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The beast’s castle is indeed a gilded cage for a prisoner such as me.
It nearly feels wrong to call it a cage when I have roamed far and wide inside it, exploring every place but the one tower I have been forbidden to enter. I’ve had fresh air brought in by the windows and the walls cleaned of their years of dust. I have had floors that seem like they haven’t been walked on in years polished to a high shine, and as far as I can tell, there are no more dark corners begging for attention.
Of course, my father’s house was much smaller than the castle. I’m not sure how many of my father’s cottage could fit inside the beast’s castle, but it must be at least a hundred, if not many more. This place is a village of its own. I could walk the halls for hours at a time, taking different paths and rarely passing the same room twice. I know, because I have done so, methodically moving from hall to hall, keeping a list on a scrap of paper in my pocket so that I knew where I had already gone to coax the castle back to its rightful state. I could make a lifelong project of cataloging the artwork here, or rearranging the books in the library, or redecorating any number of rooms or suites or hallways.
I could change the beast’s castle, if I had the will. I do not think the magic would stop me. I think, in fact, that the magic would enjoy the fresh energy of a newly redecorated room, or a hallway that had been someone’s sole focus for a week or a month or a year.
Thinking of spending years in the castle never fails to remind me that I cannot leave, which is what makes this place a prison. It appears to me to be a cage, no matter how much peace I feel here. No matter how blatant a prison this is. I can’t bring myself to long for my old life in the village.
I argue with myself over and over as I move through this new, lonely life. A gilded cage is special because it is made from gold. It is luxurious. I cannot help that merely thinking the word cage brings to mind something dirty and rusted, and none of the castle is dirty anymore. It’s not even dusty. I have given it as much of my attention as I could, though I am only one person and there are countless rooms. The space is lighter even as the weather gets colder. The castle brightens despite the sun setting earlier every day, because it knows that I prefer it to be brighter. Living with so much dark and gloom around me as the beast has done for these many years—that would be a cage.
The fact at the heart of everything is that I am not free to leave. If I leave, the beast will not guarantee that my father will remain unharmed.
If I owe the man who raised me anything, it must be his safety. It’s true that he could not keep me entirely safe after my mother died. I know he feared the day that he let the cold sink too deeply into my bones, or a cold, hard winter left us without food. I was more than aware that he could not stand up against the world alone and could not protect me.
I wonder if that eats him up inside. By now, he must have realized that I’m not going to return. He must have come to understand that his only daughter is gone. I cannot return the daughter I used to be to my father, because I am no longer the same. I have seen the inside of the beast’s castle and the magic that dwells there, and even if I could walk out the doors and go back to the village, I would never be able to forget it. I would long for the castle but mostly for the beast.
One thought does meddle at the back of my mind… What I can do is remove the burden of survival from his shoulders. I know how heavy a weight my own survival must have been, because he could not think beyond giving me to Crawe in order to absolve himself of it.
As I get ready for bed one night in my warm, cozy bedroom, I’m grateful for my fine nightdress, satisfied from dinner, and unconcerned about where tomorrow’s meals will come from, I think about my father.
He is not so far away in the village, yet he might as well be on the other side of the world. Is he missing me tonight, or is he secretly relieved that he no longer has to account for putting food for me on the table? I know he was broken by grief when my mother died, but I do not know how he will ultimately react to my absence. Will he harden his heart and convince himself that I ran off to escape him? Does he weep thinking of me and hope that one day I will walk back into his cottage and take him in my arms?
I still love him, though his lack of strength is clearer to me now. I do not think my father would survive years of isolation, even in a castle.
“I hope you are well,” I whisper to him. He cannot hear me, but perhaps the magic will take my well-wishes to him on the wind. “I hope you are safe. Have you read my letter?”
The beast hasn’t mentioned the note I wrote in the terrarium, and I haven’t asked him whether he thinks the magic was successful. I don’t even know if he gave it to the magic, or how he did so. Some have called me naive over the years, but I think he did send it. I think he kept his word and at least tried to have the magic carry my note. I hope it arrived, and that my father heeded what I said.
“Don’t come here,” I whisper. “Don’t try to find me. Just know that I am safe and that I love you.”
I’m still thinking about it the next morning when I wake, stretching in the warmth of my bed before bathing and preparing for breakfast.
I wouldn’t have had the freedom of this solitude if I had been forced to marry Crawe. He would have expected things of me, and men like him do not care for women’s comfort or pleasure. I would likely not have been able to walk the halls and watch the castle liven up for the morning. Now that I have spent the time coming to know this place, even the beds in the farthest bedrooms make themselves with what seems like optimism, as if the castle might soon be filled with guests again.
I often wonder how magical that would be. There is a lounge my father would love if he were here. It smells of cigars and fine leather and has books of mechanics and history that speak to my father’s soul. Our love of books had often bonded us. I can hardly bear to enter that room. It pains me with the thought of never getting to tell my father of the tales in the books or to ask him how his day was.
Just as quickly as the sadness comes, so does the reminder to be grateful.
Life within beast’s castle is better than most lives I would have had before. It’s a certainty that I would have struggled as a single woman had I lost my father as well, because the world is not kind to young women like me.
Is the beast kind to you? A voice in my head wonders. He stole you and made you his captive.
Yes. He is.
More than anything, I think about the evening the beast brought me dinner and fed me there on the rug. I think of that evening many, many times a day. He has not repeated it since, and maybe it is because he nearly fell asleep in my room, and I almost peeked at him to find out if he had.
Was it that mistake that made him more cautious and distant?
I hope not. I would like to read to him again. Perhaps I will ask him if he would like that as well the next time he comes to me.
Or perhaps I will try to send him a note and have the magic of the castle carry it to him. It probably would. The castle is quite kind as is the magic. Although if its intention is kind, why was it so cruel to the prince?
The thoughts I have about the beast are much more forgiving than they might have been. After all, he has given me pleasure and pain that my body craved. He has not kept me imprisoned without food or light or human comforts, though he could have.
I often read about such things in fairytales as a girl and wondered how I might feel if I were transported into a different world from my own. I thought I would be overwhelmed with joy no matter the circumstances, too awed by the novelty of everything to worry much about how I had gotten there.
I had read those stories less as I had to work more to keep us fed, but looking back, the tales were similar.
