Chapter Fifteen: The Promise Between Them - Fifteen Nights with the Beast for the Ruby Rose
By Hasnainhr
Isla reached Briar Hollow with the ninth rose just as the morning mist began to lift from the fields. The road behind her was wet from the night’s rain, and her cloak clung heavily to her shoulders. In her hands, the ruby rose remained perfect. Not a single petal had bruised. Not a single thorn had broken. It looked untouched by storm, fear, blood, or the strange magic that had nearly taken Lavinia’s life.
The house was not quiet when Isla arrived.
That was the first warning.
For many days, Grover’s illness had turned the house into a place of soft steps and lowered voices. Doors were closed gently. Servants whispered. Even Lavinia, Beatrice, and Cecily had learned to keep most of their quarrels away from their father’s chamber. But now the house sounded alive with panic. Isla heard Lavinia before she even opened the front door. Her sister’s voice carried through the hall, sharp with tears and outrage.
“He would have killed me,” Lavinia was saying. “I know what I saw. You did not see his face when he looked at me.”
“I saw enough,” Beatrice replied, cold and clear. “And I saw you steal the rose.”
“I did it for Father.”
“You did it because you could not bear that Isla had done something brave without you.”
There was a gasp, then Cecily’s broken voice. “Please stop. Please. Father should not hear this.”
“He has already heard enough,” came Grover’s voice.
Isla froze with one hand on the latch.
Grover was downstairs.
He should not have been.
She pushed the door open and stepped inside.
Everyone turned at once.
The scene before her struck harder than she expected. Lavinia stood near the drawing room door with her wounded wrist wrapped in linen. Her face was pale, her eyes red, and she held herself like someone who had suffered greatly and meant everyone to notice. Cecily sat on the bottom stair, still in the cloak she had worn through the woods, with mud on the hem and dried tears on her cheeks. Beatrice stood near the fireplace, her hair loosened from its pins, her expression tired but steady.
And Grover stood in the middle of the hall.
He wore his dressing gown over his nightshirt. His face looked far too pale, and one hand rested against the wall to steady himself. The rose essence from the previous morning had helped him, but not enough for this. He was breathing carefully, as if each breath had to be controlled so anger would not break him.
His eyes went to the rose in Isla’s hands.
Then to Isla’s face.
“Is it true?” he asked.
Isla shut the door behind her. “Father, you should be in bed.”
“Is it true?” he repeated.
Lavinia stepped forward at once. “Tell him. Tell him how that creature looked at me. Tell him how the vines wrapped around my throat. Tell him how you stood there defending him while your own sister bled.”
Isla looked at her. “You stole from the garden.”
Lavinia’s mouth fell open. “I tried to save Father.”
“No,” Beatrice said. “You tried to take a rose that was not given.”
Lavinia turned on her. “Why are you helping her?”
“I am not helping Isla. I am telling the truth.”
“You told enough to frighten Father half to death.”
“And you told enough lies to finish the work.”
“Enough,” Grover said.
His voice shook, but everyone obeyed.
Isla crossed the hall quickly. “Please let me prepare the rose first. We can speak after you have taken it.”
“I will speak now.”
“No,” Isla said, and the firmness in her own voice surprised even her. “You will drink first. You are standing only because fear dragged you out of bed, and fear is not strength. Please, Father. Do not waste what I brought.”
Grover stared at her. For a moment, she thought his anger might make him refuse. Then his shoulders lowered slightly. The fury did not leave him, but the father in him returned enough to see the fear in her face.
“Very well,” he said. “But you will not leave this house again until I have finished speaking.”
Isla did not answer. She took his arm and helped him up the stairs. He leaned on her more heavily than he wanted to, and that told her what his pride would not. The argument had already cost him too much.
Inside his chamber, she made him sit on the bed while she prepared the ninth rose. Her hands moved with practised care. She removed the petals, crushed them gently, and pressed the dark ruby essence into the small vial. The scent filled the room, deep and rich. It was the smell of hope now, but today it carried the weight of accusation.
Grover watched in silence.
When Isla brought the vial to him, he took it but did not drink.
“Did he save Lavinia?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Did he frighten her first?”
“She frightened herself by stealing.”
“That is not an answer.”
Isla sat beside him. “He was angry. Very angry. The garden trapped her because she broke a rose from its stem. The rose began turning black in her hand. He said a rose freely given heals, but a rose stolen takes payment.”
Grover’s grip tightened around the vial. “What payment?”
“Life.”
The word landed heavily between them.
Grover closed his eyes.
“He could have let the garden take her,” Isla said quietly. “He did not. He took hold of the vine himself, and the thorns cut into his hand. His blood paid what hers would have paid. That is why Lavinia is alive.”
Grover opened his eyes again. They were full of fear. “And after that?”
Isla did not hide it. “After that, she called him a monster.”
Grover’s face hardened. “And?”
“He almost became one.”
Her father looked at her in horror.
“I stood between them,” Isla continued. “I told him if he hurt her, he would become what she called him. He stopped.”
