any so-called relatives of mine.” She attempts to shut the door again, nearly succeeding this time. Just as the shaft of light pouring from inside is pared down to barely an inch, though, something changes. The door blows back and open, as silently and lightly as a feather. The light from inside the house fades away, the sound dropping off, and the two figures squared off across the threshold are bathed in cold, unrelenting moonlight.

“Think carefully before you speak, young one.” The figure looks harsher and older in the moonlight, features gaining an even haughtier cast. Isabeau tries to jerk back, to retreat into the house, but some force holds her firmly in place. She clenches her jaw, forcing herself to look up into the increasingly familiar face.

“What do you want,” she hisses. The figure does not respond immediately, staring into Isabeau’s face thoughtfully for a moment.

“In exchange for shelter,” it says, words slow and measured, “I offer you this rose.”

Isabeau looks at the rose, lush and red and full, and curls her lip.

“I have ample roses,” she says. “Get out of my sight.” She tries to close the door once more, hand scrambling behind her, but is stopped as agonizing pain bursts out along every nerve in her body. Distantly, she hears her wine glass shatter against the tile of the entryway as her body is jolted and lifted up into the now-burning white moonlight. Her eyes are streaming too badly to see anything but blurry shapes, but she hears the harsh cold voice of the enchantress clearly.

“You have become a petulant child too long indulged by life.” The words boom in Isabeau’s ears, sharp and cutting even as the moonlight sears and warps her body. “There is nothing in your heart but selfishness and trivial jealousies.”

Isabeau pries her jaw open and tries to speak, to parry the words, but fangs burst from her gums and her mouth fills with blood.

“You must learn to open your heart to others, or remain cut off from love forever.”

When the light fades, the voice is gone, and Isabeau lies in a heap on the doorway.

—-

Someone once told Jeanne Vincent that she looks like the land after a famine: all hard rawboned lines. It wasn’t a particularly kind comment, but it was a true one, and Jeanne holds truth as valuable in a way she doesn’t flattery.

It’s strange, perhaps, that a girl who looks like famine can bring such abundance. And yet, undeniably she does. As difficult and trying coaxing the vegetables and the tiny grove of trees into growth and abundance is, it is something Jeanne craves when she is away from it. Something that whispers perpetually to her as she meanders through town or walks down along the shoreline. The strange alchemy of her hands and the sun and the rain creating life, over and over again, draws her in a way few other things do. It is not easy, or always pleasant, here in the garden, but it is hers.

Jeanne pushes her rough, calloused hands into the dirt for the enjoyment of it, just for a moment. The weight of the earth is in her bones and the dirt under her fingernails grounds her.

“Jeanne,” her father calls from the house, his voice carrying easily through the half-open door. Jeanne sighs, pulling her hands gently free from the soil of the garden, and drags herself unwillingly back towards the house.

“Coming,” she calls back. Her father will be irritated by the delay in which she washes her hands and changes her apron, but he’ll be angrier still if she brings in the evidence of the outdoors on her hands and clothes.

Her father is seated in his workshop, the largest and sunniest room in the house. The expensive glass windows are firmly closed, as usual, and he is perched behind his table of instruments and various cogs with reading glasses sliding down toward the end of his nose. The picture of studied abstraction might succeed in charming Jeanne, were she and her father fundamentally different than they are. As it is, the delay between her entry and his shift of attention just irritates her.

She stands quietly, watching the flit and bustle of birds out the window over his shoulder. One has just landed neatly on a tree branch when her father clears his throat and draws her attention.

“I need some things from town,” he says imperiously, as if this isn’t the ordinary reason he calls her into his workshop.

“Of course,” Jeanne says, taking the piece of neatly written scrap paper from his outstretched hand. He resumes his work, which Jeanne takes as the dismissal it is and starts to leave.

“And don’t dawdle,” he adds, just as she reaches the edge of the room.

“I won’t,” Jeanne says placidly. She closes the study door.

Jeanne glances briefly into the mirror in the hall, checking for any stray smudges of dirt, before picking up her basket. She hesitates near the front of the house for a moment before darting quickly to her small shelf of books and slipping one of them safely under the round red apples. Even if she doesn’t have time to read while she’s in town, knowing the possibility of escape is tucked among her daily errands is comforting.

Jeanne shuts the door firmly behind herself, steps growing lighter as she gains some distance from the house. The early autumn air is sweet and light against her skin, and she lifts her face and closes her eyes to take in the feel of the sun and the shiver of the wind. Her feet know this path so well that she doesn’t need to look where she’s going. The constant buzzing of her thoughts always quiets a little when she’s outside, even when she knows that she’ll shortly be in town.

“Hello, Jeanne,” the booming voice of the baker breaks into her thoughts.

“Oh,” she says, blinking a little. “Hello, M. Fournier.”

“Here for your usual order?” he asks, with familiar robust kindness.

“Yes, please.” Jeanne fumbles in her apron pocket for a handful of coins and passes them over. She’s early enough this morning that the loaves have just come out of the oven, and the baker wraps the warm bread in cloth for her to make it easier to carry. She slides the long loaf into her basket and hands the baker an apple in return.

“Thank you, dear,” the older man says kindly. “Don’t dawdle too much on your errands, now.”

“I won’t,” Jeanne promises, waving goodbye as she leaves the bakery.

Her next stop is farther into town, and she passes several people who wave and smile at her. The townspeople here are friendly enough, though Jeanne knows she and her father make up a fair amount of their gossip. She hears the barely concealed whispers about their oddness: the reclusiveness of her father, her own tendency to avoid protracted conversations and wander about the countryside half-reading and half-meandering. Still, there’s no denying that her produce is excellent and that she’s polite and prompt in her business transactions. For the most part, people leave her alone, smiling indulgently at her and then shaking their heads after she’s passed by.

After carefully nestling eggs into her basket and parting with another apple and a handful of radishes, Jeanne pauses. She still has several stops, but she’s right next to the book-sellers and can’t resist the temptation to go in. Occasionally, if the shop isn’t too busy, he’ll let her borrow a book for a few days in exchange for whatever fruit she has on hand.

The shopkeeper smiles at her as she comes in, tucking a scrap of fabric into his book to save his place.

“I wondered if I’d see you today, Jeanne,” he says.

“Oh?” Jeanne glances hopefully at the small stack of books under the carefully printed ‘New Arrivals’ sign.

“I’ve got one I think you’ll enjoy,” he says. Jeanne holds out an arm to steady him as he stands from his chair, back creaking in protest at the movement.

“Bad day, M. Comtois?” she asks. He waves off the sympathy.

“When you get as old as I am, even the bad days have their charm.” He slides a book carefully from the stack, handing it to her with a twinkling smile. Jeanne smiles back, tucking the book under one arm.

“Apples, or turnips?” she asks.

“Hmm. Apple,” Comtois says. She hands him the ripest, largest one, and he smiles at her again. “Let me know what you think of the book. I was quite surprised by the ending of one tale, I must say.”

“I will,” Jeanne promises, exiting the shop with a wave.

She quickens her step, rushing through the rest of her errands with a minimum of fuss. Since her father never goes into town, he doesn’t have much idea of how long this outing should take. If she hurries, she can have almost a half-hour of reading at the fountain in the centre of town before the clock strikes and reminds her to return home to start preparing the midday meal.

Jeanne eagerly opens her new book, skimming a hand almost absentmindedly along the raised texture of the title and the little bumps of the spine. She tumbles head-first into the story, swept away to an isolated castle on a hill. The chatter and bustle of the marketplace and the burbling of the fountain behind her fade entirely. Instead, she hears the ominous rumble of thunder over the previously peaceful glade, and watches lighting outline the castle in sharp-crackling bursts.

Unfortunately, her escape is short-lived today. Most of the townspeople are friendly but distant, with two exceptions. One is M. Comtois, who listens to Jeanne’ rambling about books she enjoys and is a pleasant source of calm among the bustle of town. The other exception is far less agreeable.

Antoine Mercier is a tall landowner who favors plain, if expensive, clothing and sour expressions. He acts as if he’s a good deal above most of the town folk, which Jeanne supposes he technically is. He’s certainly richer than anyone else, and money runs a long race where charm and beauty fall short.

She’s never precisely sure where his interest in her stems from. It certainly isn’t her distinct lack of beauty. There are prettier and more pleasant girls in town, many of them all too eager to trade the dubious freedom of remaining unmarried for the certainty of a husband with a good income, however unpleasant he himself might be. In Jeanne’s experience, men prefer their wives to be younger, prettier, and much less intelligent than themselves. Every other man in town has certainly given her a wide enough berth.

Undeniably interested he seems to be, however, and Jeanne endures his interruptions and attentions with the same sort of tired patience she gives her father.

“Reading again?” Mercier drawls, plucking the book from her hands and glancing disinterestedly at the cover.

“Yes,” Jeanne says, standing and brushing off her dress. “I’ve borrowed it from M. Comtois.” She hopes this will encourage him to treat the book a little more carefully than he has some of her own in the past. He sneers and hands it back to her, which she supposes is better than dropping it.

“That old man has no head for business. What kind of bookseller lets potential customers wander off with the merchandise.”

Jeanne smiles slightly. “Are you implying I’m untrustworthy?” she asks, starting to walk back down the path home.

“Of course not,” Mercier says, with hasty condescension. “I have plenty of books in my library and you are welcome to borrow them at any time you choose.”

He looks quite pleased with himself at this neat maneuver, and Jeanne forces a smile. Perhaps it’s simply that the two of them are of an age and he lacks the patience for a younger or more optimistic woman.

“How kind,” Jeanne demurs. She wonders if she could quicken her pace without seeming rude, but gives the idea up with an internal sigh.

“I hope your father is well,” Mercier continues stiffly.

“He is as ever,” Jeanne says. They are approaching the gate which marks the edge of her father’s land and she sees Mercier turn to go with a rush of relief.

“I will not trespass upon his hospitality,” Mercier says, bowing briefly to her. Jeanne, who thanks the benevolent heavens daily that her father and Mercier are intractably at odds, gives him a genuine smile as she shuts the gate.

“I’ll see you in town, monsieur.”

—-

Jeanne is summoned back to her father’s workroom almost as soon as she steps into the house. This surprises her a little, as generally all he’s interested in getting from her in the afternoons is lunch. The reason for the summons soon becomes clear, though.

The workroom is never precisely messy, but it’s closer to that state now than Jeanne has ever seen it before. The brightly colored liquids in differently shaped glass phials she has grown used to seeing over the past several months are scattered haphazardly around the desk. There are scraps of wood and curious knots of metal everywhere, and Jeanne nearly steps on a curved glass lens coming into the room.

“I’ve done it,” her father says proudly. “And just in time, too.”

“Done what?” Jeanne asks, neatening a stack of books that is close to tipping over. Her father bats her hands away impatiently.

“Completed my invention, of course!”

Jeanne feels her pulse leap in excitement, but keeps her face carefully blank.

“Are you going to the fair after all, then?”

“I never would have missed it,” her father says. Jeanne tactfully does not bring up his diatribe from the day before about how all the attendees would surely be talentless hacks and the prize hardly worth attaining. It seems that a reward accrues value when one has a chance of gaining it.

“I’m sure it will be very interesting.”

“Make sure my things are ready for a day’s journey,” he says, waving at her dismissively. A response does not appear to be required, so Jeanne leaves him to it.

She feels a quiet hum of anticipation as she packs clothes and some sandwiches for her father, as she brushes and saddles their horse, Philippe, as she neatens the kitchen. With her father gone for an entire day, perhaps even two, she can read her new book uninterrupted. She can avoid town, and stares, and Mercier, and shut herself up in her room like she so frequently wishes she could do. She can spend the evening outside in her garden, and walk about the house in her comfortable outdoor clothes.

