The Eye of the Beholder (15 page)

As I made my way back to my bedchamber after my walk, I could not help but look about me and fantasize about what might be possible. Certainly, I was not foolish enough to think that if the beast opened his doors to the world at large the world would accept him with open arms. I knew he had little choice but to remain imprisoned in the heart of the merciless forest for he would find little--if any--acceptance in the outside world. Whether he deserved acceptance was a different question entirely.

Regardless, there was no need for him to live as he did. The state of the castle, of the servants, could only serve to further the grip that despair had already begun to exercise over him, and perhaps it was despair that drove him to such cruelty. This did not excuse his actions, but I wondered if it was possible that he could reform, given enough incentive. For as cruel and heartless as the beast could be, the one time I had looked into his eyes, they had betrayed his loneliness, his fear.

I had never before seen such eyes. They were a deep blue-gray in color, like the sky during a gathering storm. They shone out of his face with such intensity, with such life, that to look at them left me exhausted. It was as if those eyes were ageless, as if they had borne witness to innumerable events. Most disconcerting of all was the fact that every inch of him was beast, except for those eyes. I swore they were the most human eyes I had ever seen. It was as if I had glimpsed the darkness his soul, and I feared that if I looked into his eyes too often or for too long, I would be drawn down into a deep, dark place from which I might never escape.

When I entered my chamber, I was relieved to find several maids within. They would at least distract me from my thoughts. As usual, one of them moved over to me swiftly, but with a grace that made it seem as though she had floated over to me rather than walked. She immediately held her arms out to take my cloak from me, and I quietly thanked her. Gracing me with a curtsy, she moved into my dressing chamber to dispose of my cloak.

I walked over to one of the bookshelves and cast a disinterested glance at the spines of the tomes. The idea of reading held little appeal for me, and I moved away from the books with a small sound of exasperation. I glanced over at the beautiful and elaborate desk with its neat, tempting stacks of parchment and its exquisite pen case, and contemplated writing for a few moments, but I knew that would not hold my attention either.

Without consciously deciding to pose the question, I found myself addressing one of the maids. "Could you provide me with a bucket and some rags, and perhaps some tools?"

At my question, every one of the maids in the chamber stilled and, simultaneously, turned to face me. The chamber grew so silent that I knew I could have heard a pin drop in it. There was a palpable sense of fright in the air.

"Please, I know your master has forbidden you from cleaning the castle, but he has not forbidden me. If you do not aide me, I will simply look for the tools I need myself, but it will take me much longer to find them. You need not fear, for I shall face the master's wrath if he is angry." I chose my words carefully.

The servants exchanged sightless glances before turning their faces back to me. I could sense that they were still hesitant, even though I was certain they would have liked nothing better than to see the castle set to rights again. I knew it was not right of me to put them in such a position, but my need for useful occupation was so strong I could no longer ignore it.

"Please," I pleaded. "I am certain you would prefer to see the castle clean and bright. I know that I shall perish for want of sunlight if this gloom persists."

At the mere mention of sunlight, the servants turned toward my windows, lifting their faces to the weak winter light. Though their eyes were expressionless as always, I could see the naked hunger in every line of their bodies. Studying them closely, I realized they were not the same maids that had attended to my chamber the previous morning. Startled, I thought back over the last few mornings and realized that the servants who attended to my chambers seemed to rotate. It seemed odd not to have had the same maids every day.

Finally, one of the maids stepped forward, her stance speaking of her determination. Everyone paused for a breathless second, their faces turned toward her with rapt attention, and then she nodded. It was a firm nod, and the sight of it caused a smile that spread over my entire face.

"Thank you. Oh, thank you!" I was utterly delighted at the prospect of the physical labor, thrilled that I would finally have something to distract me from the endless loop of my thoughts. "I promise you shall not regret your decision. I will take full responsibility for the cleaning and repair of the castle. You must do no more than bring me the tools and supplies, and if your master asks, I shall claim that I procured them myself."

The maid who had stepped forward bowed her head in acknowledgment of my words. I watched as the other maids turned their faces toward one another with an air of indecision but, one by one, they all bowed their heads to me.

"Wonderful." I was nearly unable to restrain my happiness. "I shall begin on the morrow."

I walked swiftly to my desk, eagerly seizing quill and parchment. I wanted to shout my triumph to the heavens, but this did not seem likely to ensure the secrecy of my plan. It would be impossible to conceal my efforts from the beast forever, but I hoped to make as much progress as possible before he noticed the changes. Perhaps once he saw how magnificent the castle could be, perhaps once he saw the sunlight again, he would be unable to protest any further and the servants might be permitted to clean and repair the castle at will. This was a cheering thought indeed--and perhaps also a wishful one.

Before I even managed to sit, I began to draw up lists and make preliminary plans for the improvement of the castle. I decided that I would begin to clean and repair the corridor just outside my door. As far as I knew, the beast had not ventured down it since I had taken up residence in the castle, and I hoped that this meant he would be quite unlikely to venture down it anytime soon.