Grover stared at her as if he no longer knew whether to be proud, terrified, or heartbroken.
Then he drank the rose essence.
For several moments, nothing was said. Isla took the empty glass and waited. Slowly, as always, the rose did its work. His breathing eased. Some colour returned to his face. The harsh tightness around his eyes loosened. But today the cure did not bring peace. It only gave him enough strength to be more afraid.
“You are not going back,” he said.
Isla had expected the words, but they still hurt. “I am.”
“No.”
“Only six nights remain.”
“Six nights are enough for a grave.”
“Father—”
“No.” Grover’s voice rose, and then he coughed. Isla reached for him, but he waved her back and forced himself to continue. “I have let this go on because I was too weak to stop it. I told myself each rose brought me closer to life, and each morning you returned, so perhaps the danger was not as terrible as I feared. But now your sisters have seen it. You have seen it. He nearly lost control.”
“But he did not.”
“Because you stood before him like a shield.”
“Yes.”
“You say that as if it comforts me. Isla, you are my daughter. You are not a shield. You are not a payment. You are not a thing to be placed between a beast and his anger.”
“I know what I am.”
“Do you?” Grover asked. His voice broke on the question. “Because I am not certain anymore. You speak of him as if he is both danger and duty. You speak of that house as if it is a place you understand. You defend him even while telling me he might have hurt Lavinia. What am I supposed to think?”
Isla looked down at her hands. They still smelled faintly of the rose.
“You are supposed to think the truth,” she said. “That he is dangerous. That the manor is cursed. That I am afraid. But also that he saved Lavinia when he did not have to. That he has given every rose he promised. That he has never broken his bargain with me.”
“And what if the bargain ends and he decides he wants more?”
The question cut through her.
“I do not know.”
Grover leaned back against the pillows, his face suddenly older. “Then you cannot go.”
“I must.”
“No, Isla. You choose to.”
“Yes,” she said, and the honesty hurt. “I choose to.”
He looked away from her.
For a moment, there was only rain tapping against the glass.
Then he said, very quietly, “You think you are saving me. But every night you go there, I feel as if I am trading my life for yours.”
Isla’s eyes filled with tears, but she did not let them fall. “You are not.”
“How can you say that? I lie here and breathe because you walk into that cursed place. I grow stronger while you grow more tied to him. What kind of father accepts that?”
“One who wants to live.”
Grover flinched.
Isla regretted the words at once, but she could not take them back. “I am sorry,” she whispered.
“No,” he said. “Do not be. Say what is true.”
She stood and moved toward the window, needing distance from the pain in his face. Outside, the bare trees shook under the morning wind. Briar Hollow looked small from this room. Safe, ordinary, helpless. Beyond those fields stood the forest, and beyond the forest, the manor. It no longer felt as far away as it once had.
“If I stop now,” she said, “what happens? The cure may fail. You may become worse again. All the roses I brought, all the nights I spent there, all of it may mean nothing.”
“Your life does not mean nothing.”
“Neither does yours.”
“I am old enough to die.”
She turned sharply. “Do not say that to me.”
“It is true.”
“No. It is cruel.”
Grover’s face softened, but his fear remained. “My child, I have already lived a life. I loved your mother. I raised my daughters badly in many ways, perhaps, but I raised them. I have known summers, harvests, laughter, grief, pride, regret. You have barely begun.”
“And I cannot begin by watching you die when I know there is a way to save you.”
“At what cost?”
“I do not know yet.”
“That is exactly why I forbid it.”
The word struck the room with old authority.
Forbid.
Once, that word might have stopped her. Once, it would have sent her back into obedience, crying perhaps, but obedient. Yet the girl who had first left for Blackwood Ridge was not the same girl who stood in her father’s room now. The manor had frightened her, but it had also hardened something in her. It had taught her that love sometimes required standing while the people you loved begged you to kneel.
“You can forbid it,” Isla said softly. “But I am still going.”
Grover stared at her.
The silence was terrible.
Then he asked, “Is it because of me, or because of him?”
Isla could not breathe.
Downstairs, a door closed. Somewhere in the house, Lavinia began speaking again, her voice muffled by the floorboards. The whole world seemed to wait for Isla’s answer.
“I began because of you,” she said.
“And now?”
She swallowed. “Now I do not know how to separate everything so neatly.”
Grover closed his eyes.
That hurt more than anger.
“I have lost you already,” he whispered.
Isla rushed back to the bed and took his hand. “No. No, Father. You have not.”
“Then stay.”
“I cannot.”
“You can. You are choosing him.”
“I am choosing the promise.”
“You are choosing a promise made to a beast over the plea of your father.”
Tears finally slipped down Isla’s cheeks. “That is not fair.”
“No,” Grover said, his own eyes wet now. “It is not. Fear is rarely fair.”
He held her hand tightly. For a little while, they were both silent. Isla had no perfect answer. Grover had no perfect command. They were trapped by love on opposite sides of the same door.
At last he said, “If you walk out again tonight, you may find me changed when you return.”
