The illness came on suddenly.

One afternoon, while Belle was perched in one of the windowseats in her library, reading a swashbuckling romance in a patch of winter sunlight, she began to feel a headache and chills coming on. She tried to brush it off as just a cold, but by evening she was feverish, and a crimson rash spread across her arms and neck.

By the next morning, the staff began to truly worry. They exchanged grim looks and discussed her condition in hushed voices.

But whenever the Beast came near, or demanded an update, they all gave him forced smiles and optimism. "You know Mademoiselle Belle, she is a determined girl! She will pull through in no time," Lumiére assured him, a little too heartily.

They urged him to stay out of the sickroom. There was no danger for the enchanted servants, they insisted, because objects couldn't catch a disease. But the Beast was still flesh and blood. Her illness, they feared, was very infectious.

For a few days, the Beast tried to content himself with standing guard outside Belle's door. He needed to be near her, but he didn't want to intrude. Their friendship—once a feeble spring seedling poking through the snow, now blossoming into something stronger—was a delicate balance of distance and closeness, and he hated the thought of disrupting that. She might not appreciate him seeing her so vulnerable, might be annoyed with him when she got better.

But she must be so bored lying in bed all day, he grumbled to himself. Does she have enough books in there to keep her company?

Tired of pacing the hall and wringing his hands, the Beast retrieved a new stack of books from the library for her.

He debated with himself for a moment, then tore off a scrap piece of paper to leave her a note between the pages of Gawain and the Green Knight. His handwriting was barely legible—his oversized paws were awkward for holding a quill—so he kept the message concise.

Belle: Sorry you are sick. I miss you. Please get well.

Staring at the wobbly letters, the Beast felt his ears flatten in shame at how inadequate they were for expressing all he wanted to say. If only he were an ordinary man, if only he had the power of eloquent language, if only he had the courage to lay his heart completely bare to her…

Those three simple sentences would have to suffice for now. He could only hope that Belle would understand the depth of feeling behind them.

"Mrs. Potts," he said, when he reached the door with a stack of book under his arm, "I know you won't let me into Belle's room, but would you at least let her have these?"

Her eyes softened into something like pity, and the Beast's stomach sank in dread.

"I know what we said to you, sir," she said gently, "but now I think it's best if you go to her."

Somehow her kindly tone made him all the more anxious, for it seemed as if she were trying to prepare him for bad news. The books dropped to the floor in a heap. The Beast tore into the sickroom without another word.

Smallpox. No one had used the word aloud, but from the moment he saw the sores on her face and arms, he knew what they meant. Her fever must have been high, for her brow shone with sweat, and she tossed and turned in her uneasy sleep.

Cogsworth was perched on her bedside table amongst the bottles of herbs and tinctures, looking just as lost and useless as the Beast felt. Nevertheless, the Beast demanded, "What can I do?"

"Speak to her, Master," Cogsworth said in a small voice. "Perhaps she can hear you."

The Beast knelt at her bedside and held her limp hand in both of his paws. His mind was reeling. He couldn't quite process what was happening.

"Belle, you have to keep fighting," he whispered, his deep, gruff voice hitching. "You're the strongest person I know. Please, you can't give up."

She still did not open her eyes, but the crease on her forehead smoothed a little. As if the sound of his voice brought her some comfort.

The Beast stayed by her side after that, reading aloud to her though he stumbled over unfamiliar words, laying a cool cloth over her forehead and stroking her hair to soothe her when she grew restless. He still did not know if she was truly aware of his presence, for she was still delirious with fever. Once or twice, her eyelids fluttered and she murmured under her breath.

"Papa?" she croaked.

"No, he's…I'm sorry, he's not here right now, Belle," he told her, wincing in guilt. "But he's safe at home, I promise."

She sank back into her stupor with a sigh that seemed both disappointed and relieved.

Maybe I should try to get in contact with her father, he thought. Maybe she would feel better with him nearby.

But the Beast couldn't exactly waltz into the village square looking for the old inventor. And why should Maurice believe anything he said, and not suspect it was some kind of trick or trap to lure him back to the dungeons?

Enchantress be damned, curse be damned, the Beast didn't much care what happened to himself anymore. All he knew in that moment was that he could barely breathe. He wanted to see her eyes open again, those warm brown eyes that sparkled bright when she teased him, that flashed fierce when she argued with him.

"Belle," he said, leaning closer to her so that he could almost whisper in her ear. "I'll make another bargain with you, alright? If you get well, you'll go home to your father again. All you have to do is get better. I give you my word."

Belle did not give up. Her fever finally broke, and the servants assured their master that she was through the danger. By the next morning, she was well enough to sit up in bed—propped up by pillows—and drink some of the tea Mrs. Potts brought her.

"I'm sorry for causing you all so much trouble," she said with a weak smile, for most of the servants had gathered around her bed. "I can't thank you enough for taking such good care of me."

"We're just relieved to see your eyes open once again, Mademoiselle. We were afraid…" Lumiére trailed off.

Belle met the Beast's eyes from across the room, where he sat in an armchair trying to be unobtrusive.

"Thank you," she said again, with such feeling that the Beast suspected she did remember his presence in her sickroom. His stomach fluttered nervously.

Then she sighed and turned her attention back to Mrs. Potts on her bedside table. "It's time I stopped putting it off. Be honest, Mrs. Potts, how bad is it?"

Lumiére cut in, "What on earth do you mean, Mademoiselle?"

She raised her eyebrows. "You know what I mean. My face. How bad is it?"

The disease had left its telltale marks on her face, neck, and arms—round red scabs that would eventually become scars. Lumiére and the others waffled for a moment, insisting that it was barely noticeable, but Belle clearly did not believe them.

Cogsworth silently dragged over a small mirror. Belle winced at the reflection it showed her, then set it facedown dismissively.

