A/N This chapter has been republished since it has doubled in length and introduces 2 new characters, Madame Sartre and Alexandre Basque Junior. Hope you enjoy how the story is developing. Happy reading! AS xoxo

Forêt de Fontainebleau

"One...Two...Three...Four...Five...Six...Seven...Eight...Nine...Ten...come out...come out where ever you are..."

"Where do you think she went, Marthe," Marie looks up at darkening clouds wrapping a black fur shawl tighter over her shoulders. It covers the bodice of her pink silk gown.

"Shhh, Beauty can't have gone far," her sister hisses back, using a stick to thrash overgrown foliage around them.

Marie glances around nervously, "We really should get back, if we get caught in the rain, Mama will be upset we ruined our new gowns."

"Don't be a baby. Papa will replace them with better ones. We're not leaving till we find her hiding place," Marthe retorts sharply before turning back to lush green vegetation. "What would you have done if you had ten seconds?"

"Easy," Marie wrings her gloved hands, "I'd hide close."

"Beauty's fast like Mama. For God's sake stop fidgeting, let me think." Marthe looks around, "See, there are broken blades of grass and branches over there." She points to their left, following the trail their sister left.

"That's clever."

"I'm not just a pretty face Marie," she slowly traces the tracks until they stop by a knee high bush.

"Cuckoo...cuckoo...cuckoo." Marthe raises a thick bamboo stick making a loud 'swish' in the air and 'wack' sound as it connects with about a thick evergreen shrub. She repeats the violent 'wacking' action numerous times until the stick connects with firm flesh.

"Ahhh," Beauty's high pitched scream rings loud in the air. Startled birds scatter skyward.

"That's how to crack a whip," Marthe exclaims victoriously, "Oh you're bleeding."

Beauty looks down to see blood streaming from three welts on her upper right arm. The site Marthe struck.

A lone white wolf snarls, bearing sharp teeth threateningly. It lunges at Beauty's bleeding arm.

As Marthe and Marie scatter, in opposite directions a quick succession of arrows become airborne. The wolf sinks its teeth deep into Beauty's arm, but just as quickly lets' go, sinking to the ground with a heavy thud. Beauty uses that moment to scramble from the dead weight of the fallen creature.

A flash of lightening brightens up the dusk, punctuated with the boom of thunder rumbling.

"Shhh, it's over now. Don't fight," the flame haired young woman speaks softly, soothingly kneeling beside the winded wolf. She thrusts an arrow into its heart ending suffering with a single stroke. She pulls out her arrow standing over the creature with remorse in her face contemplating the senseless death. She's wearing a black bask top and light flowing skirt that exposes her legs and thighs.

"Who are you," Marthe demands.

Beauty hangs three steps back from her sisters.

"You shouldn't be this far out in the forest. It's a full moon tonight, the wolf pack will be especially ferocious," she points to the western side of the sky. "Come, I'll lead you back home before the thunderstorm," she turns walking away.

"Why would you, a heathen Roma woman help us," Marthe hangs back.

"You're welcome to stay here if you like but becoming prey to hungry wolves or their Alpha is nothing like the glamour I see in your future."

"How could you possibly know that?"

"There's little in forêt de Fontainebleau that can be explained. Do you want to stay here and argue or do we start back to your farm?"

"What's your name," presses Marthe.

"Éloïse."

"You're trespassing."

"The forest backs onto your farm but we're standing on common land. If you follow me, I'll take you back safely before the storm breaks."

Reluctantly, Marthe and Marie trudge after Éloïse.

She notices Beauty hanging back. "You too," she calls back to her.

"You saved my life," Beauty trembles tearing two strips from the hem of her gown, she ties them tightly above and below the bamboo and bite wounds blinking back tears.

"Hey, don't be upset," Éloïse takes Beauty's callused hand in hers. Beauty shrinks back expecting another physical attack. "I see you experience rejection," Éloïse hesitates observing the pain in Beauty eyes that shine with unshed tears, "Your future-" her voice drifts off.

"We know," interjects Marthe, "No one respectable could marry a foundling trying to pass themselves off as one of us."

Turning to blonde beauties Marthe and Marie, Éloïse says, "Show me your right palms, I'll read your fortunes."

The sisters remove their gloves and show off soft pink palms. Éloïse runs her fingers over dark haired Beauty's callused palm. She touches the line that run across the middle of all three palms.