This anticipation keeps her warm as she sees her father off in the late afternoon. She lets Philippe’s hoofbeats fade into the distance, closes her eyes, and tips her head back. The smell of decaying leaves, of sun-warmed dirt and animal sweat wash over her, all underlaid by the sweetness of the apple tree at her back. Freedom, even if only for a day, needs to be savoured.

—-

Arsène Vincent holds his lantern aloft, shining the light over the cryptic signpost in front of him.

“That can’t be right,” he mutters to himself. Philippe, unhappy with the increasingly dark sky overhead, whinnies and shakes his head. He starts to pull to the left, but Arsène yanks on his reigns impatiently. “Silly horse. The shortcut is this way,” he insists. He tries to guide Philippe over to the path on the right, but Philippe protests again, tossing his head. After one more solid tug on his reins, he gives in to the prompting of his rider with another noise of displeasure. The moon overhead provides very little light to go by, especially when thick ominous clouds cover it for minutes at a time.

“I don’t recall this ride taking so long last time,” Arsène grumbles. “We must have made a wrong turn.”

The words are barely out of his mouth when the path in front of them is suddenly illuminated as the clouds above are blown away from the moon.

“This is certainly wrong,” Arsène tuts. “Useless horse. Let’s go back to the crossroads.” The horse turns abruptly, much to his rider’s surprise, and quickly increases his speed as they hurry back the way they came.

“Slow down, you silly horse,” Arsène complains, tugging ineffectually on the reins. Instead of slowing, Philippe tries to increase his speed even further, nearly colliding with a tree around a sharp bend in the path. He spooks and rears, unseating his already unsteady rider completely.

“Philippe, no!” Arsène calls after the retreating horse. To his horror, he sees three wolves appear. They’re lean and fast, but Philippe appears to be outpacing them. Unfortunately for Arsène, he is much slower than a horse and there are more wolves emerging from the trees. He panics, bolting down the path after the horse and making it almost back to the crossroad before stumbling and crashing into the brush. He scrambles quickly to his feet, ignoring the stinging of his scraped palms and knees, but is disoriented by the fall and looks around to relocate the path. Instead, with a surge of hope, he sees an ornate black gate a few dozen yards away.

He pelts straight at the gate, afraid to look behind him to see how close the wolves have gotten. Arsène runs full force into the gate, gasping as the wind is knocked out of him.

“Help! Let me in!” he calls, shaking the iron violently. To his astonishment, the gate makes a clicking sound and swings inward. He nearly topples over, but manages to slip through the gap and slam the gate shut again. He backs up, shivering with horrified fear as he sees the wolves barely two feet away, snarling and snapping. They don’t seem eager to challenge the gate, though, and slink back into the forest with a final round of threatening growls.

As Arsène walks down the smooth wide drive, he marvels at the enormous castle looming in the distance. Although the grounds are spacious, he is surprised he wasn’t able to see the spires from the path.

The vast oak doors and the sheer drop to the coast behind the castle are intimidating, but it’s starting to rain and he has no way of getting home. Arsène raises a hand to knock on the door. Much like the gate, though, it swings open unexpectedly. There is no one visible in the empty foyer, so he walks slowly and quietly toward the massive staircase in the back of the hall.

—-

Jeanne looks up at the sky, closing her eyes so the rain doesn’t fall into them. It’s late and she should probably be inside, especially since she’s currently being rained on, but she’s hesitant to leave the sanctuary of her garden. She’s spent the entire day outside, reading in the morning and then working in the garden all afternoon. There isn’t really much work to be done with winter approaching and the harvest nearly finished, but bustling about with weeding and neatening and repairing a rotten plank in the fence keeps her busy enough. She even sat outside to watch the sunset, dragging out the sweetness of her freedom as long as possible.

The rain feels good against her skin, cool but not cold. It soaks into her hair, making it pull and drag against its pins. She tugs them free one by one, slipping them into her apron pocket for safekeeping. Lightning streaks across the sky, painting the familiar lines of her garden in strange monochrome.

The sight of new growth and seeped-out color mapped over her daily view brings her out of herself enough that she’s jolted back to reality.

“Mooning away again,” she mutters to herself, sighing and turning back to the house. Her toes squash pleasantly in the mud, and she feels the happy zing of connection she always gets in close contact with the earth.

The wooden floors of the house are far less pleasant to walk on, especially with her feet scraped clean from the scratchy straw mat in the entryway. She doesn’t bother to walk far, just strips her wet clothes off by the door and hangs them up to dry. Her hair is dripping uncomfortably down her back, so she pulls it away from her body and wrings it out. Even though she’s the one who will have to clean up the floors, she gains an odd sense of satisfaction from watching the water splash over them and muddy the remnants of dirt left behind.

In the back of her mind, she plans to go get in dry clothes and settle down to sleep, but she finds herself wandering over to the window and pulling back the curtains. She watches the rain pour down into her garden, soaking the earth, nourishing the plants. Almost unconsciously, she presses a palm against the cold glass and lets her face fall forward, closing her eyes and feeling the slight vibration of the glass in the wind.

—-

Arsène wakes with the sun the next morning, rested and refreshed in spite of his frightening encounter with the wolves.

“Finding this castle was a real stroke of luck,” he muses. The clothes he discarded on the chair the night before have been dried and pressed, presumably by the same invisible servants who stoked the fire and filled the empty table with food when he sat down. Arsène stretches and yawns, walking down the corridor toward where he recalls finding the cavernous entry chamber. The thick front doors creak open as he reaches them, and he smiles a little. If only whichever fairy has enchanted this castle could do the same for his home! Then he could really get somewhere with his work.

As Arsène strides out into the garden, something snags in the corner of his vision.

Arsène turns his head slowly, caught in the still magic of this strange castle, to look more directly. To his surprise, a single rose blooms among the otherwise bare garden. There are two or three more, past blown and losing their petals, but this rose is perfect and looks as if it has just opened. He slips a knife from his pocket, cutting down the tips of the thorns and then carefully removing the rose itself.

He nearly cuts his thumb open in surprise as a massive shadow falls over him, blotting out the weak morning sun. He turns slowly, heart beating in his throat.

An enormous beast is striding toward him. Arsène tries to run, but he barely takes two steps before the thing has him backed up against the trellis and cornered. He closes his eyes, flinging his hands up to cover his face instinctively. He feels the beast’s hot breath on his face and braces himself for death, but strangely nothing happens for a moment. He opens his eyes slowly, lowering his hands, flinching when he sees the monstrous face only a few feet from his own.

The thing is strange, to say the least. When he first saw it coming towards him, it was running on all fours. Now, though, it stands on its hind legs like a massive, shaggy bear. It also seems to be draped in some sort of garment: a cloak, perhaps?

“Good dog,” Arsène tries tentatively, reaching out. The beast snarls at him and plucks the rose violently from his outstretched hand.

“I’m not a dog, you fool,” it snaps at him. Arsène starts, too surprised by the fact that this thing can speak to reply. “Was my hospitality not enough for you? Must you take the last of my roses as well?”

“I...I didn’t know!” he replies. “I didn’t know anyone lived here!”

“Where did you think the tables of food came from? Or the fire?” the beast asks. If it weren’t a soulless monster incapable of such things, Arsène would think he detected sarcasm in its tone.

“Magic?” he says weakly. The beast snorts.

“Because you have taken what was not yours, you or one of your bloodline must pay the cost.”

“What cost?” Arsène leans back against the trellis, trembling slightly. The beast gives a wide, toothy smile.

—-

Jeanne tucks her book under her arm, still half-caught in the world of the novel and walking to the door mostly by instinct. It’s a bit early for her father to be back, but perhaps he forgot his latch-key and needs to be let in. She’s not paying enough attention to reality to question who else it might be, so it comes as a particularly nasty shock when she opens the door to see Antoine Mercier.

“Oh,” she says, before recalling herself enough to conceal her surprised dismay. “What a lovely surprise.”

“Jeanne,” Mercier says, smiling at her condescendingly. Jeanne’s stomach sinks into roughly the vicinity of her toes. “I know you’ve been expecting me.”

“Not particularly,” Jeanne tries hopefully, but she only gets a condescending laugh as acknowledgement of the feeble dodge.

“Don’t be so modest,” he says, pulling out one of the kitchen chairs for her with a flourish. Jeanne sits reluctantly, setting her book on the table between them. He doesn’t look down, taking the other chair and then staring uncomfortably into her eyes.

“Can I help you with anything?” Jeanne asks, and then immediately regrets it when she sees the look of smug pride cross his face again.

“You know,” he muses. “My house has felt rather empty, of late.” Jeanne is traitorously deserted by the one tiny shred of hope she has managed to cling to that this is merely a social call.

“Perhaps a new cook might be in order.”

He laughs. “I think I know what it is that I need. There’s nothing like a woman to brighten up a place.”

He pauses, as if expecting her to jump in. Jeanne, unable to think of anything other than ‘the only way I’ll be brightening your home is if I set it on fire,’ just nods as if he’s said something wise instead of incredibly condescending. Mercier clears his throat and dives back in.

“You know I keep a large establishment. There aren’t many women around here capable of managing something like that. And, well,” he looks at her, “you aren’t precisely young.”

Rather than being insulted, this last remark makes Jeanne feel rather hopeful.

“Oh, yes,” she says brightly. “I’m terribly set in my ways.”

Mercier waves his hand.

“Keeping house for one man is much like keeping house for another,” he remarks.

That’s precisely what I’m afraid of, Jeanne thinks.

“Listen, Jeanne,” he says. “Don’t you think it’s time we cease dancing around each other and settle down?”

“Ah,” Jeanne says, stalling for time. “Dancing?” He frowns at her blankly, and she gives up on diversion. “Well. I’m terribly flattered.” He nods at her encouragingly, the same condescending smile playing about his lips. “But I’m afraid I simply couldn’t marry without my father’s consent.”

His face grows stormy.

“You don’t need him any more,” he says, rather dramatically in Jeanne’s opinion. “I can provide for you, with or without his approval.”

“You’re so kind,” Jeanne says, pushing back from the table. Mercier also leaps to his feet. He starts toward her, but Jeanne dodges nimbly around him and walks briskly down the hall to the door.

“So you’ll marry me?” he persists. Jeanne clenches her jaw, then forces a pleasant smile onto her face as she opens the door and turns toward him.

“I’m afraid I’m late for beginning the farm cho-” Mercier grabs for her hand, clasping it between his clammy palms. “Really,” Jeanne says impatiently. “This is very improper.”

This, at least, seems to cow him where disinterest or coldness had failed to make any kind of impression.

“I will return when your father is at home,” he says determinedly.

“If you wish,” Jeanne says, closing the door in his face. She sighs and leans back against it. Mercier and her father have never gotten along, but she lives in perpetual fear that the enticement of a rich son-in-law will outpace the wounded pride of the scorned inventor. She has very little choice in her life, but at least here she has her garden and is left mostly to her own devices.

Jeanne sighs and straightens. She goes back to the kitchen to retrieve her book, planning on staying inside until she’s absolutely certain Mercier is gone, but rapid hoofbeats approaching the house startle her into opening the door.

“Philippe?” Jeanne asks, wonderingly. She goes down to meet the horse, who bucks once but then calms as she comes closer. He’s clearly been running, and is tired and frightened. She grabs hold of his reigns and starts walking him around the yard toward the stable, speaking soothingly to him as she does so. Once he’s settled in the stable with food and water, though, she starts to worry. Did her father fall? Is he injured somewhere along the path? She’s not entirely certain where to go to look for him. She thinks he was riding east, but although she has heard countless details of his invention and his process and his potential competition, the inn he planned to stay at or even the city he was going to failed to merit a mention.

