Read Online Beauty and the Beast by Wendy Mass - Free Book Online Page A

road becomes muffled, like someone has thrown a blanket over them. The next thing I know, I hear a lot of yelling outside and realize I am curled up on the seat like a babe.
    I untangle myself and sit up. Are we being attacked? Across from me, Alexander is sitting upright, proud as a peacock. “What is afoot?” I ask. “What is all that noise?” Alexander does not reply, he only sits there, beaming. I look to my parents. They, too, have pleased expressions on their faces. Father has even put down his book of poetry. They do not appear to be frightened, so I relax a bit.
    The yelling outside grows even louder. The curtains on both sides of the carriage remain drawn, though, so I cannot see. “Please, won’t someone tell me what is happening?”
    â€œHave a look,” Alexander says. He pulls aside the curtain and the afternoon sun streams in. It takes a moment to figure out the scene before me. Then my eyes grow so wide I fear they may fall out of my head. Dozens, nay hundreds , of people line both sides of a long, narrow road. We are in the midst of a town I have never seen. The townspeople — many in fine clothes marking them noblemen and noblewomen — are not merely watching the procession, though. They are running after the caravan, cheering as they go. In fact, they are cheering the same words over and over. “All hail Prince Alexander! All hail the future king! Welcome! Welcome!” They obviously know who we are, and that we would be passing through their village.
    Alexander pulls the curtain closed. I sit back in my seat, at a loss for words. The volume outside continues to increase, if such a thing is possible. Now I hear chants like “I will see you at the ball! Dance with me first!” and “No, me! I shall make the best wife of all!”
    Mother reaches over and pats Alexander’s knee. “And to think Riley was worried about you not having enough dance partners tonight.”
    Alexander winks at me and grins. But as the cheering gets more insistent, more frenzied, his grin fades. He presses his back deep into the seat and doesn’t peek out of the curtain again until the noise fades and the carriage is once again on the open road. A light rain begins to fall, and the sound lulls me back to sleep. I awake to the carriage lurching, and my stomach along with it.
    The rain has grown heavy. The dirt roads have turned to mud and the wheels keep sinking into it. The coachmen must stop to dig us out, only to have to stop again moments later. Finally, the horses give up even trying to make us move, no matter how hard the coachmen drive them. We have no choice but to wait out the rain. Maybe we shall miss the ball!
    Mother takes out her knitting. Father begins to recite a poem about a wayward traveler who meets a robber on the road, only to discover he is his long-lost brother. It must be the worst poem ever written. And it rhymes. Alexander starts humming to drown out Father’s words. Between the poetry and the humming, I am ready to stuff chunks of cheese in my ears. Just when I think I can take it no more, the sun breaks through and the rain slows, then halts completely.
    â€œThank goodness!” Mother says, tossing her knitting below the seat. “Silas, do feel free to end your poem now.”
    But there is no stopping Father once he begins to spin a tale. We must simply wait until the wayward traveler and his reunited brother make up for all the years they lost by moving to a farm and raising goats. Admittedly, I have not read much poetry, but if it is all like that one, I do not see the art form lasting much longer.
    The coachman appears at the door to tell us that in order to dig out the wheels — which have sunk even deeper now — everyone must vacate the carriages to lighten the load. At this rate it would be faster to walk the rest of the way to King Rubin’s castle. Not that I will suggest that.
    Since there is nowhere to stand