Progress would be slow; of that I was certain, but the thought did not make me unhappy. On the contrary, for the first time since I had arrived at the castle, I felt a rising sense of hope. I had been lacking a purpose for far too long and now that I had found one, I was not going to begrudge the idea of its being a very lengthy and slow task. Indeed, the slower it was the better. There was more to be done that I could possibly complete on my own, and the prospect of useful employment helped me feel as if my future was defined rather than the yawning emptiness it currently seemed.

That afternoon, I found happiness in industry. By the time I had finished my evening meal, I was feeling quite cheerful, as though I could face anything the beast might throw at me. Though my chamber was quite cozy with a roaring fire and the glow of many candles, I decided to venture down to the library to see if the beast might be found there.

For the first time since I had arrived at the castle, I walked down the corridor leading to my chamber without a sense of fear. Instead, I closely examined the shadowy corners and niches, taking note of what needed to be done and calculating the amount of water, rags, and soap I would need to clean them. I also took stock of what repairs needed to be made and what tools I would need to make them. When I returned to my chamber, I would record all of the information and incorporate it in my plans for renovation.

When I reached the library, I was quite disposed to converse with the beast, for conversation with him was certain to be entertaining, if not infuriating. I had to admit that there was something liberating about putting social conventions aside and openly engaging in a good argument with someone whose opinion I did not respect.

He was in his usual corner, and I sat in a chair near him without preamble. I could hear him shuffle in his chair, and I suspected he was somewhat taken aback by my conduct.

"Good evening," I said, smiling in his general direction. I turned my chair so that I sat directly across from him.

"Good evening," he replied, his astonishment evident in his voice.

"Must you always sit so deeply in the shadows? Not only is it difficult to speak to you, for I never know if I am looking in your direction, it is quite rude. Do you not find it offensive for me to be always addressing the air rather than you?"

The beast did not speak for a long moment, and I felt a deep sense of satisfaction to have rendered him speechless. "I have not thought much about it."

"I hardly find that surprising, for your manners are rather lacking."

I believe I was roughly as surprised by my words as the beast. Where they came from, I confess I do not know. Though I had sought his conversation, my intent had not been to try to provoke him to fight. At least, that had not been my explicit intent, but perhaps there was some part of me that was spoiling for a fight with him. What truly surprised me was the complete lack of fear I felt at having confronted him.

As I reflected on this, I understood that I had unconsciously decided I would no longer be scared of the beast. My decision to defy him by renovating the castle had been the first step toward rebellion. I understood now that it had also given me the resolve I needed to refuse to allow him to intimidate me.

"Pray tell, does such an assertion fall under the mantle of fine manners?" the beast asked, a growling edge to his voice.

"No, I suppose it does not," I replied, laughing as I acknowledged the truth of his words.

The beast shifted in his seat with what I thought was impatience. I heard him take several breaths, pause, and then release them. Finally, he said, "Has it occurred to you that, as you are passing judgment on my own conduct, you have altered yours to match mine?"

His words stopped me in my tracks. My astonishment must have shown, for he smiled slightly, and it made me cross. "Do not compare yourself to me. I am not vicious merely for the sake of being vicious."

"Ah, self-righteousness. Then why have you decided to dispense with politeness? Do you seek to instruct me?" His voice dripped with sarcasm.

I barked out a small laugh. "No. I assure you I do not have such delusions of grandeur. I could hardly find a more unwilling pupil, could I?"

"It is to your credit that you possess the intelligence to divine this."

"Oh, my. I do believe you have wounded my delicate feelings," I said derisively.

The beast laughed. "I understand you now. When propriety is in your favor, you are for it. But when it is in mine, you would rather dispense with it entirely."

"Despite what you may think, I did not seek out your company merely to provoke you. It is so tiresome to argue with you."

"Is that so? If you did not wish to argue, why did you not discuss the weather or some other inanity?"

"I see you have no confidence in the veracity of my words."

"I have very little confidence in the veracity of anyone's word."

It was now my turn to be rendered speechless. The beast held so much back from me that when he did share something it inevitably astounded me. The more I knew of him, the more obvious it was that he was very unused to the company of others.

"I am sorry to hear that," I told him. "I would not wish to live in such a manner myself."

"Then you are very foolish, for most people are not to be trusted."

"How fortunate for me that I do not have such a cynical view of the world."

"Then you are, as I said, foolish."

I shook my head in exasperation. "Because I disagree with you, I am a fool? I confess, I am sorry for you. It must be so difficult to live with such convictions of one's own rightness."

"No more difficult than it is to be as easily led as you," the beast growled at me. "You would be wise to learn it is dangerous to rely on anyone other than one's self."

"That sounds very lonely to me."

"I care little for your opinion," he snarled.

Silently, I studied him. He seemed so irredeemable, but he had showed some modicum of compassion for both me and my father. Had he not fed Papa and offered him shelter for the night? Had he not spared Papa's life? Had he not seen to it that my every need was anticipated and met? It was inexplicable to me why the beast seemed to be earning my compassion. These small instances of good in what was otherwise a very bad creature did not merit my tolerance. Yet there was something about him that made me care what happened to him, and I did not understand it. I had never been the sort of person who fancied she could somehow fix others.

Suddenly, I knew what it was I should call the beast. "Lysander," I murmured.

"Pardon me?" the beast asked, his anger replaced by confusion.