Jeanne walks down to the gate, twisting her hands anxiously in her apron.

“Jeanne,” a hoarse voice says from behind her. She starts violently, whirling around to see her father. She rushes toward him as he starts to collapse, propping his arm around her shoulder. He’s pale and shaking, but resists when she tries to pull him back into the house. “No. I must return,” he says.

“Of course,” Jeanne soothes, having no idea what he’s talking about or how he got through the gate without her seeing. “Let’s just go inside and sit-”

“No,” he says, his voice a little stronger. “No. I’ve only come back to say goodbye.”

“Goodbye?” Jeanne asks. “What are you saying? What’s happened?”

“I must spend the rest of my days as a prisoner,” he says dramatically, leaning against the fence. Jeanne pushes down a surge of irritation at his characteristic lack of proper explanation.

“A prisoner?” she prompts. He looks at her, finally, and starts rambling about a fairy castle, a rose, a hideous beast, a bargain.

“Wait,” Jeanne frowns. “An enchanted garden?”

“Aren’t you listening to me! I have sworn to return to the castle as a prisoner! If I don’t my life is forfeit!”

“I’m listening,” Jeanne soothes. “Let’s go sit down-”

“No,” her father shakes his head, pulling a rose from the pocket inside his jacket. “Goodbye, Jeanne.” He steps away from her, starting to release the rose, but Jeanne surges forward and grabs his hand just as the flower falls to the ground.

—-

Jeanne opens her eyes. The shift was so rapid, they haven’t even had time to adjust to the darkness. Between one blink and the next, she has moved from one garden to another. At her elbow, her father is ranting and scolding, but Jeanne is too busy looking around in interest to heed him.

“Well well well,” a dry voice says. “Two for the price of one.” Jeanne turns from her contemplation of the bare garden and sees the legendary Isabeau d’Argent for the first time.

‘The beast,’ is rather objectively frightening, she supposes. She’s certainly enormous, towering over Arsène by a good bit and Jeanne by nearly a meter.

“You can’t have her!” her father says at her elbow. “You agreed that I would be your prisoner!”

“Yes, well, that’s before the both of you trampled all over my garden,” Isabeau grumbles, folding her arms. Jeanne can’t help but notice the rather sharp claws at the end of them.

“I’ll come in my father’s place,” Jeanne says firmly. This provokes another torrent of refusals from Arsène, but she ignores him in favor of watching Isabeau’s reaction.

“What a touching show of filial piety,” Isabeau says, rather sarcastically in Jeanne’s opinion. Jeanne isn’t particularly bothered. She’s much more interested in the enchanted castle and the legend surrounding it than she is in Isabeau’s temperament or what view she chooses to take of Jeanne’s character. She turns to her father.

“Just go. I’ll be fine here,” she says. Isabeau snorts disbelievingly, and Jeanne glares at her over her father’s shoulder. “Stop that. You aren’t helping.” Isabeau looks rather taken aback at this direct approach, blinking in surprise. Jeanne takes advantage of the silence. “Father, really. I know you rarely go into town, but this house is well known there.”

“Known?” her father says wonderingly, looking up at the towers and stonework, the sheer cliffs-edge drop to the sea.

“Yes,” Jeanne says. “There is a curse on the garden. Anyone who picks a rose-”

“Becomes my prisoner,” Isabeau cuts back in, clearly trying to establish herself as a frightening monster again if the patently ridiculous snarl she gives is any indication. Arsène cowers at Jeanne’s elbow.

“Yes, well, or someone of their bloodline,” Jeanne argues back.

“I offered him that option,” Isabeau says through gritted teeth. “He refused.”

Jeanne is mildly surprised at this. She knows, in a distant sort of way, that her father must love her. She’s never been confronted with evidence quite so direct that he’s capable of facing the consequences of his own actions, however.

“I was the fool who plucked the rose,” he moans dramatically.

“That’s become obvious,” Jeanne says patiently. “Look, it’s generally the daughters, anyway. Either they’ve asked for one of the roses as a gift, or the father has a few to spare-”

“I’m not letting you take my place!”

“But they’re always fine,” Jeanne adds firmly. “Gabrielle ended up married to a lord, after her stay.”

Her father perks up considerably at the mention of lords.

“Really,” he says hopefully, looking over at Isabeau. Isabeau frowns, but nods.

“I promise no harm will come to your daughter,” she grumbles.

“But,” Arsène looks at Jeanne, “what will I do without you?”

“I expect you’ll manage,” Isabeau says impatiently. “Now, is she staying or not? I want my dinner.”

Isabeau vanishes into the depths of the castle as soon as they enter. Jeanne stifles her disappointed curiosity at losing the opportunity to learn any more about the mysterious d’Argent heiress. In the secret dark curl of her heart she has always carried a fondness for the legendary Isabeau d’Argent. The way she’s talked about as a tempest, the savage Clytemnestra bite of her, the utter beastliness of being unrestrained by a father or husband or brother. At the moment, she is easily consoled for the loss of Isabeau by the abundance of new space and enchantment to explore.

The garden, admittedly, was a little disappointing. For how prominently it features in the legend, and for the amount of people who have supposedly been captives here over the past twelve years, Jeanne had expected something lush and beautiful, tempting. Her father seems to have taken the last of the roses, and although she wishes she could have seen the garden in bloom she can’t regret his folly. This is by far the most fascinating thing that’s ever happened to her, and should it take a turn for the dull she’s still got M. Comtois’ book in her apron pocket.

Jeanne wanders up the staircase, already thinking of where she wants to explore first.

—-

Antoine Mercier sits in the one remotely respectable establishment in this backwater town, brooding over a tankard of ale. There isn’t anyone here he considers his equal, precisely, but he tolerates a few of the richer farmers. He spends most of what little time he wastes on socializing with Gervais Aubert, and they both pretend that it isn’t flattery on one side and finances on the other that they really enjoy.

“Shall we toast to your engagement?” Aubert asks, and then immediately regrets it. Mercier, who never has the cheeriest countenance to begin with, turns positively dour at the words.

“That father of hers has proved more of an obstacle than I anticipated.”

“Certainly not,” Aubert says hastily, hoping to divert Mercier’s irritation onto a source other than his tactlessness.

“Indeed,” Mercier glowers. “That old fool with his ridiculous inventions.”

Aubert thinks back to that day five years ago when Mercier realized the extent to which he had underestimated Arsène Vincent. When the man initially came to Mercier, asking for financing for one of his crackpot ideas in exchange for a share of the profits, Mercier had laughed him back into the street. Less than a year later, he had cause to regret his decision in the form of gloating letters from Vincent with detailed accounts of his profits and the shares due to his lucky investors.

Aubert thinks of that day, of the towering rage Mercier is capable of when thwarted, but he wisely doesn’t mention either the money or the breach.

“She’s hardly likely to get a better offer than you,” he says soothingly. Mercier grimaces, tapping his fingers on the table.

It’s undeniably true. Jeanne is neither beautiful nor young, and Mercier is one of the few people who know about her other attractions. As far as Aubert is aware, Jeanne herself doesn’t have any idea of the extent of her father’s wealth. She supports their small household with her garden and her strange affinity for growing things, and her father hoards his gold.

Speaking of Arsène Vincent...Aubert tenses as he sees the door to the pub swing wildly open. Mercier must see something in his expression, because he turns quickly to look at the door.

“Help! Help!”

Mme Laure, the barmaid, nearly drops an entire tray of glasses as Vincent barrels into her.

“Watch yourself,” she scolds, holding him at arm's length. “Where are you going in such a hurry?”

“A monstrous beast has captured my daughter!”

“Jeanne?” Laure asks, bemusedly.

“Won’t anyone help me!” Vincent yells.

“Now, now.” Laure sets her tray down and guides Vincent over to one of the barstools. “Why don’t you calm down and have a drink, dear.”

“Aren’t you listening?! It has my poor child!”

“Jeanne will be fine,” Laure says firmly, plunking a glass in front of Vincent. “She can look after herself, and she’s hardly the first to disappear into that castle.”

“It’s...What...” Vincent goggles at her. “What do you mean?”

“You’d know if you ever came into town,” Hugo Larousse says, sliding onto the barstool next to Vincent and taking a swig of Vincent’s as yet untouched drink. Laure glares at him, but Larousse just shrugs and slides the glass so it's in front of his stool instead of Vincent’s. “That garden is cursed. Anyone who picks one of the roses has to remain in the castle until the last petal falls from the stem.”

“And they’ve all come back, haven’t they?” Laure says.

“All that we know about, anyway,” Larousse says darkly. Laure rolls her eyes, planting her hands on her hips.

“Don’t be a fool, Hugo,” she scolds.

Aubert expects that Mercier will take this opportunity to ingratiate himself with Jeanne’s father. Perhaps he’ll offer sympathy, or suggest going to the castle to try and bargain with the beast. Mercier is respected, if not particularly well liked, around town, and the others in the pub would likely follow his lead. To Aubert’s surprise, Mercier doesn’t say anything. He simply watches thoughtfully as Arsène Vincent mournfully rejects Laure’s offer of another pint and wanders back out into the cold night air.

“Bad luck, isn’t it? Jeanne being captured?” Aubert ventures.

“Perhaps,” Mercier says slowly. “Perhaps not.”

—-

There is something about the feel of the life-green smoothness of a plant you have cared for with your own hands, the leaves slick and cool against your palm, something Jeanne finds she misses almost immediately. It aches, Jeanne finds, to be torn from something that nourishes you, even and perhaps especially when nothing else left behind did. She has ample food, ample leisure, and no less love, after all, but not being in her garden any more pricks at her heart. There is an exquisite ache in knowing it persists, it thrives, it flourishes, and she is not there to see it, to nourish it.

It has been two days since she arrived at this house. Food has appeared at regular intervals, there are plenty of clothes in the room she chose, all mysteriously fitting her perfectly. But, she has neither seen nor spoken to anyone, and she misses her garden fiercely.

Jeanne is a little surprised at the level of loneliness she feels. She spends most of her days alone, save for occasional chats with her father and trips to the village to do their shopping. There appears to be a wider gap between that and utter solitude than she thought. Isabeau has not reappeared, and Jeanne hasn’t seen so much as a housemaid.

She’s explored much of the castle in her time here, but rather aimlessly. She still doesn’t have a solid idea of what rooms are where, which leads her to her current difficulty. The room in which she generally finds her dinner seems to have vanished, but perhaps she simply made a wrong turn?

Jeanne sighs, retracing her footsteps.

The corridors are just starting to look familiar again when she hears something coming down a passage ahead. She quickens her step, then reconsiders and walks as carefully and quietly as she can. While the possibility of meeting someone else is exciting, she doesn’t know that this castle is entirely safe.

The hall, fortunately carpeted with a thick rug that absorbs the sound of her steps easily, tapers to a wide set of double doors. They are closed, but light streams through the tiny crack between them. Jeanne tilts her head, listening. She definitely hears something, but can’t identify what it is. Frowning, she leans closer to the door.

There’s a sloshing and clinking sound that could be dishes being washed. Jeanne’s pulse leaps in excitement. Are these possibly the mysterious invisible servants? Holding her breath and hoping that she isn’t about to witness simply a mundane dish-washing spell, Jeanne goes to push the door open. Before she can, though, she hears something that stops her in her tracks.

“Are you certain that’s what she said?” a voice asks, incredulous. Jeanne’s breath catches in her throat and she leans incrementally closer to the door.

“I’m positive,” another voice says, beleaguered.

“I don’t believe it,” the first voice protests. “She generally at least makes some effort at the start! It’s barely been two days!”