“Changed how?”
“Less willing to forgive.”
The words were harsh, but his face broke as soon as he said them.
Isla bent and pressed her forehead to his hand. “Then be angry with me and live.”
For the rest of the day, the house seemed divided against itself. Lavinia remained in the drawing room and told the story to anyone who came near. Each version made the beast larger, crueller, and closer to murder. In one telling, his claws were at her throat. In another, his eyes burned like coals and the garden obeyed his every wish. Cecily cried each time the story was repeated, though she did not correct it. Beatrice did.
“He told you to drop the rose,” Beatrice said sharply the third time Lavinia described herself as innocent. “You did not.”
“I could not.”
“Because you stole it.”
“I was trying to save Father.”
“You were trying to be important.”
Lavinia stood so quickly her chair scraped the floor. “You are hateful.”
“No,” Beatrice replied. “I am tired.”
Cecily covered her ears. “Please stop. I cannot bear it.”
Isla watched them from the doorway. For the first time, she saw that the garden had frightened each of them differently. Cecily was frightened of the magic. Lavinia was frightened of humiliation. Beatrice was frightened because she understood too much. The beast had not only saved Lavinia; he had revealed them.
Beatrice noticed Isla and came into the hall.
“You are still leaving tonight,” she said.
“Yes.”
“Father will try to stop you.”
“I know.”
“He spoke of locking the door.”
“He will not.”
“How do you know?”
“Because he knows I would climb out a window.”
Beatrice looked at her for a moment, then gave a short, unwilling laugh. “You would.”
“Yes.”
The laughter faded.
Beatrice lowered her voice. “I told him the truth.”
“I know.”
“I still do not trust him.”
“I know that too.”
“But Lavinia is alive because of him.”
“Yes.”
Beatrice glanced toward the drawing room, where Lavinia had started crying again. “She will not thank him.”
“I know.”
“She may tell people.”
“I know.”
“Then you understand what you are walking back into.”
Isla looked toward the stairs. Grover’s chamber door was closed. “I understand enough.”
Beatrice studied her carefully. “No. You understand that you care. That is not the same thing as understanding danger.”
The words echoed Grover’s warning too closely.
Isla did not answer.
Beatrice sighed. “I used to think you were weak because you were kind.”
Isla looked at her.
“I was wrong,” Beatrice said. “Kindness is only weak when it needs everyone to approve of it. Yours does not.”
It was the closest thing to tenderness Beatrice had offered in years.
Isla’s throat tightened. “Thank you.”
“Do not look so grateful. It makes me uncomfortable.”
Despite everything, Isla smiled.
Beatrice reached into her sleeve and handed Isla a small folded cloth. “For his hand.”
Isla stared at it.
“It is clean,” Beatrice said. “And stronger than the house linen. If he bled as much as you said, he will need it changed.”
“You are giving me a bandage for the beast?”
“I am giving you a bandage because you will worry if you have none.”
Isla took it slowly. “You saw more than you said.”
“I always do.”
For a moment, the two sisters stood in uneasy peace.
Then Beatrice said, “Do not make me regret telling the truth for you.”
“I will try not to.”
“That is not a promise.”
“No,” Isla said. “I have learned to be careful with those.”
As sunset approached, Grover sent for Isla. She found him sitting upright in bed, the rose’s strength still holding him for now. Her cloak lay folded on the chair beside him.
For one hopeful second, she thought he had changed his mind.
Then he said, “I thought of hiding it.”
Isla looked at the cloak.
“I thought of ordering the servants to lock the doors,” Grover continued. “I thought of asking Beatrice to keep you here by force, though I doubt she would agree. I thought of many foolish things.”
“Why did you not do them?”
“Because you would hate me.”
“No.”
“Yes,” he said softly. “Perhaps not today. Perhaps not even tomorrow. But one day, if I lived because I trapped you here and the cure failed, you would look at me and remember that I chose my fear over your word.”
Isla sat beside him.
Grover reached for the cloak and placed it in her hands. His fingers lingered on the fabric.
“I am still forbidding it,” he said.
“I know.”
“I am still begging you not to go.”
“I know.”
“And I am still giving you this because I do not know how to make a prison out of a father’s love.”
Her tears returned. She leaned forward and embraced him carefully, afraid to hurt him.
“I will come back,” she whispered.
“You always say that.”
“And I always do.”
“For now.”
She pulled back. “Father.”
His mouth trembled. “Forgive an old man his fear.”
“You are not old.”
“I feel ancient.”
“You are frightened.”
“Yes,” he said. “I am.”
She kissed his forehead.
As she stood, he caught her hand one last time. “If he asks you to stay after the fifteenth night, what will you say?”
The question followed her all the way to the door.
“I do not know,” she said honestly.
Grover let go.
The walk to Blackwood Ridge felt different that evening. The ground was still wet, and the sky was low with heavy clouds, but the storm had passed. Isla moved quickly, with her cloak tight around her and Beatrice’s folded cloth tucked safely inside her sleeve. She looked back once at the house and saw a figure in the upper window. She could not tell if it was Grover or Beatrice. Either way, she raised one hand in farewell.
