Even in summer, the Beast’s castle is a chilly old pile of stones, and in winter, when the snow falls thick and fast enough to bend the trees beneath it, the only recourse is in retreat – a book, Belle thinks, a crackling fire, a pot of tea, but by the time she makes it to the library, the Beast is already there, curled in front of the fireplace with what looks to be a volume of fairy stories held in one massive paw. His claws are careful on the pages, and she realizes, watching from the doorway, that all the fear of her first days here is gone; she can’t find it anywhere, no matter how she digs, no matter that she reminds herself he’s still in some ways a stranger, and though she hadn’t planned it, she finds herself stepping forward instead of back, and saying, “Can I join you?”

“Be my guest,” the Beast says, with a low, rumbling growl that she recognizes now as a laugh, and so she does, slipping beneath his arm – bold, Belle, bold – and settling back, close enough to feel his breathing; she draws her knees up to her chest, warmth in front of her and at her back, and doesn’t think of dying roses or absent summers, only of the winding tale of a knight turned exile and the peculiar note of gentleness in the Beast’s rough voice as he starts to read aloud.