Beauty and the Beast by Wendy Mass Read Free Book Online

him, uncomprehending. “How my outfit works? But my clothes are already packed.”
    â€œThis particular outfit was, um, made special for you. You have an important role in the festivities.”
    I narrow my eyes. “What kind of special role?”
    He blushes. “Um, it’s not really for me to say.”
    I sigh. This just keeps getting better and better. I don’t want to get him in trouble by sending him away, so I say, “All right. But can you please hurry?”
    â€œI will try,” he says, “but there is quite a lot to put on.”
    He did not lie. It takes a very, very long time for him to get me dressed. Besides the layer of stockings and undergarments, shirt, vest, breeches, dress coat, and boots, he spends what feels like ages affixing things to the back of my outfit with pins and hooks. Medals? Coats of arms? I do not know. I have been instructed to stand very still so I do not get stuck. A hat of some sort is placed upon my head, more objects pinned upon it. The outfit is growing quite heavy at this point. I do not know how I shall be expected to move on the dance floor.
    Finally, FINALLY, Freddy announces that we are done and turns me around to face the mirror inside my wardrobe door. I step forward and stare at my reflection. It takes a moment to process what I am seeing.
    Then I run screaming from the room to find Mother. This is made infinitely more difficult than normal because I am covered, from head to toe, in FOOD.

“It would appear you left out some details of my job with the fuller.”
    Handsome grins as he reaches into the baker’s oven with wooden tongs as long as his arms. “So you discovered what softens the wool, eh?”
    â€œIndeed.”
    He pulls out a piping-hot loaf and rests it on a flat stone to cool. Then he slips the tongs into his apron pocket and says, “I did not figure you for the squeamish type.”
    â€œI am not usually squeamish,” I insist. “I do not care if my clothes are neat and pressed. I like the feel of mud between my toes, and I can even pick up a spider with my bare hands. But everyone has their line in the sand.”
    â€œTrue,” he agrees. “I, for one, refuse to trim the baker’s nose hairs when they get too long. Even when he offers me an extra shilling for the trouble.”
    I laugh, not thinking I would be capable of such a thing after a day like this. “You jest.”
    â€œâ€™Tis the truth,” he says, pulling off his apron and rolling it into a ball. “The man’s nose hairs would reach his chin if he did not tend them.”
    â€œWhere is the baker?” I ask. “I did not expect to find you alone.”
    â€œAw, you made a special trip all the way here simply for me ?”
    â€œDo not be too flattered. The fuller is but four stalls down.”
    â€œI know,” he says, grinning that easy grin of his. “I was only teasing. The baker has gone for the day. I am closing the shop. If you want, I shall walk you home afterward.”
    I am about to say, Thank you, but I am perfectly capable of getting myself home , when I remember that home is actually nearly an hour’s walk from where we stand. That is a long way to go with only my thoughts for company. Plus, there may be some leftover bread to be had. “I live quite far,” I warn him. “My family has fallen upon hard times of late.”
    He nods. “I know. I have heard people talking.”
    I raise my brows. “You have? Who?”
    â€œJust some customers,” he says, and busies himself wiping up flour from the floors. The cracks in the dark wood are thick with it. He would have to wipe for ten years to actually clean it all.
    After he sweeps the ashes out of the oven and soaks them down, he tosses a few rolls into a sack along with the loaf I had seen him take out earlier. “I need to make a quick stop on the way, if you do not mind.”
    I shake my head.