"I never realized how precious the rose was until it began to fade."

-Beast

Snow drifted past the window, falling like frozen stars. The flakes settled in a white blanket that cloaked the castle grounds. Belle pressed her hand against the glass, watching the darkening skies. Despite the storm, the frosty courtyard looked warmer than the West Wing.

Belle shivered. She could still see vestiges of how the West Wing used to be: gray marble floors, an oil painting of a handsome prince, and vases filled with lavender and lilies. The flowers were dead now, their scent overshadowed by the moldering curtains. Only one flower remained, protected under a glass case.

The girls in Belle's books would say the rose looked ethereal, using words like velvety green and ruby red to describe its leaves and petals. It was a welcome sight in the drab room, and yet, Belle's gaze kept returning to the display case. It protected the rose, but it also smothered the flower behind a wall of glass. Even in this forgotten corner of the castle, it was impossible for something beautiful to escape being caged.

Belle turned, scanning the rest of the room. Why did the Beast want to keep the West Wing hidden? Perhaps it served as his private retreat? Belle eyed the ragged curtains. She didn't see the appeal.

Outside, village lights twinkled along the horizon. Beyond them, the world awaited. It seemed absurd that the Beast wanted to stay in this lonely castle his entire life. Absurd, and boring. What did he even do here? Admire the snowdrifts? Sit beside the empty fireplace? Smash furniture whenever it looked at him the wrong way?

Belle would never be happy with that kind of life. She'd grown up reading stories of grand adventures. She longed to explore other kingdoms, meet new people, and write a book of her own.

But her bargain with the Beast made that future impossible. Her dreams of traveling were gone, smothered as thoroughly as that beautiful rose under its glass case.

Belle drifted away from the window, moving to inspect the flower. It presented an enigma, and Belle had always liked puzzles. Besides, the Beast didn't strike Belle as a flower hobbyist. There must be a reason he kept it displayed in the forbidden wing. Maybe it was a parting gift from a long-lost lover, and he was saving it for their return so he could declare his—

There was a crash.

Too late, Belle realized she'd knocked over one of the flower vases. Blue glass littered the floor, sprinkled among bits of broken furniture. The wind died down as though the world was holding its breath.

Then, a snarl echoed through the castle.

Quick footsteps thudded down the hall. The door to the West Wing flew open, framing the Beast's twisted horns and ragged cloak. His teeth flashed as he took in the scene.

"Why did you come here?" the Beast growled.

Belle flinched, stepping away from the broken glass. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean any harm."

The Beast's nails bit into the door frame. His blue eyes were winter ice, the coldest part of a frozen lake. "Do you realize what you could have done?"

Belle stared at the room's smashed furniture and faded tapestries, the vase another casualty in a sea of ruined things. The West Wing seemed beyond saving, but... maybe they could remake the space into something beautiful. Belle had spent her whole life fixing tattered books, music boxes that wouldn't play, and birds with injured wings.

That was the problem, Belle thought; she didn't know how to give up on broken things. The world was like a magical theater where fairytales and realities intertwine, and she was forever rewriting the final act.

The Beast prowled across the room, his shoulders a hard line. "I warned you never to come here," he snarled.

Light flickered at the edges of Belle's vision. She ignored it, raising her chin to meet the Beast's glare.

"I know," she said. "You've made it clear that I'm a nuisance to be tolerated, nothing more. I thought the West Wing would help me understand why, but..." Belle shrugged. "I guess I'm just—"

The light grew brighter. Belle broke off, words dying in her throat.

The rose started glowing as the distance shrank between her and the Beast. Its petals flashed like coins in a river, and its scent filled the room with the sweetness of spring.

Belle tried to close her gaping mouth. She'd read about magic before, of course. Belle's books were filled with stories of frogs turning into princes and maidens waking from enchanted slumbers. But those were words on a page. Nothing could have prepared her for the sight of the glowing flower.

"Has this happened before?" Belle asked, her voice faint. 

The Beast looked away. "It doesn't matter. The rose is none of your concern." He retreated to the far wall, taking a sudden interest in the fireplace. "If you truly wish to help me, you can leave this room and forget you saw anything."

Belle studied what she could see of his face. She had prepared herself for all manner of discoveries in the West Wing. A lonely Beast wasn't one of them. 

"When I was a child, my father used to tell me the story of a snow witch who put ice in a little boy's heart," Belle said. "The boy grew to be cold and cruel, but his friend continued to keep him company. She never gave up hope that she could help him change."

