**Author's note: For the sake of the story, let's just say that Gaston's plans went awry somehow (maybe the asylum keeper wouldn't go along with it in this AU, I don't know), so he's off trying to figure something else out instead of propelling the plot forward.

I.

"Belle?"

She was relieved to see her father's eyes open again at last. He blinked a few times, adjusting to the candlelight, disoriented for a moment.

"Shh," she soothed him, running a cool cloth over his still-warm forehead. At least he was past the danger now. "It's alright, Papa, I'm home."

Seeming to remember where he was, Maurice sat bolt upright in bed and flung his arms around his daughter. "I thought I'd never see you again!"

Belle hugged him back for a moment, swallowing the lump in her throat, concentrating only on her relief over this long-overdue reunion. "I missed you so much."

"But the Beast—how did you escape?"

So much had happened since she and her father had spoken last, that Belle almost didn't know where to begin. "I didn't escape, Papa, he…he let me go."

His bushy white eyebrows knit together quizzically. "That horrible beast?"

It was curiously painful to hear that. Belle understood why her father held that opinion—he had only ever seen the spoiled, self-pitying Beast that took out his self-loathing on others. She could barely reconcile that memory with the Beast she had come to know, the one who was thoughtful and earnest and above all trying to be better.

"But he's different now, Papa, he's…changed, somehow."

Before she could go on, they were interrupted by a strange clinking sound coming from her satchel at the foot of the bed. A small teacup tumbled out of the bag and rolled nearly into Maurice's lap.

"Hi!" Chip said brightly.

Belle chuckled. How had he even gotten himself in there, let alone stayed quiet for all this time? Apparently Chip was a craftier child than she'd given him credit for. "Oh! A stowaway."

"Well hello there, little fella," her father said, scooping up Chip so they could speak eye to eye. "Didn't think I'd see you again."

"Belle?" Chip asked, sounding hurt. "Why'd you go away? Don't you like us anymore?"

"Oh Chip. Of course I do. It's just that…"

Her father broke into a violent coughing fit, which made Belle tense with worry.

"I'm fine, I'm fine," he tried to assure her between coughs.

"Clearly," she said dryly. "Well, Chip, as long as you're here, why don't you lend me a hand in the kitchen? I'm going to warm up some tea for Papa."

"Sure!"

As she put the kettle on, Belle realized that her departure from the castle was not so final after all. She couldn't very well leave her father alone, not while he was still so ill. But her unexpected guest would have to go home eventually.

"Chip, why did you sneak along with me?" she asked him, trying not to sound exasperated. "Your mama must have noticed by now that you're gone. What do you think she's feeling right now?"

"Oh." Chip shrank a little in shame. "She's probably scared. And mad. I'm sorry, Belle, I didn't mean to cause trouble, I just…"

She sighed. "It's alright, Chip. In a few days, when my father is better, I'll take you back."

Belle did not look forward to the prospect—not because she still dreaded and feared the place, but because a long, protracted farewell with its inhabitants was exactly what she was hoping to avoid. It might be difficult to leave a second time, when she had the leisure to grieve the loss of her new, strange friends.

But she would have to cross that bridge when she came to it.

The three of them spent a quiet evening in the cottage. Chip was eager to make himself useful as a teacup—perhaps to redeem himself in Belle's eyes. His cheerful presence was a welcome addition to their drab little house. Even more heartening, Maurice's fever was practically gone by the time he drifted off, and when Belle blew out the candle at his bedside, she smiled to see him resting peacefully.

The next day, Belle was forced to go into the village. Given how long she and her father had spent away from home, there was hardly any fresh food in the pantry.

At the bustling marketplace, there was no avoiding the curious stares from her neighbors. How much did they know, she wondered? Had they noticed her absence?

It was strange, being back here after all this time.

But no, she was being silly, it couldn't have been more than a few weeks—or was it? How long had she spent at the castle?

It seemed that time behaved oddly there, standing still at some moments, rushing past her at others. She wondered if that were part of the enchantment. She'd never thought to ask.

However long or short her absence, the village looked different to her now. After the eerie quiet of the castle, the crowded marketplace seemed shrill and deafening, and she found it hard to return the greetings and nosy gazes of the villagers.

