PROLOGUE

The Prince scowled. He faced a pair of heavy gilded doors that were shut to him. From beyond, he could hear music and laughter. The party, his party, had already begun. Crystal clinked as guests toasted the night and wandered about the ornate ballroom. Beautiful vases, detailed portraits of faraway places, rich tapestries, and solid-gold serving plates were just a few of the many items. And they all paled in comparison to the beauty of the guests themselves. For the Prince did not invite just anyone to his parties. He invited only those he deemed beautiful enough to be in his presence. So they came from all over the world, each one as much on display as the inanimate objects in the room.

Standing in front of the closed doors, the Prince barely noticed the servants as they bustled about him, nervously putting the finishing touches on his costume. His majordomo hovered nearby. A maid stood next to the Prince, a feather brush in her hand. Gingerly, she painted a white line on the young man's face.

The mask had taken hours to paint, and it showed. It was exquisite. Stepping back, the maid waited as the head valet draped a long jeweled coat over the Prince's shoulders. Satisfied, he nodded at the maid, who then dusted the Prince's wig with powder. Then both bowed and waited with bated breath for the Prince to act.

The Prince gave a single haughty wave. Instantly, a footman appeared. “More light,” the Prince ordered.

“Yes, Your Highness,” the footman said, turning and reaching for the candelabrum placed nearby. He lifted it so it illuminated the Prince's face.

The Prince held a small mirror. Holding it up so he could see his face, the Prince preened.

The Prince had the majordomo open the doors to the ballroom. The servants let out a collective sigh as the doors swung shut behind the Prince. For the next few hours they would be able to relax, out of sight of their cruel, spoiled, and unkind master.

Unaware of his servants’ thoughts, or perhaps aware but unconcerned, the Prince made his way across the ballroom. It was a sea of white—per his invitation. The result was enchanting. His mouth remained pulled down, however, and his solemn expression did not indicate any pleasure at seeing such beauty in his castle. He never allowed others to see if he felt joy or pain.

Pushing through a circle of eligible maidens and their chaperones, the Prince arrived at his throne. Standing beside it, the Prince turned and stared out at the ballroom. He watched a small animated man sit at the grand harpsichord across the room. The Prince locked eyes with the man, who smiled kindly in return. The Prince grimaced but nodded. This was, after all, the premier Italian maestro. He and his wife, the elegant operatic diva who stood beside him, were known the world over for their sound. They were, simply put, the best. Because of that, the Prince had needed to have them at his ball.

With the Prince's nod, the maestro began to play and the diva began to sing, her voice filling the ballroom. The Prince strode out onto the floor and started to dance. His moves were smooth and practiced, honed from years of training. Around him, ladies moved in reverse to the Prince. Yet somehow they paled in comparison to him.

The diva's voice had just swelled to an almost painful note when, suddenly, the Prince heard the unmistakable sound of someone knocking at the door that led out to the gardens. He lifted his hand, and the music came to an abrupt stop.

The knock came again. For a moment, no one moved. And then all the windows blew open, followed by the door. Rain billowed into the ballroom, and a strong wind caused the candles in the sconces along the walls to flicker and go out. The ballroom was plunged into darkness. In the remaining light from the candelabra on the tables, the Prince watched with a mixture of anger and curiosity as a hooded figure entered through the open door. The stranger was hunched over, clutching a gnarled cane with a shaking hand. The visitor moved out of the cold and into the warmth of the ballroom. As the door shut, the hooded figure sighed audibly, clearly happy to be somewhere he—or she—seemed to think was safe and inviting.

That couldn't have been more wrong.

His initial shock fading, the Prince felt rage well up inside him. Grabbing a candelabrum from a nearby table, he stormed through the crowd, pushing people out of his path. He noticed that the uninvited guest was an old beggar woman. Hunched as she was, the Prince towered over her.

“What is the meaning of this?” he demanded with a snarl.

The old woman looked up at him with hope in her eyes. Holding out a single red rose, she said in no more than a whisper, “I'm seeking shelter from the bitter storm outside.” As if on cue, the wind rose to a fever pitch, howling like a mad beast.

The Prince remained unmoved. He did not care if the woman was cold and wet. She was haggard, old, and a vagrant. And worse still, she was ruining his ball. Another wave of red-hot anger washed over him as he saw the ugliness amid all the beauty he had so carefully and painstakingly created. “Get out!” he sneered. “Get out now. You do not belong here.”

“Please,” the old woman begged. “I am only asking for shelter for one night. I will not even stay in the ballroom.”

The Prince's frown deepened. “Don't you see, old woman? This is a place of beauty,” he said, his voice cold. “You are too ugly for my castle. For my world. For me.” The woman seemed to shrink as the Prince's words tore into her, but the Prince did not appear to have any remorse. Signaling to his majordomo and the head footman, he ordered the woman escorted out.

“You should not be deceived by appearances,” the woman said as the two servants approached. “Beauty is found within...”

The Prince threw back his head and laughed cruelly. “Say what you will, hag. But we all know what beautiful looks like—and it is not you. Now go!”

Turning, the Prince moved to leave. But a gasp from his guests gave him pause. As he looked over his shoulder, his eyes grew wide. Something was happening to the old woman. Her dirty cape and hood seemed to engulf her in a cocoon of sorts until she all but disappeared. Then a flash of light erupted, blinding him.

When his vision cleared, the old beggar was gone. In her place was the most beautiful woman the Prince had ever seen. She was floating above him, emitting a dazzling golden light not unlike the sun's. Instantly, the Prince knew exactly what she was, for he had read about such things. She was an enchantress —a woman of magic who had put him to a test. And he had failed.

Falling to his knees, the Prince held up his hands. “Please,” he said, now the one to beg. “I'm sorry, Enchantress. You are welcome in my castle for as long as you like.”

The Enchantress shook her head. She had seen enough to know that it was a hollow apology. The Prince had no kindness or love in his heart. Magic coursed through her and then washed over the Prince.

The transformation began instantly. The Prince's body was racked with pain. His back arched and he groaned as his body began to grow. His jewelry popped off. His clothes ripped. The surrounding guests screamed at the sight of their host and fled. The Prince reached up, trying to grasp a nearby man's hand, but to his horror, he discovered his own hand resembled that of a monster. The man jumped away and made his escape, along with the others.

Where once there had towered a handsome man now cowered a hideous beast. But he was not the only one to have transformed. The rest of the castle and its inhabitants no longer looked the same. They, too, had changed...

The days bled into years, and the Prince and his servants were forgotten by the world until, finally, the enchanted castle stood isolated and locked in perpetual winter. The Enchantress erased all memory of the castle and those who were in it, even from the minds of the people who loved them.

But there did remain one last bit of hope: the rose she had offered the Prince was truly an enchanted rose. If the Prince could learn to love another and earn that person's love in return by the time the last petal fell, the spell would be broken. If not, he would be doomed to remain a beast forever.