The Beauty of Being a Beast short story

EXCERPT FROM THE BEAUTY OF BEING A BEAST

So many things were supposed to happen.

I was supposed to lure, bribe, threaten, or cajole a boy into staying at my castle. Supposed to fall madly in love with him. Supposed to treat him kindly and shower him with gifts and be so charming, generous, and good-hearted that he couldn’t help but fall in love with me too, despite my outward appearance. Then the curse would be broken, and we would live happily ever after.

I was never, ever supposed to be bored with the whole predictable charade.

I drummed my talons on the tabletop, leaving pinprick scars behind in the smooth, glossy wood. A feast fit for a queen—well, a lady, in my case—was spread out before me. Crystal tureens brimming with soups. Copper bowls filled with vegetable, potato, and pasta salads. Silver platters covered with roasted hams and fried turkeys surrounded by thick squares of cornbread-sage dressing. Glass stands boasting seven-layer chocolate cakes shaped like castles topped with towering turrets of fluffy chocolate frosting.

For once, I wasn’t interested in the scrumptious food, and I gazed across the table at the boy slouching in the chair opposite mine. Snyder, the castle tailor, had crafted the boy a fine green jacket that highlighted his shoulders, along with his tall, skinny frame. With his golden hair, brown eyes, and tan skin, the boy was quite handsome, although instead of attraction, all I felt when I looked at him was annoyance.

Instead of looking back at me, the boy, Peter, stared downward, using a spoon to push his apple-and-butternut-squash soup from one side of a bowl to the other and back again. Over in the corner of the dining room, a tall, freestanding cuckoo clock shaped like a tree adorned with colorful flowers and hummingbirds steadily tick-tick-ticked off the interminable seconds.

I kept drumming my talons. Peter flinched every time my nails hit the wood, breaking up my boredom and filling me with petty satisfaction. He’d been here for two weeks, and he still seemed to think that I was going to eat him at any moment.

I eyed my reflection in the mirror that covered one of the walls. Shaggy dark brown fur. Unnaturally bright blue eyes. A wolflike face, complete with triangular ears and a muzzle filled with razor-sharp teeth. The aforementioned long, pointed black talons that could tear through solid wood like it was as thin as paper.

Perhaps Peter was right to be worried. My eating him would certainly break up the monotony of this dinner, as well as leave me free to do something else this evening. Read a book. Write my own fantasy story. Shop in the village for holiday gifts for the servants. Prowl through the surrounding woods and admire the snowy landscape. Any of which would be far more useful and enjoyable than trying to make small talk with a boy who shook like a leaf in the wind whenever I spoke to him.

Even Peter’s story of how he had come to be here was boring. He had heard about the famed gardens of Mottern Castle and had snuck inside to pick some pansies for his beloved, a girl named Arisa. As soon as he had plucked the first blossom, the curse’s magic had alerted me to his presence, and I had stormed into the gardens, snarling, growling, and generally playing my part of the fearsome beast to the hilt.

It was one of the few things I enjoyed about the Mottern family curse.