Jeanne frowns. Could they possibly be talking about her?

“Well, that is what she said. Honestly, Eulalie, a simple dish should be fine.”

“If you two are quite finished bickering about dinner,” says a third voice, “there’s someone at the door.”

Jeanne jumps back, but the door is already swinging open. To her utter astonishment, a candelabra, a chatelaine, and a teapot are staring right at her. This would not be so shocking, perhaps, did they not all have faces and the apparent ability to move about on their own.

“Oh,” Jeanne says. “Pardon me for intruding on you?” She doesn’t entirely mean to make it a question, but she’s so startled by the sudden evidence of so much magic that her voice tilts up without her conscious permission.

“Aren’t you a polite one!” the teapot coos, hopping toward her. Jeanne fights the urge to take another step back.

“Thank you?” she squeaks.

“I’m Eulalie, dear,” the teapot says.

“Jeanne,” and, beginning to recover her manners. “So nice to meet you.”

“We don’t generally let anyone see us,” the candelabra says, as Jeanne tries to work out a way to politely greet a teapot. Should she nod? Shaking hands is clearly out of the question.

“This is Albin,” the chatelaine says, indicating the candelabra by virtue of raising one of his dangling keys and pointing. “I’m Georges.”

“Nice to meet you,” Jeanne says, settling on an awkward sort of nod at the three of them.

Eulalie is beaming at her, Georges looks curious, and Albin has rapidly moved from slightly chagrined to positively excited.

“Well,” Albin says, “since she’s already seen us.”

Jeanne is not entirely sure how the tiny clock-face in the chatelaine manages to roll his eyes, but he certainly does.

“Albin, honestly,” Georges says. Albin hops over to Jeanne, gesturing to her with one flaming arm.

“Please? It’s been years since we had a proper guest for dinner.”

“Oh, all right,” Georges sighs. Albin gives a little hop of excitement and Jeanne hastily pulls the hem of her skirt out of range of the candle flame.

“If you’ll follow me,” Albin says, bowing grandly to Jeanne.

A short trip through the scrupulously neat kitchen later and Jeanne is ushered into a truly massive dining hall. The table in front of her is so long that the end is lost in shadow. She can’t see much by the light of Albin’s candles, but the elaborate stone fireplace to her right (so large she could probably stand up in it) and the dark wall of indistinguishable frescoes to her left are grander than any she has seen before.

“Won’t you take a seat?” Albin asks. Jeanne is about to ask where the chairs are when an elaborately carved high-backed chair starts hopping toward her from a patch of shadow against the wall. She manages to stifle her yelp of surprise but does tumble into the chair rather gracelessly when it slides in behind her. “Any favorite dishes?”

“Oh, I’m certain anything you’ve prepared will suffice,” Jeanne says.

“We will try to discover which you prefer,” Albin says happily, as though the prospect of such a labor is a delight. “For now, dear mademoiselle, please enjoy the evening’s entertainment.”

As he finishes speaking, a cabinet at the end of the room opens and dishes spill out. Jeanne gasps, but they don’t fall to the floor and break. Instead, they roll down the table and begin stacking themselves into elaborate towers. Before she has quite taken in this sight, platters loaded with food begin popping into place around the table. Jeanne manages to sample bits from various tasty dishes as they whirl by her, accompanied to a musical clinking from the spoons that are diving and swimming in a vast crystal punchbowl at the center of the table.

“Your friends are very...synchronized,” Jeanne complements the spoon laid neatly by her plate. It hops up and bows to her in thanks.

The dishes continue their vastly entertaining display, but Jeanne is too distracted trying to catch and eat her dinner to properly appreciate it.

Albin, rather unnervingly, is also watching her every bite with wide excited eyes.

“Oh, would you-“ Jeanne stumbles, beginning to offer him a dish and then hesitating, “can you eat?”

“Very kind of you, dear,” Albin waves an arm, candle flame flickering with the movement but not going out. “No, none of us need food, except the mistress.”

“I see.” Jeanne feels rude eating when no one else is, but Albin’s face falls when she puts down her silverware so she hastily picks it up again. “Everything is so delicious,” she compliments. Albin beams. Georges comes swishing out from the kitchen and hops up on the table next to Albin. Now they’re both simply watching Jeanne eat. She sets her fork down. “So,” she says, raising her voice slightly as the dishes in the centre of the table stack themselves into an unnervingly tall replica of the castle’s north tower, “do you do this often?”

“We haven’t gotten to entertain in ages,” Albin sighs. Jeanne frowns slightly.

“Is the enchantment meant to be a secret? I won’t tell anyone if it is,” she adds hastily.

“Not precisely,” Georges says, glancing at the dishes over his shoulder and shaking his watch-face head slightly. The plates spring into another formation. “The dishes seem to have no end of routines they’ve invented. Boredom mostly.”

“We don’t have much to do,” Albin explains.

“So were you all...” Jeanne trails off, unsure suddenly if inquiring as to their humanity is rude. Napkins in heavy silver napkin rings emblazoned with a crest of some kind sashay past Jeanne and start swishing out a gavotte.

“Servants, mostly,” Georges says, pulling Jeanne’s attention back. “When the castle was cursed, everyone inside it at the time was transformed.”

“I’m sorry, that must have been awful.”

“Well I certainly miss being able to see more than twenty centimeters off the ground,” Georges replies crisply. “Other than that it’s not so bad, though. We have others to share our lot, which always lightens an unpleasant burden.”

His words are punctuated by the vases of flowers congregated in a line behind him all bursting into bloom at once and shedding a rainbow of petals straight up into the air. Jeanne jumps in her seat, but Albin and Georges seem completely unphased. The napkins twirl happily through the flower petals, not missing a beat.

“It’s a bit more interesting when we have a guest in the castle,” Albin says. “We weren’t sure how strangers would react to the enchantment, so at first we all stayed hidden. Then,” he makes a movement Jeanne thinks is meant to be a shrug, “it became habit.”

A circular curtain slowly retracts up into the ceiling, revealing a massive chandelier that blazes into light and illuminates the dining room. Jeanne blinks and looks around, startled. The room is much cheerier with the lights and flowers and brightly patterned china dancing on the table, but she can’t help but notice that the decor of the room itself is rather somber.

“And a bit of a stimulating challenge for us,” Georges says. “Keeping the castle clean, preparing meals, making sure there are enough clothes and jewelry and things for the guests, all while staying out of sight. As you can see, some of us,” he shoots a pointed look at one napkin which has another napkin clasped in a dramatic dip, “have reacted rather poorly to the lack of attention.”

“It’s rather lonely, though,” Jeanne says sympathetically, “isn’t it?”

“Well, we do have each other,” Albin says, putting the arm around Georges. Jeanne smiles at them. It’s nice to talk to someone other than herself.

“Listen to us, going on about our troubles,” Georges says briskly. “Albin, why don’t we give her a tour of the palace? I’m sure Mademoiselle Sulk hasn’t bothered.” Georges doesn’t look to Jeanne for confirmation of this fact, so she’s spared the dilemma of choosing between the polite lie and the unvarnished truth. “And you lot,” Georges says to the dishes, “go see Eulalie. You know how she gets when everyone isn’t properly washed and put away.”

This seems to signal some sort of finale. The dishes construct a sort of pair of curtains, parting and whirling into a backdrop just as the last napkin whisks off the table and out of sight. The spoons, which have hopped their way up onto the chandelier somehow, all perform a synchronized dive into the punch bowl, which is simultaneously being filled by a fountain of champagne pouring from the necks of six bottles. Jeanne applauds politely and Albin beams and bows.

“The champagne was my idea,” he says.

“Of course it was,” Georges mutters, shaking his head fondly.

A serving cart speeds over to the side of the table, and the dishes and silverware stack themselves on it neatly.

“Dinner was delicious,” Jeanne says, sincerely, “and vastly entertaining.” She could swear several of the dishes actually sparkle in delight.

“So,” Georges says, once they’ve gathered in a little group in the entry hall. Albin and Georges are up on the fourth stair, Jeanne is waiting politely for their tour to begin, and Eulalie is insisting Jeanne take along a cup of tea.

“Stop wiggling, Denis,” Eulalie says, exasperated. This doesn’t have much of an effect on the teacup (Jeanne can’t bring herself to drink out of him but holds him gently on her palm), but Georges’ quelling glare gets him to settle down. Jeanne breathes a sigh of relief. She’s terribly afraid of accidentally breaking him.

“We haven’t given a formal tour in twelve years, so forgive us if we’re a little rusty,” Georges continues. “Of course, we can give you an abbreviated tour, if that’s what you’d prefer.”

They all look at Jeanne, and she correctly guesses that they’re hoping she’ll ask for the full tour.

“Oh, show me everything,” she says, smiling encouragingly at Albin, who has started to bounce a little in excitement.

—-

They start in the morning room on the easternmost side of the manor. It’s positively cheerful compared to the heavy formality of the dining room and entrance hall, with wallpaper covered in dainty violets and a small upright piano surrounded by elegant chairs.

“Horrifically uncomfortable,” Georges says, indicating the chairs, “but fortunately they’re only for company.”

They continue clockwise through the rooms off the entrance hall, most of which Jeanne has never seen. The kitchen and dining room are peered into briefly, the ballroom with its elaborately painted ceiling and high marble columns lingered over, and a second, nearly identical, drawing room is the sight of a brief tussle between Eulalie, Denis, and bedtime. Jeanne glances around, hoping that the fracas hasn’t alerted Isabeau to their presence, but the hall is empty.

Albin, Georges, and Jeanne continue up the stairs alone.

“None of the bedrooms are very interesting,” Georges says, floating down a long hall. It splits off into a second hall, but Georges goes straight past it. Jeanne glances down the hall, curious. Albin clears his throat behind her and she jumps.

“My apologies—” she starts, but Albin waves an arm.

“Of course you’re curious about the place you’re living. It’s natural. That was the portrait gallery, but they’ve all been either taken down or covered up.”

“Oh,” Jeanne says, flushing. “Of course.”

“Music room,” Georges calls from farther along the passage, and Jeanne and Albin hurry to catch up to him.

There’s a second grand piano here, although it’s smaller than the one down in the ballroom. There is also a harp, which begins playing an elaborate tune as soon as they set foot inside. A violin hops up out of its case and strikes up an accompaniment, and the piano grudgingly joins in a few bars (and several jabs from the violin bow) later.

Jeanne claps after the impromptu performance, running a hand down the spine of the harp, which quivers happily. She also pats the piano and violin in thanks. They all (somehow) contrive to bow and Jeanne gives them another round of applause for good measure. The harp tries to start up an encore, but Georges shoots it a quelling look and it tapers into silence with a final twang.

“We should go out on the walk while there’s still enough light to see the fountain court,” he says.

The walk, an open-air balcony projecting out over the courtyard below, gives them a lovely, if bare, view. Jeanne frowns down at the garden, but quickly clears her expression and asks a few polite questions about the large fountain and the neat hedges surrounding it before Georges or Albin can notice anything amiss. With all the disadvantages they have, the house is astonishingly well maintained. It feels a little spoiled and selfish to complain about the gardens not suiting her precisely when there’s so much more to the house.

“Can you see the sea from here?” Jeanne asks.

“No, not from this side of the house. There’s a path that goes down to the shore that isn’t far from the terrace,” Georges says. Jeanne nods with polite interest.

Blinking as her eyes readjust to the dimness inside, Jeanne turns toward the west wing and nearly walks directly into a closed set of doors. She frowns slightly, glancing over at Albin and Georges. Every other door she’s encountered in the palace has swung open automatically, to the extent that she’s started apologizing whenever she needs to go down a hall as every room on the way tries to welcome her.

