Beauty and the Beast by Wendy Mass Read Free Book Online Page A

“We should probably stop at the butcher shop, too. In case my father came by there to walk me home.”
    We begin the two-block walk, the sack swinging on his shoulder. I can smell the fresh bread, and once again my stomach growls. Without me having to say anything, he reaches in and pulls off a chunk of the new loaf. It is delicious. The best I have ever tasted, which I do not think is due purely to hunger.
    My feet slow as we approach the butcher shop. “Perhaps this is a bad idea. He might still be angry with me.”
    â€œI am sure he has forgotten all about it,” Handsome says. “We better check if your father awaits inside.”
    I nod and follow him up the lane. I am truly hoping Papa is not there, for I am not anxious to tell him that I lost two jobs today. The butcher comes around the back of the shop, dangling a (bloody) cleaver at his side. He stops when he sees me. “You!” he cries, raising the cleaver into the air. “You lost my best pig! Your father shall pay for that!”
    Handsome grabs my arm and we run in and out of alleys until we can no longer hear the butcher yelling. Even though I was just threatened with a cleaver, it feels good to run. It would be easier if I weren’t wearing this stupid dress.
    We cross into the center of the market, and Handsome slows to a halt. “All right,” he says, panting. “Perhaps his memory of you lingers still.”
    â€œIt would appear so.”
    â€œYou should probably steer clear of him for a while.”
    I nod in agreement. “That seems wise. Do you think he meant it about making my father pay for the pig?”
    â€œProbably. I would tell you otherwise to make you feel better, but I try not to fib.”
    We make our way across the square, checking behind us every few steps to make sure no irate butchers are following us. We soon find our path blocked by a large crowd gathered outside the apothecary shop. As we get closer, we can hear shouting. I peek over shoulders until I see the apothecary, Master Werlin, kneeling on the ground outside his shop. A man sits beside him, babbling nonsensically, alternately fainting and sitting back up again.
    â€œJoan!” Master Werlin shouts into the store. His assistant comes running out, clutching at her skirts, her face blotchy with tears.
    â€œHow much did you give him?” he demands.
    â€œJ … just a pinch, sir, in a cup of tea. I swear it.”
    â€œBurdock root does not cause this reaction,” he yells. “Are you certain that is what you gave him?”
    She runs back into the store. The crowd holds its collective breath as Master Werlin pulls on his hair. I have visited the apothecary shop upon occasion, and found him to be a brilliant though quite unpleasant man. He has always been able to cure Papa’s aches and pains (and the occasional boil on his rear) with swiftness and discretion. He must not be easy to work for, though, for I have never seen the same assistant twice.
    The woman called Joan returns with a bundle of roots in a large glass jar. She holds them out. He snatches one and holds it up to the rapidly fading sunlight. Then he drops it back into the jar as though it burned him. “This is nightshade! The man came in for an itchy scalp and you poisoned him!”
    She peers at it, frowning. “But it looks just the same….” she says, her words trailing off. Even from my position I can see the words Atropa belladonna, Nightshade, Dangerous printed clearly on the label.
    â€œCan you not read, woman?” he bellows, grabbing the jar from her hands.
    I can tell the answer by the reddening of her cheeks.
    The apothecary reaches down and helps the poisoned man to his feet. “Come inside and rest,” he says. “I have called for the doctor. Now that we know the cause, we shall fix it.” Without even looking at Joan, he says, “You are fired.” He flips the OPEN sign over to CLOSED , and