As she purchased some carrots and onions from a vendor—a nice hot vegetable stew would be just the thing for her father, she reasoned—the farmer stifled laughter at the sight of her.

"Glad to see you're not really locked in a dungeon somewhere, Mademoiselle," he remarked, as if recalling an inside joke.

She froze. "What are you talking about?"

"Your father was in the tavern the other night, raving about a beast and a castle. Wanted us to join a search party to rescue you."

Belle straightened up defiantly, trying not to show how nettled she was by the man's scorn. If you only knew the real truth.

"My father has suffered from a terrible fever lately, Monsieur. If he said some things while he was sick that seemed crazy at the time, it wasn't his fault. I apologize if he caused any disturbance, and I assure you he's quite himself again."

Somewhat abashed by this explanation, the man wished Belle a good morning, and Maurice better health.

It was all Belle could do to avoid crying—she felt like she was betraying her father by lying like this, instead of supporting his story. But what good would it do to expose the enchanted castle to the outside world? Other people wouldn't understand. They would take one look at the Beast and see only a monster. She couldn't do that to him. Papa would understand.

She'd always seen the shabby half-timbered cottages and uneven cobbled streets with a sort of exasperated fondness, a strange mixture of impatience and tolerance. She never belonged here, but she tried to look on it as home—the only home she had for now, until one of Papa's inventions took off and let them travel somewhere better.

But now—she never thought to find herself longing for the grim stone parapets and melancholy corridors of that drafty old castle. Somehow even its atmosphere of cobwebbed sorrow seemed comfortingly familiar in retrospect.

She had been meaning to explore more of the grounds, once the snow melted—were the gardens as lonely and neglected as parts of the castle? She imagined untangling the weeds herself, coaxing some patch of flowers back to life. Sitting on a blanket some peaceful spring afternoon, hidden among the brush, reading a book of poetry to him—

She shook herself. What am I thinking? The castle isn't my home. My place is here, with Papa. I don't belong in that world, I'm just a simple peasant girl.

It would have been easy to doubt her senses, to dismiss her time away as a long and complicated dream that she had finally awoken from. That was certainly more reasonable than believing in talking clocks and a kindhearted beast.

But when she got home that afternoon, Chip was sitting on the sink, right where she had left him. That was evidence enough.

After checking in on her father, who was napping peacefully in the next room, she started washing and chopping the vegetables she had bought at the market while Chip kept her company, cheerfully chattering away. He was an energetic child, probably starved for conversation, so he needed little encouragement to keep talking, and admittedly Belle's mind wandered a little.

"Belle?"

"Hmm?"

Chip was looking at her very curiously, and she realized she had been humming absently to herself. Her cheeks burned. The tune on her mind was the one she had danced to, not so long ago.

"Are you ever coming back to the castle?" Chip asked hesitantly, as if afraid of the answer.

"Well I haven't got much choice," she said, raising her eyebrows at him, but she kept the reproach in her voice as gentle as she could. "Your mother has got to be very worried about you by now."

He slouched sheepishly. At least he seemed to understand that he had done a foolish thing, and she couldn't very well stay annoyed with him—it was the sort of childishly impulsive thing she might have done at his age. And there was no need to lecture him when he was sure to get plenty of that from Mrs. Potts once he was safely delivered home.

"That's not what I meant, though," he mumbled. "Will you be coming back for good?"

"Oh, Chip," she sighed.

"Everyone's so much happier with you around," he pleaded. "All the grownups were so sad all the time before."

She couldn't meet his eyes, but she heard him pause, as if debating whether to continue.

"Especially the Master," he added. "He's so much nicer now. I never saw him smile before you came."

Belle felt she was blushing right to the roots of her hair.

"Weren't you happy with us, Belle? Aren't we friends?"

"Of course we are, Chip. It's just…more complicated than that."

"How come?"

His questions were posed in complete innocence, but she could not help wondering if he understood more about what was going on in the adults' minds than they gave him credit for. If he saw through the lies that she was telling herself.

"I had to leave because my father was sick, and he needed help," she explained carefully. "I can't leave him all alone, he needs me. He's all the family I have."

As the words left her mouth, it occurred to her that they were not entirely true.

