But it isn't true. It's the curse speaking, the witch's voice behind those pretty, pretty lips.

I know I could save him. Return the beast to his pretty, pretty Prince. But I won't. I won't.

* * * *

There are many rooms here. There are rooms hung with pictures and rooms spilled with books. Rooms stuffed with music and rooms strung with jewels.

The time room is filled with clocks. They chime my name twelve times. They don't say Beauty. They say Belle. Belle. Belle. Their faces are the pretty face of the prince from my dreams. I stop keeping track of time.

The aviary is flighted with birds. They chirp my name a hundred times and pull at my sleeves, at the ribbons 'round my wrists. Remember the prince, they sing. I cover my ears.

The room lined with mirrors reflects my face twelve times. They don't say Beauty either. They say nothing. Nothing times twelve. I like this room best of all.

* * * *

To get to the mirror room, I walk many flights of stairs. My black boots carry me up the stairs lightly. My ruby dress, tight in the bodice, loose over the curves of my hips and ass, trails behind me with a small swish-swish. I carry a wax candle in a diamond and ruby candlestick holder, the flame flickering along the walls.

The beast is already there. Waiting. He wears no clothes. Not now. He is reflected a hundred times in mirror after mirror after mirror. The wide shoulders and lean hips, as he clasps his hands behind his back, opens the expanse of his chest to the mirrors' hundred unwavering eyes. His head is bowed, chin nearly touching his chest, the golden eyes closed tight.