The Asylum . . . "A Tale as Old as Time." Part Four.

You guys have been very encouraging with your feedback and comments about this Beauty and the Beast retelling! Thank you so much [blush]. Here are the next few chapters for your literary consumption. If you missed the other links, the story starts here, then continues, here, and here! (Or you can just scroll down this blog page a whooooole bunch!). Also, here is a link to five retellings of this favorite fairytale, coming out in June!

P.S. I apologize for the late post. My once a week job needed me to come in three days this week. And sorry for the lack of photos . . . working to get this up in a time crunch means less time to trawl the internet 🙂

Chapter 11

Wendy kept a watchful eye on Drake’s whereabouts. He stayed in his room most days, though he joined her for supper. Conversation became comfortable. The two learned they shared a favorite restaurant in downtown Jacksonville, along with a love for the sea. The other guests were reserved and watchful—which differed from their verbose manner that Wendy grew accustomed to during the day.

After several easygoing evenings, Wendy decided to broach the subject of the interview.

“Mr. Brantley, might there be a regular time, aside from dinner, that you would feel comfortable answering a few questions? We can take it slow, and if anything makes you uncomfortable, we’ll skip it.” She preferred to ask him in private, but the two were never alone.

“Actually, I hoped that tomorrow, after breakfast, we might take a stroll in the garden. I have some prized rose bushes I’d love to show off. Would that work for you?”

“Perfect! Thank you.”

Drake Brantley stood and gave a stiff bow to the gathering. “Very well, then. Good night to all.”

Wendy felt the familiar tug of victory. She would get her story . . . eventually.

***

To everyone’s utter shock, Brantley joined them for breakfast. Wendy couldn’t suppress a grin. This is going better than I thought.

“Master Brantley! What a delight.” Cookie’s eyes brimmed as she brought a tray of blueberry crepes to the table. “We’ve all missed dining with you regularly, sir. You know—”

“Quit gushing, Bonnie,” Carmen said. “You’ll force Drake back to his quarters for some peace.”

“That’s Master Brantley, to you,” Cookie said, folding her arms. “And if you don’t like my gushing, it’d be my pleasure to butt you out on your rump where you can cook your own breakfast. Then you won’t have to listen.”

Brantley chuckled. “Girls, girls. Quit fighting over me. Enough already.”

Everyone but Carmen laughed. She did muster a grin.

“Fighting over you? Really? Who would bother?” said a purring, female voice.

All eyes turned to the doorway. A slender, sophisticated woman leaned against the frame, hands on hips.

“Celestria!” Spade stood and looked ready to pounce. “Go back to the hole you crawled from. Master Brantley doesn’t need you here.”

The perfectly plucked, black eyebrows of the woman arched in mock fear. Wendy instantly disliked her.

“Put your claws back in those calloused little paws of yours, Spade—”

“Enough!” Drake whacked the table with his powerful fist, clattering the china. Several glasses tumbled. “You are not welcomed here, Celestria.” He stood. “I want you out.”

His voice, low and threatening, made Wendy amazed that the woman had the nerve to stand instead of run. Rather, she blinked her false eyelashes and sashayed into the room a few steps, high heels clacking across the floor. She looked every part a screen siren from the 40’s, with her houndstooth dress, red lipstick and cascading, sable locks.

Clara simpered. Spade put his hand on the girl’s shoulder and sank into his chair.

“Really doesn’t matter what you want, does it Drake?” She looked around the table. “Or any of you, for that matter.” Her gaze stopped at Wendy. “Um, who’s the new girl? The janitor?”

Celestria walked toward Wendy and sized her up. Wendy held the woman’s stare and tried to look unaffected.

“Does it speak?” She pointed to Wendy.

Before anyone knew what was happening, Drake pinned the woman against the wall, his fingers anchored around her neck. “You need to leave before I lose my temper, woman.”

She blinked and coughed. “Before you lose it? I’d say it fled about twelve years ago.”

“Nope. This is me, acting warm and friendly toward you. You should see what I’m contemplating in my mind.”

“Same thing we’re all contemplating, I’d guess!” Cookie said. “You must be feeling awfully threatened, you witch, to have the nerve to show your face here.”

Cherry red nails clawed at Drakes hand. The woman sputtered. “Stop!” she rasped, “I can’t breathe.”

Drake leaned in and whispered something that only Celestria could hear. He released her neck and let her drop in a heap. She scrambled to her feet, gasping and straightening her outfit.

“Shall I show her to the door?” asked Stanley.

With a scowl, Drake shook his head. “For reasons of which you are all aware, Celestria will be permitted to stay.”