"It doesn't matter," she said, taking a deep, shaky breath in. "The important thing is that I'm alive."

"That's the spirit, child," Mrs. Potts said.

"Just a touch of powder and you'll never notice the difference," Belle's wardrobe added encouragingly.

The Beast felt his heart ache with sympathy as he listened to the others chiming in with words of comfort and encouragement. He had heard it all before, ten years ago, when they had all tried to cheer him up by saying his monstrous form wasn't that bad, really, once you got used to it.

But the Beast did not need to get used to her. She was still Belle, still the brilliant, clever, funny, stubborn woman he adored, and to him she could never be anything but beautiful.

Several days passed, and Belle grew strong enough to get out of bed. The Beast was still dizzy with relief that she was alright, but some of his lightheaded joy was wearing off enough for him to comprehend that something was different. Belle wouldn't quite meet his gaze properly, and even when she smiled, it didn't reach her eyes.

Did I do something to upset her? He couldn't help wondering. Or maybe…has she guessed that I'm in love with her, and now she feels uncomfortable around me? His heart twisted painfully at the possibility.

He suggested that they take a walk through the still-frozen castle grounds, emphasizing that the sunshine and fresh air would do her good. And at first, that seemed to be the case. The gardens were beautiful even in winter, hedges blanketed in soft snow, icicles clinging to the sculptures and fountains.

She grinned, admiring the sparkle of the snowflakes that caught the sunlight. His heart swelled a little—that was the Belle he recognized.

He slipped on a patch of ice on the path and went sprawling back into a snowbank, but the pain and indignity were completely worth it to hear her laugh again.

"You're lucky you've just been sick, or else I would be burying you in snowballs right now," he growled, dusting snow off his cloak.

"Oh, is that so?" she taunted, raising her eyebrows archly. "Are you sure it's not because you're scared of being defeated again?"

"Defeated? That's definitely not how I remember it happening, Belle."

"Whatever makes you feel better."

They were falling back into their old playful rapport, and the Beast began to feel like maybe things were going back to normal. Yet every time there was a lull in the conversation, a sadness crept into her eyes again.

They stopped to rest for a moment on a bench near a frozen pond, Belle rubbing her hands together to warm them. But then she paused in the action, her body grew stiff, and she buried her hands in the folds of her fur-lined cloak.

She must've noticed the scabs on the backs of her hands, and it reminded her, the Beast realized with a pang. The same thing had happened to him countless times—whenever he started to forget the curse, forget how vicious and hideous he appeared, a glance at a mirror or down at his monstrous claws would bring it all back.

Gently, as gently as he could manage, he put a paw on her shoulder and said, "Is everything alright, Belle? Do you want to talk about anything?"

She closed her eyes and exhaled heavily. "It's not important. I know it's not important."

"The scars do bother you."

"I know they shouldn't. I'm fortunate to be alive, and I should just be grateful for that. I guess I'm…vainer than I realized, after all."

There was an unfamiliar weariness and self-deprecation in her tone, as if she were confessing some great weakness.

"It's not wrong to be upset," he said quietly. "I certainly was when I—" His sentence cut off, just as it always did when he tried to talk about the curse.

"I just feel like such a hypocrite. I've always said appearances aren't important, but right now I can't stand the sight of my own face. And I feel horrible admitting that to you, because I don't want you to lose all respect for me—"

"Me lose respect for you?" he repeated, incredulous. "Belle, that's not going to happen."

Tears fell onto her cheeks in silent shame.

"Belle, we're friends, aren't we?"

She nodded.

"And you aren't…terribly bothered anymore. That I am what I am."

Her eyes widened. "No, of course not. There's nothing wrong with the way you are." Her voice held firm conviction, almost anger on his behalf, and it made him smile. But then she buried her face in her hands. "That must sound pretty hollow coming from me right now."

"No, it doesn't," he said. He cupped a hand under her chin so that she would look up at him. "What I'm trying to say is, I think you should show the same kindness to yourself as you show toward me."

She managed a watery smile.

"And I want you to know," he continued, his voice quavering slightly with repressed emotion, "that to those who truly"—(love you)—"know you, the scars don't matter. Not even a bit."

Her eyes searched his face carefully. "You really mean it, don't you?" she said, shaking her head in amazement.

"Yes, I do."

The Beast had not noticed until this moment how close their faces were. He could see every tear clinging to her eyelashes. He could feel the warmth of her breath, visible like little clouds of smoke in the chilly air.

In a sudden fit of boldness, or recklessness, he reached over and carefully brushed aside a stray lock of hair that had fallen across her forehead. She didn't flinch away from his touch.

Her voice was unexpectedly husky when she broke the silence. "You know it goes both ways, don't you?"

"What do you mean?"

"You want me to be kinder and more accepting of myself. To admit that I still deserve love, even though I'm disfigured. But you realize that applies just as much to you."

She reached a slender hand up to touch his cheek—hesitantly, as if unsure he would welcome it. They had never been so unguarded or so openly tender with each other, and the Beast was afraid if he opened his mouth, all the unspoken declarations of love would come tumbling out without his permission.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath to steel himself. What he had to say, he knew wouldn't be easy.

"Belle, I want you to go home."

"What?"

"When you were sick, I made a deal with you. And you've kept your end of the promise. So it's time to fulfill my part. Go home to your father, Belle. Go explore the world like you always wanted. You don't belong cooped up in here like we do."

Her eyebrows furrowed. "But I…but I gave you my word…"

"I know. I release you from your first promise, Belle."

She didn't look as happy as he expected her to. "Why? What's changed?"

Everything, he couldn't say. I have.

He turned away from her, troubled by the pleading look in her eyes.

"You're no longer my prisoner, Belle. You haven't been for a long time."

"I know."