For so long, it had been her and her father against the world—each the other's only confidante and only defender. But now—she had another family too. A collection of strange and broken people not unlike herself, whose absence now left a surprisingly painful hole.

She quickly blinked back the moisture in her eyes.

"Sometimes responsibilities have to come first, before the things we want," she said, more to herself than to Chip.

"That sounds like something Mama would say," he said with a long-suffering groan.

She chuckled, despite herself.

Belle and her father had a late supper that night, mostly in companionable quiet, which wasn't unusual for them. Chip was fast asleep, tucked away in their china cupboard—a perplexed Belle had offered to find him a more comfortable place to sleep, but he insisted it made him feel less homesick.

Eventually Maurice broke the silence with a gentle question. "Are you alright, Belle? You don't seem yourself lately."

Taken aback, she said quickly, "Of course, Papa, don't worry about me."

She felt more than a twinge of guilt. She thought she had been more discreet about her abstraction, but apparently not. He'd nearly killed himself rushing to rescue his reckless daughter, and she wasn't going to put him through any more anxiety on her behalf.

The piercing look he gave her made it clear that he was not convinced.

"Really," she assured him, laying her hand over his on the table. "I'm sorry I've been so distracted, it's just been…a very odd couple of days since I came back."

"You haven't talked much about what happened with—what happened at the castle," he said, seeming to choose his words carefully. "If it would help—to talk to someone who knows you're not crazy…"

She couldn't help but smile at that. "Thank you, Papa. It…it might."

So she began to tell him—not everything, of course. She conveniently left out the details that would unnerve him, like the wolves and the West Wing. But she described the parts of the castle that she'd explored, told him of the hospitality and kindness of the servants. Her father seemed to greatly enjoy hearing how quickly she'd befriended them—"well of course they liked you, it's about time someone appreciated my daughter"—so she lingered the longest there.

It was difficult to recount her time spent at the castle without mentioning its Master, yet she found herself avoiding that subject—either because her father wouldn't want to hear about him, or because she couldn't speak of him without her voice shaking. Perhaps it was a bit of both.

Still, her father was no fool.

"Earlier you said that the Beast…let you go," he prompted. "You said that he was changed, somehow."

She swallowed hard. "I know it's probably difficult to believe—"

"No more than enchanted mirrors and talking candlesticks," he said dryly.

That dispelled some of the heaviness in the atmosphere. They both chuckled.

But she felt the melancholy seeping back in as she explained, "He let me go because he wanted me to be happy."

It hadn't occurred to her before, not in so many words. She had been thinking only of the urgency of her father's illness, of what needed to be done. But the Beast—her misery and worry was all that he had been trying to cure.

It was a simple idea, not a monumental revelation, yet it left her feeling wretched and elated all at once.

He wants me to be happy. He let me go and now he's all alone in that great big mausoleum of a palace, all because he wants me to be happy. And I barely even said goodbye.

"I know he looks frightening, but he's really kind and gentle. He's my friend." Suddenly self-conscious, she hid her face in her hands. "You probably think I've taken leave of my senses."

"No, my girl. I don't."

Maurice's serious tone startled her, made her look up from the table to meet his earnest gaze.

"I know you, Belle. You've always had good judgment about people, and you know your own mind. If you say he's changed for the better, if you consider him worthy of your friendship, then—I believe you."

And it really was as simple as that, to him.

Overwhelmed by a rush of relief and affection, she threw her arms around his shoulders and whispered, "Thank you, Papa."

They stayed that way for a long moment, until her father pulled away and said firmly, "You're going back there tomorrow."

"But—"

"I'm perfectly well enough to be left on my own again, so don't you go fretting about me. You need to bring that little rapscallion to his mother, and you'd best not let Mrs. Potts worry a day longer than she has to."

"You're not strong enough to do all the chores on your own, Papa. Another few days—"

"Nonsense, I'm fit as a fiddle now, thanks to you. And you've got to start living your own life, beyond just looking out for me. I know you don't see it as an obligation," he added hastily, seeing her look of protest, "but family goes both ways, you know. This is something you want and need to do, isn't it?"

Grudgingly, she nodded.

"Then you have to go. That's all there is to it."