Albin hops between her and the doors, waving his arms.

“Oh, nothing to see over here. Just dust and disrepair!”

“Certainly,” Jeanne says slowly. She might believe him, if it weren’t for the fact that Georges is very clearly shooting him a ’stop being so obvious, you fool’ look. Still, she’s a polite person, and a guest here. She takes a step back from the doors, holding up her hands. “I was merely startled. We can continue past, if you like.”

The hair on the back of Jeanne’s neck prickles as a low growl emanates from behind her. She turns slowly, cautious, but Isabeau doesn’t look poised for attack like she half-expected. Instead, Isabeau is lounging against a wall. She’s mostly in shadow, but her sheer bulk would identify her even if Jeanne hadn’t been half-dreading this meeting.

“Well, well, well,” Isabeau drawls. “Nosing about, are we?”

“Isabeau,” Albin says, sounding exasperated. Jeanne, still wary, doesn’t take her eyes off Isabeau to look, although she hears the metallic clanks as Albin hops up next to her. “We were just leaving.”

“Were you,” Isabeau steps forward slightly, into a shaft of light. Jeanne fights to retain her composure. Logically, she knows that no one has ever been hurt by ‘The Beast,’ as Isabeau is known around town, but it’s hard to fight against the animal instinct to flee from a much larger and more dangerous creature than she has ever encountered before. Isabeau has not hurt anyone, but she could. Easily.

“I’ll just go back to my room,” Jeanne says, her instinct telling her to placate, to de-escalate the situation.

“Like father, like daughter, I suppose,” Isabeau says, just as Jeanne draws level with her. Jeanne looks at her calmly, and doesn’t ask what she means.

“Excuse me,” Jeanne says politely, brushing by. Isabeau snarls after her, but Jeanne doesn’t flinch.

“Stay away from the west wing!” she growls. Jeanne pauses, glancing over her shoulder.

“Of course,” she says blandly. “I wouldn’t want to be rude.”

With this parting shot, she returns to her room.

—-

“Pleased with yourself?”

Isabeau hates how Georges, even when he literally comes up to her ankle, manages to make her feel so small.

“You two shouldn’t be bringing her over here,” she snaps, trying to push the blame off. It sits uncomfortably on her shoulders.

“Yes, well, we wouldn’t need to show her around if you weren’t the worst host in the entire kingdom,” Georges says coolly. Albin glances between them, frowning.

“No harm done,” he says. “Jeanne is nice.”

“Which you’ve learned in the, what, ten minutes you’ve known her?” Isabeau asks, incredulity clear in her tone.

“I like her, too,” Georges says, which sets Isabeau back, a little. Albin likes nearly everyone, but Georges is much harder to please. She tries a different strategy.

“Whether she’s pleasant to be around or not is not my concern. This wing is closed off for a reason.”

“We were hardly about to open the door for her,” Georges scoffs.

“Well, why not?” Albin asks quietly. Both Isabeau and Georges gape at him. “I think she could be the one.”

Isabeau feels, suddenly, as if she’s been submerged in ice-water.

“What?” she asks, hoarsely.

“Well,” Albin perks up, eager to explain his reasoning. Isabeau grows immeasurably more queasy. “First of all, she knows so much about enchantments. I think she’s got some magic herself, and Eulalie agrees with me.”

“Eulalie thinks every girl that comes into this castle is the one,” Isabeau gripes. Albin ignores the interruption.

“She figured out about us, didn’t she? That shows cleverness. And she didn’t panic, or treat us strangely.”

“Just because she knows about magic doesn’t mean she can break the spell,” Georges says, much more gently than Isabeau would have.

“I know that,” Albin says, waving his hands so the flames dance back and forth. “I’m not asking you to make your addresses to her, or anything of that sort. Just get to know her a little.”

“Because that ended so well all the other times,” Isabeau says flatly. Albin deflates a little.

“You could at least try,” he says quietly.

“I’ll begin my attempts immediately,” Isabeau sneers, striding past him and unlocking the door to the west wing. She slams it behind her, so hard that it shudders on its hinges.

The heavy, dusty velvet curtains that hang over all the windows in the first two rooms of this wing shut out all light, but Isabeau knows her way in the dark. She’s the only one who comes here; even Eulalie has given up trying to bring cheer or cleanliness into this part of the house. It’s a compromise, of sorts. Isabeau has a sanctuary where she can be completely alone, and the others have the run of the rest of the house and can manage it as they like.

Isabeau opens the door to the third room, throwing herself heavily into the massive chair. The room is largely bare other than this and an eternally cold fireplace. There’s just a small, delicately carved table, a ridiculously baroque mirror covered with a black sheet, and an open balcony. The portraits on the walls, those that neither brute strength nor magic could remove, are all slashed to ribbons. It’s dusty, and dismal even when the sun is streaming in from outside, and yet the worst part of it is also the most beautiful.

A single rose blooms under a bell jar on the little table. It is suspended, held captive in the jar by some mysterious force. A few petals have fallen from it, settling on the table below.

Isabeau doesn’t look at it. She’s stared at it so long since it appeared, has seen so many roses wilt and die, that she could sketch it from memory, even with claws. It’s beautiful, but unutterably painful to look at. She can’t bear to have anyone else see it, not even Albin and Georges. At least having it in here with her, where no one else goes, at least she has some sort of knowledge and control over this whole thing. At least there’s something about this entire nightmare that she can choose.

Trying to avoid the rose for a little longer, Isabeau strides over to the mirror and pulls the cloth off. There’s always that first sickening moment, when she sees herself again. It’s not like she can ever forget, but the visual reminder is too much for her some days. Most days.

“Show me the girl,” she snaps, still on edge from their confrontation. She calms a little, seeing Jeanne back in her room. She’s propped up on the window seat, re-reading the one book she brought with her. It’s probably unfair of Isabeau, that she hasn’t let Jeanne send for her things, or shown her around the house, or mentioned the library. She pushes away the guilt. The others have been taking care of her, clearly. She’s being fed and clothed, what more does she need?

Isabeau drops the cloth back over the mirror, flinging herself into the chair again. That’s the only thing of value she really inherited from her parents, furniture so old and sturdy it can support the massive animal that she’s become.

“It’s hopeless,” Isabeau mumbles, glaring at the rose. She hates roses, and she hates the whimpering fairy tale heiresses that forget to shut doors and complain about the draft, that care less for her rudeness than her ill fated looks, that count on trembling fingers the days until their princes or fathers or lords come to ransom them back like briefly-pawned pieces of jewelry. At least Jeanne doesn’t cry all the time. Eulalie is absolutely insufferable when they’re stuck with a cryer.

When the curse first descended over the manor, Isabeau had been too stunned to take much in. She managed to bear the odd sight of the entirety of the staff transformed into candlesticks, feather dusters, teapots, and the like. She managed to pull herself together enough to help Georges calm everyone down, to get the house into some sort of order, to stumble up the stairs to her bedchamber and close the door quietly behind her. It wasn’t until she looked in that hideous, hateful mirror that her composure cracked cleanly in two. She stared at the monstrous wreck her once-beautiful features had transformed into, and she started to laugh.

It was just so absurd. So unexpected. And yet, so entirely in keeping with the rest of her life. There wasn’t a single gift her mother ever gave her that wasn’t poisoned; why should her looks be any different?

Isabeau had thought, with both her parents dead, that she would finally be free. And yet, after only a few glorious months she was saddled with the responsibility of an entire castle, trapped in a way that simple inheritance had barely grazed the surface of. This curse can’t be capably managed by Albin and Georges, while Isabeau expertly dodges her responsibilities and serious conversations. The curse depends entirely on her.

“You have become a petulant child too long indulged by life.” The words come as clearly and as sharply to her memory as they did twelve years ago. “You must learn to open your heart to others, or remain cut off from love forever.”

Even after the initial shock of the transformation faded, she hadn’t really understood the curse until the first rose. She was yanked suddenly from the dining room out into the moonlit garden. She had still been blinking in surprise when the screaming started. The man tried to flee from her, but his feet appeared to be stuck to the earth by some invisible force.

Whoever tries to take one of the roses from the garden is trapped in the manor until the final petal falls from the rose and it dies.

Isabeau has learned the rules more specifically from her long experimentation with this curse, and the aid of some of the nastier, larger, and dustier books that she inherited. The person who picks the rose can be replaced by someone of their bloodline. The garden, even when neglected, puts out a prodigious amount of roses. The amount of people who have fallen into the trap seems to suggest some kind of glamour, some power the roses have to lure unsuspecting people in. There have been many, many people over the years.

She has from their arrival until the last petal falls from the rose to fall in love with them, and be loved in return.

She tries. Not particularly for her own sake. In her experience, anyone who picks a clearly enchanted rose either is too greedy for their own good or too foolish. But she tries for Albin, for Georges, for the others.

The men are worse, marginally. For one, they always try to fight her. It’s terribly irritating, as Isabeau is a good three to four times stronger than the average man, and it’s difficult to subdue them without actually injuring them. For another, not even the most optimistic of the spoons could envision Isabeau actually marrying a man, let alone falling in love with one.

In a different way, though, the women are just as bad. Most of them cry, which is never pleasant and sends Albin into absolute spins. Eulalie seems to continually expect that maybe this time, Isabeau will miraculously gain tact and the ability to offer comfort, and she leaves cup after cup of tea in the hopes that Isabeau will offer one to the girl. Isabeau moved the mirror and the rose into the remote west wing and forbade the others from entering partly because she was utterly done with Eulalie’s children chirping “Tea is going cold,” at her.

Once they stop crying and start walking resignedly around the manor and wasting a great deal of firewood by insisting on sitting in different rooms every day, Isabeau generally attempts at least one or two conversations. She used to be considered almost scandalously charming, and it’s a bit depressing how rapidly it becomes clear that most of that was down to her looks.

She just doesn’t have the patience. In some ways, she’s happier like this than she was before. She can sit in her gloomy room, with her view edged by gargoyles and hideous decorative stone urns, and be left alone with her thoughts. Not particularly pleasant thoughts, it must be admitted, but at least she doesn’t need to wear ball gowns and dance with clumsy men who step on her toes. At least she doesn’t have to swallow down anger, or endure a lecture from her mother about how any number of things she enjoys are unladylike.

The others are trapped with her, though. Albin has been a candlestick for twelve years, Georges a bundle of keys, and it is utterly, utterly unfair that the only thing that can free them, can free any of the castle inhabitants, is Isabeau being lovable.

She may be a lot of things, but self-deluding isn’t one of them. It’s hopeless.

—-

Nigh on winter is not the best time to rehabilitate a garden, but Jeanne works with what she has. And, after all, it’s an enchanted garden. Or, it was.

“How did it get this bad,” Jeanne mutters, digging her trowel into the earth for a particularly stubborn weed. Fortunately, the garden shed escaped the curse that enveloped the castle and all the tools are completely ordinary. She’s still adjusting to drinking out of teacups that giggle and squirm and forks that slide out of the way when she tries to use them for the incorrect course at mealtimes, she doesn’t particularly want to deal with that in the garden as well.

The one thing that can be said for the garden is that the bones of it are neat and well-maintained. The edges of the beds need a fresh coat of paint, the shed will hold a few more seasons but probably needs a new roof before too long, and the massive wall surrounding the manor is crumbling in places, but none of these are insurmountable obstacles. The feather dusters helped her rake up and burn the dead leaves, giggling whenever they inadvertently tumbled into their own little piles. The garden isn’t too overgrown. There are a fair amount of weeds, but it’s mostly bare dirt that’s starting to grow harder the colder it gets.

