Fourpaws moved a little towards Beauty and looked at her for the first time, stared at her with vast yellowy-greeny eyes, misleadingiy half shut. She curled her tail round her feet—careful not to trail the tip of it in Beauty’s plate—and continued to purr. The purr seemed to reflect off the sides of the bowls and dishes and goblets round her. Beauty picked up her knife and fork again and began to eat.
“It is so very quiet here,” said Beauty between rnouth-fuls.
The Beast roused himself. “When I was ... first here, here as you see it, the silence troubled me very much.”
But you are a sorcerer! You cannot have come here against your will—against your will—as I did. . .. Beauty was briefly afraid that she had spoken aloud, so painfully had the words pressed up in her throat; but the shadows were tranquil, and Fourpaws was still purring, and after only the merest pause, the Beast continued: “I had forgotten. It was such a long time ago. I have learnt... I have learnt to look at the silence, to listen to the dark. But I was very glad when Fourpaws came. I believe she must be a powerful sorcerer in her own country, which is why 1 dare not give her any grand name such as she deserves, for fear of disturbing the network of her powers. She comes most evenings and drops a few rolls and bits of cutlery into the darkness, like coins in a wishing well. I am grateful to her.”
“As am I,” said Beauty fervently, for she was discovering just how hungry she was. She moved a candlestick nearer and peered into various tureens. She recognised little, although everything smelled superb, which was enough recommendation, but when she turned back to her plate, which had been empty but a moment before, it had been served again for her already. “The chef’s speciality?” she murmured, thinking of grand dinner parties in the city, but she picked her knife and fork up readily and began.
Fourpaws had moved herself again slightly, so that her bright furry figure slightly overlapped the great shadowy bulk of the Beast from Beauty’s point of view. Beauty smiled at her a little wonderingly; Fourpaws’ eyes shut almost completely, with only a thin gleam of green left visible, and her purr deepened.
As soon as Beauty laid her knife and fork down for the last time, she felt exhaustion drop over her, shove down her eyelids, force her head forward upon her breast. “I—1 am sorry,” she said faintly. “1 am much more tired, suddenly, than I had any idea... If you will excuse me ...”
The Beast was on his feet again at once, bowing her towards the door. “Beauty, will you marry me?”
Beauty backed two steps away from the table. Her eyes fell upon Fourpaws, who was still sitting where she had been while Beauty ate; but her eyes were now opened wide, her head tipped up, and she was staring at Beauty with an unnervingly steady gaze. “Oh, no. Beast,” said Beauty to the cat. Fourpaws leapt off the table and disappeared under it.
“Good night, Beauty,” said the Beast very softly.
“Good night, Beast,” said Beauty.
She went slowly up to her rooms, the whispering of her skirts the only sound, and stayed awake only long enough to take her elegant dress off carefully, lay the necklace of sapphires back on the washstand, and climb up the stairs to her bed. She almost didn’t make it to the top; she woke up to find herself with her head resting on the top stair and pulled herself the resl of the way into bed.
She dreamt again of Rose Cottage.
There was a new rug on the floor by the fireplace at the sitting-room end of the downstairs room, and Teacosy, looking unusually well brushed, lay on it in her traditional neat curl. There was a new tablecloth, with a bit of lace at its edge, on the old table—Beauty could still see its splinted feet beneath—and the place settings were as mismatched as ever, although none of the cups or plates was chipped.
The old merchant was talking, and the other two were listening—three, counting Teacosy’s half-pricked cars—or rather, as Beauty’s dream shimmered into being, her father had just stopped talking. Beauty’s dream-eyes ranged over the familiar scene and picked out its unfamiliar elements, pausing finally on the person sitting in what had been Beauty’s chair. There was a litUe silence in which Beauty could almost hear the echo of her father’s last words—she had a half notion that he had been reciting poetry—but she did not know for sure.
The strange young man spoke first. “That was very moving, sir. Perhaps—perhaps you would come to one of our meetings?”
“Oh, do, Father!” said Jeweltongue. “I had no idea you were—you were—” She stopped, blushed, and laughed.
Her father looked at her, smiling. “You had no idea the old man had any idea of metre and rhyme, you were going to say? I never used to. It seems to have come on me with moving here, to Longchance and Rose Cottage. I would be honoured to come to your meeting, Mr Whitchand, if you think I will not embarrass you.”
“Embarrass us! Father! Wait till you hear Mrs Oldhouse, whom we name Mrs Words-Without-End, but we cannot bring ourselves to turn her out, not only because she has the biggest drawing-room and serves the best cakes—”
“Thank you,” murmured the young man called White-hand.
Jeweltongue reached towards him and just touched the back of his hand with the tips of her fingers, but Beauty saw the sweet look that passed between them as Jeweltongue continued. “But she is so genuinely kind, and surprisingly has quite a good ear for other people’s work! But we shall put you at the top of the list for your evening, because if she reads first, she may frighten you away,”
“Not before I have eaten some of Mr Whilehand’s cakes, at least,” said her father, and Beauty then remembered where she had seen Mr Whitehand, for he was the baker in Longchance. It occurred to her then that for quite sometime, as Jeweltongue divided up the errands when the two of them went into Longchance together, it was never Beauty who went to the baker’s, though they almost always had lardy-cake or crumpets for tea on any day Jeweltongue had been to Longchance. But Beauty had never heard of poetry-reading evenings.
“To be fair,” Jeweltongue went on, “she tells excellent stories—when she doesn’t try to put them into verse first. She leamt them from her father, who was a scholar, but his real love was collecting folk-tales....”
Beauty woke to a soft shushing sound. It was a gentle sound, and her first thought was that there was water running somewhere nearby, and she wondered if she had missed seeing some fountain, perhaps in the inner courtyard, perhaps invisible behind the glasshouse. But the rhythm of the shush was wrong for water, she eventually decided, still half in her dream and wondering about the young man and the new hearth-rug and wishing to hear her fathers poems—and telling herself it was all only a dream again, just as last night.