"If you're absolutely sure you're well enough," she sighed.

"Don't make me shove you out the door first thing tomorrow," he said, mock sternly, which coaxed a reluctant smile from her.

In her room that night, Belle took the enchanted mirror out from her satchel. She hadn't used it since that night—perhaps she was afraid of what she would see—but now she needed to know.

"Show me the Beast."

The mirror rippled and shimmered luminescent green before showing him in the library—her library, she remembered with a pang—slouched in one of the great leather armchairs by the fire. There was a book on his lap, which she recognized as Ovid's Metamorphoses. When she left, she had been halfway through reading it to him. He didn't seem to be reading the poems, but rather studying the margins on the pages where she had scrawled annotations and notes. As if he could be close to her again through the words.

His eyes were immeasurably weary and sad, but he smiled faintly and held the book tighter for a moment.

"Hold on," she whispered to the image, "I'm coming back soon. I'm coming home."

II.

The Beast was—well, not content with his fate, but quietly resigned to it.

He had overheard some of the servants whispering when they thought he was out of earshot, Perhaps it would have been better if she had never come at all.

While he regretted the dashed hopes they now suffered, he privately disagreed. His despair was more intense, knowing what might have been; he was more conscious of his aloneness now that he knew what it was to have a companion. But he preferred this heartbreak to the apathy and numbness of those ten long years of darkness. At least he had memories of her kindness, her friendship, and that would have to be enough.

So he told himself, at least. He hoped someday he could be that philosophical about it. Truthfully, when Belle came into his life, it was as if she had thrown open all the dusty curtains and let the light in. And now that his eyes had finally adjusted, it was all the more difficult to retreat back into the shadows.

I was such a fool, to think she would have stayed. To think she might…

He wouldn't allow himself to finish the thought. The woman he loved was gone, and he needed to accept that. He didn't blame her in the slightest. She deserved better than the cold stone walls of this gilded cage, and a worthier object to bestow her affection on.

He wasn't even sure how much time had passed since Belle had left. The staff tiptoed around him as if afraid he would snap at any moment, but he felt no anger. The desire to fight his fate had long since drained out of him, leaving only exhaustion and grief behind.

He hardly dared look at the rose. Counting down to the inevitable would certainly do no good, and it seemed morbid to watch it wilt. But curiosity did once overcome him and he sneaked a glance at it: there it was in its glass dome, its enchanted glow fading like embers in a hearth, a single petal miraculously clinging to the stem.

The sight astonished him. Shouldn't it have died by now? Was the Enchantress tormenting him with suspense and false hope? He couldn't understand it.

So the Beast shut himself away, not in the West Wing as he was accustomed, but in the library. Her library, he could not help but think with a pang.

He had given her the mirror, so that she might keep a piece of him with her, but he had no token to remember her by. Not that he needed reminders—he would never forget the way the winter sunlight had streamed onto her face in this room, though her smile had put its brilliance to shame.

He sank into an armchair by the window. There was a stack of books on the window seat, presumably Belle's reading list that she never had a chance to finish. If I'd known, I'd have told you to take them all with you, he thought.

At the top of the pile was Ovid's Metamorphoses, a book of poems which the Beast had mixed feelings toward. Belle had read him the tale of Lycaon, a man who refused to believe his guest was truly a god in disguise, and as punishment was transformed into a horrible wolf-like creature.

The Beast had no desire to explain why this story struck a nerve with him, but Belle was perceptive. She had flipped further into the book to read to him about Pygmalion, whose love for his sculpture eventually brought it to life, transforming cold marble into a flesh and blood woman that could love him back. That story, he had infinitely preferred.

It was an old, somewhat fragile copy. He turned the pages as delicately as he could manage. Now he noticed there were several ribbons stuck here and there—Belle probably used them as impromptu bookmarks—so he read the marked pages, eager to know what she might have considered important.

Orpheus, it turned out, was reunited with his beloved Eurydice in the Underworld, and neither of them needed to fear separation ever again. A truly happy ending to all the poet's grief and wandering. Belle had circled this passage in pencil. Perhaps it held personal significance for her, or perhaps she thought it would be the story to cheer him up.

It had never truly occurred to the Beast that, in this monstrous form, he could not weep. Only inwardly.

