Bloom Like Roses, Wild and Thorned

by Jessica Lévai

Perhaps you’ve heard the tale of a poor merchant who set out to seek his fortune, leaving his daughter home with the promise of a rose. There was a storm. There was a castle. There was a Beast.

The merchant spends most nights down at the tavern. Buy him a drink and he’ll tell you the whole story, or as much as he cares to remember. He’ll tell you how he reached the castle just in time, how invisible servants catered to his every need, how he was safe at last. At first. Until the rose.

None of that is untrue. Nor is it untrue that the roses in the castle gardens bloomed even in winter. He tried to pluck one, but the stem wouldn’t break. With the knife from his belt he sliced the bloom from the bush. Then the Beast burst from a hiding place and attacked him.
Once, the merchant had taken a client to a bear baiting. The animal was chained to a post, roaring while dogs bit it mercilessly and its master took bets. That had been at a safe distance. Now the Beast was right before him, larger than any bear and armed with the teeth and claws of a cat. It was more lethal, had no master or chain anywhere, and no target for its wrath but the merchant himself. He dodged those fearsome claws by a hair’s breadth, but the Beast struck the knife from his hand easily and knocked him to the ground. The single rose fell against the white snow.

“How dare you?” came a massive roar. “After the hospitality I have shown, you harm my roses?”

The cold seeping through his thin coat, the merchant sputtered and wept. “Please, forgive me. “I’ll pay you whatever you ask.”

“No money will restore my rose to me,” came the response, sending the leaves of the rosebushes shaking.

The merchant knew better than to look for help that wouldn’t come. His wits had always gotten him out of scrapes. “It’s my daughter’s fault,” he said. “She asked me to bring her a rose, a single rose, when I returned. Please, let me go, for her sake!”

Of course it was a trick. Even the truth can be a trick, if you know how to use it. Still, the mention of a girl left on her own in the winter, waiting for someone who might never return, touched something deep in the Beast’s heart. The claws disappeared into shadows under a heavy cloak. “I am prepared to spare your life,” grumbled the Beast, “on one condition.”

“Anything. Anything!”

“You must promise to marry me, and live here in the castle with me for the rest of your life.”

The merchant’s face cracked with shock, his jaw hanging. Snow melted against his skin and dripped from his face like sweat or tears. His breath steamed the air in big, stupid gulps. “You’re a woman!” he finally cried, examining the form beneath the cloak.

“I am a Beast,” she snarled, displaying her teeth. “Make your choice.”

He swallowed, surprise and horror quickly displaced by self-preservation. “I will,” he stammered. “I will marry you. I promise.”

He followed the Beast at a distance, keeping to her tracks in the snow. He was a captive now, but his coat was soaked, his bare fingers red and raw, and his feet quickly losing sensation. At least his prison had hot fires and warm meat. As the castle loomed larger before him, he looked from its turrets to the Beast’s pointed ears, from its massive edifice to the bulk of the creature. She ushered him into a small room, already toasty from the fire burning in the fire-place, and took his coat. Might she have been the invisible servant from the night before? He shuddered. He thought about his promise of marriage, and shuddered again.

“How?” he asked no one in particular.

The Beast looked at him steadily. “How… what?”

The merchant asked the politest of the questions in his mind. “How did a Beast come to live here, in a castle?”

His host looked away. “You are cold. Please, sit by the fire. I will bring you something warm to drink, and we will talk.”

He did as she bid, removing his damp boots and sinking into the plushest seat by the fire, putting up his feet to dry his socks. This was the room where he rested last night, which already seemed so long ago. Then, he had been afraid to touch or even look too closely at anything. But now he took in the carved mantel of the fireplace, the elegant lamps on the walls, the dense, thick pile of the carpet beneath his chair. How did a Beast become mistress of all this?

“I was not always a Beast,” she said, behind him. Since coming inside her voice was less harsh, and he could hear the feminine tone to her words. The Beast handed him a full glass of warm cider and spirits. She did not join him in a chair. Rather she stood behind him and to the side, making herself almost invisible. He sipped his drink and waited.