Jeanne hadn’t noticed until she began, although in retrospect she probably should have assumed, the huge amount and variety of rosebushes that populate the garden. There’s a small orchard and some wide, full-sun beds that probably held decorative flowers, but all along the walls and trellises of the garden are roses.

At this point, two weeks in? Three weeks? She’s managed to pluck some more details of the curse from conversations with Albin. She knows the basics, everyone in town does, but the transformed servants and the falling of the rose petals came as a surprise. She had always assumed people just eventually escaped from the castle, or were rescued, or perhaps bribed their way out. Albin gets oddly cagey if she tries to get any specifics out of him, and Georges is far too savvy to be worked for clues, so she’s left with a few key pieces missing from her understanding of the puzzle.

“Where should we put this?” Denis asks. Jeanne looks down at him and suppresses a laugh. Denis and Euphrasie, the youngest and most playful of Eulalie’s children, have filled themselves up with dirt from the pile she’s painstakingly dug loose.

“We’re going to need it, once the bulbs are in the ground,” she says, smiling at them.

“Can we pour it on?” Euphrasie asks excitedly.

“Yes,” Jeanne says, “but if your mother catches you, say I scolded you and told you to go back inside.”

“Will do,” Denis grins.

With the teacups helping, planting speeds by. What she had planned to last the entire afternoon only takes a few hours, and Jeanne is left with nothing to do.

Denis and Euphrasie have gone to wash up, and Georges and Albin are busy all day with a particularly tricky bit of spell-work that they’re creating to repair a leak in the roof. Jeanne doesn’t want to bother them, and she’s no use at anything but growing magic. She sighs, resigning herself to a fifth re-read of M. Comtois’ book as she walks up the stairs. At the first landing, though, she pauses.

The west wing.

She tries to think of the last time she saw Isabeau. She definitely spotted her shadow on the lawn, peering out of the house disapprovingly at Jeanne in the gardens. Jeanne bites her lip, thinking, debating. This might be her only chance to look into the west wing, to see what’s hidden there. She doesn’t mean to pry into things that don’t concern her, but the curse does concern her. Isn’t it fair for her to try and find out a bit more about how it functions, now that she’s caught up in it as well? Besides, it’s midday. Surely Isabeau is still outside?

Taking a deep breath, Jeanne tries the handle. Locked. Focusing her magic, she can almost feel the residual hum still deep in the veins of the wooden doors, but it’s not enough on its own. She gnaws on her lip, thinking. She has her hair tightly pinned up for working in the garden, and can get a pin loose without much trouble. It’s not much, and Jeanne is not practiced at lock-picking, but it’s enough to give her a gap to press against, a way in. She focuses on the minute clicking of the lock, the feel of the door against her hand, and is satisfied when it clicks open after a few moments’ effort.

The door is very heavy, and closes much more quickly than she had intended as the knob slips out of her grasp. Jeanne, heart in her throat, wraps a hand around the side of the door. Better to scrape her knuckles than to risk the door banging closed.

She manages to get into the room without further incident, though, and once she expects the weight of the door, she can keep hold of it long enough to close it quietly.

It’s completely dark in the west wing, the only source of light the tiny gap at the bottom of the door. She feels her way along the walls until she touches something soft and velvety, pulling the curtain aside to reveal a grimy window. This, at least, allows her to see enough to make her way through the room without tripping. The next room is just as dark, but she sees the outline of a door dimly. She strides over to the door, as quickly and carefully as she can. There is almost no furniture in these rooms, other than the dark shapes looming on the edges, which makes the going easier.

This final door opens easily, and silently. The room in front of her is lit by an open balcony. Frowning, she glances around. She isn’t entirely sure what she expected. A different portrait gallery, perhaps? Smashed and shattered furniture? A secret library of occult spellbooks? Instead, there’s just a large chair, and a balcony, and something tall and narrow in the corner that’s been covered by a sheet.

A gleam catches Jeanne’s eye, and she looks at the small table by the balcony more closely. There is something on it, after all. It’s on the edge of the table, and at first the sun was too bright for her to see it properly. As her eyes adjust, she can at last discern what it is.

A rose.

Jeanne walks closer, hesitant and oddly nervous. The presence of a rose should not be surprising, this whole curse is bound up in them, after all, but it still somehow makes her uneasy. Could this be the same rose? The one her father took, the one that transported them back to the garden, the one that vanished, somehow, in chaos of her father leaving and Jeanne staying? It’s difficult to tell in the sunlight, but she is fairly certain it’s glowing slightly, red and pulsing. Slowly, she reaches out a hand and removes the bell jar, setting it gently on the stone floor. The rose hovers in the same spot, clearly bound there by some enchantment. Instinctively, Jeanne starts to reach for it, then jerks her hand back. Last time, touching the rose brought her here. Who knows what it might do if she touches it again?

Jeanne is just beginning to turn, to examine the rest of the room more closely, when a shadow falls over her. She clenches her jaw, dread curdling in her stomach.

“Hello,” she tries cautiously, “I was just-”

Isabeau strides past her, picking the bell jar up from the ground and placing it gently back over the rose. Jeanne backs up as Isabeau places herself between her and the table.

“I wouldn’t want to be rude,” Isabeau says calmly, “but get the fuck out of my rooms.”

“I didn’t mean-” Jeanne tries. Isabeau snorts derisively, pushing past her to fling herself down into the chair.

“Of course you didn’t. Your sort never do.”

“What do you mean by that?” Jeanne asks, more curious than offended.

“Ladies,” Isabeau says, the word laden with scorn. “You take what isn’t yours, fling my hospitality back in my face, and can never leave well enough alone.”

“That isn’t precisely fair,” Jeanne says, still keeping her voice very even. “Whatever this curse is, it involves me too.”

Isabeau clenches a hand, claws scraping loudly along the wooden chair arm.

“Why can’t you just wait out your time like the rest of them,” Isabeau bites out. “Leave me and my things alone; the rest of the castle is yours.”

“I just want some answers,” Jeanne protests. A low grumbling starts in Isabeau’s chest, her fur practically standing on end.

“Get. Out.”

Jeanne sighs. She clearly isn’t going to gain any ground by staying and badgering Isabeau. So much for the west wing.

She’s nearly back to the first room when Albin comes hopping in, looking positively frantic.

“We need to go,” he says to Jeanne, “now, before she-”

“Too late for that,” Jeanne says quietly, letting Albin herd her out onto the staircase. Albin slumps a little, but doesn’t stop beckoning her onward until they’re all the way on the other side of the castle, safely shut away in Jeanne’s room.

“What happened?” the dresser, Dominique, asks excitedly. Albin also looks to Jeanne for an explanation, a great deal more nervously.

“It was my fault,” Jeanne says, collapsing backward on the bed with a sigh. “I shouldn’t have gone in the west wing.”

Dominique gasps, looking positively delighted. “Ooooh. Did Isabeau find you?”

Albin lets out a moan of distress. Jeanne turns on her side to look at him.

“She didn’t seem upset,” Jeanne says bracingly. “Merely vexed by my intrusion.” A terrific splintering crash echoes in the distance, and Albin heaves a sigh. Jeanne winces. “I’m sorry.”

The three of them sit in silence for a few moments, listening to the clamor of furniture breaking in the west wing. The door to Jeanne’s room bursts open to admit an irritable Georges, an anxious Eulalie, and three teacups (Jeanne isn’t entirely sure which are which, still).

“I apologize for the noise, Jeanne,” Georges starts, then catches sight of Albin’s face. Albin quickly tries to marshal an expression of indifference, but it’s too late. “What happened?” Georges barks out.

“I went into the west wing,” Jeanne says apologetically. It was really foolish of her to intrude this way, after being warned, and now she’s upset all the servants. Eulalie gasps at Jeanne’s disclosure, and one of her children gives a little hop of excitement. That’ll be Euphrasie, then. “I’m sorry,” Jeanne says, sitting up to look earnestly at Georges. “Truly I am. I know it doesn’t excuse my behavior, but I wanted to see if I could find anything to help break the curse.”

Georges sighs, hopping up onto the bed. “Clear out, the rest of you,” he scolds. “Albin, you too.”

Albin looks rather thrilled to be anywhere other than here at the moment, so he helps Eulalie herd the children back out into the hall. Jeanne looks at Georges, who is frowning thoughtfully after them.

“Albin has been talking, hasn’t he?”

“Well,” Jeanne hedges, “he may have explained a few things. But Georges, I’m caught up in this curse with the rest of you, aren’t I? Isn’t it fair for me to want to know what’s going on?”

“Probably,” Georges says quietly. “Keep in mind, though, the rest of us have been here for twelve years. You’ve been here a few weeks, and will be back home three months from now.”

“But if I can help,” Jeanne protests, “I want to try.” Georges shakes his head sadly.

“I’m sorry, Jeanne. I just don’t think you can. Better to keep out of it, and out of her way, as much as possible.”

—-

It’s unpleasant, being confined to the west wing. Isabeau rarely stays there, even when there are strangers in the manor. After the confrontation with Jeanne, she makes it three whole days before she feels as if she might go mad if she stays inside any longer.

Jeanne is easily avoided, at least. She’s in the front garden most of the time, but Isabeau always double checks the mirror to make sure before she ventures out. There’s a passage leading over to the servants’ stair and out directly onto the sea path. It’s really too narrow for Isabeau in her current form, but putting up with a few minutes of claustrophobia is worth the certain knowledge that she won’t encounter anyone.

Isabeau takes a deep breath as she emerges, letting the sea air wash into her lungs. It clears her head, which feels foggy and cobwebbed from spending so long in her gloomy set of rooms. She walks down to the end of the path, stopping on the narrow wooden dock. She contemplates going for a swim. It’s cold out, but her fur is thick and she’s swum in winter before. She unhooks her cape and tunic, the cobbled together outfit that she wears most days. Dominique complains that she looks utterly tragic, and constantly threatens to make her something ‘suitable’ to wear, but Isabeau has thus far forbade it. She was always one to choose comfort over aesthetics, and now even more so than ever. What’s the point of a beautiful dress if it doesn’t get you anything?

Isabeau strides to the edge of the dock and dives in, water crashing and then going silent around her ears. The momentum from the jump sends her deep, and she paddles up for air as the icy cold from the water burrows down beneath her fur. She breaks the surface of the water with a gasp, pawing her mane away from her eyes in irritation. She doesn’t particularly miss hairpins, but she does miss the ability to manage her hair so easily, to keep it off her face and out of her eyes.

The manor house and the cliff it’s perched on throw part of the little cove into shade, but Isabeau swims fast and far enough to easily outstrip the shadow. She surfaces on a pebbly beach on the opposite side of the cove. Walking, it’s about two miles along the strand to get back to the manor, but the road is heavily curved. It’s not really that far, as the crow flies, especially as Isabeau both runs and swims very fast. Still, it’s something.

Not for the first time, Isabeau wonders what would happen if she simply left. Would the curse follow her? Would she turn back into a human if she got far enough away from the manor? Or, alternately, would the others transform, should she be absent for long enough?

It’s a tempting idea, running away. She could live in the forest on fish and rabbits. Even the wind and rain would be more pleasant than having interfering busybodies digging up her garden and poking through her things.

It’s a tempting idea, but the fear of the curse backfiring somehow always stops her. She’s not so worried about herself, but the vengeful enchantress who cursed her clearly had no qualms about involving innocent bystanders so long as her twisted idea of justice was served. Curses are tricky things, and Isabeau would rather be trapped in this form, in this place, than to have Albin and Georges and the others wink out of existence because she has some silly ideas about freedom.

Isabeau slinks back up the sea path, the wind blowing her salt-encrusted fur into fantastic knots and whorls. She’ll have to wash it. Isabeau grimaces, pulling her cloak tighter around her body. If she goes in through the kitchens, Eulalie will certainly heat some water for a bath for her. Eulalie will also scold, though, and pester her about talking to Jeanne. Instead, Isabeau creeps down the corridors until she spots Georges.