The library door creaked open slowly, laboriously. A servant trying to get his attention, probably. But the Beast did not turn around or acknowledge them.

"I do not wish to be disturbed." There was no malice in his tone, only quiet exhaustion.

"But sir." The hesitant voice belonged to Mrs. Potts. "It's her."

At his stare, she scrambled to explain. "She had to come back—to return my son to me. He stowed away in her bag, it seems. But she's asked to see you, sir. I suppose she thought it would be intruding if she—"

He cut off her nervous prattling. "Belle is here. In the castle."

"Yes, she's—"

He tore out of the room before Mrs. Potts could offer any further explanation. He tried not to think, not to dare, not to hope—all he could allow himself was to investigate. If it turned out to be untrue, he wasn't at all sure his heart could survive the disappointment.

At the top of the staircase, he could look down into the cavernous foyer, and there he saw her. She was wearing that simple blue homespun dress and a traveling cloak. She was drenched to the bone, shivering slightly where she stood, her hair hanging disheveled around her face. And yet he had never seen anything more beautiful in his life.

"Belle?" he asked numbly. It sounded more like a whisper than a greeting.

Are you really here? You're not just a dream or an illusion or…?

Belle's warm brown eyes met his and brightened with her smile. Yet he noticed the way her hands trembled, as if from nerves.

Perhaps she dreaded meeting me again… But no, he was being unfair. Belle had chosen to speak with him again, if Mrs. Potts was to be believed, and Belle was too kind to trifle with anyone's feelings.

"You came back," he said in amazement.

Her lips twitched at his statement of the obvious. "I had to," she explained; "I had to bring Chip back—I didn't realize he'd snuck along with me until I got home."

"Oh—of course. That was good of you. I'm sure his mother is grateful."

"She was. I don't think she'll be letting him out of her sight anytime soon."

Their conversation was oddly polite, and the Beast didn't know how to break the tension. Once, they had had effortless rapport with each other, but now they were acting like formal acquaintances.

He remembered Lumiére's advice: You have no time to be timid. Even if there was no chance of breaking the spell now, the words still held true. This might be the last time he saw Belle, and he could not waste a precious moment.

"I'm sorry you had to come all this way—" he began.

"Don't be. I—I missed you all." A faint blush crept into her cheeks.

The Beast knew it was presumptuous to interpret those words as meant for him, but that did not stop him from feeling light-headed. Before he could stop himself, he confessed, "I missed you, too. I mean, we all—"

He was spared from embarrassment when Belle suddenly sneezed. In an instant, he descended the stairs and was at her side.

"Forgive me, you must be freezing. Please, come into the parlor and warm yourself before you go on your way."

Despite her protests that she was alright, he ushered her into the nearest sitting room and insisted that blankets be brought in and the fire piled high with kindling. Hot, strong tea was brought. Her cloak and stockings were hung up by the hearth to dry.

"This is very kind of you," Belle said, "but it's not necessary, really, I'm fine."

"You must have ridden all day through the rain," he pointed out.

She winced sheepishly. "In my defense, it wasn't storming until after I set out this morning. I thought I would be here before dark, but I must have taken a few wrong turns, because I went in circles a few times."

"These woods are very maze-like," he agreed.

He couldn't be sure, but he had long suspected that the forest was itself enchanted and had a kind of will of its own to help travelers on their journey or keep them helplessly lost. Sometimes the distance to the village seemed only a day's ride, sometimes two, or sometimes merely a few hours.

"I'm glad you found your way here in one piece," he said.

It occurred to him that they had been in almost the very same position in this very room, not so long ago. Only now it was Belle sitting in his high-backed winged armchair, cocooned in blankets, and he was the one kneeling on the floor, anxious to make sure she was well.

Perhaps she was struck with the same sense of déjà vu, for she suddenly reached over and touched his arm.

"It's good to see you," she said softly. "How are you?"

It was almost impossible to reply with all the butterflies in his stomach. "Fine, thank you," he managed.

She raised her eyebrows skeptically.

"How is your father?" he asked quickly. "Is he well again?"

"He's on the mend—well enough to insist that I leave him alone for a little while." There was amusement and fond exasperation in her voice.