“One cold night many years ago I was visited by a stranger. Like you, he claimed to be lost and in search of rest for the night, out of the storm.”

“And you turned him away?” asked the merchant, eager to get ahead of the story.

“I gave him a meal and a bed. Just like you. And like you, he wanted more.”

The cider went cold in the merchant’s cup. “It was my daughter who asked for it.”

“No,” said the Beast, and now he could just see the outlines of her monstrous form in the shadows on the wall. “He would not have been satisfied with a rose. He wanted me to comfort him.”

“I see.” No further words were needed. The fire crackled.

“If he had asked for a rose, I would not have refused him,” said the Beast, quietly. “But he asked too much, and I did refuse. He was no ordinary man, but an enchanter in disguise. He cursed me to wear this form. At the sight of me the servants fled, telling everyone who would listen that this place was haunted. I have been alone ever since, waiting for someone to break the curse.”

The merchant knew something about being alone, and felt genuine pity for the creature beside him. But he also felt pity for himself. Wasn’t he the one cursed now, to live with this monstrosity forever? “That’s terrible,” he said, addressing one sad circumstance or the other. “Once we marry, will the curse be over? Will you return to what you were?”

“I may no longer be beautiful,” she answered, and hurt stained her voice. “But I should be human again. Yes.”

“Ah. That’s a comfort. To both of us.” There was no answer, and the shadow of the Beast was no longer clear. The merchant made a calculation. “Please, Beast,” he said. “There is no need to hide from me. I am, after all, your intended.”

The Beast crept into the light. The merchant kept his gasp from escaping. He could be-come accustomed to claws, fangs, and fur, certainly at a distance, for a little while. They had a bargain by which they would both profit. “Would you show me the rest of the castle?” he asked, his voice sweeter than the drops left in his cup. “If it is to be my home.” He laid his cup on the floor before rising from his chair, holding out his hand to the Beast. She extended a paw. He took it without flinching, giving her his best smile.

Perhaps the Beast saw through his attempts at kindness. Perhaps not. She had been alone so long. She had to re-learn what it was to be in the company of another person. If this man would accept her, she would do her best. She took him on a tour of her… their castle.

At first he kept up a nervous chatter, but this ebbed the deeper they went. She showed him the ballroom, dusty from decades of disuse. The kitchens, where she had prepared his meals. Through the solarium, past the many bedrooms, she could almost hear his gaze land on the paintings, tapestries, and statues: evaluating, tallying. With each room the Beast’s heart grew heavier and heavier but she kept her eye on her goal, swallowed her concerns, and continued.

“When will the wedding take place?” the merchant asked, taking in his reflection in a mirror. He ran his fingers over its gilt frame. If there had been subtlety in his avarice before, there was none now. The Beast hated herself, in a way she had never done even in the first days of her transformation, for allowing this coarse man to touch her things, to weigh them as only so much gold. But she had no choice. She caught her own reflection, the daily reminder of what happened the last time she refused to play men’s games.

Finally they reached her favorite room: the library. This had been her refuge, where she might retreat from the harsh world to read about better ones, or visit friends in her imagination. With someone else here, she hesitated. What would this man, so overwhelmed by the luxury of the castle, make of this humble place where the only riches were paper?

His face had taken on a dreamy smile in the other rooms, but now that the merchant was in the library, the smile faded. It was not the magnificent library you see in storybooks, where shelves line walls reaching to the sky. The small room’s collection was only a few hundred volumes. But it was one place in the castle completely free of dust, whose chairs, large enough to accommodate the Beast’s size, were obviously well-used.

The Beast held her breath as the merchant perused the heart of her castle. She noted his frown with a mix of disappointment and relief. If he had no interest in reading, they’d have precious little to talk about for the rest of their lives. Then again, perhaps this would remain entirely hers.

The merchant took his time reading the titles. His frown brightened bit by bit, and she gained hope. Finally he stopped, his attention arrested by a particular volume. He reached out and carefully removed it from the shelf, holding it so reverently that she dared hope her husband would be a true companion.

“This is a first printing,” he said, his voice full of growing excitement. “There were not many made.” He flipped through the book and the frown darkened a bit. “Cut pages, though.”

