Beauty Within Read online

  Beauty Within

  Emily L. Goodman

  PROLOGUE

  The letter arrived tied around the stem of a rose. He gave a sigh when he saw it, unsurprised by the fact that it had been returned to him much the same way he had sent it—though he was amazed that the rose had held up so well, given how long it had been since he sent it. Perhaps, he thought, it wasn’t the same rose.

  The rules that governed polite society said that he had to read the note, no matter how much he was dreading it; and so he untied the ribbon and unrolled it. In so doing, his fingers ever so lightly brushed the stem of the rose—just the stem.

  The transformation was immediate. He roared with pain; the sound was cut off, choked, as he both feared and hoped that people would come running. For a moment, he was sure that he had been poisoned. An instant later, he realized that it was not poison at all, but magic wrapped around him. This, then, he thought, was to be his punishment: unending agony, perhaps even death, all because of a simple rejection.

  After what felt like an eternity, the pain passed. He tried to shove himself to his feet, but found himself instead staring down at hands and arms that he did not recognize. He was awkward, ungainly, as he staggered to the mirror, like a teenager who had just undergone a swift growth spurt—and no wonder.

  Staring into the mirror, he roared again, because he didn’t recognize the face staring back at him.

  The rose. It must have been the rose—or maybe the letter. Panicked, he scrabbled on the floor for it, falling to his hands and feet like the creature he had become. The letter’s words ripped a hole in his chest that he was sure would never heal.

  My Dearest Griffin,

  Beast you appear and beast you have become! Because you did not value love when it was given to you, it will become the most crucial thing in your life. Until true love sees the beauty buried deep within, the beast’s form shall be yours, and there will be no chance of recovering your heritage or your kingdom. You sent a rose as your rejection. I send it back to you with the certain knowledge that it shall not wilt, shall not wither, shall not die until one comes to you who is able to see the heart beneath the beast and true love wakens the castle to life again. Until then, only love will remember you at all. You will fade from hearts, fade from minds, fade from eyes, and nothing shall be left to you save those who love you truly. Your rejection of love has cost you immensely, and only accepting that love you have cast aside will save you now.

  I loved you. You should pray that my love continues long enough to break the spell.

  Yours,

  Mary Margaret

  He crumbled the letter in his fist and sat there on the floor, broken, devastated. Everything he’d ever trained for, planned for, had been within his grasp. He was shortly to ascend to the throne of his kingdom. He was looking for a bride to stand beside him!

  Not this one. This bride was not at all the one he had intended. But he had been looking.

  Now…what?

  Cursed. Transformed. He stared again at the beastly hands, unable to summon enough strength to return to the mirror and look into his own face.

  “What have you done to me?” He didn’t even recognize his own voice, filled with an inhuman growl that he was sure could never have come from his throat before. How was he supposed to reconcile this?

  By the time Griffin made it out of his own suite of rooms, the castle was already virtually empty. Only a handful of loyal servants remained. He sent them out searching for Mary Margaret, searching for wise men, searching for anything that would help them break the curse.

  Precious few of them came back at all, for it was exactly as she said: only those who loved him could even remember him. Everyone else forgot about him as soon as they passed outside the castle’s boundaries.

  It was stunningly painful, as the days passed into weeks, the weeks into years, to realize how few people had ever truly loved him at all.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Callista Christina Marguerite Ramsey

  “She was supposed to be a boy.” Those were the first words Ronald Stephen Debbington V said when he laid eyes on his youngest daughter.

  “I thought it was going to be another brother,” Ronald Stephen Debbington the sixth, at six years old, declared with a sigh.

  “But I didn’t want another sister!” five-year-old Anastasia Elizabeth Beatrice Ramsey whined on seeing the blanket-wrapped bundle in her mother’s arms.

  “It’s a girl?” Theodore Marcus Benjamin Ramsey just looked confused.

  And so it went. Callista Christina Marguerite Ramsey’s other three siblings—Erin Morgana Carmen Ramsey, Kristopher Anders Jonathan Ramsey, and Millicent Andrea Sofia Ramsey, at three, two, and one, were too young to quite have an opinion, but had they been in a position to express themselves, they would likely have shared the same sentiments. The seventh-born child of the House of Ramsey was not supposed to be a girl. All of the others had come exactly according to pattern, as though their father had ordered them that way: one boy, one girl, exactly so, all down the line.

  Ronald Stephen Debbington VI, his father’s heir, was to take over the title and the properties. Theodore, who was at four already showing signs of being quite a precocious scholar, would be his brother’s right-hand man and adviser, a trusted position that was just as vital as the heir himself. Kristopher was intended to take over the family’s shipping interests and mercantile efforts, ensuring the income for not only their generation, but also the ones to follow. That would have been more than enough for most noble families, even the larger ones; but because Westhaven was in the middle of nowhere and no one who was not born and raised there would stay for any real length of time, it was decided that a fourth son was necessary: one to encourage from the cradle into the priesthood so that he could one day deliver stunning sermons on the importance of obeying one’s lord and master—namely, Ronald Stephen Debbington, no matter which of the lords of that name currently held the position.