"I'm glad to hear it."

She looked down, fiddling with the edge of her quilt for a moment. "I'm sorry I left in such a rush."

"You have nothing to apologize for, Belle, I'm the one who—"

"I don't regret leaving, but I do regret not saying goodbye properly."

He could hardly breathe. "That's alright," he managed. "We've got a second chance."

She smiled. Their entire relationship, it seemed, was based on second chances and trying again.

Hoping that a change of subject would lighten the mood, the Beast remarked, "I'm surprised your father let you go so easily. Won't he be worried about you?"

"I don't think so. I explained everything to him, I told him he didn't need to be afraid for me. That's we're friends." She paused, glancing up at him shyly. "That you're a good man."

He found himself feeling dizzy again. Despite his hideous appearance, she really did think of him as a man and not a creature, at least in the ways that mattered. The words very nearly tumbled out of his mouth without his consent: I love you so much, Belle. But he was too disarmed to make a sound.

Behind her, Lumiére was watching the scene with a bit too much glee. The Beast shot him a warning look, but it didn't seem to dampen his mood.

There is still time, Master, Lumiére mouthed.

The Beast glared at him. The last thing he wanted was for the staff to get their hopes up without cause—it would only make their disappointment that much more bitter when the spell became permanent.

Belle doesn't owe us anything. If I tell her about the curse, she'll feel responsible, and that isn't right.

The thought had occurred to him, once or twice, to simply tell her everything. Tell her about the curse, about its conditions. She had a compassionate heart and would surely want to help.

But he'd dismissed the idea, because it would only complicate their relationship further. He neither wanted nor needed her pity, and it wasn't fair to make her feel responsible for his fate, or the fates of the servants. This curse was his own fault. If he could not earn her love, then so be it; she need never know of his foolish hopes.

"It's late," said the Beast. "You must be tired from your journey, and your horse must need a rest too. Why don't you—I mean, only if you want—if it seems like a good idea to you—"

Her lips twitched at his babbling. He cleared his throat and tried to sound decisive and coherent.

"What I'm trying to say is that you're free to come and go as you choose, but you will always be welcome here."

His offer was punctuated by a sudden crack of thunder, which made them both start.

"Thank you," she said with feeling. "I do think it's wise to set off after sunup. The woods are especially dangerous after dark."

"I wouldn't want you to run into any wolves again," he agreed with a wry smile.

"And the storm will hopefully have cleared by then."

"Yes, it's only sensible to wait. And you must have some breakfast before you go—and let us send you on your way with some extra provisions."

"That's very kind of you, but I can't accept—"

"Please. I insist."

She smiled gratefully and wrapped the blanket tighter around her shoulders.

It seemed he wasn't entirely unteachable—he was beginning to understand the virtue in hospitality. It felt good, actually, to be generous and see someone else comfortable and at ease. Why have I never realized that before?

When Belle couldn't stifle a yawn, he asked Cogsworth and Lumiére to lead her to her old room in the south tower of the castle. She insisted, with a small laugh, that it hadn't been very long and she still remembered the way. She traipsed sleepily up the stairs, and the Beast was alone again.

Sleep was out of the question that night. The Beast's restless mind spun itself into knots and he couldn't stop pacing the corridors, as if he could outrun his hopes and fears.

Without noticing where his legs were taking him, he found himself at the ballroom. Dark and silent now, at this hour.

He stepped out onto the balcony, hoping the cool fresh air would help clear his thoughts, but froze when he realized he was not alone. Belle stood at the railing, wearing a soft yellow dressing-gown, her hair slightly unkempt from sleep.

"Oh—I'm sorry, I didn't mean to disturb you," he said quickly.

But she smiled, evidently pleased by this interruption. "I couldn't sleep," she explained with a shrug.

"Is your room uncomfortable? Is there anything I can—"

"No, no, it's perfect. I just have a lot on my mind, I guess."

He joined her at the stone railing. It really was the best view of the grounds, though they were now shrouded in mist and greyish pre-dawn light. He wasn't sure if he had come here for the lovely view, or because they had sat here once together on this very spot, and he had very nearly confessed his love then and there. Was she thinking of that night, too?