“Look what the cat dragged in,” Georges says drily.

“Amusing as always,” Isabeau grumbles. Thank goodness Georges knows as much spell-work as he does. Isabeau has no idea how they’d manage this mausoleum without him.

“Are you expecting me to sort that mess,” he says, looking Isabeau up and down.

“Please,” Isabeau says with a sigh.

She doesn’t relax fully until they’re up in the north tower. It’s technically more accessible than the west wing (although the locked door didn’t keep Jeanne out particularly well, for that matter), but it’s high up and remote and requires a lot of climbing. Georges insists on being carried, which Isabeau does without protest.

At the top of the tower is a small room. It’s sparse, but the bed, chair, and clawfoot bathtub are really all she needs, and the fireplace keeps it warm during even the coldest months.

Georges mutters a spell and traces out a complicated sigil on the floor and the tub starts to fill with steaming water. He settles himself in the chair and Isabeau sighs as she climbs into the bathtub.

“It’s hardly fair to interrogate me while I’m vulnerable.”

“You’ve never been vulnerable a day in your life.”

“Untrue,” Isabeau props her chin on the edge of the bath. “I’m sensitive.”

Georges snorts. “So. When are you going to cease sulking around the west wing and fulfill your obligations as a host?”

“Perhaps,” Isabeau says thoughtfully, “after the last petal falls from the rose.”

“Very amusing.”

“I try.”

“You could simply apologize, you know,” Georges says quietly. “Jeanne is a kind person, unlike you. She won’t hold the massive childish tantrum you’ve been throwing against you.”

“What’s the point?” Isabeau grumbles.

“Albin thinks she could be the one.”

“Albin thinks every girl is the one.”

Georges doesn’t say anything for a while, letting Isabeau scrub the salt from her fur and get halfway through attacking it with a detangling comb before he speaks.

“I don’t know, she does like that author you’re always reading.”

Isabeau pauses, one arm extended so she can comb through a particularly nasty snarl on her wrist.

“Madame d’Aulnoy?”

“Yes. Haven’t you seen that book she’s always reading? Fairy Tales, I think it’s called.”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” Isabeau says, carefully not looking at Georges. “Lots of people like her.”

“Just thought I’d mention it,” Georges says. Isabeau growls.

“Tell Albin to stop snooping through Jeanne’s things for evidence.”

“I’m not your messenger boy. Tell him yourself.”

Georges sweeps off, leaving Isabeau with rapidly cooling bathwater and a sense of vague unease.

—-

When Jeanne was a child, her magic was wilder. Burying her hands in the earth like she wants to do, needs to do sometimes, would lead to such a massive profusion of flowers that the garden would be nearly overrun. Her father, never particularly patient with anything except his own work, would get irritated easily with noise or disruption in the house, but the garden was Jeanne’s domain. She could be messy there, and utterly herself.

If it was hers to run wild in, though, it also became her responsibility to keep it healthy, and thriving. Through painstaking trial and error, she learned how to control her magic. She became practiced at the slow careful effort it takes to coax unseen root vegetables into fullness, at the tingling feeling of mentally running along tree branches to give budding fruit the gentlest of nudges.

The castle garden is largely barren when she arrives, but it quickly reminds her of those early days when she had less control. Things grow more easily and faster here than they do at home, but the plants are also less easy to predict and control. The roses in particular shy away from her magic, any issues with them need to be teased out slowly and gently, like detangling a skein of golden thread.

Jeanne has her eyes closed and is leaning back against an apple tree, trying to sort out if the lack of fruit is due to the season or something else, when she hears a tiny coughing noise. She blinks slowly into awareness of the outside world, slightly disoriented at first. A small silver teaspoon is standing by one of her boots.

“Hello, Henri,” she says, smiling at Albin and Georges’ ward.

“Hi Jeanne,” he says, grinning at her. “Sorry to bother you, but Mme Eulalie sent me out to fetch you.”

“Oh,” Jeanne tries not to frown. Eulalie is kind, but she’s also incredibly interfering. Jeanne was rather keen on staying in the garden all afternoon. No point in putting Henri in the middle, though, so she gets to her feet. She bends down, holding out a hand for Henri to hop up on. “Coming back in as well?”

“Yes, thanks,” he says politely. “Denis and I have almost talked the plates into teaching us their routine, I think.”

Henri chatters about the various inhabitants of the house as Jeanne makes her way inside and down to the kitchen. It’s busy, as usual. Jeanne has told Eulalie over and over that she doesn’t need elaborate gourmet meals (with varying entertainment by the flatware and china), but it has utterly failed to sink in.

“You wanted to see me?” Jeanne asks, as Henri hops off to find Denis.

“Oh, just wanted to make sure you had time to get ready for tea.”

“Right.” Jeanne glances at the kitchen clock. “Tea isn’t for over an hour.”

“Exactly,” Eulalie says. Her tone seems to imply something, but Jeanne can’t seem to suss out what it is.

“I’ll go get ready, then,” she says, figuring it’s better to just agree for now and work out the consequences later. Maybe she can track down Georges. He’s blunt enough to just tell her what’s going on.

Jeanne wanders out to the main staircase, not in any particular hurry. She generally takes tea in whatever state she’s gotten into from the garden, with only a quick wash beforehand. She has no idea what one could even do to make getting ready take an hour.

Georges is nowhere to be found, but she manages to rumble Albin coming out of a room on the upper landing.

“Are you alright?” Jeanne asks. He looks rather cornered.

“Fine, just fine,” he says, looking about wildly.

“What’s wrong?”

“Oh, nothing.” Albin sighs, slumping a little. “Have you talked to Eulalie?”

“Sort of,” Jeanne says slowly. “She just said something about tea.”

Albin looks positively glum at this. “Oh.”

“What’s all this about?” Jeanne asks, dropping down to sit next to him.

“Well,” Albin hedges, “it’s just tea, after all.”

“Does that mean I can go back into the garden?” Jeanne asks, trying not to sound too eager. Albin sighs, looking rather as if he’d like to escape into the garden himself.

“Jeanne?” Georges calls from below. Albin jumps, nearly setting Jeanne’s skirt on fire.

“Up here,” she calls, too busy jerking her skirt out of harm’s way to notice Albin is making frantic shushing motions.

“There you are,” Georges says looking at Jeanne. He narrows his eyes at Albin. “You.”

“It wasn’t my idea!” Albin exclaims.

“But you’ve gone along with it, haven’t you?”

“Will someone tell me what’s going on?” Jeanne breaks in, exasperated.

“That’s what I thought,” Georges says triumphantly.

“I was about to tell her!” Albin says.

“You weren’t.” Georges states flatly. “Now go away, I need to talk to Jeanne.”

Albin hops off speedily enough, tossing a whispered “Sorry, Jeanne,” on the way back down the stairs.

Georges waits a moment, looking at Jeanne, who raises an eyebrow.

“Eulalie’s gotten Isabeau to agree to come to tea,” he says bluntly. Jeanne is suddenly rather glad she’s sitting down.

“What? Why?” she asks. The question is possibly a little rude, but she hasn’t seen Isabeau since their confrontation in the west wing and she doesn’t particularly want to change that any time soon.

“It’s a bit of a heavy-handed approach,” Georges says with a pinched expression. “Not necessarily one I would choose. I gather I wasn’t meant to find out until afterwards.”

“I don’t think Isabeau likes me very much,” Jeanne tries. It’s true, and probably safer than ‘I have no interest in getting to know Isabeau any better than I already do.’

“Well, it’s not only up to her,” he says, rather ambiguously in Jeanne’s opinion. “Just,” Georges sighs, “just give her a chance, would you?”

Jeanne’s eyebrows shoot up. “I thought this wasn’t your approach?”

“Yes, well. It really would improve things for everyone if you two got on a little better, wouldn’t it?”

“Is this anything to do with the curse?” Jeanne says, watching Georges’ face closely. It’s a very small face, though, and if any flicker of emotion crosses it Jeanne can’t see it.

“Just go get ready,” Georges says. He’s gone before Jeanne can think of another question to ask.

Back in her room, Jeanne takes in her appearance with a sigh. A good wash will fix the dirt caked under her nails and the bird’s nest of her hair, but she’ll certainly need to change her dress. Perhaps she’ll need that hour after all.

“Oh, please let me do something elegant!” Dominique says from behind her.

“No ruffles,” Jeanne says firmly, grabbing the pitcher from her nightstand.

“I’m not promising anything,” Dominique sing-songs. Jeanne goes to wash up, concerned with the way this tea is rapidly spiraling out of her control.

—-

Isabeau has been combed and styled to within an inch of her life. She drew the line (read: barely escaped) from having little bows tied in her fur.

“It’s just Jeanne,” she grumbles. She doesn’t mean it as an insult particularly, just that Jeanne doesn’t seem the type to fuss over being fashionable and orderly. Or, well, as fashionable and orderly as a large animal attempting human dress can be. Eulalie seems to take it as an insult, if her hiss of annoyance is any indication.

“Jeanne deserves a lot better than you,” Eulalie says. Steam is starting to emanate from her spout. “You’ll be lucky if she settles.”

“I’m not arguing that,” Isabeau grumbles. She pokes at the loop of hair that’s been pinned and curled away from her face. Eulalie pours a bit of boiling water on her foot, and Isabeau yelps and leaps away from the mirror.

“You’ll ruin your hair!”

Isabeau rolls her eyes, but she’s not terribly eager to be scalded again so she holds her tongue. She sincerely doubts any of this is going to interest Jeanne in a whirlwind romance, but if it gets Eulalie to stop haranguing her for a few days it’s worth it.

Eulalie essentially herds her down to the sitting room, staying right on her heels so she can’t back up unless she wants to risk crushing her. Isabeau can’t tell if it makes things more or less awkward that Jeanne is already there. She’s wearing a truly nightmarish concoction of pink lace that has Dominique’s forays into couture written all over it.

At least there are cakes, Isabeau thinks gloomily as the two of them settle around the delicate tea table. They’re petit fours, of course, and look completely ridiculous in her massive paws, but Isabeau is hardly going to go through this rigamarole and then not eat.

She does attempt politeness (more because she’s certain Eulalie is watching through a crack in the door and that anything else will be severely punished than because she feels particularly polite) by offering Jeanne the plate before she takes any cakes. Jeanne takes two, and Isabeau shrugs and piles the rest onto her saucer.

She considers her obligation pretty much discharged at this point. She’s let Eulalie turn her into a specter of absolute ridiculousness, showed up more or less on time, and offered cakes. She did less at some of her mother’s balls. Jeanne, unfortunately, seems to think this coerced tea party requires small talk.

“So,” she starts bravely. Isabeau attempts to look intimidating but it apparently does not come off. “How was your afternoon?”

“Wet,” Isabeau says. “Yours?” Jeanne blinks at her.

“I was in the garden,” she says. Isabeau snorts, which causes a tiny wrinkle to appear on Jeanne’s forehead. Getting a reaction makes Isabeau feel perversely cheerful. Behaviors of Isabeau’s that have sent lesser men and women into screaming fits tend to garner little more than a blank countenance from Jeanne. Isabeau pursues her advantage.

“You’re always in the garden.”

“You’re always in the west wing.” It’s said so mildly that Isabeau doesn’t parse it at first. When she does, a low growl almost unconsciously starts in her chest. Jeanne just sips her tea.

“Well excuse me for leaving most of my house at your disposal.”

“Is that what you’re doing?”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Isabeau bristles. Jeanne sips her tea again, and Isabeau fights the urge to upend the tea table. She might do it, if the damn china weren’t sentient.

