Beauty and the Beast: Lost in a Book

  Copyright © 2017 Disney Enterprises, Inc.

  Cover design by Scott Piehl and Gegham Vardanyan

  Cover illustration by Pilot Studio

  All rights reserved. Published by Disney Press, an imprint of Disney Book Group. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher. For information address Disney Press, 1101 Flower Street, Glendale, California 91201.

  ISBN 978-1-368-00225-7

  Visit disneybooks.com

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Chapter Sixty

  Chapter Sixty-One

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  Chapter Sixty-Three

  Chapter Sixty-Four

  Chapter Sixty-Five

  Chapter Sixty-Six

  Chapter Sixty-Seven

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  FOR EVERY GIRL WHO WANTS TO WRITE HER OWN STORY

  ONCE UPON FOREVER, in an ancient, crumbling palace, two sisters, Love and Death, played their eternal game.

  Death was mistress of the palace, and any mortal who journeyed to its rusted gates never returned. Her face was as pale as a shroud; her hair as dark as midnight. She wore a black gown and a hunter’s necklace of teeth, talons, and claws. Her emerald eyes narrowed as she contemplated the chessboard before her.

  “It’s your move,” said Love.

  “I’m quite aware of that,” said Death.

  “Ticktock,” said Love.

  “Only fools rush Death,” said Death.

  Sighing, Love rose from the table where she and Death were seated. Her eyes were the same deep green as her sister’s. Silvery blond hair tumbled down her back. Her dark skin was set off by a gown of white. Her only adornment was a necklace of twining willow branches. Shimmering beetles, bright butterflies, and dusky spiders clung to it, each a living jewel.

  A tall mirror stood against a wall in the great hall where the sisters played, its silver frame mottled with tarnish. Love waved her hand over the glass and an image appeared. It showed a dining room—once grand, now ruined. Outside the room’s mullioned windows, snow fell. Inside, a tormented creature—half man, half animal—paced. Back and forth he went, casting longing glances at the door. His eyes were fierce, but in their depths, haunted.

  Death glanced up. “How is your beast these days?” she asked archly. “Still smashing furniture? Dinner plates? The windows?”

  “I’m hopeful for him,” Love replied, touching the glass. “For the first time.”

  “I don’t know why,” said Death. “Once a beast, always a beast.”

  “You always look for the worst in everyone,” said Love reproachfully.

  “And I always find it,” Death said, her gaze directed at the chessboard again. She frowned, drumming her crimson-tipped fingers on the table. Then, with a sly glance at her sister’s back, she made her move.

  “Poor little pawn. Such a pity,” she drawled, nudging her knight across the board.

  The china chess pieces were painted to resemble courtiers at a masquerade. The knight’s face was hidden by an iron helmet. The pawn was costumed as a harlequin. Though fashioned of porcelain, they lived and breathed.

  The knight advanced. The pawn raised her hands, begging for her life, but the knight, unmoved by her pleas, swung his sword and lopped off her head. China shards flew everywhere. The pretty head rolled across the board, its eyes still blinking.

  Love turned around, startled by the sound of shattering porcelain. Her eyes flashed with anger as she viewed the board. “You cheated, Sister!” she exclaimed. “That knight was nowhere near my pawn!”

  Death pressed a jeweled hand to her chest. “I certainly did not,” she lied.

  Love gave her a withering look. “It’s my own fault,” she said, sitting down again. “I should know better than to take my eyes off you, even for a second. You hate to lose.”

  Death leaned back in her chair, twining her fingers in her necklace, trying not to smirk. As she waited for her sister to make a move, her eyes traveled around the room. Antlers hung above the stone mantel. The heads of boars and wolves adorned the walls, firelight dancing in their glass eyes.

  A sudden movement in the mirror caught Death’s attention. The glass now showed a magnificent library, and in it—a young woman. She was wearing the plain blue dress of a village girl. Her thick dark tresses were tied up with a ribbon, and her warm brown eyes sparkled with humor and intelligence.

  Death’s gaze sharpened at the appearance of the girl, like a lion’s at the sight of a gazelle. “Belle,” she whispered. “So beautiful, just like your name.”

  Love glanced at the mirror. “You know the girl?” she asked.

  “I’ve known her for quite some time. She was a babe in her mother’s arms when we met.”

  As Death watched, Belle pulled a book off a shelf, then held it up, smiling. The Beast squinted at it, trying to read the title. Belle opened the book and read the first page. Her head bent, she didn’t see the sadness in the Beast’s eyes turn to happiness.

  Love, her fingers poised over the chessboard now, said, “That girl will be the one, mark my words. She’s brave, stubborn—even more stubborn than the Beast is—and she has a heart of gold.”

  “Mmm, but it’s not the girl’s heart that’s in question, is it?” Death mused.