A light breeze stirred her hair, so she tucked the loose strand behind her ear. She appeared content, even peaceful, to stand beside him while the rest of the world slept.

His stomach did a somersault when she rested her head against his arm.

Tonight is the night. I'm going to tell her. I can do this.

He broke the companionable silence.

"Belle? There's something I—I've been meaning to tell you."

He couldn't meet her curious gaze, so instead he addressed his words to her slender white hands, which looked so small in his own monstrous ones.

"It's probably too late for it to change anything, but…I know if I don't tell you, I'll regret it my whole life," he began.

Her voice was surprisingly soft when she prodded, "Tell me what?"

It gave him the courage to look at her. There was no fear, no horror, no disgust in her eyes. He could pretend for a moment that he had a right to address her as any other man might—could forget his unworthiness because she didn't seem to see it.

"I love you," he said simply.

Her lips parted in astonishment, but otherwise she seemed frozen.

"You don't have to say anything, Belle. I just wanted you to know. And to know that I'm grateful for your friendship. It's meant everything to me. You are the bravest, cleverest, most generous person I've ever known."

He supposed he should take some comfort in the fact that she did not pale in revulsion, as he'd feared—in fact, her face was curiously flushed, but with what emotion he could not tell.

"Thank you for not laughing at me," he mumbled.

"I could never—"

"I know. You're much too kind for that," he said with a faint smile.

Slipping his hands out of her grasp, he fled before she could say another word.

He knew she would be gentle with his feelings, but he did not think he could bear to actually hear the rejection. Besides, he had already accepted that as inevitable—he may as well spare her from having to say it.

As usual, he holed himself up in the West Wing, wishing he could shrivel up and disappear.

Stupid, stupid, stupid. Why did I think it was a good idea to tell her? What difference does it make, except looking even more foolish in front of her? Now she probably feels sorry for me. Why didn't I just leave it alone?

But something interrupted his pacing and self-deprecation.

The sound was so soft at first that he wasn't sure whether he was imagining it—but the second time, it was unmistakably a knock at his door. He knew who it must be. Only one other person in this castle was currently tall enough to reach the knocker.

Her voice came hesitantly from the other side. "Beast? I know you're in there. I'd really like to talk to you."

He should have hidden himself somewhere less obvious, to avoid this confrontation.

It hadn't bothered him all that much at first, forgetting his name—not until he met Belle, and he began to wake from his dreams feeling like the name was on the tip of his tongue. A side effect, perhaps, of trying to act human again.

"I know I shouldn't be here, but at least I'm knocking this time," she added with a small laugh, clearly trying to ease some of the tension. He heard a small sigh from the other side of the door. "Please come out. I just want to talk."

He didn't feel he could face her yet, but she was here. She cared enough to see if he was alright before setting off for the village. To say goodbye, at least.

"You didn't give me a chance to say anything earlier," she said. There was a hint of rebuke in her voice.

"I wanted to spare you the embarrassment," he admitted.

"How can you know what I'm going to say unless you give me a chance to say it myself? Please. Open the door. Don't be afraid."

A wildly irrational hope seized him, try though he might to crush it. Her sweetness did make him brave enough to open the massive oak door just a crack, just wide enough to see her through the gap. Her slight frame still trembled with nerves, but her expression was firm and determined.

She reached through and took his hand.

"I…I have something to tell you, too."

III.

Chip felt he had hardly closed his tired eyes when bright sunshine woke him. He kept his eyes stubbornly pinched shut, trying to block it out. If he was sleepy during the day, his mother would say it was his own fault for staying up past his bedtime, and he hated admitting that she was right—but how was it fair that the grownups got to watch everything that was going on, while he was always sent to the cupboard? It seemed dreadfully unfair, too, that as a teacup he didn't need to eat or even to breathe really, but he did still need sleep as he did when he was human. Why did the boring things have to stay the same, and not the fun things? No more sweets, no more visiting the village market with Mama, no more running around outside.

The adults thought he didn't understand anything because he was six. But he paid attention, and he knew more than they thought he did. After all, if not for the curse, he would be almost grown up himself now. But he hadn't had a birthday in over ten years. He was stuck—as motionless as the porcelain he was made of.

