Read Online Beauty in the Beast by Christine Danse - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Christine Danse
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“Exceptional.”
“May I have a glass?” I asked.
As he handed me a glass, his gaze met mine and then danced away.
I took a taste. “ Quite exceptional,” I said with a nudge and a wink at Beth. She scowled, but her hands remained folded in her lap. “It’s fine ,” I assured her, proffering the cup. “It’s sweet and strong.” I could smell nothing like poison about it, just the rich scent of grape wine and the tin of the cup.
Beth took a cautious sip and immediately her eyes, wrinkled with caution, flew open at the flavor. “It’s port! It’s delicious.” She wrapped both hands around the cup and did not offer it back to me.
Apparently, the ale had not aged quite as well as the port. “It’s flat,” said Fred, “but good . Mother’s milk after an entire dry month. We’ve barely enough to keep fuel in the boiler, much less beer in our stomachs.”
I shifted uncomfortably. I did wish that Fred hadn’t felt the liberty to share that. We had already been taken in for the night by a stranger—no use sounding like absolute beggars.
But Rolph only nodded. “Good.” He sat nursing his cup of port while Miles and Beth bantered and Fred laughed along, lute propped nearby as he rested his hands. They called to Rolph asking for songs and stories, but he declined with a flat smile and a shake of his head. Much to my chagrin, Miles told his story, “The Tommy that Loved a Woman.” Fred snorted into his beer. Rolph only smiled.
No matter where I looked in the room, my gaze traveled back to him. The portraits paraded through my imagination. I found myself comparing his face to the face on the daguerreotype—the smoother, younger, brighter face that was unmistakably his. I thought about his stories. The story he told us and the real story, the one he didn’t tell us, the one that was hidden behind his eyes and behind the door to that room.
* * *
Fred fell asleep first, head pillowed on his jacket. I knew he was out for the night when the music went silent. Miles curled with Beth on the floor, and he rubbed her arm until she, too, fell asleep.
Soon, only Rolph and I were awake. I stared into the fire in an attempt to look entranced, but my thoughts were on him. Staring into space from his armchair, he seemed almost sorrowful. The honey highlights of his eyes deepened by the firelight as the night wore on, and shadows played across his face, shifting his features—lengthening his jaw, stretching his ears. He said nothing to me, though at times I felt a pressure as if his gaze or his thoughts were on me.
The chair creaked and he stood. I watched him walk down the hall, relishing the lines of his shoulder blades under his shirt. When he returned again, he brought a pile of blankets and a pillow.
“For you and your friends,” he said, squatting as if to hand them to me. But he must have intended to place them on the ground, because when I got to my knees and reached up, I caught them rather abruptly and awkwardly. My hands closed over his forearms.
We paused there for just an instant—long enough for me to fully appreciate the curve of his lips—and then he quickly slid his arms back.
“Thank you.” I spoke in a hush.
He looked down and rubbed his hand absently over his forearm. “Can I get you anything else?”
He glanced up to see me shake my head, then nodded and stood. Wrapping a rag around the stew pot’s handle, he lifted it from its hook over the fire and carried it out the back door.
I sat back on my haunches and hugged the pile of bedding to my chest, staring at the closed door. The pillow smelled of Rolph. I reserved it for myself, though I spread the warmest blankets over my friends. Then I sat again and watched the fire, waiting with buzzing nerves for Rolph to return.
He did not. The tick of the clock marked the seconds until ten minutes had passed. A pit of uneasiness settled in my stomach, although I could not tell if it was simple concern or a premonition. Fearing the
“May I have a glass?” I asked.
As he handed me a glass, his gaze met mine and then danced away.
I took a taste. “ Quite exceptional,” I said with a nudge and a wink at Beth. She scowled, but her hands remained folded in her lap. “It’s fine ,” I assured her, proffering the cup. “It’s sweet and strong.” I could smell nothing like poison about it, just the rich scent of grape wine and the tin of the cup.
Beth took a cautious sip and immediately her eyes, wrinkled with caution, flew open at the flavor. “It’s port! It’s delicious.” She wrapped both hands around the cup and did not offer it back to me.
Apparently, the ale had not aged quite as well as the port. “It’s flat,” said Fred, “but good . Mother’s milk after an entire dry month. We’ve barely enough to keep fuel in the boiler, much less beer in our stomachs.”
I shifted uncomfortably. I did wish that Fred hadn’t felt the liberty to share that. We had already been taken in for the night by a stranger—no use sounding like absolute beggars.
But Rolph only nodded. “Good.” He sat nursing his cup of port while Miles and Beth bantered and Fred laughed along, lute propped nearby as he rested his hands. They called to Rolph asking for songs and stories, but he declined with a flat smile and a shake of his head. Much to my chagrin, Miles told his story, “The Tommy that Loved a Woman.” Fred snorted into his beer. Rolph only smiled.
No matter where I looked in the room, my gaze traveled back to him. The portraits paraded through my imagination. I found myself comparing his face to the face on the daguerreotype—the smoother, younger, brighter face that was unmistakably his. I thought about his stories. The story he told us and the real story, the one he didn’t tell us, the one that was hidden behind his eyes and behind the door to that room.
* * *
Fred fell asleep first, head pillowed on his jacket. I knew he was out for the night when the music went silent. Miles curled with Beth on the floor, and he rubbed her arm until she, too, fell asleep.
Soon, only Rolph and I were awake. I stared into the fire in an attempt to look entranced, but my thoughts were on him. Staring into space from his armchair, he seemed almost sorrowful. The honey highlights of his eyes deepened by the firelight as the night wore on, and shadows played across his face, shifting his features—lengthening his jaw, stretching his ears. He said nothing to me, though at times I felt a pressure as if his gaze or his thoughts were on me.
The chair creaked and he stood. I watched him walk down the hall, relishing the lines of his shoulder blades under his shirt. When he returned again, he brought a pile of blankets and a pillow.
“For you and your friends,” he said, squatting as if to hand them to me. But he must have intended to place them on the ground, because when I got to my knees and reached up, I caught them rather abruptly and awkwardly. My hands closed over his forearms.
We paused there for just an instant—long enough for me to fully appreciate the curve of his lips—and then he quickly slid his arms back.
“Thank you.” I spoke in a hush.
He looked down and rubbed his hand absently over his forearm. “Can I get you anything else?”
He glanced up to see me shake my head, then nodded and stood. Wrapping a rag around the stew pot’s handle, he lifted it from its hook over the fire and carried it out the back door.
I sat back on my haunches and hugged the pile of bedding to my chest, staring at the closed door. The pillow smelled of Rolph. I reserved it for myself, though I spread the warmest blankets over my friends. Then I sat again and watched the fire, waiting with buzzing nerves for Rolph to return.
He did not. The tick of the clock marked the seconds until ten minutes had passed. A pit of uneasiness settled in my stomach, although I could not tell if it was simple concern or a premonition. Fearing the
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