No one argued, yet everyone looked sickened and furious.

“I thought you’d see it my way,” Celestria said. She advanced toward a shocked Wendy. “Don’t worry. I promise to play nice with the new girl, Drakey.” She offered her hand. “And you are?”

Wendy stood to give herself a second to contemplate a proper response. Could try dousing her with my water to see if she melts . . .

“Wendy Kaufman. Jacksonville Journal.” She did not extend her hand.

“Oh reeeally? A journalist, are we?” She pursed her lips. “Impressive.”

“And who might you be?” Wendy asked. “Besides the Abrasive Queen of the Universe?”

Spade snorted and Cookie spit her water back into her glass.

“Ooh, you’ve got a plucky one, Drake. I like her!” Celestria gave a condescending grin to Brantley, then turned it on Wendy. “I’m Celestria. But you can call me Queen of the Universe. I like that.”

Wendy met the sarcasm with a cool glare.

“Oh, and Mr. Brantley here,” she jerked a thumb toward Drake, “used to call me his fiancee.”

Chapter 12

Wendy watched the viper slither out the door, and snag her suitcase. The woman turned and stepped back inside. “Don’t worry, Stan. I’ll show myself to my room.” She raised an eyebrow at Carmen. “I trust you’ve kept everything clean and in order?” Without giving anyone time to answer, she headed toward the stairs.

Frustrated silence smothered the room. Wendy watched each individual shut down. Drake paced the floor, brooding and dark.

Though Wendy had a million questions, she tucked them away for later. “I’ll leave you to talk amongst yourselves.” No one looked up as she spoke. “Mr. Brantley, we can . . . postpone our visit in the garden for now.”

Brantley turned, seeming to look through her, and nodded.

Wendy decided to find consolation in the library. The disappointment of not beginning the long-awaited interview clashed with anger toward Celestria for ruining the meeting, and—obviously—being a bane in the existence of everyone in the asylum. They acted intimidated by the sight of her. Helpless. Even Drake, who could claw her fluttering eyes out, allowed her to walk all over him.

How did this woman wield such control? Suddenly Wendy’s big story had a massive monkey wrench. Would it be something that would add another layer of interest, or would it derail what fragile framework she had started to build?

Thoughts of Celestria were squelched at the realization that Drake was not in his quarters. The secret passage beckoned. She walked to the corner and rotated the bookcase enough to slip inside. With flashlight mode turned on, she closed herself in behind the wall.

The cavity was cool and bare, except for narrow stairs that lead to a door. Heart hammering, she climbed up and turned the knob. Any hesitation would only waste time. The door creaked and Wendy thanked God she felt confident of Drake’s whereabouts. By the light of her phone she took in the surroundings.

The space held little. But what it contained spoke of a room dedicated to observation and contemplation. In front of the windows that overlooked the library sat a long bench. A church pew. Deep etch marks crisscrossed the seat and armrests. A small table held a few books that, based on the layer of dust, hadn’t been read in some time. A portrait hung on the wall opposite the door. Though a purple velvet swath of fabric draped over the face in the picture, Wendy could see the shoulders of a man in a suit peeking out below. She walked over and lifted the cloth. A smooth-skinned, handsome Drake Brantley stared back. She studied it, committed it to memory, and wistfully lowered the cover.

The wall opposite the windows offered another door that, presumably, lead to the rest of Brantley’s quarters. The only other item in the room, which sat beside the door she had come through, was a granite pedestal. A pewter vase rested on top and contained a single, crimson rose. The vase and flower were protected by a bell-shaped glass lid that fit into a grooved wooden base. Several petals lay on the wood like discarded paper hearts. Though the flower appeared dry and brittle, it remained a vibrant red. Wendy wondered about its significance. Was it a favorite rose from Brantley’s prize plants or a special memento from a loved one?

The library door opened. Wendy watched Celestria waltz inside, commanding the space. Instinctively, Wendy pressed herself into the far side of the window and turned off the flashlight.

Celestria walked to the research books Wendy had left on a desk. The woman fingered them then spun around and leveled her gaze along the book shelves, as if she heard something. Her eyes riveted up to the windows.

Wendy backed away from the glass and bumped into the pedestal. She turned to see the vase shudder and she reached to grasp it. A few petals fell but it didn’t tip. Wendy looked back to see Celestria still examining the windows.

Beyond the door that she assumed led into Brantley’s chamber, Wendy heard a raging snarl, and another door slam. He had returned.

Trapped! She dashed into the passageway and hesitated. If she shut the door, Brantley may hear the awful creaking. Another growl from within made for a timely cover  and Wendy closed it, drowning in utter darkness.

