The Eye of the Beholder (38 page)

"If you listen even now, I ask that you spare my servants. Why should they suffer my fate? They were here by necessity, and not by choice," I said, speaking to the enchantress. I had long felt that perhaps she was watching me. Unlike my mortal soul, she would continue to exist throughout the passage of time, always guarding those who could not guard themselves. This thought gave me some comfort.

My decision made, I now began to prepare myself for the task of telling Mira that I annulled the vow she had made to me. I knew that she would always honor her word, and I would not make her abase herself by forcing her to ask me to let her go. I had taken her family and her freedom from her. I would not now rob her of her honor.

This decision was easier made than carried out, I knew. It was one thing to sit in my chamber and dread it, but it would be quite another to have to stand before her and say the words I knew would cut like tiny shards of glass as they passed through my lips. I did not wish to show her what I truly felt, not because I was too proud to show her, but because I would not have her feel any guilt. She must never know that her leaving meant my death. It was not her burden to bear. I had chosen this life for myself, and I did not want her feeling as though she held any responsibility for it.

I had once thought that loving would be difficult, that making myself vulnerable and letting down my guard would be painful. I now knew that what was truly difficult was letting go of someone I loved. Why had I not seen that from the very beginning? How could I have been so cruel as to refuse to acknowledge the pain Mira's father had felt when I had commanded him to return to me, or to barter his life for his daughter's? How could I have been so cruel as to deny the tears I had seen Mira shed when she had thought she was to be forever separated from all she had known and loved? I wondered what had made her wish to go on, day after day.

The world seemed a very unjust place to me. Why had not someone worthier than me been born to the crown? There had been many, many chances for a merciful king to do right by his people, to create a more peaceful and equitable kingdom. Time after time, I in my selfishness had squandered these chances and, now that I understood this, it was too late to make those changes. I could have chosen to better the world, and instead, I had chosen to be a beast.

"I understand now. I understand everything," I whispered. "I only wish I had been able to perceive your wisdom much sooner than this. It is too late for me, but perhaps you will help someone worthier than me. I have no right to ask a boon of you, but I shall ask all the same. If you are able, please help Mira. Please, grant her the happiness I could not give her."

My legs could no longer support me and I sank to the floor in agony.

Chapter 36: Breaking Away

I hardly remembered returning to the castle, so blinded by tears and rage was I. Somehow, I made it to my chamber without mishap. Whether any of the servants saw me in that state, I could not say. I was sensible of nothing other than my own anger. Stoking it, I held onto it and nursed it, making it burn brighter and brighter, and, as I did so, I discovered a curious sensation. There was something about my anger that brought me a sense of relief, of release. By being angry at Lysander, I could forget my conflicted feelings for him.

The desire to confront him immediately was strong, but I was also exhausted from my long, long walk and from the force of my emotions. Almost as soon as I flung myself on the bed, I fell asleep, fully clothed.

My dreams were strange and fragmented that night. I saw my father's face splitting into a smile of joy, felt his arms around me and heard him crying in relief, "Oh, my darling Mira. You have returned to me at last! Thank all that is good in this world!"

As I clung to him, I felt a happiness so palpable I thought I would burst. But, then, in the midst of my joy, my father melted away and I found myself before Lysander's pool. Strangely, the pool was not at the castle; rather, it was behind our cottage. As I leaned over to gaze into it, Lysander immediately sprang into view.

He was alone in the library. The room was dark, and I knew he was there only because his slight movements gave him away. Straining to see more clearly, I leaned so close to the pool that my nose almost touched the water's surface. I could better see his movements, but it still took me a moment to understand that what I was seeing was his shaking shoulders. Lysander was weeping.

My skirts tangled around me, causing me to stumble. I frantically shoved them aside, shuffling around the pool on my knees, trying to gain a different perspective, one that would allow me to see Lysander's face. It did not matter how much I moved, for I could not see his face. Instead, I was forced to sit and stare at his back, to see how the movement of his shoulders changed from a slight shaking to convulsions so strong that they wracked his entire form.

Alone, he was alone. And though I was once again with my father, I felt that I was alone as well. Though the pool made it seem as though Lysander was close enough for me to reach out and touch him, we were in fact separated by a great distance, by a yawning chasm that I could not seem to cross. Fright tore through me, and I unthinkingly reached out to him, but my hand touched only water. It was as cold as death, and, though I jerked my hand away so quickly I hardly made contact, the cold chilled me as if my entire body had plunged into the frozen depths.

The contact with the water caused ripples, and I cried aloud as Lysander's image was broken. I waited and waited, but no matter how long I waited and how still I sat, the surface of the pool remained as turbulent as if I had just dipped my hand into it and agitated the water.

"Lysander!" I cried out, raising my arms to the sky in despair.

With a gasp, I jerked awake in my beautiful chamber in the castle. Despite the roaring fire that one of the servants must have lit, I felt as though I would never again be warm. Shivering so violently my teeth chattered, I drew all of the coverlets about me, but every fiber of my body remained as cold as ice. My head ached acutely and it was difficult to concentrate, but I was slowly able to calm myself, to remind myself that it was just a dream. Breathing deeply and slowly, I forced myself to remember, and the memory of finding the pool, of discovering Lysander's deception returned to me. Even so, I found that my anger had been spent. When I thought of Lysander now, I no longer felt incandescent in my anger. Instead, I felt as if a hard, thick lump of ice had lodged itself in my chest.

"I must go home," I murmured. "I must go home."

