"The master would like to see you," Mrs. Potts informed the brown-eyed young woman sitting on the bed in front of her.

The girl's brow furrowed in confusion. "Why did he send you to ask me? He can see me whenever he wants."

The teapot smiled in her typical motherly fashion. "I think he's been planning something special," she said conspiratorially.

Belle nervously tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. She looked surprised, hopeful, and a bit apprehensive all at once. "Of course," she said absently.

"It's all right, dear," Mrs. Potts said encouragingly. "You have no reason to fear him."

"No, I suppose not," Belle said, slightly surprised that it was true. After all, he was a beast. She felt suddenly warm and awkward. She put a hand to her forehead.

"Are you all right?" Mrs. Potts asked. If Belle had not been preoccupied, she would have been surprised that the kindly teapot sounded more pleased than concerned.

"I—I think so," Belle said slowly.

"Well, perhaps you'd like to get ready now?" Mrs. Potts prompted.

"Yes. Yes, of course."

Casting a knowing smile over her—well, she didn't really have a shoulder anymore—handle, Mrs. Potts hopped from the room to prepare for the ball.

Belle's wardrobe was bursting with excitement. "Oh, I have just the thing!" she exclaimed enthusiastically. She eagerly withdrew a pink dress completely encrusted with sequins and ribbons.

Belle looked at it in mild shock. "Maybe something a bit... simpler," she suggested.

The wardrobe looked disappointed, but complied. She started to flourish an orange—

"What's that?" Belle asked suddenly.

"Oh," the wardrobe said softly. "I'd forgotten that." She slowly pulled out a yellow-gold silk gown. The full skirt was softly flounced and looked ideal for twirling in. The bodice promised to cleave to the wearer's form, and a shawl-like piece of material fastened with three gold pearls to the bodice served as sleeves.

"It's perfect," breathed the spellbound young woman.

The wardrobe kept to herself the knowledge that the dress had belonged to the Prince's mother, and was his one memory of her. She doubted that the late queen would mind.

The dress fit Belle as though it had been made for her. A skilled hairbrush and comb fixed her hair in a simple yet elegant style. The top part of her hair was twisted into a bun, and the rest waved softly down her back. She fidgeted anxiously. She refused to wonder why a meeting with a beast inspired such unexpected self-consciousness.

Belle stood hesitantly at the top of the stairs. Despite her long gloves and voluminous skirt, she still felt exposed. Then she saw him, and her heart took up an insistent staccato beat. With a heroic effort of will, she managed not to blush. True, he was no Prince Charming, but she found that she didn't care. Suddenly she realized what she was thinking. Stop it, she told herself firmly.

Held in his arms, she felt more safe and contented than she could remember feeling. Although perhaps contented wasn't the right word. Her heart had refused to slow its pounding, and since they'd started dancing, she found it surprisingly difficult to breathe. Why? The question nipped at her before she had a chance to suppress it. He was just a beast. He was her friend. Just a friend, nothing more. Why not? The question floated before her. Because... She stubbornly refused to acknowledge that she had no reply to it.

And she stayed in the moment, safe and loved—and danced.