Free Beauty in the Beast by Christine Danse

latter, I stood and hesitantly opened the back door.
    Rolph sat on the stoop, staring out into the storm as if oblivious to the cold. His hair blew around his head like a dark halo. I sat next to him, despite the burning chill of the stone, and bit my teeth together against chattering.
    He glanced at me. “You shouldn’t be out here.”
    I raised my eyebrows in an expression I hoped look wryly humorous, but probably looked startled. “I’ve been in worse.”
    His gaze dropped to my bare feet, which I rubbed warmth into vigorously. He shrugged off his coat. I began to protest, but he said, “Put it on.”
    I did. It still held his warmth, and I hugged it tightly around myself, tucking its edges under my legs. If he was cold, it did not show in the way he draped his lean arms over his knees or sat steadily against the wind. His shoulders were rounded, but more as if against a great weight than against the chill.
    By the dim light of a gas lamp, I could see that snow had begun to cover the stomper. I hoped that Miles had remembered to pull the canvas over the sled, or we would be doing salvage duty tomorrow after digging the stomper out of the snow. I thought of my trunk of carefully folded dresses and winced at the thought of their dye running because of melted snow. I shook my head. That’s the least of your worries, Tara.
    I tried to tame my hair behind my ears, but the wind grabbed it and tossed it, stinging, against my face. I turned the collar of the coat up, breathing in the scents of Rolph and coat oil. I slid my hands into each opposite arm cuff.
    When he spoke, I almost could not hear his voice over the storm, his words were so soft. “She was my wife. Those were our two little girls.”
    My mouth went dry. I recalled their picture in my mind with sharp detail and waited for him to continue.
    He stared at the backs of his hands, and I wondered if the same picture haunted him. “They died in a fire nine years ago.” His eyes closed. “It was my fault.”
    I stared at him in the long silence that followed that confession, watching his hair dance around his face. I’m not sure that he breathed. I’m not sure that I did either.
    Finally his eyes opened. “If I suffer a lifetime of this pain, it will not make up for their lives.”
    I had no words, so I sat in silence with him, watching as the snow covered the last visible portions of the stomper. Sacrificing what was left of his life—his own chance for happiness—was not adequate payment for what had been lost. It only added to the tragedy. But I knew loss, and I knew remorse, and I was sure he didn’t need my pat words. I only hoped he didn’t take my silence as disapproval.
    At length, he looked at me. “Please don’t tell your friends.”
    I met his searching eyes. I could see now how he tensed against the cold. “Of course not.”
    We stood, our bodies close. Before he could reach for the door, I clasped his hands. I wanted to say something meaningful, something comforting, but instead I blurted, “They’re shaking again!”
    He snatched his hands back. The walls behind his eyes fell away for just a moment, and I stared into fear. One of the shaking hands reached out as if to touch my hair but pulled back. “Promise me you’ll stay inside tonight.”
    The blood in my veins turned to ice. I nodded and swallowed, my cheek still aching in anticipation of the withdrawn caress.
    He held the door open for me. In the light that spilled out, I could see that his face had gone pale. I ducked inside, avoiding his eyes.
    He shut the door firmly behind us and said, “Good night.”
    I stood helplessly as he disappeared down the hall, leaving me with my sleeping friends, wondering what had just happened. I hugged myself and thumped my forehead against the door to stare at my boots.
    For a professional storyteller, I had a knack of finding the wrong words.
    My friends breathed heavily, oblivious in sleep. Finally, I pulled off my boots and Rolph’s jacket,