"So," she said, her cheerful tone returning. “Are you ready to share your name?”

“I’ve told you. Beast.”

“Alas, I feared you’d say such.” She sighed. “If you refuse to tell me your name, I shall guess it.”

He looked up, not remembering another time in his life when he’d ever felt so bewildered.

She studied his face with that tilted-head manner she'd levelled at him in the study. Intelligence and joy glimmered in her startlingly beautiful eyes. The way she regarded him was assessing, but not unkind.

"Bartholomew," she declared. "That’s it. You look like a Bartholomew."

"I do not—"

"Bartholomew, would you pass the butter, please?"

He stared at the ceramic crock of butter in his hands, then at her outstretched fingers accepting it, and could not for the life of him understand why he'd complied. Nor why he’d followed up by passing her the plate of honeycomb without her asking. And had he lost his mind thinking that watching her drip the honey over her newly buttered bread was the best entertainment he’d had in years?

He shook his head as he caught himself staring at her bringing the newly adorned crust of bread to her lips. 

"Thank you, Bartholomew. This bread is beyond anything I’ve made myself."

"That is not my name."

"Then tell me your real one, if you’d be so kind."

He clamped his jaw shut. She took another bite of bread, her eyes dancing, her lips pressed together with honey making them glisten.

She was enjoying this.

"You chose the blue gown," he said, attempting to wrest control of the conversation away from her. "It is satisfactory, I take it?"

"I’m quite enamored with the embroidery and the fine fabric. ‘Tis long, but I'll manage. I never knew I was short of stature. Did it belong to someone?"

"My mother."

Muddle-brained, it took a moment for her other words to penetrate. What did she mean she never knew she was short? Wasn’t that something most people figured out when they compared themselves to others?

"Oh." Her eyes softened instantly. "I shall take extra care with it, then. Thank you for trusting me with something so precious."

He swallowed and focused on his plate.

"Were you close?" Rapunzel asked, her voice gentle, not prying. Curious, but careful.

"She died when I was young."

"I'm sorry."

He expected the usual follow-up. How did she die? What was she like? Questions people asked to fill silence rather than honor it.

Rapunzel returned to her meal, leaving the space open for him to fill in or leave sparse. 

After a moment, she said, "I never knew my mother. The fairy who raised me found me as an abandoned infant, left outdoors in the cold spring rain. I’m ever so grateful she took me in."

She gazed at the fire, her demeanor unguarded in a way that made her seem ageless yet vulnerable. Her fingers drifted to her collarbone, where something rested beneath the blue fabric. Wherever she’d gone in her daydreams, she looked more lost than when she’d burst into his study.

As if breaking free from a trance, she blinked, and the brightness returned. "Now, Bartholomew…"

“Not Bartholomew. Beast.”

“I refuse to call a gentleman so feral a name.” She folded her hands on the table and regarded him with serene authority. "Would you care for more stew, Reginald?"

He was absolutely certain he didn't want it, but he took it anyway. Her delight in handing the bowl to him warmed him deeper than the stew ever would. And when her fingers grazed over his fur, she didn’t flinch or jerk away. Not a shudder in sight. She simply smiled and retook her seat.

Her reaction was more alarming than if she’d run out of the room. At least that would have made sense.