Page 1 of The Beauty and the Griffin

1

BEATRICE

I never meant toeavesdrop. It just, well,happened. I was coloring a picture of a mermaid and a dolphin when I heard my grandaunt ask: “May I take Beatrice with me to Faraway Castle for a few weeks this summer?”

I sat bolt upright on my rug and focused my whole being on the conversation in the next room.

“Isn’t she rather young yet?”

Scrunching my face, I breathed a hopeful prayer.

“She’s old enough now to appreciate the beautiful mountains, the activities, and the social connections.” Auntie used her most persuasive tone with just a smidgen of magic. “You know how Marguerite loved the place.”

I heard Papa sigh. “Very well, I suppose she can go. But I don’t want her involved in any magical foolishness.”

To be fair, Auntie Bella has never once involved me in foolishness, magical or otherwise.

My mother died of an illness when I was two years old. I felt sad that I couldn’t remember her, but I had photos of her holding me and a beautiful painted portrait to admire. Papa often told me about her and how much she’d loved me, and Auntie frequently pointed out when I sounded, looked, or behaved like “dear Marguerite.” Overall, my life was secure and happy, offering plenty of family love, friendships, challenges, and opportunities. I sometimes envied my friends who had mothers, but then, none of them had a grandaunt like mine.

Auntie Bella never mentioned my magical bloodlines. Whenever Papa missed our family gatherings at holidays, a few of Mama’s relatives (usually the ancient ones that smelled horrid and pinched my shoulder with bony fingers) told me rambling tales of the legendary mages in our glorious history, then mourned over how the magic in our blood died out generations ago. I did my best to listen respectfully, but all the time I knew they were wrong, because my grandaunt simply brimmed with magic. I could feel it. And ifshesecretly had magic, there might be hope that I could turn out to be a mage or enchantress or whatever they’re called too.

I don’t know how I survived until summer without bursting of excitement. Auntie and I spoke only about the usual features of a summer resort, but I knew there was much more.

When our day of departure finally arrived and I supervised while Papa loaded our luggage into the trunk of Auntie’s boxy old car (she called it Murgatroyd) in the predawn darkness, he listened patiently to my babble about horseback riding, swimming, canoeing, and making new friends from around the world. After we parted with hugs and kisses, he smiled and waved after us until I couldn’t see him anymore.

Then I turned to Auntie. “Now, please tell me all the magic stuff!”

She chuckled. “I wish Marguerite had lived long enough to help Armand raise you, but she certainly chose a good man to be your father. You’ll learn all about the resort soon enough, and talking about it won’t get us there sooner. Truthfully, words could never do it justice.”

No sane child would dare to nag or whine at my grandaunt. Instead, I suffered hours of acute frustration in stoic silence, pitied myself, read a book until I felt ill, studied the view, tried to guess what the castle would look like, and napped while she drove us high into the mountains of Adelboden.

It was twilight before we reached the crowded public car park near an archway in an ancient stone wall, and Auntie parked Murgatroyd amid the collection of luxury cars, sports cars, and limousines. “Go ahead,” she said, so I opened my squeaky door and hopped out.

Magic simmered in the air, and to my delight, a donkey cart approached through the gateway with another not far behind. The teen boy walking beside the first fuzzy beast lifted a lantern. “Welcome to Faraway Castle, Lady Arabella and Miss Beatrice! I’m Trevor, and this fuzzy old boy is Sampson. We’ll tote your bags up to the castle.”

“Good evening, ladies!” The second driver’s smile lit up her face. “I’m Kholwa, and this is Raucous. If you will please hop into our fancy carriage, we’ll leave Trev and Slowpoke Sampson in our dust. Is this your first visit at Faraway Castle?”

“It’s my first visit, but not Auntie’s,” I answered while we settled into our seats. “I’m Beatrice, and I like the donkeys.”

Kholwa chuckled. “You can take them treats at their stable when they’re not working. Raucous likes apples, but Sampson’s favorite is bananas, peel and all. Are you settled? Then off we go!”

The lantern hanging from a pole near Raucous’s head revealed little more than his long ears and the road ahead. As we passed beneath the archway, I felt a wild flare of magic inside me, as if the very ground beneath us welcomed me home. “Hello,” I whispered in delight.

When we rounded a bend in the drive, I saw the castle itself. Light gleamed from countless windows, and the evening’s first glittering stars reflected in a lake. Everything was so beautiful and magical that I could only try to drink it in. “It’s perfect,” I breathed.

The inside of Faraway Castle far surpassed my dreams. While Auntie checked us in, I craned my neck to see the domed stained-glass skylight high above and reveled in the fireplaces, pillars, and alcoves, plus a grand staircase, a huge piano, and many statues and paintings. Around us, humans of all sizes, ages, and colors laughed and talked like old friends. The experience was overwhelming—magic swirled through the huge lobby—yet I felt as though I’d come home to be wrapped in a cozy hug.

Right about then, I noticed tiny brown people, not quite knee-high to the adult guests, darting everywhere, delivering trays of food or drinks and cleaning up spills, all while neatly keeping out from underfoot. Magic followed them everywhere, as comforting as hot cocoa, yet few of the guests they served seemed to notice them or their excellent service.

“Hello there, young lady.” My attention returned to the huge front desk, where a bearded man peered down at me with warmth in his dark eyes. “Welcome to Faraway Castle, Miss Beatrice. I hope you’ll have a wonderful and memorable visit with us.”

“Thank you, sir.” I couldn’t help returning his smile. He was magical too, in a different way, sort of like fresh-baked gingerbread.

It never occurred to me to wonder how he knew my name, but Auntie explained, “Sten is an old friend of mine. A very good friend. He and his wife, Nillie, keep this castle running like clockwork.”

“It’s an honor to have you both with us,” Sten said with a humble nod.

“Oh, bosh.” Auntie fluttered her fingers in dismissal, but I knew she was pleased.

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