one would look at her as being odd; not in a city full of odd people.
Or maybe some rich member of nobility would see his invention for the genius it truly was and sponsor him…take him and Belle away like a fairy godmother and whisk them into a world of academics, science, and people just like them. They would be part of all the exciting things this century promised, far away from this provincial town and its stupid ambush weddings.
(She was glad her papa wasn’t around to see that. He wouldn’t have gotten angry, the way she had; he would have been merely very, very confused. It wouldn’t have helped things.)
She rested her head on her hands, watching the wedding party quickly disperse as the winds picked up. LeFou tried to grab a bunting as it whipped around branches and chairs like an eel. The villagers would all be gone in a few minutes, but she wished she could head down sooner, somehow sneak around them, to be inside when the storm finally hit. Maybe she could try going down to the east side of the house, through the rose garden….
She sighed, turning to look at the pretty pink-and-white dots that mottled the scenery just out of view of the wedding party. They were the main reason her father was reluctant to leave their little house in the country. Part of him still believed there was a chance that someday his wife would come back, to her roses and her husband and her daughter. If only he just kept tending the bushes and keeping the flowers pretty and healthy, maybe she would be tempted to return.
If they left, how would she find them?
But despite the automatic watering contraption Maurice had built for the garden, the roses that were usually so healthy—blooming even in deepest winter—were beginning to look a little brown and peaked.
Belle grumpily got up. She barely remembered her mother. She had the best father in the world. That was all she needed.
She took one last look at the horizon, bidding the storm and the lands beyond farewell—when she saw a strange commotion on the road.
It was Phillipe, galloping out of control toward the house, still attached to the cart.
And her father wasn’t on it.
Maurice and Rosalind immediately began their happily-ever-afters. They moved to a snug little third-floor apartment in the castle district, right in the middle of the most fashionable and bustling neighborhood. A tiny garden out back sufficed for most of Rosalind’s immediate magical needs, and Maurice worked out a deal with Alaric to continue using the kiln yard despite his no longer living there.
For the first year the apartment was crammed with work and parties, late-night academic discussions with friends and loud drinking songs, days and nights of research, roses, and metal. Then, when the newlyweds’ lives calmed down a little, their place became a serene and peaceful retreat from the world.
It was just high and removed enough to be unnoticeable from the street, and surprisingly quiet for the part of town it was in. Rarely did a random person follow the narrow, shaded alley to the back of the building and clamber up the old wooden steps to the third floor—and friends knew how to step around or otherwise disengage Maurice’s clever, and loud, alarm system.
Which was why he was surprised and unprepared the day the alarms went off.
Pots clashed, broken bits of ceramic broke further, and a horn powered by an old accordion-like bellow blasted away the sleepy late afternoon hush in the garden and sent creatures and moths flying.
“See? Told you it would come in handy,” Maurice called over his shoulder to Rosalind as he went to see who it was. He had ideas about the door, too—installing a sort of periscope or monocular that would allow the inhabitant to see who was outside without, say, letting the cold winter air in.
Yes…something with a reflector inside a tube, maybe….
He opened the door and was surprised to see a young boy standing there, shocked and startled, his hand hovering in the air.
“Hello,” Maurice said amiably. “Did my alarm system frighten you?”
The boy said nothing.
“Because I am trying to decide whether it should be silent to those who approach, so I may better surprise them, or if it should be loud to frighten them off before any mischief can be achieved. What do you think? Can you—oh!”
Maurice suddenly noticed what was in the boy’s hand. It was a piece of charcoal. He followed the direction