Free As Old As Time: A Twisted Tale (Twisted Tale, A) by Liz Braswell Page A

for a while. Unless, of course, you’d actually like to get ready for dinner?” she added hopefully.
    “Nope,” Belle said with a firm shake of her head. “My father and I both wound up here by accident and it is incredibly uncivilized, even
evil
, to hold us accountable for such a simple mistake. I gave my word about not leaving, but that is all. I will starve to death before I consent to having dinner with such a monster.”
    And with that she lay back down on the bed, head turned away from the wardrobe, lest she see the traitorous tear leaking down Belle’s otherwise brave face.
    The wardrobe didn’t say anything. In fact, when she was quiet there was no way to tell she
wasn’t
just a piece of furniture and Belle wasn’t just making up conversations in her head like a madwoman.
    Her eyes shot open.
    Just because the bed didn’t talk didn’t mean it couldn’t. And what about the windows, the rugs, the very stones in the walls?
Anything
could come alive in this strange place and address her. Or just watch her…
    She closed her eyes tightly shut again and clutched the pillow.
I just won’t look, then.
    Beyond that, Belle was out of ideas. She didn’t have any real plans aside from a hunger strike.
    Eventually the door creaked open. A new voice, high and nasal, announced officiously: “Dinner is served.”
    Another servant. Possibly a butler. She was curious what he would turn out to be—a brush, a hanger, a serving plate, maybe?—but decided to stay firm in her resolution to sulk and ignore any communication from the master of the castle who kept her prisoner.
    She remained lying down but opened her eyes a crack. Fortunately, nothing moved on the wall, not even a spider.
    “Miss?” the voice persisted.
    “Young lady?
    “Dinner…?”
    Eventually he went away.
    Castles, even more modern ones, didn’t creak like houses. Or at least this one didn’t. Wind picked up for a moment outside; she could hear it past the very expensive glazing in the windows. But nothing squeaked or rocked or shifted. Solid.
    The silence was absolute.
    Belle might have drifted off to sleep; it was hard to keep track between the hush of the shadows, her tears, her hunger and—if she fully admitted it—fear. She lay on her side like a lumpy, sick child. Just like the time Maurice tried to get her to go out and play with the three little girls he had rounded up as companions for her. She hadn’t
needed
companions. She had
him.
And her books. That was all she ever needed.
    “They’re meanies,” she had insisted with a pout. She could hear her father making stuttering, muffled apologies in the kitchen, either to the girls or to their mother.
    “You just need to get to know them,” Maurice had said brightly, coming into her room to get her. “It’s human nature to avoid what’s new….Maybe they just need to get to know
you
…to see that you’re no meanie…yourself.”
    “
You
don’t have friends,” Belle pointed out.
    “Well, I’m too busy now. But I had some…rather odd friends once,” Maurice said. “Can’t for the life of me remember their names…or what they looked like…Ah, well. A lifetime ago. But the point is we got to know each other and became thick as thieves. The scariest, most frightening person can turn out to be quite a lovely character…if you give him time.”
    Young Belle sat up, considering this. There was that one time Gaston had bumped her into the puddle…and Paulette had let her borrow her hankie to get the worst mud spots off. Maybe there had even been a flicker of sympathy in the girl’s eyes.
    She took a deep breath and wiped her face. She opened her mouth to call out to the other little girls—
    “We don’t want to be friends with her anyway,” came the unexpected chirp of a voice. Probably Laurette’s. “We’re just here because Mama and
le prêtre
said to.
For charity.
”
    Belle threw herself back down onto her bed with a solid finality.
    “I DON’T WANT