The Beast rumbled a sad laugh. "What a foolish girl."

"What a stubborn boy," Belle returned. She hugged her arms across her chest. "I know you don't want to face this," she said, nodding at the enchanted rose, "but you can at least tell me how the magic affects you and the rest of the castle. I live here, too."

The Beast pushed off from the fireplace, walking closer to the window. "I don't owe you any explanations," he said. "Especially after you broke my trust and trespassed where you don't belong."

"If you hadn't locked me in a crumbling castle with a bunch of talking antiques, I wouldn't have had to," Belle reminded him. "I'm not asking you to free me; I'm asking if there's a way to break the spell."

The Beast paused near the rose. Its petals glimmered through the glass, casting half his face in shadow. "The curse isn't difficult to break," he said. "It's impossible."

Belle raised an eyebrow. "Well, we won't know until we try," she mused.

The Beast stiffened. "Did you not hear what I said?"

Belle leaned against a cracked pillar. "That depends. Are you talking about the part where you said I'm not welcome here, or the bit where you refused to tell me anything specific about the curse? I'm not daft—I know the spell must have turned you into a beast and everyone else into talking figurines."

"You have no right—"

"Then treat me like a person instead of a prisoner!" Belle exclaimed. "I've been nothing but kind to you, yet you continue to stare at me like I'm some enchantress. I haven't cast any spells on you. I doubt I'll be much better at breaking them, but I'm hoping we can work on that together." She stared at him, crossing her arms. "Which brings us back to my question: how do we end the curse?"

"Get out of my castle," the Beast growled.

He lunged forward. Belle ducked, and his claws swiped the air above her head.

"Beast," she said, "what are you—"

"GET OUT OF HERE!"

He struck again, tearing through an armoire. Belle stumbled backward. She crashed into a wooden table, swallowing a cry. The corner dug into her hip—hard enough to bruise.

"Please stop," Belle said. "You're scaring—" 

"GET OUT!"

Belle ran for the West Wing's door. It groaned open on rusty hinges, mingling with the sound of ripping fabric and splintering wood. The Beast's growls followed her into the hall.

An icy feeling slithered down Belle's spine, pounding in time with her racing footsteps. The Beast was serious. This wasn't about Belle skipping dinner or asking to see her father; this was about him no longer wanting her company because she'd betrayed his trust. 

Belle hurried down the castle staircase. She grabbed a red cloak from the balustrade, fastening it over her shoulders. The cloak billowed behind her—a mockery of the cape heroes wore.

Cogsworth and Lumiére stood at the bottom of the stairs, speaking to one another in low voices. A month ago, Belle might have felt afraid to acknowledge the talking furniture. Now, the sight of the antique clock and friendly candelabra only made her heart ache.

Cogsworth and Lumiére looked up, their conversation trailing off when they noticed her cloak.

"Belle, where are you going?" Lumiére asked. He slid across the stone floor, his metal base echoing in the entrance room. 

"I can't stay here," Belle exclaimed. She brushed past him, heading towards the main door. "I know I made a promise, but..."

"Please wait," Cogsworth said. He trundled after Lumiére on creaky wooden legs, his golden pendulum swinging frantically.

Belle ignored him. She grabbed the door handle, straining to open the heavy oak. A wall of snow burst through the gap. The snow lashed her pale cheeks, and the wind nipped through her cloak with icy teeth. 

"Please, please wait," Cogsworth repeated. His wooden arms dropped, and his voice faded to a whisper. "You're our last hope."

Belle hesitated. She glanced at the castle behind them. A table stood near the stairway, a new stack of books resting on top. Pressed wildflowers peeked out from the books' pages. They were such an unlikely sight in the Beast's castle that she couldn't help but wonder if they were a sign for her—a symbol of hope struggling amidst the darkness.

Above them, the Beast roared. The chandelier trembled, and clumps of snow began melting into the rug, spreading like pools of blood. 

Belle shook her head. The Beast wasn't a broken music box she could fix. His gears had sprung loose, and she had no idea how to put him back together again.

"I'm sorry I can't be the savior you deserve," she murmured. The wind drowned Lumiére and Cogsworth's protests, slamming the door behind her.

Outside, the blizzard raged. Belle shivered, pulling her cloak tighter around her shoulders. 

Somewhere nearby, a wolf began to howl.