“The Beast is kind to you, just as he promised?” said Father.

“Yes, Papa,” I said, and paused. Pictures of the gardens, the castle, the incredible library, and the Beast himself crowded into my mind, “I don’t know where to begin.”

“Begin in the middle and work outwards,” said Hope. “Don’t be stuffy.”

“All right,” I said. So I told them about Lydia and Bessie, and the candles that lit themselves, and the way my room was always down a short hallway and around a corner from wherever I was as soon as I felt lost. I told them about how big and grand the castle was, and the enormous table where I ate dinner every night, where I could have anything I pleased by asking for it, and the way the serving trays jostled one another in their enthusiasm to decant their contents onto my plate. I told them about the little friendly birds at my bird-feeder. I told them about the huge library, with more books in it than I could ever begin to read.

“I didn’t think there were that many books in the world,” Grace said drily. I smiled and shrugged. I found that I couldn’t quite say to them: “Well, you see, most of the books don’t exist yet.” I found that there was quite a lot that I skipped over because I didn’t feel that I could explain it.

My greatest difficulty was the Beast himself. I couldn’t leave him out of my narrative, yet I had tremendous trouble bringing him into it; and when I did mention him I found myself pleading in his defense. The ogre my father had met was the Beast they all believed in; and while they were relieved to hear that he was “good” to me I didn’t seem to be able to tell them how good and kind he really was. I stumbled over explanations of how fond I had come to be of him, and what a good friend I found him. It seemed disloyal, somehow. It was he who had cruelly taken me away from my family in the first place; how could they or I forgive him that? How could I make excuses? I couldn’t tell them that I—loved him. This thought came to me with an unpleasant jolt. Loved him?

I fell silent and looked at the fire. I was holding a cup of warm spiced cider; they were right, it was very good. It was strange to cope with dishes that Say where you set them, and didn’t jump up and hurry over to you if you beckoned. And the food was very plain, but I didn’t mind that; what I did mind was a sense chat I no longer belonged here, in this warm golden kitchen. You’re only just home, I told myself. It’s been a long time; of course you’ve accustomed yourself to a different life. You’ve had to. Relax.

“How long can you stay?” asked Hope. “You said that you have to go back.”

I nodded, The warmth of the kitchen seemed to retreat from me, leave me isolated. I looked around at the faces of my family. “Yes. I’m here for—for just a week.”

“A week?” Father said. “Only a week? That’s all?”

“Surely you’ll come back again?” said Grace.

I was a traitor, questioned pitilessly by a beloved enemy. I twisted my hands in my lap; the cider tasted bitter. “Well—no,” I said, and my words dropped like knives in the silence. There was a sharp edge to the firelight I hadn’t noticed before, staining the corners with blood. “I—I promised I wouldn’t ask to leave again.” What can I tell them? I thought desperately. The Beast had said, “I cannot live without you.” They wouldn’t understand that I must go back.

“Forever?” said Hope, and her voice disappeared on the last syllable.

“Why did he let you go at all?” Father said angrily.

This wasn’t the time to tell diem. “Just to—well, to let you know I’m all right,” I said lamely, “so you wouldn’t have to worry about me anymore.”

“Worry—but we love you,” he said. “We can’t help worrying if we never see you.”

“Well—the dreams you have about me”—I faltered—“they’re true. They help, don’t they?”

“How do you know about that?” demanded Father.

“The Beast sends them. He told me.”

“He sends dreams—very kind of him, I’m sure—bur he keeps you. What kind of a bargain is that? Oh, that I had never seen his castle, nor accepted his lying hospitality!”

“Oh, please, Father,” I said, “don’t be angry. You don’t understand. I miss you all, of course, but I don’t mind that much anymore—I mean, I’d rather be here, of course, but ...” I couldn’t think how to go on.

“Understand? Understand what?”

“The Beast is lonely too,” I said desperately, and there was an aghast silence.

“You can have—sympathy—for this monster, after what he’s done to you?” said Father at last. I nodded unhappily, and there was more astonished silence.

“AH right,” said Ger, in the tone of one trying very hard to be reasonable. “I don’t understand what’s going on, but we know this much: There’s magic mixed up in all of this—these invisible servants you talk about, and so on—and none of us can understand magic, I guess what you’re trying to tell us now, Beauty, is that the Beast you know is not the same monster that your father met. Is that right?”

I smiled with an effort. “It will do.” And I added with unforced gratitude: “Thanks.”

Richard and Mercy had fallen asleep in their chairs, and Grace and Hope picked them up to carry them to bed. “It’s a funny thing,” said Hope, brushing a curl off Mercy’s forehead. “She said her first sentence just this morning, at breakfast. She said: ‘When is Beauty coming home?’” And a tear crept down Hope’s cheek.

We resettled ourselves in the parlour while the babies were put to bed; none of the rest of us said anything till Grace and Hope returned, bringing with them a jug of cider and a plate of gingerbread. We all had our glasses refilled; but then the silence seeped back and filled the room so closely that it was difficult to see through, like flame. Hope stirred restlessly and sighed, then reached over to pluck at a fold of my long skirt and rub it between her fingers. “You’re dressed like a queen,” she said. “I suppose you have wardrobes full of clothing like this?”

“Oh, more or less,” I said, embarrassed, although there was nothing in Hope’s face but gentle curiosity; and it was slowly being borne in on me that my stories about the castle and my life there had little reality for my family. They listened with interest to what I told—or

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tried to tell—them, but it was for ray sake, not for the sake of the tale. I could not say if this was my fault or theirs, or the fault of the worlds we lived in. The only thing they had understood was that I would be leaving them again, to return to a fantastic destiny; and I began to see how horrible this must appear to them. And I also began to sense that there was little I could do to help them.

I smiled at Hope, as she looked pleadingly at me, and in answer to her look I said: “A lot of them are too fancy for me, and I won’t wear them. I wish I’d thought to bring you some of them; they’d look lovely on you two.” I thought of the silvery, gauzy dress I had refused to wear a few weeks ago.

My commonplace words cleared the air, “From the weight of your saddle-bags I thought you brought half the castle with you,” Ger said cheerfully.

“I—what?” I said. “Where are they?” Ger pointed to the table in a corner of the room, and I walked over to them. There was certainly more in them than I had put there. I threw back the flap of the first, and a dull gold brocade with tiny rubies sewed on it looked up at me. “Thank you, Beast,” I said under my breath; and I had a sudden, dizzy, involuntary glimpse of him leaning over the far-seeing glass in the dark room in the castle. It was night; the curtains behind him where he stood were open, and I could see a few stars. There was a fire burning in the fireplace, turning the chestnut-coloured velvet he wore to a ruddier hue. Then the vision faded. I had both hands laid flat on the table in front of me, and I shook my head to clear it. “Are you all right?” said Father, “Yes, of course,” I said. Apparently my new ways of seeing rested uneasily in my old world. Then I knew where I was again, and I was looking at golden brocade.