Sometimes, late at night when Mama thought he was out of earshot, he heard her crying to herself, and he knew what was making her sad. But he never could think of the right thing to say to cheer her up.

After what felt like an eternity of trying to fall back asleep, Chip realized he was extremely uncomfortable. Which was odd, because there was usually plenty of room for him in the china cupboard. Now he felt squashed up against the glass door—his knees pressed up to his chest just to fit into this little space—but that made no sense, because teacups don't have knees—

"Rise and shine, Chip," his mother's cheery voice called.

He wrenched his eyes open—then awkwardly scrambled out of the cramped cupboard so he could fling himself into her arms because she actually had arms to hug him with again.

"Mama, Mama, we're human again, we're human again—"

"I know, my dear, I know."

She held him almost tight enough to knock the breath out of him, but he didn't mind. He'd forgotten how soft her arms were, the way she smelled of rosehips, the way she could cry and smile at the same time. His now-human mother was the most wonderful thing he had ever seen.

It turned out it wasn't quite morning at all—the bright light that had awoken him was actually just the radiant magic transforming the castle and everyone in it.

Mama let him come with her to the dining room, where there seemed to be a sort of impromptu party happening. Everyone was still in their dressing gowns and nightshirts, and the table was set with whatever cold food happened to be in the pantry. All the servants were at the long oak table eating and drinking and laughing, jumping up occasionally to clap a friend on the back and congratulate each other on their regained human forms.

There was also a lot of hugging and crying, which unnerved Chip, because he didn't often see adults do that. But they all ruffled his hair fondly when he passed by, and generally seemed pleased to see him. Lumiére even tried to give Chip a sip of his champagne, but was quickly deterred by an Absolutely not from Mrs. Potts.

At the far end of the table, he saw Belle deep in conversation and holding hands with an unfamiliar young man. After a few minutes, Chip recognized him, not by his reddish hair or his high cheekbones, but by the way he looked at Belle with shyness and adoration.

Oh, that must be the Master! It's been so long, I forgot what he looked like. The thought sent Chip into a fit of giggles.

With a deep, happy sigh, Cogsworth sank into the seat beside Mrs. Potts. His round cheeks were flushed with wine. "I just knew she would be the girl to break the spell. I said it all along, didn't I, Mrs. Potts? I said, if there is any woman in the world with the heart to break the spell, it would be her."

"Of course you did, Cogsworth," she placated him, subtly replacing his wineglass with water when he wasn't looking.

Chip leaned around his mother to tell Cogsworth brightly, "Actually it was me who broke the spell! Well, kinda." Unfortunately, his mouth was too full and his words were incomprehensible.

"Chip dear, I realize you haven't had any sweets in ten years, but please remember your manners and slow down," his mother chided, taking a pastry right out of his hand before he could stuff another in his mouth. "Now, what were you saying?"

"I helped break the spell, Mama," he said, swelling with pride.

"Oh really?" She brushed some powdered sugar off his chin with her napkin. "And how is that?"

"I got her back here, didn't I?" He shrugged, trying to hide the twinkle of mischief in his eyes. "I knew she would have to take me home sometime."

"Chip!" His mother gaped at him, astonished by his scheming. Beside her, Cogsworth was struggling in vain to suppress a chuckle.

Across the room, Chip finally caught Belle's eye. She grinned impossibly wide to see him a child again. He slipped his hand out of his mother's and tried to excuse himself from the table.

"Just where do you think you're going, young man?" his mother said.

"To ask Belle if she'll play tag with me." Now that he could run again, he didn't want to waste any more time.

"Don't think I've forgotten to be cross with you for running away and scaring me half to death."

Lumiére , who had just sat down on Cogsworth's other side, interjected sympathetically. "Mes amis, tonight is for celebration. We've had precious little reason for so long. There will be plenty of time tomorrow for going to bed without supper, no?"

"Run along, now, Chip," Mrs. Potts conceded with a sigh. "But you behave yourself."

Her sternness was halfhearted at best. Chip caught her warm smile before he scampered off to find his friend. As he approached the end of the table where the Master was sitting with Belle, he saw the way they blushed whenever they caught each other's eye, the way they couldn't stop grinning.

They're gonna live happily ever after, he thought.