  Callista was supposed to be that boy, that much-needed priest…until she was a girl. Unfortunately, due to the fact that her gender was not quite what had been intended, no one quite knew what to do with her. It was only worse, perhaps, because of her sisters, she was the homeliest: not a lovely, stunning example of femininity, but rather a plainer girl even from those early days of infancy.

  Her sisters didn’t share her lack of purpose. Anastasia, the eldest, had been told from the cradle that she would marry the son of their nearest neighbors, the Duke of Earling, and in doing so cement a long-held alliance between the two families that would ensure peace and prosperity between the two dukedoms for generations to come. Since his eldest son, Peter, was nearly her age and quite handsome, this had always been quite to Stasi’s liking; and in spite of the arranged nature of her marriage, which was intended to take place when he turned twenty-five in order to give him time to grow and mature into his responsibilities as both future duke and husband, she fancied herself quite in love with him. Since he, in fact, was equally in love with her, this was an arrangement that was to everyone’s liking. The next oldest sister, Erin, had what was said to be the voice of an angel, and her gift had already opened many doors for the family. For those who preferred a different style of artistry, Millicent’s stunning ability as a ballerina allowed her to accompany her sister and perform incredible feats previously unimagined.

  And then there was Callista.

  It wasn’t that she was ever anything but beloved. Callista’s mother, her father, and all of her brothers and sisters adored her. The trouble was that she never quite had a plan for herself—never quite had the dreams that were so evident in her brothers and sisters. It was as though, she admitted more than once, she had no destiny at all, no guiding light to see her through th
e trials of childhood and give her a sense of purpose.

  Had it not been for Theodore, Callista might have drifted aimlessly, hiding indoors so that no one would have the chance to comment on the fact that she was not so lovely as her sisters; but he would not let his little sister spend her life without purpose, so he introduced her to the written word, which opened up vistas Callista had never before imagined. Unfortunately, this served to give her no better sense of direction; rather, it opened up a wider realm of imagination than anyone else in her family had ever experienced or, indeed, wanted to.

  “Impractical,” blustered her father, when Callista talked of traveling the world to view for herself all the things she’d read about in her books.

  “However would you do it all alone?” Stasi demanded, when Callista talked about exploring ancient ruins.

  “It’s not as though I can look after you while I’m on business,” Kris reminded her with a sigh when she suggested that she accompany him on his travels, particularly as he grew older and it became possible for him to venture out on his own, without the guidance of his father.

  “Really, Callista, shouldn’t you find a place where you can contribute?” Erin and Millicent wanted to know, when Callista talked about the plays, operas, and ballets that she wanted to see performed for herself, rather than simply reading about them in her books.

  And so Callista had her books and little else. The members of her family came and went as they pleased, it often seemed to her: Stasi to visit her beloved Peter, Millicent and Erin to perform on stages across the country, and Kris to shipping ports far and wide, wider even, she thought, than Stephen and Theo could imagine, with their focus on managing the estate. Even her father felt free to travel as he would, particularly as Kris took over the shipping interests in truth and he was no longer shackled to the demands of business. In spite of the loss of his wife when Callista was just seven years old, it would seem that Ronald Stephen Debbington Ramsey V’s life was going exactly according to his plan.

  Except for Callista.

  Her sixteenth birthday dawned with no greater sense of purpose than she’d experienced at any other time in her life. In fact, as she watched the years slip by and began to wonder whether or not there would ever be any chance that she would meet purpose of her own, Callista might not have marked the day at all but for one thing: her entire family, despite their wide travels, would be under one roof that day, just for her, to celebrate her birthday.

  She bounced out of bed and hurried down the stairs, delighted to see all of her siblings waiting at the breakfast table.

  “We were wondering when you’d be down, sleepyhead.” Theodore ruffled her hair, grinning at her.

  She stuck her tongue out at him. “As if you weren’t the one keeping me up half the night telling me fairy tales!” she teased.

  Patently unrepentant, he simply smiled all the brighter at her.

  “I had Cook make your favorite,” Stasi told her cheerfully, claiming her arm and leading her over to the buffet. Indeed, Callista’s favorite breakfast had been prepared, and done with such style that Stasi must have had her hand in it: a towering cake made of donuts sat on the table, each one iced to perfection.

  Giggling, Callista reached for one. Once she’d taken the first choice, her siblings fell in around her, all of them enjoying the rare treat.

  Only their father abstained. Though he watched them with his usual fondness in his eyes, it was obvious that there was something more bothering him, and only because she knew better than to ask about it before he was ready to tell her did Callista keep her questions at bay.

  “Here, my birthday girl,” he proclaimed, stepping forward to offer her a bouquet of roses more exquisite than any she had ever seen before. “Happy birthday, and may you have many more before you.”

  She flung her arms around him and hugged him tightly. “Thank you, Papa! They’re beautiful.” She lifted them to her nose, enchanted by the delightful smell rising from them.

  “They reminded me of you,” he told her gruffly. “Just as beautiful as you are, my dear.”

  Callista’s smile lit up the entire room. Seeing her father smile in return was enough to convince her to keep her questions silent. If he wanted to tell them what was troubling him, he would. She was sure of it.

