Story Idea
Beauty and the Beast retelling
I love retold fairy tales, even if they lean towards the plots of the Big-D’s versions. I especially love when authors make up new fairy tales, twisting and weaving fresh ideas together into something fresh and exciting.
I read the ‘original’ beauty/beast story by Gabrielle-Suzanne Barbot de Villeneuve, La Belle et la Bête, and I loved the flavor of it. I imagined a world of color and magic, undercut by greed and hate.
I have only the seeds of an idea for this one — and I need to do way more research about France in the time period — but here is the first bits. It’s lived in my cloud for a few years, percolating. Maybe one day!
The roses glittered as the moon shone on their petals. Waxing, the bright light of it cast the gardens into sharp relief. He knew what he would find hidden in the shadows, had known since she disappeared, her food left uneaten that morning.
Wearily, he moved through the frozen grounds. The snow muffled his steps, nothing breaking the hush but the slight rustling of the wind, a creak of a slumbering tree.
Her blood had stained the pristine snow, a crimson he could not see in this light, but knew well enough how it would glimmer. He wrinkled his nose at the smell. The human smell of her, the stench of her blood, her desperation and pain.
He stooped to take the knife from her stiff hand. The snow had dusted her face, just as it had the roses, their blooms frozen by the ice.
He hesitated, the blade catching the moonlight with a swift gleam of silver. It called to him, her blood. A promise of satiation. But pointless. The intoxication of it would sour in his mouth, disappointing and foul. He wiped the blade on her skirt and left.
The single candle wavered. The breeze of his passing sent shadows dancing over the walls. The red light from the fire glinted in his eyes, his cloak drawn to darken his face.
“Closer, he crept.” The man’s hoarse voice was barely heard over the rain. “Quiet she lay, unconscious of the deadly danger looming nearer, ever nearer.”
The children giggled, delicious shivers making them squirm and huddle closer together.
“What gleams in the moonlight?” he asked, pantomiming his tale. “A pale hand, white as Death, reaches out to her
“Our beauty stirs. Some breath of air, some soft sound disturbing her slumber?”
The youngest boy snuggled close to his sister. She hugged the boy tightly, grinning at their step-brother as he swept a menacing glare over his terrified siblings.
“She wakes. What beauty, what innocence! Alas, it only enrages the monster, looming over her. She draws a breath to scream – The dreadful claw descends and-”
He whirled and pounced on one of the boys. He gave a squeal of delighted terror as he was tickled. His brothers came to the rescue.
The villain went down with an oath, fighting valiantly but in the end succumbing to the combined attack of four sturdy young boys.
“Fetch a stake!” The eldest lisped, hind end firmly planted on the ‘monster’s’ chest.
“No, it’s daylight that slays’m!” another protested.
“Where are we going to find sunlight at night, stoooopid?”
That stymied their plans for a quick dispatch.
“Holy water!” one suggested.
“That’s devils, ain’t it?”
“A vampire is a devil!”
Always a man of action, the youngest found a handy vase and emptied its contents over their captor’s head.
Spluttering, the monster fought free, indignant and damp. The nursery door opened and the littles scrambled for cover. Their father, peering into the dim room, found only his eldest girl and his step-son inside.
“Belinda?” he asked, near-sighted and bewildered.
“Just bedtime stories, Father,” she assured him. She stood and exposed the boy hiding under the skirt of her gown. The older man frowned at the vanquished villain, who was slicking back his hair and picking petals off his coat.
“I see…” their father said hesitantly.
“Time for bed!” Belinda shooed the boys to their dormitory in the next room. They went with the usual grumbles and yawns. She kissed them each, confiscated a slingshot, and left them to giggle themselves to sleep.
Back in the playroom, she turned up the lamp and scolded her step-sibling.
“You’ll have them up half the night with nightmares, Germain.”
His smile was cheeky. “Not your brothers. More likely they will have a plan to hunt down the beast themselves after breakfast.”
Belinda agreed with him and dreaded the poor animal they would capture and bring home to gloat over. Last time it had been their neighbor’s prize sow. She tidied the room, returning pillows to chairs and books to shelves. The damp spot on the rug would need to be blotted.
“Fetch some toweling, would you, Germain?”
He returned to see her peering into the quiet dormitory.
“Asleep?” he asked, coming to look over her shoulder.
“Soundly,” she murmured, shutting the door softly.
“What now, ye of little faith? I told you my tale would send them straight off.”
She made a face at his foolishness.
“I wish you wouldn’t do that,” he complained.
“Mock you?”
“Look adorable,” he corrected. “It makes me feel a right cad.”
“You are a cad.”
“Only sometimes,” he protested.
She laughed and slipped away, arranging the toweling to soak up the puddle.
“Has our guest departed?” she asked, rubbing at the dark spot.
Germain groaned. “No. He is waiting for you to brighten his dreary day.”
She grimaced and he nodded. “Those exact words. Claimed he would wait up the night to have a moment to speak with you.”
She sighed, but not for her unfortunately dedicated swain. “That explains why you are up here, rather than with your sisters.”