"I can see from this line that before three revolutions of the earth around the sun, Marthe, you will marry a man everyone will admire for his tall, dark, handsome good looks. Marie will marry a man everyone admires for his intelligence. Beauty will marry a man you've known all your lives. He has calloused hands just like this. He will steal your heart but his death shortly after your nuptials will cause you anguish."

"Merci bien, but you're mistaken. No one could love me enough to marry," Beauty smiles shyly at the confidence radiating from Éloïse.

"Time reveals all, Beauty."

"No respectable family will have their son marry someone dark with unknown ancestry. Beauty doesn't fool anyone," Marthe sneers following Éloïse out of the enchanted forest.

"Let's get you out of here before we're hunted downby a pack of wolves. No one who comesface to face with the Alpha lives to tell the tale," the young Roma womanreplies dramatically,her flame hair gleaming as lightening streaks across the sky and thunder rumbles.

The young women scuttle away as spine chilling howling begins nearby.  Their progress is tracked by a pair of golden glowing eyes...

Sartre Farm

Lightening streaks, bring the brightness of daylight into the dark night for a brief moment. Madame Cecile Sartre stops to look up at the sky before resuming pacing up and down the veranda rubbing her bare forearms. An ankle length red and white gown hugs her tall, athletic frame. Her thick blonde hair reaches the small of her back. She pushes away strands of hair the wind whips onto her face. She strains to see beyond the farm with a lamp but it is too dark.

Alexandre bows and she beckons for him to approach. He walks with a thick black shawl that he places over her shoulder. He backs away self-conscious that his thread bare clothes and tattered shoes are damp even after drying off in the kitchen.

"You'll catch cold if you stand at the edge of the veranda Madame Sartre. Please have a seat," he gestures to the swing bench, and places a basket at her feet.

"I have a strong constitution young Alexandre Basque," she chastises him. "It was kind of you to take the wagon in this storm to look for them," she says reaching into the basket for her knitting. He has given her a distracting activity while they wait.

"I've been head of the family since Father was mauled by a pack of wolves a year ago."

"The forest has become far too dangerous for anyone to wander into it like I did as a child."

"Beauty sent medicine and food parcels until Father breathed his last, mad with fever of the attack."

"She begged me to come and personally nurse Alexandre Senior but we had engagements in Paris."

"The medicine, food, medicine, money was more than enough."

"Bernadette and young Andre tell me you're proving to be a better provider than your late father."

"Father taught me all I know."

Madame Sartre smiles knowingly. Alexandre Senior was a drunk, who beat his wife and children. Antoine, her beloved husband restrained his violent impulses a few times. Alexandre Junior was nothing like his father.

"Let me not detain you. Bernadette and young Andre must be waiting for your return."

"I told them I'd return once we had news the girls had returned safely."

Camille serves them both a tankard of warm wine, curtsies then returns into the house.

"You know, I remember you playing with them as if it were yesterday." She points to the front yard.

"Not wishing to correct you," he stifles a smile, "We played over there thirteen years ago."

"To me, you will always be babies." Her knitting needles make rapid clicking sounds as she knits. "Come, sit here beside me," she pats the space next to her.

Alexandre hesitates looking at his damp clothes compared to the finery of Madame Sartre's gown. He sits at the edge of swing chair furthest away from her.

"Did you know that my family were tenants on this farm, just as you are now?"

"Mother told me your brother has his own farm now."

She nods acknowledging the fact but doesn't elaborate further regarding her brother's elevation from tenant to landowner. "You've always had a special affection for my Marthe."

Alexandre nearly chokes on his wine. He hangs his head avoiding her penetrating gaze. "I'm sorry Madame, I'm not good of good enough breeding stock for her. He tugs at his thread bare coat."

"Marthe doesn't share your passion for farming and country living."

"Oui Madame, she has learning and culture."

"Beauty on the other hand has a passion for living off the land. She can't wait to come here every year. But then again, Marthe is breathtakingly beautiful, the heart wants what the heart wants. I was young once, I remember the passions of youth well-"

At the corner of her eye, she sees the burning torch that Éloïse is holding up come into view. She stands up, her hand reaching to her mouth in relief. Marthe and Marie are running towards her clothes drenched in rain.

The girls throw themselves into Madame Sartre's loving embrace. "Mama, Mama," they cry.

Madame Sartre looks up in time to notice a pale looking Beauty holding on to her bleeding arm, then collapsing into Alexandre's strong muscular arms.

"How is she," Madame Sartre demands stepping away from her two elder daughters and rushing to her youngest child.

"Beauty's got the mark of the beast Madame. Her heart has stopped." Alexandre crosses himself stepping away from her lifeless body.

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October, 5, 2019