The Secret Diary of Belle (Grimmoire Series)

Entry Six

I would prefer something a little stronger than tea, at present, to calm my nerves.

My mind is awash with a thousand thoughts and a thousand fears. Pierre always knows just how to calm me down. How I miss his warm embrace...

Where to begin?

Apologies for my abrupt end to the last entry, my ink well drained faster than I realised. That's the strange thing about living here - I use the term "living" loosely - that I have become accustomed to things fixing themselves. The replenishing food, what appears to be a self-cleaning commode and even sometimes I have found the bed to be in a much tidier fashion than I left it.

Such a peculiar happenstance then that the inkwell should not rejuvenate when I am not looking...

In my time here, in the four rooms to which I have been privy, to my consternation there has not been another ink well in sight. I was hesitant to leave the bedroom and find a replacement well.

I felt quite perturbed after the incident in the sitting room yesterday. The thought of an unwelcome voyeur is too much for this lady. My dilemma rests in the need for me to make these daily entries. It calms me, keeps me sane. Helps me remember that I am still Belle.

Candelabra in hand, I set off down the hall. No tray outside again, which was to be expected, but what a surprise it was, when I selected a door at random and it opened. This was quite frictionless compared to yesterday. Room Trois, was a room full of coats and clothes, hung on mannequins. Each article looked as though they had remained untouched for some time.

I believe they must have been his clothes. That made me feel quite odd, looking through someone else's clothes, especially his. Even though privacy seems to be a feature lacking in this house, this felt like stepping over a line.

After looking at the first few outfits I realised something - these were all damaged in some way. Rips and tears and stains and missing buttons all peppered each piece of clothing. I don't know why one would keep damaged clothes... unless he was intent on mending them, perhaps.

Anyway, I decided to search the pockets. Nothing. Completely empty in every, single pocket. Until I came across one coat that had been ripped right down the back, completely split at the seam.

In the inside pocket was a tuft of fur. From what animal I cannot say. It was dark brown and had this strange texture to it. Not like any animal fur I have touched on the farm. Does he have a pet I am yet to meet? Maybe he has a farm like us?

Throughout the search, I was quite calm as I managed to remain distracted by yesterday's revelation.

Which reminds me: I won't keep you with bated breath a moment longer.

The source of the symbol and by association the cloth on which it is embroidered, as I recall were from a tavern in Montpellier. This is very close to where we used to live. Of course, I have never stepped foot in such an establishment, but guess who has?

My father.

Yes, Papa would frequent a tavern on occasion. It was always an unpleasant affair when Papa would insist on being social and come back more wobbly legged than a pirate. Waking us all up as he paraded around the house making a fool of himself. I would have died if Pierre ever bore witness to such commonness.

I sometimes found these exact serviettes on his person, with numbers written all over them, amongst the alcohol stains. He never did explain what they meant and I never bothered to question the mind of a drunk, so I let it be.

Now at the forefront of my mind I can only wonder - did Papa and my captor ever frequent the tavern at the same time? Is it possible that they knew each other?

In the back corner of Room Trois, behind all the clothes was a small desk with a calendar on the closed lid. It was calendar from last year. There were all different dates circled with illegible notes scrawled next to some of the numbers. No way to work out anything written on there. Shocking handwriting.

Inside the desk was a quill that had seen better days and one item of note.

An inkwell.

Half-used, but it will do.

After I finished searching Room Trois, I went back to the bedroom to find the platter of food waiting. This time though, there was something new. In the centre of the tray was a silver platter covered with a dome-shaped lid.

I lifted the lid. There was no food inside, but there was a folded note.

It read:

"Please feel free to search around,

My home is your home."

My stomach turned the moment I read that.

He was watching me.

And "my home is your home" - what is that supposed to mean? That he is doing me some kind of favour by having me stay here? That we are connected in some meaningful way? That we have some sort of relationship?

He may have been watching me the entire time I have been here.

I fear he may be more unstable than I once imagined. Although, I must say his handwriting is spectacular. I guess the somebody else wrote on that calendar.

Honestly, how can someone have absolutely no idea how their words would affect another?

Unless... that was his plan. Is it possible that this note elicited the exact response he wanted? Did he know how I would react - by "allowing" me to look around? I expect he would assume this open invitation would frighten me enough to stay put.

I think that might be what he wants. To try and keep me bottled up like a genie.

Maybe there is something he does not want me to find... There are lots of locked doors after all.

Well if that was his plan - it has failed.

Mark my words I shall venture out again and I will get the answers I deserve.

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