He knelt and helped arrange the towels. “Turned my stomach, listening to his redundant, flowery prose.”
She looked wary and he confirmed her worst fear.
“Yes, fair Belinda. He has written you…A Poem.”
“I will have to listen to it,” she protested. “And they will hate me all the more, and you, you will sit there laughing at me and I won’t be able to kick you in the shin.”
He grinned. “Not at you. Them.”
“It is cruel of you to do so.”
“Paying them in kind,” he countered. “They have been cruel enough themselves since we came here.”
“Couldn’t you fob him off?” she pleaded, laying a hand on his arm. “Please, Germain, for me?”
He moved from under her hand and stood, his smile a slightly fixed. “They’ll never believe you are ill,” he pointed out. “And if you faint in the parlor, I doubt wild dogs could stop him from blundering to your rescue.”
He accepted the towels she thrust at him. “You will have to listen to it someday. He will waylay you on the Green or – heaven forbid – after Church with everyone looking on.”
“I’d rather face that than suffering through your sisters’ glowers.”
“Show them you don’t care,” he said. “That is what makes them mad enough to spit. They hate you and hate you and you just smile as if you haven’t noticed.”
Belinda sighed. “I notice.”
The stilted conversation faltered as Belinda made her appearance. The young man seated by the fire rose eagerly at her entrance. He bowed to her, the other girls forgotten.
“Mademoiselle,” he exclaimed. She greeted him politely, but a little aloof.
“Monsieur del la Fuente.”
“I despaired of your joining us,” he sighed, pouting. He never spoke plainly, every utterance given some dramatic flair. “Your young charges must be such a burden on you.”
“Quite the opposite, in fact,” Belinda said, seating herself. “I enjoy our bedtimes stories.”
“I am continuously amazed at your true and womanly qualities, beautiful Belinda.”
She refrained from pointing out his redundant adjective and turned to her step-sisters.
“I apologize if we disturbed you,” she told them. “Germain is an enthusiastic story-teller.”
Their only response was three blank stares. Belinda lifted her chin and set a calm smile on her lips.
“Tell me, monsieur, how does your mother?”
It was del la Fuente’s second favorite topic of conversation.
“Very ill, I fear,” he intoned solemnly. “She fears she will require a visit to some spa. A digestive complaint has troubled her these past two weeks.”
With very little encouragement, he described the various details of Madame del la Fuente’s ailment. Her step-sisters fidgeted as the conversation droned on and on. Germain slipped in the far door, wearing a new coat. Belinda sent him an anguished glance, which he answered with a grin.
Finally, del la Fuente wore down. Belinda mistrusted the smug expression on his face and hurried into speech.
“Maria, your shawl is beautiful. Can it be from Belmonte’s?”
Pride and mistrust warred in the young woman’s face. “Indeed it is, sister.”
Belinda hated when they used that endearment. “Truly lovely. I would have thought it from Paris.” A little flattery would hopefully make the evening go smoother.
Del la Fuente boasted about his most recent visit to that glamourous locale. Another half hour passed in such small talk. The clock chimed eight and Belinda stood, driving del la Fuente to his feet.
“You must not let us keep you, monsieur.” Her sisters actually looked grateful. “May I show you out?”
There was the usual bustle with adieus. Belinda tried her hardest to not end up in the vestibule with the young man, but she found herself alone in the dimly lit passage as del la Fuente waxed poetic on her manifold charms.
She spoke as firmly as she could. “Monsieur, I am flattered by your attentions. However, I cannot return-”
“I will say no more at this time,” he assured her and immediately gave lie to this assertion. “Your innocence, your humility does you credit, my dear. My mother has spoken most highly of your suitability.”
Belinda held the door open, letting the still cool wind sweep in.
The enthusiastic young man still hesitated on the threshold, a keen glint in his eyes. She held in a groan as he took her hand and pressed a kiss to her fingers. He maintained his grip as she tried to pull away.
“Monsieur, I must beg you-”
“Jacques.” Germain’s hard voice snapped through the air.
Del la Fuente turned, but – bravely, Belinda thought – did not relinquish her hand. The younger man was leaning against the wall by the hat tree, eyebrow raised.
“Good night, monsieur,” Germain said evenly.
Del la Fuente tipped his hat to them both and went out into the darkness. Belinda closed the door with a sigh.
“I almost feel sorry for him,” she said, trying to cut the tension left in the man’s wake. “He is so ardent.”
Germain reached over her shoulder and turned the heavy key in the lock. “Among other things,” he murmured.
She looked up at him. His dark eyes were lost in the shadow of his brow. She colored under his gaze as she never had del la Fuente’s.
“I should look in on the boys.” His hand was warm on her arm. She looked down, timid. “Germain, I…”
His lips were gentle on hers. She ducked back and away from him. He let her go, his fingers slipping from her arm without a fight.
“I haven’t heard any suspicious thumps,” Germain said, his voice only slightly rough. “No nightmares yet.”
“Then I will rejoin your sisters.” She turned back when the door opened and shut again. Peering into the darkness, she could see Germain’s coat was missing from the stand. She stood in the semi-darkness for a time before reentering the sitting room.
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