Beauty and the Beast (Timeless Fairy Tales #1)

“Enter,” Severin said, setting down the papers.

Duval stepped inside Severin’s study, a smile twitching on his plump face as he passed his slate to Severin.

Mademoiselle Elle is resting. She has been informed that she will be bedridden for two to three weeks.

“She can go then?”

Duval flatted his lips at Severin and plucked the slate from the illegitimate prince’s fingers. He meticulously wiped the slate with a handkerchief before writing.

No. She must stay in bed for two to three weeks.

Severin narrowed his eyes at his castle’s attending barber-surgeon. “How long do you plan for this intruder to stay here?”

Up to six months.

“Absolutely not,” Severin said. “The break in her leg couldn’t have been that bad—the bone didn’t separate much or break through the skin. It shouldn’t take months for her to heal.”

Duval wrote on his slate.

If you want her to be healed enough to survive the journey back to her village it will be six months.

“Three months. That is all I am giving her. Keep her out of my sight, the less I hear of her the better,” Severin said.

A pleased smile twitched on Duval’s lips, and Severin flattened his cat ears as he wondered if he hadn’t made the exact orders Duval wanted.

“Good evening, Duval,” Severin said before returning his attention to his paperwork.

The barber-surgeon waddled out of the room, closing the door behind him. Severin was able to get to the bottom of the first page of notes before there was another knock at the door.

Severin dropped his hands—and the notes he held—to the desk with a thump and breathed out heavily—eliciting a growl deep in his throat. “Enter,” he said, his deep voice lowered in warning.

Emele glided into the room with a smile, raising Severin’s ire. “What,” he said, his voice flat and void of questions.

Emele smiled and presented her smaller and supposedly more feminine slate to him.

Your Highness, if you wouldn’t mind coming to speak to Elle—

Severin swiped his paw/hand across the slate, erasing the chalk words before bothering to read them all. “No.”

Emele pursed her lips and took her slate back to write on it some more.

But she’s a lovely girl, and I—

“No. I suggest you rid yourself of whatever ridiculous idea you have floating around your frill infused head. I will not interact with this intruder. Tell the other servants to stop gossiping and hoping.”

Emele moved, as if to write again.

“Good night, Emele,” Severin said.

Emele’s shoulders drooped, and she left the room.

Severin’s ears flicked as he listened to the ladies maid traipse down the hallway. He relaxed and gathered his papers, keeping one ear cocked as he immersed himself in papers. He was on the fourth page when he heard another set of footsteps.

It was a confident plod, which bespoke much of the walker’s confidence and pushy tendencies.

The hair on the back of Severin’s neck stood on end, and he leaped to his clawed feet. He grabbed a stack of papers and hustled through the study, slipping outside to the balcony. He secured his papers and gracefully climbed over the balcony banister.

Only one person in Chanceux Chateau walked like that, and Severin avoided confronting her at all costs as he usually came out on the losing side—cursed prince or not.

Severin dropped down to a walkway on the next floor, disappearing from sight just as the door to his study was thrown open.

The footsteps moved around his study before disappearing back into the hallway, making Severin’s shoulders collapse in a sigh of thankfulness.

He had escaped, this time.

Elle briefly opened her eyes and glanced at the door. Emele was there with a clutch of women. Most smelled like food—kitchen maids most likely—but there was a housemaid and two scullery maids.

They stood together, exchanging slates and reading messages as they gawked at Elle like a flock of birds hoping for scraps. The housemaid was forever smoothing her clothes, and the kitchen maids continuously wiped their hands on their white aprons if they weren’t writing out a message.

Elle was surprised, even the scullery maids—the lowest of all servants—were schooled in writing, busily trading slates with each other.

Emele smiled when she realized Elle was awake, and began pushing the women out of the room. The female servants smiled at Elle, and the housemaid resisted Emele long enough to curtsey at Elle before she was shoved out of the door.

Emele closed the door behind them and leaned her back against the fine wooden surface, smiling sheepishly. Her mouth formed an ‘O’ shape when she was shoved aside like a kitten as the door was flung open.