“Of course,” said the Beast. “I’ve read that one several times.”

He revived his smile briefly, sifted through the pages again, then set the book atop a nearby desk. “No matter.” He pulled another book from the shelf. And another. He turned each over in his hands, gave fleeting examination to the contents, and placed them on the desk. A pile grew. The Beast saw her old friends, her books, discarded and her heart chilled. She slipped from the room, hoping he would not notice. But no sooner was she in the hall than she heard his voice, telling her he was hungry.

When the merchant tells this story, he never describes the wealth the castle contained. It’s gone forever from his grasp, like so many of his brilliant ventures, and it doesn’t bear remembering. He certainly never talks about the library. But he will tell everyone about the daughter he left behind, for she is instrumental in what happens next.

He says she was so beautiful it hurt his eyes. But in fact, she was very plain. She was past the age when many girls married yet continued to live with her father, the two of them alone together. He had his business; she had the tasks of cleaning and serving. She did all these things for him because he was her support, and she was quite convinced no one would have her anyway. Besides, she loved him.

So when he was overdue for his return, the girl fretted. Her stocks ran lower every day; the weather ran colder every night. When his horse returned to their cottage without a rider, without cargo, she was frightened. Be it bravery or practicality that moved her, she knew what she had to do. She packed herself into her warmest clothing, mounted the horse, and rode back along the path her father had taken. The snow recorded where he had gotten lost, and the horse, whose favorite she was, remembered better than any person where his master had led him. It took only a few days for girl and horse to come upon the castle, whose spires rose like mist out of the white and green canopy of the forest.

The merchant’s daughter dismounted in the courtyard. The remains of footprints just the size of her father’s boots lead in two directions: to the castle door, and to the gardens. The door was dark, heavy, and forbidding. Who knew who or what might answer? If her father were in trouble, she would do anything to save him. But she was not eager to draw more attention to herself. She decided to explore the garden first.

As she walked toward the sleeping greenery, the slightest pinprick of scarlet caught her eye. It was a rose, cut and abandoned. She never liked roses: their cloying smell, their inconsistent color. But her father insisted she liked them, so she smiled and accepted what he gave her. A span from the rose was his knife. Her father must be here, but where? She saw no other soul, only the rosebush crowded with flowers in full bloom, snow decorating them like diamonds. It was nothing short of miraculous to find the blooms in the open so late, and she stooped to breathe their fragrance. For the first time she understood the appeal. She brushed the petals gently with her glove.

“Like father, like daughter!” came a guttural growl behind her. She spun to face the voice. Before her stood the Beast.

Of course she was frightened. Her little courage had brought her this far, and now it seemed that she would be eaten up without seeing her father again. That’s if the Beast hadn’t eaten him up already, in which case she was quite alone in a cold world and becoming supper wasn’t the worst fate that awaited her. The girl fell to her knees.

The Beast did not eat her but stepped with surprising lightness around the girl’s shivering form and bent over the rosebush. For some minutes she stood inspecting, poking, until finally she said, “At least I got here before you cut one.”

“Cut one?” The girl’s face snapped up. “Why would I?”

There was no reply, and the girl took the silent moment to examine the Beast’s face. It was, like the roses, wild and beautiful, though possessed of sharp points she would not forget about any time soon. She was shivering, kneeling in the snow. The flakes falling against her hood whispered of frostbite and worse. Yet she did not speak, because she had only two questions to ask, and was terrified of the answer to either.

“You came for your father,” said the Beast. The girl nodded. “He is here,” said the Beast in measured tones. “But how did he send for you?”

“He didn’t,” said the girl simply. “I just knew he must be in trouble. It’s… it’s not the first time. But he’s never been gone so long.”

The Beast sniffed. She bent to snatch the dying rose from where it had fallen, regret creasing her feline features. The knife she left where it was. “Follow me,” she said.