No one waved back.
The forest path opened for her, but it did not feel welcoming. The trees stood close and quiet. The mist moved slowly between them, like something listening. Isla’s thoughts would not settle. She thought of Grover’s face when he gave her the cloak. She thought of Lavinia’s lie, Cecily’s tears, Beatrice’s warning. She thought of the beast waiting at the manor, perhaps already expecting betrayal.
When the manor gates appeared, they opened at once.
No birds cried.
No servant waited.
The garden was silent, but not peaceful. The ruby roses watched from their beds, dark and shining after the rain. The air smelled of wet leaves and thorns. Isla crossed the path and climbed the front steps. The doors opened before she knocked.
The great hall beyond was lit, but colder than usual.
The beast stood at the far end near the fireplace, though the fire seemed smaller behind him. He wore black, and his injured hand was hidden behind his back. His face was unreadable. He did not come forward.
“You came,” he said.
The words were simple, but the tone was not.
Isla removed her cloak. “I promised.”
“Humans promise many things.”
The coldness in his voice hurt more than she expected. She had prepared for anger, but not this distance. It made the hall feel too large, too formal, as if all the closeness of the previous nights had been shut behind a locked door.
“My father knows,” she said.
“I assumed.”
“My sisters told him.”
“I assumed that as well.”
“He was frightened.”
“That is the first sensible response anyone in your family has had.”
“Do not speak of him like that.”
The beast’s eyes shifted toward her. “Like what?”
“As if fear makes him small.”
“Fear makes all humans small eventually.”
“No,” Isla said. “Fear makes people desperate. There is a difference.”
He moved at last, stepping away from the fire. “Will they come?”
“Who?”
“The men of your village. Your neighbours. Your physician. The curious, the brave, the cruel, the drunk, the righteous. Anyone with fire, rope, knives, or courage borrowed from a crowd.”
“I do not know.”
“At least that is honest.”
“My father will not send them.”
“Your father is not the only person in Briar Hollow.”
“Beatrice will try to keep Lavinia quiet.”
“And will Lavinia be kept quiet?”
Isla had no answer.
His mouth curved without humour. “No. Of course not.”
“She was frightened.”
“She was alive.”
“She is my sister.”
“She is a threat.”
“She made a mistake.”
“She stole from me.”
“Yes.”
“She called me monster.”
“Yes.”
“She will tell others I am exactly what she named me.”
“Perhaps.”
“Not perhaps,” he said sharply. His voice filled the hall now, controlled but hard. “Humans fear what they do not control.”
Isla stood still.
The words had power because they were not entirely wrong.
“Yes,” she said after a moment. “They do.”
The beast looked at her, surprised by the agreement.
“But so do you,” she added.
His face changed. “I do not fear villagers.”
“No. You fear their eyes. You fear the moment they look at you and decide that nothing inside you matters because of what they see outside.”
Silence fell so heavily that the fire seemed to shrink.
The beast took one slow step toward her. “You speak boldly tonight.”
“I had a difficult day.”
“So did I.”
“You spent yours waiting to be betrayed.”
His jaw tightened. “And was I wrong?”
“Yes.”
“Were you not forbidden to return?”
“I was.”
“Did your father not beg you to stay?”
“He did.”
“Did your sisters not fill your house with fear?”
“They did.”
“And yet you are here.” He looked at her as if he could not decide whether that angered him more or less. “Why?”
Isla held his gaze. “Because I said I would be.”
“That is all?”
“No,” she said. “But it is enough.”
He turned away sharply, as if the answer had struck him somewhere he did not want touched.
Dinner had been laid in the long hall, but neither of them moved toward the table. The candles burned steadily. Silver dishes waited. Bread cooled under a white cloth. It should have been a scene of order and civility, but the space between them was full of everything unsaid.
“My father forbade me,” Isla said.
The beast did not turn around.
“He said every night I come here, he feels as if he is trading his life for mine.”
“And is he wrong?”
The question was quiet.
Isla swallowed. “I do not know.”
Now the beast turned back.
That honesty seemed to matter to him.
“I told him I had to finish the bargain,” she continued. “I told him only six nights remain. I told him stopping now might undo everything.”
“And did you tell him you care whether I live through those six nights as well?”
The question struck so suddenly that Isla felt heat rise to her face.
The beast’s eyes sharpened.
“So you did not.”
“I did not know how.”
“That is not the same as no.”
“No,” she admitted. “It is not.”
His expression closed again.
“Dangerous,” he said.
“What is?”
“That.”
“The truth?”
“Attachment.”
“Then why are you angry that I came back?”
“I am angry because you came back with half your house ready to hate me and half your heart ready to pity me.”
“It is not pity.”
“No?”
“No.”
“Then what is it?”
Isla could not answer.
The beast laughed once, bitterly. “There. Even you do not know.”
“I know enough to return.”
“And perhaps not enough to leave.”
