Beauty and the Beast_ Lost in a Book(72)
Belle thought about her “perfect” friends within Nevermore. The countess and her dazzling guests. Mouchard. Professore Truffatore, Henri.
“Neither do I. You may not be a ‘perfect friend,’” she said. “But you’re a real one. And I’m lucky to have you.”
The Beast smiled. He squeezed her hands. “Can we keep trying, Belle? Would you give me another chance?”
Belle smiled.
She squeezed back.
And decided that she would.
IN THE HOLLOW TRUNK of an ancient willow tree, near a clear, rushing stream, Love and Death played their eternal game.
Love was mistress of the willow, and any mortal who sat down beneath its softly sighing branches, no matter how weary or without hope, found his heart full and his spirit restored.
She and Death sat in chairs woven of branches. A large speckled toadstool served as their table. Fireflies hovered in the air above them, illuminating the deep night.
Their chessboard was made of obsidian and bone. Insects were the chess pieces.
“It’s your move,” Death said, drumming her fingers on the arm of her chair.
“Yes, I know,” said Love.
“We don’t have all night,” said Death.
“You can’t hurry love,” said Love.
A moment later, her queen—a praying mantis—ate one of Death’s pawns—a plump yellow caterpillar.
“How was your trip to Venice?” Love asked as Death contemplated the board.
“Productive. The outbreak was rather severe, I’m happy to say,” Death replied. “Ten thousand gone in a week—a personal best. I brought you some candy.”
Love smiled. “Did you bring me three million louis d’or?”
“No,” replied Death. “Why would I? You haven’t won the wager.”
“I’m going to, though,” said Love confidently.
Death frowned. She nudged her knight—a grasshopper—forward. It bit the head off Love’s rook—a moth.
“I always win,” said Love.
Death sat back in her chair and regarded her sister. “Has anyone ever told you that it’s rude to brag?”
“The Beast is learning to care for others,” Love said. “His heart aches over what he’s done. He’s learning to love. Belle is teaching him. He would die for that girl.”
“Would he?” Death asked. “I’d be happy to arrange it.”
Love ignored the dark jest. “The Beast will love, and be loved in return, before the last petal on the enchanted rose falls. Wait and see.”
Death shook her head. “Once again, you fail to see the bigger question: Will Belle learn to love the Beast?”
“She will. She is. They’re becoming friends. That’s the first step.”
“Don’t be so certain. The story’s not over. Much can still go wrong,” said Death. “And if the human heart is involved, much will.”
“I’m hopeful,” said Love.
“Fools always are,” sighed Death. She nodded at the board. “It’s your move.”
Love turned her attention back to the chessboard, determination etched on her face. Death sat forward, her brow knit in concentration.
Attacks and counterattacks, binds and blockades, feints and ripostes followed as the sisters vied to win.
Beneath the canopy of night, into the clear light of morning, the brightness of daytime, and the softly falling dusk, the hours passed.
From long, long ago to forevermore, Love and Death played on.