The merchant’s daughter followed meekly as the Beast led her through the maze of hallways within the castle. At first the girl kept her eyes on the floor, hugging her poor coat closer to herself. But as she walked, she looked up higher, and higher, and at every level her eyes met wonders. The first was the space of the castle itself. If the outside was massive, the inside was like paper folded in on itself again and again, containing more rooms than she would have thought possible. And yet it was open, quiet, and comfortable. It was a world away from her cottage, cramped with her father’s wares, the walls so thin the wind listened to every conversation and carried it along.

“This is all yours?” she asked the Beast.

“Yes,” said the Beast, after a moment. “It is mine.”

Now the girl watched openly for what surprises might come her way, following the path but peeking through doors and around corners. Her gaze was rewarded. There was a room of musical instruments like an exotic zoo collection. Gold glittered everywhere, making the colors brighter. And finally, there was a library. In the middle of this room the Beast stopped, and the merchant’s daughter sighed like someone coming home.

“Don’t touch,” said the Beast, eying her warily.

The girl tucked her hands under her arms. “I’m so sorry. I’ve just never seen so many books in one place.”

“It’s small.”

“It’s marvelous. I wish I had time to read anything.”

“Don’t you wish to greet your father?” said the Beast, pointing with a claw.

There he sat, her father, at a desk behind high stacks of ledgers and papers. The piles obscured him from her vision, but even had the desk been bare she might not have recognized him. He wore a long velvet coat over a fresh, clean embroidered shirt. His hair was slick with pomade, not the grizzled cloud she was used to. He’d tied a silk cravat around his neck. He was absorbed in his reading and a large apple he was munching, juice dribbling onto the ledgers. At a growl from the Beast, his eyes snapped up.

“Daughter!” he said, crumbs flying from his mouth as he bolted to his feet. “My Beauty, why have you come here?” He approached the girl and wrapped her in his huge arms. “Oh, I have so much to tell you. Such wonderful news.”

She had entered the library with a small flame of curiosity and wonder, and the sight of her father was enough for it to flicker, and go out. Tears lit the corners of her eyes, choking her voice as she said, “You didn’t come home. I was so scared something had happened to you.”

“As you can see, I’m better than I ever have been.”

“But I didn’t know where you were,” his daughter continued. The tears broke free, dripping on the floor. Her father pulled his clothing away in distaste.

“You found me, my Beauty, that’s all that matters, eh? You wouldn’t believe what a stroke of luck I’ve had. No more travelling, no more groveling to those snobbish folk in the cities, and you shall never wash a dish again in your life!”

The girl wiped her eyes. “What are you talking about?” Her father beamed at her, which clarified nothing. She glanced around for help, but the Beast offered none.

“This castle is ours, my pet, ours! There are only a few details to arrange, some papers to sign, that sort of thing, and then you will live like a princess!”

“How can the castle be ours?”

Her father clammed up. His eyes flicked to the Beast, who remained silent. The girl trembled afresh. She did not know legalities, but she knew stories, knew a father and a beast and the promise of wealth usually meant only one thing. Perhaps she would be supper after all. She swallowed hard. “Father, what have you done?”

The merchant’s foot tapped a nervous tattoo on the floor. “Would you give my daughter and me some time alone, my sweet?” he said to the Beast. “I must relay the happy news to her. Go fix her up a room, get her some better clothing. One of the gowns you showed me. Yes, that would be perfect. Off you go.”

The Beast’s fur rose, making her seem even more massive, while she revealed her teeth in something that might have been a smile, but wasn’t. The girl flinched. But then the Beast made some sort of animal bow, and removed herself from the room. The merchant’s daughter watched her go. “How do you control such a monster?” she asked her father.

The merchant smiled. “It’s the simple trick of knowing what someone wants. It gives you power. Haven’t I always told you? That monster…” His voice dropped, and he drew his daughter closer. “She is the mistress of this place. Or was, until she ran afoul of an enchanter and was turned into a Beast. But if she marries, the spell will be broken. So I have promised to marry her. Soon I’ll have a pretty wife and a castle in my name. Clever, no?”

“What if she isn’t pretty?” asked the daughter, for reasons she could not explain to herself.