The words struck them both.
Isla looked away first.
He saw that too.
For several seconds, the hall was silent. Then he walked to the table and pulled out a chair, not roughly, but without the care he usually showed. “Eat.”
“I am not hungry.”
“I did not ask.”
She looked at him sharply. “And I am no longer afraid enough to obey simply because your voice grows colder.”
The beast stilled.
The chair remained between them.
Isla knew she had challenged him, but she was too tired to soften it. She had spent the day fighting for the right to return. She would not spend the night being punished for keeping her word.
“I came back,” she said. “If you wish to be angry, be angry at what may happen, not at me.”
His hand tightened on the chair.
Then slowly, he released it.
“Sit,” he said, quieter this time.
She did.
He sat across from her.
For the first few minutes, they ate in silence. The food was good, but Isla barely tasted it. The beast used his uninjured hand, and she noticed he avoided moving the bandaged one. The cloth around it was clean but already stained faintly at the palm.
“I brought something,” she said.
His eyes lifted.
She reached into her sleeve and removed the folded cloth Beatrice had given her. “For your hand.”
He stared at it as though she had placed a weapon on the table.
“It is clean,” Isla said.
“From your house?”
“Yes.”
“From whom?”
“Beatrice.”
His eyebrows rose slightly. “The clever one.”
“She said you would need it changed.”
“She said that?”
“In her way.”
“Her way being sharp and unpleasant?”
“Often.”
“She may be the only sensible person in your family.”
Isla almost smiled. “You would dislike her.”
“Very likely.”
“She would dislike you first.”
“Then perhaps we would understand one another.”
This time Isla did smile, though only faintly. The beast noticed, and something in his face eased before he hid it.
“Does your hand hurt?” she asked.
“Yes.”
The simple answer surprised her.
“You did not lie.”
“You are learning to catch me when I do.”
“I am.”
“That is inconvenient.”
“Very.”
He looked down at his bandaged hand. “It will heal.”
“Let me change it.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because dinner has not yet been properly used as an excuse to avoid speaking.”
Despite everything, she laughed.
The sound changed the room.
The beast looked at her as if he had not expected it and did not know whether to accept it.
“That was nearly humour,” she said.
“It was fully humour.”
“It was very dry.”
“I am cursed. I cannot be expected to sparkle.”
She laughed again, more freely this time, and the beast’s mouth curved before he could stop it. The smile was small, but real.
Then the moment passed, not painfully, but carefully.
After dinner, he allowed her to change the bandage. They moved to the smaller library because the fire there was warmer and the chairs more comfortable. He sat reluctantly near the hearth, as if sitting made him feel too much like a patient. Isla brought the basin closer and unfolded Beatrice’s cloth.
“You are very dramatic about being helped,” she said.
“I am not dramatic.”
“You stood for ten minutes while bleeding last night.”
“I was thinking.”
“You were bleeding.”
“I can do both.”
She gave him a look.
He sighed and extended his hand.
The old bandage had stuck to some of the cuts. Isla worked carefully, soaking the cloth before lifting it. He did not flinch, but she saw the muscles in his jaw tighten.
“You may admit it hurts,” she said.
“I already did.”
“You may admit it again.”
“That seems excessive.”
She removed the last strip of cloth. The wounds looked angry but cleaner than the night before. Several cuts crossed his palm, and one deep mark curved along the base of his thumb. Isla’s anger toward Lavinia sharpened again at the sight.
“She should have thanked you,” Isla said.
“I did not do it for thanks.”
“No. You did it for me.”
He looked at her.
The fire cracked softly.
Isla lowered her eyes to his hand. “You said that last night.”
“I should not have.”
“But you did.”
“Yes.”
She began cleaning the cuts. “My father asked if I was afraid of you.”
“And what did you say?”
“Yes.”
His face closed slightly.
“I also said not only afraid,” she added.
He gave a low breath. “That answer would not comfort him.”
“It did not.”
“Nor should it.”
She looked up. “Do you want me to be only afraid?”
“No.”
The answer came too quickly.
He looked away.
Isla wrapped the clean cloth around his palm. “Then what do you want?”
He was silent for so long she thought he would not answer. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet.
“I want not to want anything.”
That answer hurt more than she expected.
“Why?”
“Because wanting makes a prison larger.”
Isla tied the bandage carefully. “Or it gives the prisoner a reason to find the door.”
His gaze returned to her. “You make foolish things sound wise.”
“And you make sad things sound final.”
He stared at her, then gave a short laugh under his breath. “You are bold when you have bandages.”
“I am bold when people need sense spoken to them.”
“I am beginning to pity your household.”
“They have earned it.”
This time, his smile lasted longer.
It changed his face. Not completely. Nothing could erase the beast from him. The shadowed fur, the inhuman ears half-hidden beneath his dark hair, the amber eyes, the sharpness of his hands, the size and strength of him—all remained. But when he smiled, Isla could see the man inside the curse more clearly. Not the prince from her dream exactly. This was not that face. This was the beast as he was now, wounded and difficult and alive.