“It seems more to me like you’re frightened of something,” Jeanne says.

“I’m not frightened of anything,” Isabeau snaps, claws ripping into the fabric covering the arms of her chair.

“Then what is the bell jar for?”

Isabeau nearly lays it all out on the table: the enchantress, the curse, the rose, Jeanne’s dubious fate as a potential spell breaker, but something about Jeanne’s expression tips her off. I’m being baited, she realizes, wonderingly. It sets her back a little. Jeanne seems so passive most of the time, industriously at work in the garden. She doesn’t make waves in the house by demanding elaborate food or sigh about complaining of boredom. She doesn’t, save for the one attempt, try to break in on Isabeau or nose about where she isn’t wanted. It unnerves Isabeau, to realize the slow vines of Jeanne’s curiosity have been weaving their way into the very foundation of her house. It makes her sharper than she intended to be.

“What are you for?” she snaps rudely. “Useless at home, so you’ve come to clutter up my garden with your half-hearted schemes that will fall to pieces once spring comes? You’re nothing but a distraction for my servants.” She ignores Jeanne going pale, and the tiny gasp coming from the half open door behind them, to push to her feet. She nearly upends the chair in her hurry to get out of the room, striding past Henri, Eulalie, and a collection of teacups without bothering to look at them.

This was an utterly, utterly foolish idea and she never should have indulged Eulalie.

—-

Well, that went considerably worse than anticipated, Jeanne thinks dully. Isabeau’s barb is hardly the worst thing Jeanne has ever thought about herself, or even had said to her face, objectively. Jeanne has long sought, and long failed to find, objectivity with regards to her own life.

The conversation is made rather more unpleasant by virtue of its being overheard by the whole castle, but Jeanne gives thanks for small favors. At least she is quick to master her own countenance, and is quite confident that her expression is much as it always is, by the arrival of the others on the scene.

Eulalie, several teacups, Henri, and what looks like four entire place settings skid into the room. This is bad enough, but then comes Albin (waving his arms about in distress) and Georges. Jeanne opens her mouth but Eulalie starts talking over her.

“The cheek of her! Jeanne, I’m so sorry, I don’t know what came over me, putting you in a room with her!” Eulalie continues in a similar vein, with many threats to Isabeau’s creature comforts and imprecations on her lack of social graces.

Jeanne murmurs reassurances absentmindedly, but she’s too distracted by Georges’ expression to really focus on what Eulalie is saying. Georges looks stricken, clearly upset by Isabeau’s actions in a way that surprises Jeanne. Of course, they all look upset, but Georges generally seems impervious to the ups and downs of daily life in a way the others don’t.

Jeanne manages to calm Eulalie down and get her settled with only mild help from Denis (who judiciously uses a swear word which captures Eulalie’s attention for a full seven minutes) and Euphrasie (who intentionally sets the spoons off on their synchronized swimming routine three hours early, causing a positive swamp in the dining room that requires urgent attention). The rest go where the new and more interesting drama, in the form of Eulalie scolding the spoons, her daughter, and anyone else who dares cross her path, is, and Jeanne is free to interrogate Georges and a nervously hovering Albin.

“I’m honestly fine,” Jeanne starts carefully, trying to sound disinterested. “She’s said rude things before. I’m not going to go off in a huff and insist on having all my meals in bed, or anything like that.”

“Oh, Jeanne,” Albin practically wails. “We don’t deserve you!” Dealing with his partner’s dramatics steadies Georges a little.

“It will be alright,” he says, somehow managing to sound both comforting and superior. Albin calms slightly at this sign of normalcy. “Look, go sort out Henri. Eulalie doesn’t need him fomenting discontent among the napkins again. I’ll speak to Jeanne.”

“Tell Eulalie I’m sorry about tea,” Jeanne says with a sigh. Once Albin is gone, she turns to Georges with something approaching eagerness. “Are you going to explain what’s going on here?” At long last? she adds to herself.

Georges grimaces. “It seems the time has come. Follow me, Jeanne.”

They end up in the portrait gallery, as it’s really the only place they can be certain no one will disturb them. It’s not the most comfortable room, especially not with the glares and sneers of Isabeau’s ancestors looking down on them, but it is private.

Once they’re settled, Jeanne propped against the wall and Georges making wide sweeps across the narrow hall, Georges seems reluctant to get started.

“You were going to explain?” Jeanne prompts, rather finished with subtlety and prodding for the day.

“I,” Georges hesitates, bracing himself, “I rather think this might be my fault.” Jeanne blinks at him, taken aback. Georges grimaces, jangling a couple of his keys impatiently. “Oh, not Isabeau being insufferable, she does that all on her own, but the fact that she even attempted this tea to begin with.”

“Oh?” Jeanne says, carefully expressionless. Georges looks at her.

“The curse has to do with Isabeau, you see.”

I’d gathered that much, Jeanne thinks acidly.

“You’ve seen the rose, and you know the bargain your father made.”

“Yes. I’m to stay here until the last petal falls.”

Georges bobs his head. “But no one has explained why,” he says.

“No,” Jeanne agrees.

“The idea is, Isabeau has for as long as the rose is in bloom to get you, or whoever is staying in the castle, to fall in love with her.” It’s something Jeanne should have anticipated, the sort of twist Madame d’Aulnoy would adore, but somehow she did not expect it in the slightest. Some measure of her astonishment must show on her face, because Georges continues to elaborate. “That was the subject of the curse, you see.”

“Her love life?” Jeanne asks, incredulously. “What a trivial thing to curse an entire castle over.”

Georges snorts. “Yes, well. Enchantresses tend to see their minor whims as much more important than upending the lives of anyone so trivial as servants. Isabeau must fall in love with someone, and earn their love in return, for the curse to break.”

“Why didn’t you just tell me?” Jeanne asks, frustration shading into her voice at the impossible situation.

Georges sighs. “You know much more than any of the others have, Jeanne. You know about the rest of us, and about the level and complexity of the enchantment. You’ve even, if I’m not presuming too much, figured out much of how the magic of the garden works, and how it serves as a lure to draw people in.”

“So why not just tell me all of it?”

“Isn’t that obvious?” Georges sighs. “Because they all think you’re the one who’s going to break the spell.” Dread pools into Jeanne’s stomach, and she strives to keep her face carefully blank. “Because the rest of them might think that pushing you and Isabeau together is enough to move things along.”

“And you?” Jeanne asks, her throat dry. “What do you think?”

“That’s the thing,” Georges whispers. “I was starting to think so, too. That you two could actually, properly get on. I didn’t want you to find out about the curse because I was hoping Isabeau,” Georges bites out the name, “would make an effort, for once.” He pivots angrily, swishing so quickly that a thimble and a pair of sewing scissors tangle into each other. “I foolishly told her that, even though I know how stubborn and willful she is.”

“Oh,” Jeanne says dully. She isn’t sure what more she can say. It’s still not your fault that Isabeau is the way that she is, that the two of us could never ever be anything more than distant acquaintances? I’m sorry that there’s something in me that seems to provoke her, is unable to appease even with so many lives at stake?

“Jeanne,” Georges says softly, breaking into her thoughts. “Please just be a little patient with her? Just for a little while. I’m not trying to excuse what she said,” Georges adds hastily, “but, just give her a chance to apologize.”

“Of course.” Jeanne feels remote, distant, like she’s floating up out of her body. She must be at least mildly convincing, though, because Georges looks relieved.

Jeanne isn’t entirely sure, later, how she gets through the rest of the conversation, up to her room, out of the painfully elegant tea dress and into a nightdress. The sun is barely down, but she doesn’t bother with supper or even ask for a tray to be sent to her room. She just puts out her candle and lies down in the dark, too terrified of being overheard to even cry properly.

—-

The mirror in the west wing is enchanted so that Isabeau can see anything she wishes in it. She need only speak a command, and the mirror will obey.

Generally, she keeps it covered when she isn’t using it. When she needs to use it, she will rip the covering away and speak as quickly as possible, letting the swirl of color as it slips out of and back into focus wash her reflection away. She doesn’t like to look at herself. The portraits of Isabeau have both been relegated to somewhere deep in the unused servants quarters. Any images of her family not already there have been relocated to the portrait gallery, where she can easily avoid them. The hollow eyes and disapproving sneers which used to follow her up and down the manor halls are all gone, and she can sometimes avoid thinking about her transformation for minutes together. She can avoid confronting the full reality of it completely, if she so desires.

This time, she forces herself to look. She leaves the mirror uncovered with no intention of using it to whisk her away to somewhere else, anywhere else.

It isn’t so much the ugliness of her transfigured shape she wishes to avoid. True, she used to be renowned as beautiful, and there are advantages to that which she misses. Beauty, though, was always a double edged sword. It led to assumptions and expectations that were frequently at odds with her own desires, particularly from her parents. What frustrates her the most about her own beastliness is the constant threat of it, the violence always simmering just under the surface. True, it makes it easier to drive away enemies, to keep anyone who might wish to harm her at a distance, but those people have long since gone. There is only those she loves left, and her too cruel and impatient to help them.

What stabs at Isabeau and keeps her sharp and angry is that weakness in her own self, that bending toward ease, that desire for pleasant soft things, for the lushness of velvet cushions and the high pinching tightness of not-breathing beautiful gowns, for the burst of juice on her tongue as she bites into a grape, for the softness of barely teased open flower petals, bereft of thorns. She longs for those creature comforts of her former life, for the ease that being rich and beautiful and well-liked gave her. She hates that she misses that life, she hates that this transformation has forced her to confront that it was nothing in her own character, after all, which gave it to her.

Who still loves her, when all that is stripped away? Would Albin and Georges even still be here, if the curse didn’t involve them too? They have each other, and Henri, and perhaps, after all, they’d all be happier elsewhere. What does Isabeau have?

What stabs at Isabeau and keeps her sharp and angry is that she would never have even noticed Jeanne, before. She isn’t pretty or high-born, she doesn’t have any of the laughing carelessness that Isabeau is drawn to, that led to her heart being smashed and abandoned over and over again. Jeanne, who feels like her last best chance at happiness. Jeanne, who is kind and patient and has the entire manor in love with her.

Isabeau can’t bear to prove that horrid old witch right, to admit that there was something in her lacking, so she digs out those holes in her own character deeper and firmer.

She snarls at her reflection, tempted to smash the mirror and rid herself of it forever. The logic that it would be a waste, and only satisfy her for a moment, does not alleviate her anger any. She hates it all: the way her temper, which has always simmered close to boiling, does so much more damage now, the way no one looks past the surface to bother to get to know her, the fear that even if they did, she’s no more beautiful inside than she is out.

Isabeau surges forward, scrabbling for the thick black velvet and throwing it over the surface of the mirror. Her stomach still feels tight and hot and high in her body, but the feeling of sickness disappeared a little as soon as the direct evidence of the curse is out of sight.

The cold night air beckons her out onto the balcony, and Isabeau leans against the sturdy marble balustrade to look out across the dark forest. A trickle of unease curls down her spine as outside, a chorus of wolves howl at the moon.

Surely, Jeanne will forgive her for her outburst? She hardly thinks the other woman will love her after all the nasty impatient things she’s said, but she never expected that to begin with. It would be better for everyone if the two of them could get along. Isabeau resolves to apologize the next day, to be a little more patient. If she can only-

Her thoughts abruptly cut off as she hears the door to the west wing fly open. She’s barely had time to turn when Albin is rushing out into the third room.

“Jeanne,” he says, and Isabeau goes cold at the panic in his voice, “she’s gone!”

The feeling of dread deep in her stomach blossoms into full flower as Isabeau runs full-tilt back into the house.