“If it’s all a fraud, you mean?” The merchant laughed. “Practical girl. Yes. The thought occurred to me, as well. I don’t suppose it matters. She’ll be my wife, I’ll be her husband, and the castle will be mine all the same. Once I liquidate some of the holdings, I can buy more property and expand my influence. Oh, you would not believe the thousands I could get for the contents of this room alone!”

How unjust, thought the girl who had never been courted, seldom seen men besides her father, and wondered if she hadn’t missed so much after all. “Does the Beast know your plans?”

He chuckled. “She must know. She has keen eyes and ears, so watch your tongue around her. But like I said, I have something she wants. She will be made beautiful again because I will make her so. What can she do, refuse me? After the wedding, if it is a sham, I will put her out like a dog. She can’t argue with that, can she?”

“Nobody argues for long with you,” his daughter said. And it was true. Her father did not lose arguments. He lost shipments. He lost money. He lost her mother.

Her father stepped in close and whispered in her ear. “I am not such a fool that I will completely turn my back on a Beast, even one bound to me. Now that you’re here, be my eyes. Keep a watch on her and let me know if you see anything suspicious. If we need to escape, your tears and pleading will be essential. I can count on you, yes?” When there was no answer, he drew back and frowned down on her. “You do want to live with me here, not return to that squalid cottage?”

His words stung and she nodded.

“Good. Because if you don’t help me carry this off, even that cottage will have no place for you.”

The Beast showed the merchant’s daughter to the room that was to be hers. It was lavish, despite the dust which retained their foot and paw prints. From an armoire in the corner the Beast drew a gown of fine but sturdy cloth, suitable for day wear. The merchant’s daughter’s eyes widened at the sight.

“No, thank you,” she said. “It’s too fine for me, please. I’m happy with what I have.”

The Beast snorted. “You’re shivering in what you have. I’ll start the fire.”

“No!” said the girl, moving swiftly. “No, you don’t have to. I will.” She arranged fresh logs in the fireplace. The Beast handed her a match. As the flame and smoke emerged from the careful stack, the girl said, “If I don’t do it every day, I’ll lose the knack.”

“Rubbish.” After a moment of thought the Beast asked in a low voice, “Why did you come here?”

The girl turned from the fire and looked at her with blank, confused eyes. “I had to find my father.”

“Why?” The Beast was leaning in uncomfortably close.

The merchant’s daughter wiped her chapped hands on her skirt. “Because he’s my father.”

The Beast drew away and sat on the corner of the bed. She was not so fearsome now. The girl remembered an unclaimed dog she’d seen skulking through the village. Its ribs stood out and its eyes were the same as the Beast’s, distant and lost. “Do you love him?” The Beast asked.

“Of course,” the girl replied, the only reply that was true.

The Beast let out a long sigh. “I just wanted to know if it was possible. Does he love you?”

“He must,” said the girl. This was also true.

The Beast looked her over, wondering how the girl would look if he didn’t. “There’s fresh water in the ewer. Wash up and put on the dress I gave you. He will be angry if he sees you in what you have on now.” The girl could not disagree. She crossed to the washbasin and poured in a modest pool of water before splashing her hands and face with it. “Please hurry,” said the Beast. “I must prepare lunch.”

“I can do that,” said the girl without thinking, again forgetting her place as guest.

“He expects me to do it,” said the Beast.

“We have that in common, you and I.” The girl wiped her face with a nearby towel, trying not to sneeze at the dust. “I’ll help.”

The Beast turned to give her privacy, but the merchant’s daughter thought she saw that fearsome, sad, bestial countenance lighten at her words.

The meal was simple, its preparation the most enjoyable time the Beast had ever spent in the kitchen. The girl’s jaw dropped at the selection of fresh game available, brought down by the Beast herself.

“But don’t you have any bread?” the girl asked.

The Beast shook her head. “Not for a long time. I never learned how to make it.”

“I see,” she replied. “What else do you have?”

From the storage cellars the girl rescued various vegetables and a sack of flour, and the Beast was amazed at how resourceful her young guest was, chopping and mixing and turning the simple food into something not just edible, but attractive. From tubers and meat she spun soup; from flour, water, and salt she coaxed flat bread. The air filled with delicious odors.