She realised she had been staring only when the smile faded.
“What?” he asked.
“Nothing.”
“That is always a lie.”
“Not always.”
“Isla.”
She sat back. “I was thinking that you look different when you smile.”
“I imagine most creatures do.”
“No. I mean you look less like you are waiting for a blow.”
His expression shifted.
She had gone too close.
But instead of turning cold, he leaned back in his chair and looked into the fire.
“I learned young that happiness annoyed people who wished me solemn.”
“Who wished that?”
“Everyone paid to raise me.”
The answer was plain, but it opened a door.
Isla waited.
After a moment, he continued. “A prince is permitted many things, but not always boyhood. I was told how to stand, how to speak, how to enter a room, how to listen without appearing eager, how to smile without showing too much pleasure, how to command without asking, how to receive affection without needing it.”
“That sounds lonely.”
“It was considered education.”
“Those can be the same thing.”
His eyes flicked to her. “You speak as if you know.”
“I know what it is to be useful before being known.”
He considered that quietly.
The firelight moved over both of them. The library felt warmer now, though outside the windows the night pressed dark and wet against the glass.
“Your father loves you,” he said.
“Yes.”
“Your sisters need you.”
“That is not the same.”
“No.”
“Your household needed you too, perhaps,” Isla said. “Before the curse.”
He looked at the shelves. “They needed what my name could give them.”
She almost spoke the name. It rose in her mind, dangerous and familiar.
Fitzherbert.
She held it back.
He noticed the effort.
His whole body became still.
“Did you nearly say it?” he asked.
“No.”
“Did you think it?”
She did not lie. “Yes.”
His eyes darkened, but he did not become angry. “And?”
“And I did not say it.”
The silence that followed was full of something deeper than fear.
“Thank you,” he said.
The words were quiet and rough, as if unused.
“You do not have to thank me for keeping a promise.”
“Yes,” he said. “I do.”
Later, he took her to a part of the manor she had not seen before. It was not forbidden, he told her, though the way he said it suggested there were many places near it that were. They walked through a long corridor lined with tall windows and old suits of armour. Moonlight fell across the floor in pale squares. The house was quieter tonight, and no whispers followed them.
At the end of the corridor was a narrow balcony overlooking the inner garden. The night air was cold, but not bitter. The ruby roses below looked dark under the moon, and the white birds slept along the wall like folded scraps of cloth.
“This is where I watched you enter the garden the first day,” he said.
Isla looked over the railing. From here, she could see the winding paths, the central fountain, and the rose arch where she had first reached for the bloom.
“You watched me from here?”
“Yes.”
“I thought you were at a window.”
“I moved.”
“You let me wander.”
“I wanted to know what you would do.”
“I was terrified.”
“I know.”
“And you still let the gate lock?”
His mouth tightened. “Yes.”
She turned toward him. “Why?”
“Because I was crueler then.”
The answer was too direct for anger.
She looked back at the garden. “You frightened me more than anyone ever had.”
“I know.”
“You tied me to a chair.”
“You fainted.”
“That is not a good excuse.”
“No,” he admitted. “It is not.”
The honesty surprised her. It also mattered.
“I hated you that night,” she said.
“I remember.”
“I thought you were only a monster.”
“I remember that too.”
She glanced at him. “Did it hurt?”
His gaze remained on the garden. “Yes.”
“I am sorry.”
“Do not apologise for fear. It is more honest than pity.”
“I do not pity you.”
“So you keep saying.”
“Because you keep accusing me.”
“Because I keep expecting it.”
The answer was simple and sad.
Below them, one of the white birds stirred, lifted its head, and tucked it under its wing again.
Isla leaned against the railing. “When I said I would protect you, you laughed.”
“I did.”
“Rudely.”
“Very.”
“You still do not believe me.”
His mouth moved faintly. “I believe you would try.”
“That is something.”
“It is alarming.”
She looked offended. “Why?”
“Because I keep imagining you in front of a crowd of armed villagers, scolding them for poor manners.”
“I would do more than scold.”
“With what weapon?”
“My voice.”
“Terrifying.”
“My courage.”
“Unreliable.”
“My stubbornness.”
He paused. “That may succeed.”
Isla laughed, and this time he laughed with her. It began low and reluctant, then grew freer for a few seconds. The sound filled the balcony and startled the sleeping bird, which opened one black eye in clear disapproval.
The beast noticed and pointed toward it. “You have offended him.”
“I think you offended him. He knows I am delightful.”
The beast looked at her. “Does he?”
“Yes.”
“And who told you that?”
“No one needed to. Some truths are obvious.”
He laughed again, softer this time.
The humour faded slowly, but warmth remained. The beast leaned one shoulder against the stone beside the balcony door, looking almost at ease. Isla realised then how rare that was. He did not look like a lord issuing commands or a creature guarding wounds. For the first time, he looked like someone standing in the night with a friend.
The thought unsettled her.
Friend was safer than other words.
But perhaps not safe enough.