  It wouldn’t be until late that night, when the remains of Callista’s birthday cake had been cleared away and the entire family had retired to the sitting room, that their father would share his news with them. He cleared his throat gruffly, looking uncomfortable when all of them turned to focus on him. “I have something that I must tell you,” he admitted grimly. “You girls, most, I suppose; but you boys should hear it, too.”

  They all leaned forward, waiting. There had been no doubt in anyone’s mind that there was bad news coming. Their father’s uncharacteristic silence throughout the day had been evidence enough that there was something on his mind, and the fact that he hadn’t said anything until now meant that it wasn’t good news by any stretch of the imagination.

  “I didn’t mean to do this on your birthday, Callista,” their father continued, looking old and tired. “But as Kris will be leaving again tomorrow for far ports, I suppose I have little choice but to get it all out now.”

  She patted his hand, smiling understandingly. “Out with it, Papa,” she encouraged him firmly. “Putting it off isn’t going to change anything, is it?”

  “No. No, I suppose not.” He sighed tiredly. “Only I wish—how I wish—that I hadn’t—”

  “Start with the beginning,” Stephen suggested firmly.

  The older man looked into his heir’s eyes and sighed again. “You boys know I’ve been struggling with—well, I wouldn’t call it a gambling problem, precisely—”

  “I would,” Theodore, who at twenty years old had taken over most of the family’s finances, grumbled.

  “What did you gamble away this time?” Kris asked tiredly, looking worn. Narrowing her eyes at him, Callista had to wonder whether Kris, who had traveled with their father for the past three years, knew more about those gambling habits than any of the rest.

  “It can’t have been much,” Theodore pointed out, when no answer was forthcoming. “After all, we’ve been managing his spending money for years now. He didn’t have it to gamble.”

  Callista’s eyebrows shot up. She hadn’t realized that her brothers had been doing quite so much managing—or, indeed, that her father had needed it. She’d known that the reins of the estate had rested firmly in Stephen and Theo’s hands for the past several years, but she hadn’t realized that they were that much in charge.

  Nor, it appeared, had her sisters.

  “Gambling? Oh, Papa!” Stasi exclaimed.

  “Surely not!” Millicent protested.

  “Girls.” He sighed deeply. “The truth is, I—well, there’s been no harm in it. I’m not terrible at cards.”

  Theo raised a skeptical eyebrow, but didn’t argue. Kris did snort, which told Callista quite a lot, but she held her silence, waiting to see what her father had to say. Her siblings, after all, were saying quite enough for her, too; and she wanted to know what was going on more than she wanted to say her own piece about the matter.

  “But this time, I—I lost.” He looked quite confused about it.

  “That’s not a first,” Kris pointed out flatly.

  “Well, no, but I—” He sighed. “The cards had been going my way,” he said, as though he felt compelled to make that argument. “And I had the chance to win—to win more than enough to set the entire family up for generations. You must understand, boys—”

  “Out with it,” Stephen demanded, his voice flat and commanding—the voice he, as heir to the dukedom, had been taught to use to silence objections.

  Their father, it appeared, was not immune.

  “A year and a day,” he said in a quavering voice. “I wagered a year and a day.”

  There were several gasps from the girls. Callista just frowned, confused; and sh
e saw the same expressions on her brothers’ faces.

  “Papa,” Kris said slowly, “you’ve always warned us not to dabble in black magic, so I can’t imagine—”

  “Not black magic, son,” he said softly. “Only time.” He took a deep breath. “The man I played cards with—he gave me a choice. ‘A year and a day,’ he insisted, ‘is not such a great thing against the promise of untold riches for your family.’ It was a small wager, a sure thing. The cards…” He raised his hands as though showing them the winning hand, but they dropped back to his lap again, empty. “The cards turned fickle,” he admitted grimly. “And the man I played against gave me two choices. A year and a day of hard labor—” Now there were more gasps, these from the boys as well as the girls at the thought of a nobleman turned to hard labor, his back bent under the kind of work that would mean— “Or a year and a day with a prince.”

  “That seems hardly a choice,” Stasi pointed out tartly. “A year and a day with a prince sounds like no bad thing—”

  “I’m glad you think so,” their father told her gently. “Because if we choose that option, it’s not my time that the fellow wants. It’s yours—you girls. Any of you girls.” He made a gesture that encompassed them all.

  Callista stared at him, her heart pounding in her chest as she struggled to comprehend his words. “I think,” she said quietly, speaking for herself at last, “that you need to tell us the whole story, Papa.”

  And so he did, the story pouring out a little bit at a time. The man he’d gamed with—lost to—worked for the prince in question, who was in desperate search of a bride.

  “Well, that shouldn’t be too difficult,” Stasi pointed out with a sniff. “Who wouldn’t want to marry a prince?”

  As it transpired, the ladies of the former court. This court, her father told them, was empty, save for a skeleton staff. There were few in the palace, so few that there were entire rooms that remained dusty and disused. For whatever reason—he had been unable to coax an explanation from the prince’s servant no matter how hard he tried—no one had any interest at all in remaining within the court.