As the two made the food they talked. They had little in common at first. The girl was unfamiliar with classic literature and the Beast had never set foot in a shop. But they both liked to eat, and speculated about what they might whip up for dinner. They talked about their mothers, both lost so long ago that their memories were thin and fragile, like spiders’ webs.

The merchant, drawn by the smell of hot food, appeared in the dining room soon after the soup and bread were served. He sat himself at the head of the table, breathing deep the agreeable aromas. The Beast took the seat to his right, his daughter to his left. No sooner had the girl’s skirts rested on the chair than her father said, “No, stand, my Beauty, let me see you in that dress.”

She stood awkwardly. Her father looked her up and down from where he sat. She fidgeted, trying to pull the sleeves down over her raw, unlovely hands and turning her face away. The Beast watched and wondered why someone not cursed with fangs and fur should be so sensitive. She would have traded with the girl in an instant.

“Not bad,” said the merchant. “Though I wonder why you chose this. There are richer gowns, and this color doesn’t do anything for you. Washes you out. You’ll have to do better, once we start meeting people. It’ll do for now. Sit.” The girl obeyed him wordlessly and focused all her attention on her soup.

It will be different with me, the Beast thought. I was beautiful, and I will be again.

The merchant slurped a few sips of his soup, chewing potatoes noisily. Cleansing his palate with a sip of water he said, “Finally, my Beauty and my intended, together at the same table. How like a family we already are. It calls for celebration. Bring me a bottle of the ’49, if you please.”

The Beast sat back. “There are only three bottles left. I was saving them.”

“Nonsense. Go fetch one. Now.”

“I am eating.” The growl had returned to the Beast’s voice, but so low the merchant perhaps did not notice.

“As am I, with nothing good to wash it down. Honestly, this is such a little thing that I’m asking.” The merchant’s tone was petulant, but his face was hard.

The girl knew the tone and the face and rose again from the table, her food barely touched. “I’ll fetch it, Father, if you tell me where to go.”

“Sit!” he demanded, and the girl obeyed. He had not turned his face from the Beast. “My daughter is not your servant.”

“Nor am I yours.” The growl was clearer now, but he did not flinch.

“You will be my wife. There are certain courtesies you owe me. Until we take on a decent cook, I will require wine with all my meals. Now get it.” The Beast did not move. The merchant sighed. “Do you want out of our arrangement, my dear? It was your idea, but perhaps marriage doesn’t suit you after all.”

The Beast lunged. The merchant flinched this time, while his daughter let out a small, strangled, “no” and leapt from her seat to throw her arms between her father and the Beast. The merchant’s face turned triumphant as he patted his daughter’s back. The Beast drew away, glaring at the two of them, then left to retrieve the wine.

“Well played, my Beauty,” said the merchant. His daughter’s knees were wobbly and her heart raced. She sat down in her chair and watched a single tear drop into her soup.

When the Beast returned, the two were sitting and eating in silence. The Beast saw red-ness limning the girl’s eyes, the smug look on her father’s face, and placed a bottle of wine in front of him. Hers were the first hands to touch it in decades, her claws leaving streaks in the thick dust that still coated the surface.

“A gift for you,” she said.

The merchant didn’t look up from his bowl. “Fine. Clean it off and serve it.”

The Beast’s lips snarled. “You misunderstand. This is a parting gift. Take it and go. I want you out of my castle. Now.”

At this the merchant looked up. He pushed himself back and returned the snarl to the Beast. “Don’t be ridiculous. We have an arrangement.”

“Not any more.” The Beast’s voice was soft. She did not roar. Her claws remained sheathed. But no power could move her to change her mind. “I am releasing you. Take the wine. Your daughter can keep the dress. I don’t care, as long as you are gone.”

“How dare you?” And now the merchant was on his feet, his voice rising with him. “I am going to save you from a terrible fate, at considerable personal sacrifice. You should be grateful.”

“I am. That is why you leave with your life.”

The merchant looked up at the Beast towering over him. He glanced at his daughter and said, “You are frightening her.”

But the girl’s eyes were dry. She had folded her hands in her lap and met both her father and the Beast’s looks calmly. “Come, Father,” she said. “We have been guests here long enough.” She rose and curtseyed to the Beast, then took her father by the arm.

