Monstrous Beauty Read Online Free Page A

eyes from her motionless form. It would not be proper for him to look. She should have a lady’s maid; she did, for a time. But the woman had been the first of the servants to leave. Now they are alone.
    Drawing back the brocade curtains, he says in a gentle voice, “Beauty, it’s time to rise.”
    He helps her dress, eyes shut tight as he fumbles for buttons and sleeves, moving her like an overgrown, listless doll. The gown is one he purchased for her, when he had servants to go into town for him. The figured muslin is decorated with a delicate embroidery of roses. She was a village girl, before; he had to teach her the distinction between day dresses and evening ones. But he spared no expense on her behalf: she had lovely gowns, expensive furnishings, everything she might desire. Before the servants left, her food had been exquisite to match. But they could not live with her, they murmured, and one by one they fled.
    She does not touch her breakfast, again, and it worries him. Guiding her from the room, he apologizes for the fare; he apologizes, though he cannot think what he might do to improve it. He would move heaven and earth to make her happy, but he cannot leave this castle or its grounds, the woods that lie to the south. The villagers would kill him on sight. He must make do with what he can hunt or gather, or occasionally steal from the nearest houses. And if she continues in this manner, she will simply fade away. When was the last time she ate?
    He leads her to the parlor, where he sings for her entertainment. Harp strings snap under his claws, and piano keys are too slick, but he has a fine bass voice. When noon comes, he slips away to capture and devour a plump rabbit, then returns to her with an offering of ripe cherries. She does not touch these, either.
    Tomorrow, he tells himself. Tomorrow she will be hungry.
    In the afternoon, they go to the rose garden, where she sits quietly in the sun. He has a new book of poetry to read to her today, one he has been saving for some time. He judges—he hopes—that now is the time to share it.
    Turning the pages with careful claws, he reads the romantic poems to her, one by one, in a rich growl that holds a wealth of emotion within.
    In the hot summer sunlight, she sits without a word. A fly lands on her cheek, and she does not brush it away. A stench fills the air that the roses cannot mask. The servants did their best for her, trying to make her happy, praying their master could be delivered from his curse. Some of them stayed even after he drew her from the pond at the base of the garden—but not for long. Their hopes died with her.
    But his live on. The truth cannot be borne. And so, day after day, the Beast cooks meals she does not eat, sings songs she does not hear, and reads poetry to her in the rose garden, waiting for Beauty to love him.
    Notes on “Waiting for Beauty”

Afterword
    Some short story sets are planned; others happen by accident.
    This is one of the latter sort. It began with what I thought was a one-off idea—a vaguely Lovecraftian retelling of “Little Red Riding Hood”—but within three months it had spawned three more stories in a similar vein. (The remainder sauntered in over the next two and a half years.) At first their connection was more stylistic than thematic; they were all fairy tales, and all written in a more poetic and ornate kind of prose than I usually employ. But over time—specifically, round about the point where I wrote a story I thought was for the set, and then realized it didn’t actually fit—I noticed there was a common thread running through them all.
    In academia (which is where I was when I wrote these), there’s a concept referred to as the “monstrous feminine.” It doesn’t simply mean “a female monster;” it has to do with the ways in which femininity itself is treated as a source of horror. The idea was given that name by (I think)