  Love, her brow furrowed in concentration, barely heard her sister. Nor did she notice as a horned beetle flew off her necklace and landed atop the mirror.

  “It’s the Beast’s heart we’re concerned with,” Death c
ontinued. “Have you forgotten how he behaved when he was still a prince? Why, on the very day he was enchanted, he spent alms meant for the poor on a new carriage, made fun of a kitchen boy’s stutter, and ran a stag to death with his hounds. I would have turned the fool into a worm and crushed him under my boot, but you did not. Why, I’ll never know.”

  “Because he deserves a second chance,” Love said. “Everyone does. My enchantress transformed the outer man to transform the inner. His suffering will teach him kindness and compassion. He’ll find his heart again.”

  Death groaned in exasperation. “He has no heart, Sister! One cannot find that which never existed!”

  Love’s eyes, bright with feeling, met Death’s. “You’re wrong,” she said. “I’ve watched him since he was a child. I saw what happened to him, how cruelly his father treated him. He had to hide his heart. It was the only way he could survive!”

  Death waved a dismissive hand at her, but Love did not give up. Giving up was not in her nature. “Have you ever seen a bear made to fight off dogs in a village square for sport?” she asked. “Have you seen how it snarls and snaps? Pain, fear…they can turn you into something you were never meant to be. The Beast can change.”

  “He’d better be quick about it. That rose of yours looks none too healthy,” Death said, nodding at the mirror.

  It now showed a table in the Beast’s castle. Candlelight fell upon it, illuminating a single red rose suspended in a glass cloche. The rose’s head drooped. Withered petals lay under it. As Death and Love watched, another one dropped.

  “If the Beast doesn’t succeed in winning Belle’s love by the time the last petal falls, he must remain a beast forever,” said Death. “You took a gamble, dear sister, on the human heart—a fool’s bet if ever there was one. Me? I’d wager a million louis d’or that the Beast fails.”

  Love raised an eyebrow. “One million gold coins? You must be rich indeed if you can afford to lose such a sum,” she said, returning her attention to the chessboard.

  Death smiled patronizingly. In a voice dripping with fake sympathy, she said, “I understand. You don’t want to bet. It’s too much money. You’re afraid—”

  “Of nothing. Least of all you,” Love retorted. “Make it two million.”

  Death’s eyes lit up. There was nothing she loved more than gambling. Just yesterday, she’d heard a young baroness on horseback say, “I bet I can jump that fence!” and a farm boy boast, “I bet I can swim across that river!” She’d won both of those wagers handily.

  Love was the same way. The higher the stakes, the more impossible the odds, the more eager she was to up the ante. It was the one thing the two sisters had in common.

  “That gold is as good as mine,” Death said. “Humans are selfish creatures who can always be counted on to do the wrong thing. Shall I tell you how the story ends? The Beast is horrible to Belle, she abandons him, the last petal falls. Fini.”

  Love jutted her chin. “You have no idea how the story ends. You’re not its author. Sometimes kindness and gentleness win.”

  Death snorted. “And sometimes unicorns gallop down rainbows.”

  Love glared at her. “Three million.”

  “Done!” Death crowed. “I’m going to win the wager, Sister dearest. Just you wait and see.”

  “Well, you certainly didn’t win this game,” Love said, sliding her queen across the board. “Checkmate.”

  Death’s smile slid off her face. She looked down at the board and saw Love’s queen standing in front of her own king. “What?” she said, shocked. “It can’t be!”

  As Love and Death watched, the queen offered the king a kiss. Surprised by so sweet a mercy, the king embraced the queen. A second later, he crumpled to the board, a dagger sticking out of his back.

  “And they say I’m ruthless!” Death exclaimed.

  Smiling triumphantly, Love rose from her chair. She kissed her sister’s cold cheek and said, “Don’t get up. I’ll see myself out.”

  Death sat perfectly still, glowering at the chess pieces. Her bishop looked up at her and started to shake. His knees knocked. A crack appeared on his painted face. Fuming, Death swept the pieces off the board. They shattered on the stone floor. Then she rose and walked to the mirror. Her expression, already sour, curdled as she watched the Beast and Belle—still enjoying their books, and each other’s company.

  The girl was frightened of him at first, Death thought, and who wouldn’t be? But she isn’t anymore. This girl is the rarest of creatures—one who sees with her heart. My sister is right. She could be the one. And that won’t do.

  Turning on her heel, her skirts swirling behind her like an ill wind, Death crossed the room to a towering cabinet. She opened it, then ran a finger over the books on its shelves.

  “There you are!” she whispered, pulling one out.

  Bound in black leather, the book was dusty and old. Its spine was cracked, but its title was still visible: NEVERMORE.

  “Mouchard! Truqué!” Death barked. “Come!”