“Your father will ask you again tomorrow,” he said after a while.
“Yes.”
“He will beg harder.”
“Yes.”
“And if the village has heard?”
“Then I will hear that too.”
“If they come to the manor, you cannot stop them all.”
“No,” she admitted. “But I can tell them what I know.”
“They will not care what you know.”
“Some might.”
“Humans in crowds rarely become wiser.”
“That may be true.”
“It is true.”
She looked at him. “Have they come before?”
His face closed.
The answer was yes.
“Long ago?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“What happened?”
“Fire,” he said. “Shouting. Men brave enough to strike locked gates and not brave enough to ask why they feared what stood behind them.”
“Did they hurt you?”
“No.”
“Did you hurt them?”
His silence was answer enough.
Isla did not move away.
“How badly?” she asked.
“Enough that no one came again.”
The cold in his voice was not pride. It was memory.
“Was that the curse?”
“It was me.”
The honesty was harsh.
She accepted it.
“And you fear it happening again,” she said.
“I fear many things happening again.”
“Then let them be different.”
He looked at her. “You say that as if the world obeys wanting.”
“No. But sometimes it obeys choices.”
“You sound like someone who has not yet seen enough ruined choices.”
“And you sound like someone who has mistaken ruin for prophecy.”
He stared at her.
Then, very slowly, he smiled. “That was rather good.”
“I know.”
“Do not become vain.”
“I learned from Lavinia. I have examples of what to avoid.”
He gave a deep, unexpected laugh.
It broke the heaviness so suddenly that Isla laughed too.
By the time they returned inside, the manor felt less cold. The candles in the corridor burned brighter. The portraits seemed less watchful. At one point, as they passed the music room, a single note sounded from the piano though no one touched it. Isla stopped.
The beast looked irritated. “Ignore that.”
“The piano played by itself.”
“It does that when it wants attention.”
“The piano wants attention?”
“Everything in this house wants attention.”
“Even you?”
He looked at her.
She realised what she had said and felt her face warm.
For one long moment, he did not answer. Then he said, “Especially me, apparently.”
She laughed before she could stop herself.
The beast shook his head, but there was amusement in his eyes.
“You are dangerous tonight,” he said.
“I thought you were the dangerous one.”
“I am. But I am honest about it.”
“Not always.”
“More often than your sisters.”
“That is a very low standard.”
They reached the music room door. Isla looked inside. The room was dim, but the piano gleamed in the moonlight.
“Will you play?” she asked.
He lifted his bandaged hand. “Badly.”
“I can play.”
“You can attempt to play.”
“I have improved.”
“You have become louder. That is not the same.”
She stepped inside. “Then teach me.”
“I have one useful hand.”
“Then you can use your voice.”
“That is usually how teaching works.”
She sat at the piano and placed her fingers on the keys. He stood behind her, not too close at first, and gave quiet instructions. The music began badly. Isla struck the wrong notes twice, missed the timing, and once lost her place completely. The beast corrected her with growing impatience, but not cruelty.
“No. Not that key.”
“This one?”
“That is even worse.”
“You said left.”
“I meant your other left.”
“I only have one.”
“Then use it better.”
She looked over her shoulder. “You are a terrible teacher.”
“And yet you remain a terrible student. We are well matched.”
She laughed, and he leaned closer to point at the correct keys. His sleeve brushed her shoulder. The contact was brief, but both of them noticed. His voice lowered slightly when he spoke again.
“Here,” he said. “Begin again. Slowly.”
She did.
This time, the melody came together. Simple, uneven, but recognisable. The beast’s hand rested on the edge of the piano, his bandaged one held carefully against his chest. He listened with a strange stillness.
“What is it?” she asked without stopping.
“My mother played this.”
Isla’s fingers faltered.
“Do not stop,” he said.
She continued, more carefully now.
The room seemed to change around the melody. Not magically, or not only magically. The sound softened the hard lines of the place. The beast stood behind her, silent, and Isla felt his grief beside her as clearly as warmth from the fire.
When the song ended, she kept her hands on the keys.
“She was kind?” Isla asked.
“Yes.”
“Did she die before the curse?”
“Yes.”
“I am sorry.”
“So am I.”
The plainness of it made her chest ache.
He moved away from the piano and went to the window. “She would have liked you.”
Isla turned on the bench.
The words seemed to surprise him after he said them.
“You think so?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because you are impossible to manage.”
Isla smiled. “That was her taste?”
“She loved difficult things.”
“Then perhaps she loved you very much.”
He did not answer.
But he did not deny it.
The hour grew late. The manor settled into night. The beast walked her to her chamber, as he had done before. The silence between them was calmer now, but not simple. There were too many things growing beneath it.
At her door, he stopped.
“Your father will not forgive me,” he said.
“He may not.”
“Your sisters will not thank me.”
“No.”
“Your village may hate me.”
“Maybe.”
“And still you say you will stand between them and me.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Isla looked at him. There were many answers. Because he had saved Lavinia. Because he had kept every promise. Because she had seen the wound behind his anger. Because she no longer knew how to leave him alone in the dark and call it wisdom.