She gasped to realize she’d left her phone beside the vase when she tried to steady it. Should she risk going back? Did she have a choice? Plunging inside, Wendy snatched her phone, glanced into the library, and raced out again.

Motionless, she listened for sounds of Drake checking on the noise she had made. After several minutes of silence, she crept down the stairs and stood near the hairbreadth of light that split the wall and bookcase. Wendy hadn’t spotted Celestria when she looked out the window. But it had been a rushed glimpse at best. In no hurry, she leaned against the wall and waited.

After several silent minutes, she felt calm and certain of safety. Wendy pivoted the bookcase, slid out of the black hole, and found herself staring into the leering face of Celestria.

Chapter 13

“Well, well. Look at the little mouse, scurrying from her hole.”

Wendy blinked, at a crossroads between hand caught in the cookie jar and imagining her hand smacking the woman upside the head.

“Hey, if it isn’t the Queen of Abrasiveness—or was it Arrogance? So many adjectives apply I’m not sure it really matters.”

“My mistake. You’re a rat, not a mouse. Find anything to nibble on in there?”

Wendy brushed passed the woman. “You know,” she called over her shoulder, “I’ve been spending hours in here, trying to understand Mr. Brantley’s disease.”

“Oh, it’s ‘Mr. Brantley’ is it?”

“Look,” Wendy turned fiery eyes on the woman. “My relationship with Mr. Brantley is none of your concern. I’m here on a professional level. My job is to investigate. I noticed the bookshelf moved and I did what curious people do . . . I checked it out.” She crossed her arms. “Now, I don’t know what business you have here, but it has nothing to do with mine. We’ll both be better off to look after our own matters.”

Celestria outmatched Wendy’s sneer. “Here’s a tip that will make your job easier. This quaint little asylum is absolutely my business. You’ll do well to watch yourself, miss journalist, because I’m definitely watching you.”

“What I’ll watch is my back. And I don’t care for your permafrost personality or the sudden change of weather you’ve brought—so you better watch yours as well. Two can play cat and rat.”

Wendy left. She felt certain Celestria would want the last word if she thought she could get it.

In her room, Wendy sat on the window seat and tried to process the morning’s paradigm shift. The Wicked Witches’ arrival, everyones’ kowtowing to her demands, secret rooms, fragile blooms, and covered portraits. Sounded more like a mystery novel than a newspaper exposé. Just hope it doesn’t unravel my shot at the big-time before I even get in the game.

A knock startled Wendy out of her musings. She opened the door, surprised to find Drake Brantley on the other side. His profusion of hair still had a startling affect whenever she first laid eyes on him. But it only took a few minutes of his company to easily look past his bristly appearance.

“Hello, Mr. Brantley.”

“Afternoon, Wendy,” he said with a curt bow. “Please, call me Drake.”

“Certainly . . . Drake.” She tried the name, feeling the bubble between them shrink a bit.

“I’m here to escort you to the garden. I believe we had an appointment?”

“Oh! Certainly. I figured . . .”

“No need to explain. I decided not to let that grimalkin in stilettos ruin the rest of the day. She’s destroyed enough already.”

Wendy grabbed her notepad and stepped into the hall. “Fabulous plan,” she said,  and took his arm. Note to self: look up ‘grimalkin.’

In the garden, Drake walked her through structured pathways that spilled over with wild, thorny tentacles laden with fragrant flowers. Wendy listened politely as he described the species of certain roses, lifting the stems with care in his hulking hands.

The path brought them to the circular, center of the plot where poor Angelina had met her doom. Chunks of concrete lay in the dry basin of the fountain, like discarded crumbs. Wendy cut her eyes to Drake. She notice he stiffened and hurried toward a

bench that sat in the shade of a magnolia tree.

Interview time! At last, Wendy had permission to peel back layers of obscurity on Drake Brantley and his public enigma.

“Thank you for agreeing to speak with me, Mr.—uh—Drake.”

He shrugged. “I’m still unsure that I want to do this, if I’m honest. But I can’t stay silent forever,” he looked at Wendy, “and you’ve proven to be respectful of my wishes, and educated about my disease, which I appreciate.”

She considered him for a moment, then said, “You know, I thought you were an unreasonable control freak at first—if I’m honest.” She winked. “But I now see the importance of protecting your home, and those you love, and, of course, yourself. This disease is not . . . straightforward.”

Drake looked away, choked up.

“I waltzed in here, feeling like a bit of an expert because of my research,” she admitted. “I think I tried to isolate the disease from you, as a person. Like you and I could discuss it outside of it being an intrinsic part of you. Does that make sense?” 