But the man stood pale and frozen. When the color returned to his face it was bright and dark all at once, and he flung his daughter aside so forcefully she stumbled and fell to the ground. He seized the bottle of wine from the table and, holding it before him like a weapon, spat at the Beast, “Then be a monster forever, as that’s all you are capable of being. Stay here alone in this castle with your books and the meat you kill with your bare hands, and tend the roses that are your only company!”

“The roses are alive,” said the Beast, advancing slowly, causing the merchant to back away, his eyes searching everywhere for escape. “Living things bloom when they are loved, as I love them. Perhaps someday I will bloom myself. But Beast or not, I will not give up my castle, my freedom, or my roses.” She forced him against the wall, only the bottle between them. Her breath blew clouds of dust from the glass. “Now, go!” The merchant clutched the bottle tightly to his chest, and nodded.

The Beast turned her attention to his daughter, who had risen and watched the exchange with sorrow in her eyes. The Beast said, “If you wish to return to my castle some day, you will be welcome. I would like to learn to make bread.”

“And I would like time to read,” said the girl before her father, some of his dignity recovered, pulled her from the room, and out into the snow.

The merchant located their horse and mounted, holding a hand out to the girl. “Let’s be off,” he said, but she did not take his hand. Not yet.

For she was looking back at the castle, its snow-covered turrets, its lawns and gardens. Its rosebushes. “Quickly, my Beauty!” said her father.

The girl looked him coolly in the eyes. “Don’t call me that ever again,” she said, before accepting his hand.

When the merchant tells his tale, he generally closes with an impassioned plea. He barely escaped the castle. His daughter is now the Beast’s prisoner. He would like to raise a number of men with strong weapons and sharp eyes to rescue her, and split any spoils between them. No one ever takes him up on this offer. Too many have had dealings with him and ended up the poorer.

It’s just as well. Even if such an expedition reached the castle and defeated the Beast, there is no guarantee that the merchant’s daughter would be interested in a rescue.

If she were in the castle at all.

Here is what the merchant knows, and doesn’t tell: he escaped with his daughter, his horse, the clothes on their backs. Upon arrival at their cottage his daughter went directly to her room, packed up a few things, and walked away from him forever.

“Not back to that monster?” he shouted. When she didn’t answer, he snarled, “Of course. Who else would have you?”

The girl said, “The Beast is her own mistress. No one has her. I’d like to give that a try.”

And she was gone, returned indeed to the castle. The Beast greeted her, and together they read for hours at a time and conducted grand experiments in the kitchen. After a few weeks the girl, full of good food and new stories, set out to create her own. The Beast sees no more of her, though sometimes she receives letters.

As for the Beast, she was sincere in her welcome to the merchant’s daughter, and would enjoy similar company, but has ceased to wait for anyone. She has a castle to oversee, books to read, and roses to care for. She prefers meat for her meals, but every so often there comes from her kitchen the smell of fresh baked bread.

Host Commentary

Beauty and the Beast is one of those fairy tales that I often return to, usually with questions. It’s a powerful narrative for a young girl – winning the monster’s heart and changing them for the better – and perhaps that better person was always there, but generally, when someone first shows us who they really are, we’d be wise to believe them. In this retelling, the real Beast is re-cast as the merchant and both the merchant’s daughter and the Beast have to fight their way free of his controlling toxicity.   And, it isn’t easy. For either of them. For the girl, the challenge is escaping bonds of love. Her father is the only person in her life who (should) care for her, and his actions, though selfish and grasping, might also be in her best interest. Or, perhaps that’s just more gaslighting. Meeting the beast, she understands that while strength can sometimes help, it can’t always protect us from harm. She might not be strong enough to face the world alone, but is anyone? Strength becomes irrelevant – independence is achievable simply through choosing it. The Beast’s journey is a great counterpart to this. She isn’t broken for her looks, her non-conformity, her beastliness.  She can be feminine, or furious, or both all at once, and she doesn’t need a man to fix her at all.  All she truly needs is the freedom to be herself.