But she chose the clearest truth.
“Because someone should.”
His eyes changed.
For a moment, he looked almost young.
Then he lowered his gaze. “You should not make promises to creatures like me.”
“I already did.”
“And regretted it once.”
“Yes.”
“And now?”
“Now I understand promises better.”
He looked back at her. “Do you?”
“Yes. A promise is not kept because it is easy. It is kept when everything makes it difficult.”
The beast was silent.
Then he asked, almost too quietly, “Will you return tomorrow?”
Isla’s heart moved strangely at the question. He had not commanded. He had not warned. He had asked.
“Yes,” she said. “I promise.”
The words settled between them like something fragile and strong at once.
He nodded once. “Then sleep.”
“If anything speaks in a dream, I will not answer.”
“If anything wears my face?”
“I will not trust it.”
“If anything uses the name?”
“I will not say it.”
He seemed to breathe easier.
“Good night, Isla.”
“Good night.”
She entered her chamber and closed the door. For a while, she stood with her back against it, listening. After a moment, she heard him move away, then stop. She smiled faintly. He had not gone far.
The night passed quietly. No mirror appeared. No voice whispered from the walls. No dream came wearing the prince’s face. Isla slept lightly, waking once to the sound of rain starting again, and once near dawn to the feeling that someone stood outside her door. She was not afraid. She turned over and slept again.
Morning came pale and cold.
When Isla entered the breakfast room, the beast was already there. He stood near the window, looking out at the wet garden. His bandage had been changed again, and his face looked tired but calmer. On the table were warm bread, fruit, honey, tea, and small cakes dusted with sugar.
“Good morning,” Isla said.
He looked back, and for a moment he seemed surprised by the ordinary greeting. “Good morning.”
They sat. Breakfast began quietly, but not uncomfortably. Outside, the white birds lined the garden wall. One of them opened its beak and sang a single clear note.
Isla looked up.
The beast heard it too.
“That happened yesterday,” she said.
“Yes.”
“What does it mean?”
“I am not certain.”
“But you have an idea.”
He watched the bird. “They stopped singing when the curse settled fully over the house.”
“And now one sings.”
“Yes.”
“Because of you?”
His mouth tightened. “No.”
“Because of me?”
He looked at her then. “Because something is changing.”
The answer was careful, but it did not hide everything.
The bird sang again, softer this time.
Isla smiled. “He approves of me.”
“He is a bird.”
“A very wise bird.”
“He screamed at you the first day.”
“I made a poor first impression.”
“You tried to steal a rose.”
“I tried to save my father.”
“So did Lavinia.”
Isla pointed at him. “Do not compare us before breakfast is finished.”
He almost smiled. “As you wish.”
At ten, the beast brought the tenth rose himself. No servant carried it. No tray held it. He entered the breakfast room with the bloom in his uninjured hand. The rose was deep ruby red, fresh with rain, darker at its heart and bright at the edges. Its scent filled the room the moment he came near.
He stopped before Isla.
For a moment, neither spoke.
Then he held it out. “Day ten is complete.”
The words were clear and heavy. Isla had survived the tenth night at the manor. Ten nights had now been completed, and five nights remained before the bargain would end.
She reached for the rose. Their fingers touched around the stem. This time, neither moved away quickly. The touch was small, but it carried the memory of everything that had passed between them: anger, fear, laughter, music, blood, and promises.
The beast released the rose first.
“Your father needs it,” he said.
“I know.”
“And your house will be waiting.”
“I know that too.”
He looked toward the window, then back at her. “If they ask what happened here tonight, what will you tell them?”
“The truth.”
“Which truth?”
“That you were angry when I came.”
“That is not flattering.”
“That you were afraid my family would betray you.”
“Also not flattering.”
“That you laughed when I said I would protect you.”
His mouth curved despite himself.
“And that you asked me to return tomorrow,” Isla finished.
The smile faded, but not because he was displeased. The truth had touched him too deeply for that.
“And will you?” he asked.
Isla held the tenth rose close to her heart. “Yes. I promise I will return tomorrow.”
He nodded once, but his eyes remained on her as if he wanted to believe the words and feared believing them too much.
“Go, then,” he said quietly. “Before the rose loses strength.”
Isla turned toward the door, then looked back one last time. The beast stood in the pale morning light, tall and dark and wounded, no longer only the creature she had feared on the first night and not simply the prince she had seen in dreams. He was something harder to understand than either. Something dangerous. Something lonely. Something alive enough to laugh.
She left the manor with the tenth ruby rose held carefully in her hands. The garden gates opened for her, and the white birds watched from the walls as she passed. Beyond the garden waited Blackwood Ridge, wet and silver with morning mist. Beyond the ridge waited Briar Hollow, her father’s fear, her sisters’ accusations, and whatever rumours had begun to grow in her absence.
But the tenth night at the manor was over. Ten nights had now been completed, and five nights remained before the bargain would end.