Beatty & The Beast

FIVE: Where The Beauty's Freedom is Lost and Found

January 9th

Keefe woke the next morning with the sincere wish that he hadn't.

It was a special kind of agony to roll his shoulders and neck in the attempt to loosen the angry muscles. Keefe spent the first moments of wakefulness wondering if he had been turned to stone somehow.

Then there was the headache chipping away the front of his skull, not to mention the sting of the blisters, cuts, and slivers in his hands and the dull ache in his lower back. He hadn't realized how hard he had worked – or how far he had been pushed – the day before until now, when his young body felt as if it had aged eighty years overnight.

He barely had the energy to get out of bed let alone go about another full day. The first one had nearly killed him and now, at the beginning of his second, he felt a stab of dread. Now that he knew what he was up against, now that he knew how the day could be, the idea of getting out of bed seemed ludicrous and inhumane.

Keefe somehow rolled out from under his covers and pushed his body to move him along. He had, unfortunately, many things to do.

~ * ~

He was very quiet as he walked to school with the WaTSAs, even more so than usual. If the others noticed, they didn't say anything. They kept to their general conversations and bickering (in Enid's case) and left him to his silence.

For this, he was grateful.

He hadn't the energy to joke or be witty. He was too tired to immerse himself in his usual pleasant thoughts. If he had any optimism left in him, it probably wouldn't fill a teaspoon.

Perhaps a quarter of a teaspoon, if he was lucky.

He wondered how he would be able to get through the day, not only school but at Whistlebeck's. His whole body revolted at the idea of having to spend another several hours under Andie's rule.

His quarter of a teaspoon of optimism evaporated to an eighth of a teaspoon.

He fought against this storm cloud, trying to find a positive point amidst all the foggy black stuff. At least he had school first, a few hours before he had to return to Whistlebeck's and sell his soul all over again. There was something sadly encouraging about that.

He wouldn't see Andie until third period and if she paid him any mind – which he doubted she would, judging by how she avoided him the day before – it would be nothing like she was at her house. He was not her slave at school. She had no power over him there.

He and the WaTSAs came up Beaumont Hill to the rickety mansion atop it. When his baggy eyes caught sight of a scowling hooded figure waiting on the sidewalk, trepidation hit.

"What the hell is she doing there?" Enid said. Chris and Lewis were at a loss too, staring at Andie as if they wanted nothing more than to cross to the other side of the street.

Keefe had forgotten that Andie's relation to Old Man Whistlebeck was not common knowledge. Sure, everybody knew she was the former Andréa Donovan and was about as nice as a syphilis outbreak, but as far as he knew, she hadn't spilled the other intriguing secret she had.

"Does she live there?" Chris whispered.

"No way!" Enid hissed.

She, Chris, and Lewis sidled slowly off the sidewalk and into the street as they continued toward the house, staring at Andie like she was a rabid dog on a chain.

Keefe neither answered their questions nor moved off the sidewalk. All he could do was keep shuffling his feet and staring dejectedly at the girl in the hood. When she caught sight of him, a pleased smile stretched across her face, making what he could see of her scars bunch up a little.