He sighed. “You know, a lot can happen in a week. That’s one thing I’ve learned. Last week, I would’ve agreed that this disease is a part of me, like eye color or height. But . . .”

Wendy watched him search for the right words. She traced his line of sight and found that he stared at the tower opposite his own quarters. A figure stood in a window, looking towards the magnolia tree.

Celestria. Wendy tasted bile. She did not want this woman to have a far-reaching influence on this conversation. Uselessly, she willed the curtain to close.

“The fact is,” Drake said, “for many years, I’ve identified this disease as being me. I’m not just a freak afflicted with hypertrichosis, I am hypertrichosis. A wolf-man, a werewolf, a beast waiting to die. I didn’t just hate my life. I hated life, period.”

Wendy’s pen hadn’t scribbled the first word. This conversation was way off of her journalistic grid and she didn’t care. She wondered when things that once mattered—like her name in print and the allure of notoriety—took a back seat to making a difference in the life of others. This man was no longer a means to an end, but a person she had a vested interest in coming alongside and, even, protecting. Protecting from people like herself that devoured information for the sake of the information-machine. Consume. Move on. Repeat.

Drake turned to Wendy. “Thank you for being patient with me. For speaking to me like a human, and looking at me, instead of away. I can barely look at myself, so I know it isn’t easy.”

Wendy felt unworthy of his thanks. “I owe you an apology. When I came here, my eyes were on a ground-breaking story that would, hopefully, make a name for me as a journalist. My newspaper feature was more for my sake than your good. Though I convinced myself otherwise. Will you forgive me? There’ll be no interview. No story. It wouldn’t be right.” Did I really say that out loud?

“Nonsense. You’ll write an amazing piece about a debilitating disease that fell on a shallow, selfish young man. You’ll redeem the years I’ve wasted here, rather than allow this condition to steal what I have left.”

Wendy shook her head, “I don’t think—”

“I mean it. Don’t apologize for pursuing your goals, as anyone worth their salt ought to do. Something I didn’t do back in my foolish days of wine and women. I inherited my money, never worked for it.” He looked back towards the tower. His voice dropped. “I began to realize my selfishness too late. I opened some dangerous doors that I thought I could control.” He looked at Wendy with regret. “I reaped what I sowed. Simple as that.”

“Sounds like you blame yourself for your disease.”

“In some ways . . . I do.” He stood and walked to where the shade dappled into sunshine, facing the distant window. “Like I said, a lot can change in a week.”

Wendy noticed the curtains snap shut. “Drake, what should I know about Celestria? I don’t like her being here.”

Drake turned, brows furrowed. “Keep away from her. She’s trouble. Let me know if she interferes with your work.”

“Then why let her stay? Were you two really engaged?”

“Its complicated. Very complicated. Yes, we were once planning to get married, but . . .”

“But?”

“But then I realized that my life was a series of horrid decisions.”

“What did you—”

“Enough questions.” Drake’s demeanor turned cold and his voice held an edge that told Wendy the subject was off limits.

Chapter 14

Wendy decided against wearing the ugliest dress in the wardrobe to supper. Facing Celestria in the garish, green rug would only invite catty remarks. Instead, the ivory lace dress that she wore the first night would begin the cycle again.

She checked the time on her phone while she curled her hair. A missed call notification appeared. Seth.

How to handle Brantley’s story weighed heavy all afternoon. Seth wouldn’t agree to Wendy staying at the asylum if she didn’t plan on writing the piece. On the other hand, Drake wanted her to move forward with it. Yet, her motivation and perspective had changed profoundly and she puzzled over how to continue.

After a final once over—and wondering why it felt important to look good in the eyes of the hateful intruder—Wendy opened her door to find faithful Stanley waiting to accompany her downstairs.

She took her usual seat, oblivious to Drake’s appreciative stare until he gave a low whistle. “You look like a princess in that dress. Absolutely stunning.”

She blushed. “Thanks. Guess you weren’t here the first night I wore it.”

“Shame on me.”

To everyone’s relief, Celestria took supper in her room. Wendy noted the lighthearted mood. As if everyone, except Carmen, wanted to have as much fun as possible before Scrooge turned up. The housekeeper’s constant negativity made Wendy wonder if Carmen was really employed as Celestria’s minion.

Due to the earlier conversation with Drake, Wendy felt closer to the others. Like they all shared the same inside information. It made her want to share an intimate side of herself with them.

“Cookie,” Wendy said, after dinner, “how about we take our tea and dessert in the drawing room? I thought I might play the piano this evening. A little musical diversion.”

“Oh, my, yes! Why did you wait so long to tell us?” Cookie stood, nudged Clara, and the two started clearing dishes.

