Free Belle: A Retelling of “Beauty and the Beast” By Cameron Dokey by Unknown Page A

of the Heartwood Tree to fall into than my own?
    If only such a tale were true , I thought. If I could hold a piece of the Heartwood in my hand, then I might see the face inside it. The face of the one person who would see me as I am, Beautiful or not, and cherish me for it .
    My true love .
    “Oh, Celeste’s just afraid the tree wouldn’t share its secrets with her,” I teased.
    “Or if it did, it would be by a branch falling on her head.”
    “Well, maybe that’s how it works,” April said. “The branch conks you on the
    head, and then you see visions.”
    “You two are absolutely impossible,” Celeste cried. She kicked her heels against
    her horse’s flanks, urging him forward, through the narrow gap between Grand-père Alphonse and me.
    “Oh, no you don’t!” I called. “I like being first, and I intend to stay there.”
    “You’ll have to catch me, too then!” April suddenly exclaimed as she followed
    Celeste’s example.
    I thumped my heels against my horse’s sides again. And so, inspired by a story of loss and redemption, my sisters and I raced toward whatever the future might bring.
    We left the Wood just at nightfall.

CHAPTER ELEVEN
    The second part of our journey was swift, for the road continued fine and even and soon brought us into the countryside. The landscape was one of tiny valleys nestled between gently rolling hills. The hills would be a soft golden color in the summer, Grand-père Alphonse told us. At the moment they were covered with light green fuzz, which would turn into a green so bright I would bring tears to our eyes. Or so Grand-père Alphonse promised, anyway.
    Half a day’s travel along the winding country road brought us, at last, to our new home.
    Papa had said there was a stream on our new land, and we heard it long before we
    ever saw it. At first, it was no more than a teasing whisper of water, always just out of sight, as if it were playing hide-and-seek with us. But soon we caught glimpses of it snaking through the hills. Gradually, it grew closer, and the whisper became a murmur and, finally, a pure, clear song of liquid flowing over stones.
    The stream greeted us as we rounded the bend and the view opened up. The house
    that was to be our new home was some distance from the main road, though plainly
    visible from it, nestled against the base of a small hill. The stream flowed toward the house, then made a quick, darting curve behind it, as if hurrying to get wherever it was going. The barn sat to one side of the house.
    The house itself was faced in weathered gray shingles and had a roof of sod. I had never seen such a thing before. The front windows sparkled in the midday sunlight and between them, in an unexpected burst of color, was a bright blue door.
    For several moments, no one spoke.
    “It doesn’t have a dirt floor, doe sit?” Celeste inquired.
    “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Celeste,” my mother exclaimed.
    “It’s not that far-fetched,” my sister protested, “There’s grass on the roof.”
    “That is an old trick,” said Grand-père Alphonse. “It keeps the house warm in the winter and cool in the summer. There’s hay in the walls for the same reason.”
    “It looks a snug and cheerful place,” my father said.
    “I hope that you will find it so,” Grand-père Alphonse replied. “But to answer
    your question, Celeste, the floors are made of wood.”
    “Thank goodness for that,” my sister said. “At least there will be something that I recognize.”
    “Oh, hush, Celeste,” I said, as I swung down from my horse. “You’re not being
    clever, just unhelpful.”
    Grand-père Alphonse dismounted, then turned and held one hand up to my oldest
    sister.
    “She is nervous,” he said calmly. “Which is perfectly reasonable. Come inside, all of you, and see your new home.”
    Grand-père Alphonse stayed several weeks, helping us unpack and arrange our
    belongings – the few treasures we could not bear to leave behind – and grow accustomed