For the rest of that terrible night, there was no other thought in my head. A part of me felt as if it would be impossible to go, but another part of me knew that it would be impossible to stay. I longed for Papa. I even longed for the melancholy, for the aching sense of emptiness I had once felt in my father's house, for no matter how much he loved me, there had always been something missing from my life. I simply had not realized it until this long, cold night in the beast's castle. My loneliness at the cottage, the sense that no one in the world understood me had been nigh unbearable at times, but it had been predictable, an old, comfortable companion. What I felt now, whatever it was, discomfited me. I longed for the normalcy of routine, for the dull, colorless passage of days. I knew not why, but it seemed preferable to the constant state of agitation in which I now found my mind.

While fleeing the garden, I had thought I would rush directly to Lysander's chamber, that I would rage at him and shout at him and demand my freedom until he granted it to me. The anger had made it easier to imagine leaving. Now that the anger was gone, my desire to leave continued, but I had lost the insulating warmth of that bitter emotion. Now, I felt the full force of the cold of the idea of leaving.

There was nothing for it. I could stay here no longer. I had made a vow to Lysander, but I found myself incapable of keeping it. He should not have asked it of me at any rate. He should never have had the power to bring down the chaos he had caused in my life. I may not have been entirely happy, I may not have been satisfied, but I had been comfortable. I had been surrounded by all that was familiar to me. Ever since I had entered the castle, I had been immersed in a world of the unknown.

Once, I had thought myself strong. Continuing without my mother, losing my childhood home, enduring the taunts of my sisters--these had all been things I had borne without feeling as though I would be entirely crushed under their weight. I had struggled in my life, but never before had my struggle been anything like this. Now, I found that I was far too weak to bear the burden I had been asked to carry, and I wanted nothing more than to flee it, to flee my obligation and to abdicate my responsibility.

"You are a coward," I whispered to myself, and I found my own voice strange, hoarse from shedding tears I had not even been aware I was weeping.

The day that followed was a long one. I drifted between sleep and wakefulness. Though I never saw the servants, they were a constant presence in my chamber, for I would wake to find that the fire had been stoked, that a pot of hot, strong tea had been left for me, that they had tried to tempt my appetite by leaving a sumptuous array of dishes on the table beside my bed. I had no stomach for these, and took only the tea. Depending on when I awoke, I drank it when it was tepid, when it was hot, and when it was stone cold. I wept so many tears that drinking the tea was a dire necessity. I felt dry and desiccated, as if I were being reduced to ash.

When night fell, I plunged into a deep and dreamless sleep. It should have been refreshing, but I awoke early the next morning feeling as though I had closed my eyes for no more than a moment. The first light of day had just begun to touch my windows, but the servants had already been in my chambers, for I found a pitcher of fresh water with which to wash.

I was strangely aware of the chafing of the cloth against my cheek as I did my best to wash away the evidence of the previous day's emotional turmoil. I dressed slowly, methodically, needing to focus on the buttons as my head felt so full of wool I could scarcely concentrate on this most mundane of tasks. Finished, I stood for a moment feeling sick at heart. There was nothing left now but to go see Lysander, and my feet felt as heavy as lead as I lifted them and placed them one in front of the other. Never before had the castle seemed so vast, so empty, so full of echoes as it did during that walk to Lysander's chambers. I had not even bothered to look for him in the library first. I somehow knew that, just as I had taken to my bed, he had most likely retreated to the sanctuary of his own chamber.

My instincts proved correct, for I heard the low rumble of his voice in response to my weak knock. "Enter."

Slowly, I eased the door open and walked into his chamber, as silently as I was able. He sat in a chair turned away from the door, but I could see the outline of his profile in the muted light of the chamber. His curtains remained closed and, though I knew it was a bright day outside, the chamber was as murky as if a storm raged outside of its walls.

"Lysander," I said, my voice sounding strange.

He turned his head abruptly in my direction, and his eyes seemed to blaze so brightly with hope that I found myself blinking. It lasted but the merest fraction of a second, for whatever he had seen in my face, it must have told him that I had not come seeking to make amends. Looking away from me, he mumbled something under his breath. I could not make out his words, but I had the distinct impression that he had been scolding himself.

"Why did you not tell me about the pool?" I asked. I was too weary to dissemble, and though this may well be the last time I saw him, I was anxious to end our meeting as quickly as possible.

"The pool?" I could hear the confusion in his voice, could see it on his face when he turned to look at me.

"The pool," I repeated, my voice like chips of ice. "I found it the day before last, in the garden."

Lysander's face was stricken. He did not pretend to misunderstand me. Instead, his chin fell down upon his chest and he rubbed his great paws over his eyes. He seemed as tired as I.

"I should have told you," he said, gruffly.

"If you knew you should, why did you not tell me?"

His voice was tired as he spoke. "For many reasons, Mira. I did not tell you initially because I was unkind. And later…later, I did not tell you because…"

"Because why?" I asked. My voice was harsh. I knew that I was causing him pain, and it gave me a quick flash of satisfaction.

"I did not tell you because I was afraid." He raised his gaze to mine and I could see a storm of emotions in his eyes.

His honesty caught me off guard, but I refused to give him the advantage. I looked away from him and barked a derisive laugh. "Do you think that was an excuse to hide something like this from me? Do you think that justifies you failing to tell me that I could have at least seen my father, that I could have had some way of knowing whether he was well?"

"No, I do not think it is an excuse," he replied, his voice muffled.