  Two vultures left their roost atop the mantel and flew to her. They were enormous birds with coal-black feathers and cruel beaks. A dozen more just like them were perched around the room.

  “Take this book to the Beast’s castle. Put it in the library,” Death commanded. “Be sure no one sees you.”

  One of the vultures let out a harsh squawk.

  “No, Mouchard, you insolent creature, it’s not cheating,” Death said. “It’s just stacking the deck a bit. You think my sister won’t do the same? You know what she’s like. She acts as if she’s made of dewdrops and moonbeams, but she’s ferocious. A sweet-faced little savage. She’ll stop at nothing to win the wager.”

  The second vulture screeched. He shook his head, and then his wings. Death’s pale cheeks flushed with indignation.

  “I know there are rules, Truqué!” she said. “I know I cannot go to the girl before her time. But what if she comes to me? What if I can bind her here? That changes things, doesn’t it?”

  The vulture considered his mistress’s words, then dipped his head and grabbed the book with his sharp talons. Death opened a window, and the two birds swooped off into the night. As she watched them go, her sister’s words came back to her.

  You have no idea how the story ends.

  Death’s bloodred lips curved into a grim, determined smile.

  “Oh, but I do,” she purred. “Because I intend to write it.”

  BELLE STOOD IN FRONT of the doors to the library with a mop in one hand, a bucket in the other, and a wide, excited grin.

  Arrayed on the floor around her were several objects—a gleaming golden candelabrum in the shape of a man, a stocky bronze mantel clock, a squat porcelain teapot, a little teacup with a chip in its rim, a feather duster with a peacock-shaped handle, and a four-legged fringed footstool.

  The candelabrum spoke first.

  “My darling girl, you’re holding that mop as if it were a sword,” he teased. “You look like you’re going into battle!” He had flaming candles instead of hands, and he flourished one dramatically now, as if challenging Belle to a duel.

  “I am going into battle, Lumiere, and so are you. You have no idea what’s waiting beyond those doors,” Belle said, laughing.

  Lumiere grimaced. “Actually, I do,” he said. “The master has many admirable qualities, but tidiness is not one of them.”

  “Stuff and nonsense!” declared the mantel clock, pushing his way past them. “Are you forgetting that I rode with the comte de Rochambeau at the Siege of Yorktown?”

  Lumiere rolled his eyes. “Not for a second, mon ami,” he said.

  “We trounced the redcoats and sent them packing! This old soldier is more than a match for a couple of cobwebs!” Cogsworth declared.

  He gave the massive doors a push. They swung open, hinges groaning. As they did, Cogsworth, still blustering, fell silent. He took a few steps into the cavernous room. The other servants joined him. Everyone stared in horror at the scene bef
ore them. Everyone but Belle.

  WITH A CRY OF DELIGHT, Belle ran into the center of the room, put her mop and bucket down, and turned around in a wide circle, her face full of wonder.

  It seemed to her that every book ever written was here. There were novels and plays. Love poems. Legends and folktales. Volumes of philosophy, history, science, mathematics. Earlier that morning, when she’d first opened her eyes, she was afraid she’d only dreamed the library and the treasures it contained. But no. It was real. It was here. She was here.

  “Oh, my. Oh, my goodness,” the teapot said, her voice faltering.

  “I know, Mrs. Potts. Isn’t it amazing?” Belle exclaimed.

  “Mon Dieu,” said the feather duster, her tone dire. “I’ve never seen such a—a…”

  “—wonderful, incredible, astonishing place!” Belle finished. “I agree, Plumette!”

  Books were Belle’s favorite things in the world. She devoured them. Villeneuve, her village, had a library, technically. But really it was just a shelf in Pere Robert’s church. She’d read every book on it. Twice. But this library had so many books, she could never read them all. Not if she lived to be a thousand.

  As she continued to look around, her eyes fell on the library’s grand marble fireplace. She imagined herself sitting by it with a pot of tea and books stacked up all around her.

  “Where will I start?” she wondered aloud. “With the Greek epics? The classical tragedies?”

  “Might I suggest the windows?” Lumiere said, hurrying by her with rags draped over his arm.

  Belle smiled sheepishly. His words brought her back down to earth. The windows were tall and graceful, but they were gray with grime. The draperies that framed them were in tatters. Cobwebs hung from the sills. She rolled up her sleeves, picked up her mop and bucket, and started toward them. As she did, the fringed footstool raced past her.

  The little teacup was riding on its back. “Faster, Froufrou, faster!” he shouted in his little-boy voice.

  “Chip! That’s enough! You’re making things worse!” Mrs. Potts scolded. “How on earth does the master work in here?” she added, poking her spout into a corner. A layer of dust carpeted much of the library’s floor. It coated the large gilt table near the doorway, the chairs, the mantel.