Rose tossed and turned on the four-poster bed. The mattress and pillows were soft, but the heavy quilt was hot, and everything smelled faintly of mildew. Far worse was the prospect of spending a whole year with The Beast. Although a part of her wanted to see the good in him, she could not shake the memory of his anger at dinner, and when she finally slept she dreamed of a great black dog with emerald eyes that hunted her and would not let her rest.

She was awoken the next morning by a gentle knock on her door. “Come in,” she called after sitting up and drawing the quilt to her neck to preserve her modesty. The Beast opened the door and ducked under the lintel, turning sideways slightly to fit his shoulders through. He had a covered tray balanced on his hand like a butler.

“Breakfast,” he stated, making a show of setting down the tray on Rose’s bedside table at arm’s length, so as to keep her out of his reach. “When you are finished, meet me in the hallway. I have something to show you.” He left without waiting for assent.

Rose opened the tray to find a thick slab of toast topped off by a fluffy poached egg sprinkled with some kind of red spice. Picking up the cutlery beside it, she ate sitting on the side of the bed, savouring the rich yolk that bled from the egg and mingled with the peppery spice. Then she put on her second best dress and left to face the first full day of the next year of her life.

The Beast was pacing backwards and forwards across the main hall. As Rose came down the stairs he looked up eagerly. “Good, you’re here,” he said. “I have something to show you. Follow me.”

Rose followed in The Beast’s wake as he strode down the corridor and disappeared around a corner. Scurrying to catch up, she found him waiting poised by a door. As she approached, he pushed it open with a flourish and gestured for her to enter ahead of him. Acquiescing, Rose found herself surrounded by books. She was in a library. “Isn’t it magnificent?” asked The Beast, waving his hand expansively to indicate the room. “I appreciate that this house can be lonely, but here you can find companionship in the greatest writers of history. The Bard, of course, but not only him. Voltaire! Homer! Milton! I think we even have Chaucer somewhere, although it’s slow going to understand what he’s going on about.”

“It’s… lovely,” said Rose, quietly, glancing around and clutching her hands in front of her.

Her nervousness was lost on The Beast, who continued, “I must tend to the garden now, but during your stay you should feel free to treat these books as your own. There is a reading desk over there, or you may take them to your bedroom if you prefer. Look after them, of course, and return them to where you found them. I have a filing system I can explain to you some time. Anyway, I must be getting on; I usually start earlier than this. I’ll leave you to explore. You won’t be disappointed. There is bread in the pantry if you hunger.”

Again, The Beast left without waiting for Rose’s response. Her hands dropped to her sides and she huffed with frustration.

Some hours later, The Beast returned to the house to find Rose on her knees beside a bucket of soapy water, scrubbing intently at the woodwork in the corridor leading to its disused wing. The doors down the corridor had been opened and the curtains in the rooms beyond them thrown wide so that daylight streamed in to the space. Looking around, he saw that the floors had been swept and the panelling behind him was cleaner than he could ever remember it being.

“You’ve been busy,” he said.

Startled, Rose looked up from her work. “Well, I just thought that seeing as you’re working so hard on the garden, I should do something to look after things too,” she said.