Wendy shrugged. “Well, I haven’t played in eons. But nine years of lessons ought to pay off now and then, shouldn’t they?”

“I’d say!” Grayson smacked the tabletop for emphasis. “It’s high time for music to fill these halls again.”

“Here, here.” Spade stood and hurried to pull out Wendy’s chair. “We shouldn’t be surprised that this beauty possess brains and musical prowess. Absolutely delightful.”

She stood with a giggle. “You haven’t heard me play yet.”

“I’m sure you’ll make this ol’ cat purr.” Spade took her hand and pulled her along. “Sorry, Stanley. Tonight I’ll escort our guest to the piano.”

“Escort, or drag the poor girl?” Stanley called after them.

Wendy perched on the piano bench and played a few scales to warm up. The finely crafted piece sang smooth and true beneath her touch.

“Wait for me!” Cookie carried a tray of Snickerdoodles into the room.

Most of the songs Wendy recalled were from the Pride and Prejudice soundtrack, which seemed a fitting tribute to the stately home and quirky gathering. She lost herself in the melody, eyes closed, fingers dancing instinctively along the ivories. With the decrescendo of the first song, she looked up to find a round of misty eyes staring at her—though Carmen stood with her back to the piano, looking out the front window.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have played such a sad tune.” Wendy mentally flipped through her repertoire for more uplifting songs.

“Not at all, m’dear,” Grayson said, using a napkin to clean his round spectacles. “It wasn’t sad. We were moved by its splendor.”

“Speak for yourself,” Carmen said. “I thought it was awfully depressing.”

“Who gives a hoot what you think?” Grayson waved her off. “You would find fault with a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow.”

“Master Brantley,” Cookie said, “Why don’t you accompany dear Wendy with a song. You haven’t sung since . . .” She bit her lip, thinking better of finishing her sentence.

Drake shook his head. “Not a chance. I haven’t sung in so long there’s no telling what horrid sound would come out.”

“Oh please, Master.” Cookie nudged him toward the piano. “You really should.”

“Yes, really.” Wendy waved him over. “What songs do you know?”

Drake held up his hands and shook his head. “No way.”

“Don’t be so bashful, Drakey dear.” Celestria’s droll voice preceded her presence. “I used to adore it when you sang to me.”

The jovial spirit evaporated.

“C’mon. Let’s hear your famous baritone.” She walked to the piano. “How cute that you play this snazzy instrument, Wendy. You’re full of oodles of secrets, aren’t you?”

“You need to leave.” Drake said, teeth clenched. “Now.”

“Relax, Drake. I just came to see if there’s such thing as a cup of coffee in this giant mortuary.” She sauntered over to Cookie. “Seriously. I need some caffeine. Would you have room service bring some up? Cream. No sugar. I’m sweet enough, right?” She laughed. “Oh, and Wendy . . . love that dress. Looks better on you than it did on me, back in the day. I always felt rather frumpy with that empire waist. But the look suits you.”

Wendy’s eyes burned holes in the back of Celestria as she watched her leave. She lowered the cover on the piano keys and stood on shaky legs.

“Please, Miss,” Clara said. “We need music. Now more than ever.”

“Am I really wearing that woman’s clothing?” Wendy looked at Drake in disbelief. He pressed his lips together and glanced at Stanley.

“I’m afraid that’s correct, Ms. Kaufman.” Stanley hung his head.

“There’s no way I’m wearing another stitch of anything that belonged to her. What an insult!”

“Please, Ms. Kaufman,” Stanley held up gloved hands, “I do apologize. It seemed so providential. To have you stay, on a moments notice—and with a room full of clothes, in your very size. We never dreamed Celestria would make an appearance here.”

“And, why not? She has her own living quarters here, for Pete’s sake.”

“Listen,” Drake said. “Strange as it sounds, Celestria hasn’t stepped foot in my house since I broke off our engagement twelve years ago.”

“So she just happened to swing by while I’m here?”

“Yes. Honest!” Drake looked chagrined. “But, believe me, I’ve no recollection of that witch wearing anything I’ve seen on you. When she hung around, I was too busy using her position to further my own reputation. I was self absorbed and paid little attention to anything else.”

“Well, you’re about to get real familiar with the one set of clothes I brought, because I refuse to wear her hand-me-downs. And I refuse to believe this whole scenario is merely coincidence. Goodnight.” Wendy left in a huff, even as her conscience scolded her childish behavior. She hurried to her bedroom, slammed the door, and stopped in her tracks.

Celestria lounged in a wingback chair, thumbing through Wendy’s notebook.