BEASTS AND BEAUTYDANGEROUS TALESSoman ChainaniIllustrated byJulia IredaleOceanofPDF.com Copyright4th EstateAn imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers1 London Bridge StreetLondon SE1 9GFwww.4thEstate.co.ukHarperCollinsPublishers1st Floor, Watermarque Building, Ringsend RoadDublin 4, IrelandThis eBook first published in Great Britain by 4th Estate in 2021First published in the United States by Harper,an imprint of HarperCollins in 2021Copyright © Soman Chainani 2021Jacket art and title lettering © Julia Iredale 2021Illustrations copyright © Julia Iredale 2021Typography by Amy RyanSoman Chainani asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of thisworkA catalogue record for this book is available from the British LibraryInformation on previously published material appears here.All rights reserved under International and Pan-American CopyrightConventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted,downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introducedinto any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by anymeans, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafterinvented, without the express written permission of HarperCollinsSource ISBN: 9780008224509Ebook Edition © September 2021 ISBN: 9780008224516Version: 2021-08-18OceanofPDF.com DedicationFor Maria Tatar,who opened the door …OceanofPDF.com ContentsCoverTitle PageCopyrightDedicationRed Riding HoodSnow WhiteSleeping BeautyRapunzelJack and the BeanstalkHansel and GretelBeauty and the BeastBluebeardCinderellaThe Little MermaidRumpelstiltskinPeter PanRead the beginning of Soman Chainani’s bestselling series The School forGood and EvilAbout the AuthorAlso by Soman ChainaniAbout the PublisherOceanofPDF.com ON THE FIRST DAY OF SPRING, THE wolves eat the prettiest girl.They warn the town which girl they want, slashing the door to her houseand urinating on the step. No one sees the wolves, just as no one sees thedew before it sops the grass. As winter wanes, the town thinks the cursebroken, seduced by the mercy of spring. But then the marking comes.Sometimes a few weeks before she will be eaten, sometimes a few days, forwolves decide on a prey in their own time. But once a girl is chosen, she istheirs. Neither child nor family can appeal. On the eve of spring, the wolveshowl for their meal and the town marshals her to the edge of the forest andsends her in. Fail to deliver her and worse things will come than the loss ofa pretty girl, though no one knows what these worse things could be. Soonthe second howl echoes from the forest’s belly: quieter, sated, the wolves’work done. The people disperse. The girl forgotten. A price to pay for timeunfettered.But spring lurks.Another year gone.Houses shudder, despite the haze of sunset, the sweet riot of blooms. Amother and father sit, lips cracked, nails torn, watching the girl as shegnaws the last meat off a bone, her russet hair dipping in the juice circlingher plate. They didn’t think she’d be trouble, born with spindly limbs, a pignose, and peasant-brown skin, a muddy reflection of her makers. They weresure they’d have her for life. But beauty, like wolves, takes time to settle onits choice, a slow, cold horror seeding in a mother’s heart. The girl’s eyesdeepen to sapphires, her skin shines like honey, her neck unfurls with theimperiousness of a swan—Still, the mark on the door surprises her. She was ordinary too long.Beauty came like a malady. She hangs nothing on it, like it’s paint to peeloff. To die for such a trifle …Stupid beasts. She doesn’t bother with fear.Virtue is on her side.She reaches for the knife on the table, the one her father used to cut hermeat. The steel teeth slaver as she wipes it clean, grease spotting the capeshe’s knitted for the occasion. Red as blood, bright as fire. She’s asking forit, wearing that in a forest. But there is no hiding from wolves. Might aswell make it quick.The knife heavies in her hand.Where to keep it?I need a basket for Grandmother, she announces.Her mother says nothing.Her father keeps eating.Grandmother’s house is across the river, the girl says. I’ll send word onceI’m safe. Her mother gets up, holds her breath as she collects hard rolls, soggyfruit, acrid cheese. The father gives his wife a look. Food wasted on a futilemission. But there’s no arguing. Not tonight. Besides, his daughter is asstubborn as his wife’s mother, the kind of woman who expects a basketfrom a guest, even one running from wolves.The sun douses with angry flares, a flame snatched in a fist. The wolveshowl from the forest.It is the first time the girl feels scared.Until now, she thought she would beat them somehow. Human againstanimal. Good against evil.But it is their song that stirs her—a dirge of self-pity, as if they cannothelp themselves. They are prisoners of their nature. And goodness is no weapon against the possessed.Even so, she enters the forest calm.The town brings her to the brink, every last man, woman, child, and theywait as she goes, hands clasped, as if praying for her soul. In truth, they arethere to stop her from running back.Her slippers crackle over twigs, a tentative path opening before her, thelane of girls sent to die. She remembers these girls, born beautiful, bornmarked, skulking furtively about town, avoiding the eyes of those thatwould sacrifice them. They knew, these sisters. Long before the wolvescame. They knew they were meat.The path narrows, trees snatching at her. She’s used to paths closed off.It’s not just the beauties who suffer. The other girls are tainted by thewolves too. The girls who weren’t picked. Boys rake through them likeleftovers. It’s why any girl who marries one cleans up after him withoutcomplaint. She’s lucky to be alive, they tell her in their grunts and growls.Lucky her beauty isn’t worthy of beasts. Her mother was one of these,plucked from the scrap heap. The girl saw it in her father’s face. All menspend their lives yearning for the one they can’t have. The girl devoured bywolves. Now they’re trapped with second-best. It’s why her father is neverhappy. She would have married a boy much the same. Not now though.Whatever happens from here, her life will be different.But a different life comes with a price.It takes walking the path between life and death.The knife lies hidden in the basket. A silver twinkle in her eye. Let themcome. Just like that, they prowl out of darkness like fog, clouding the pathwhere it ends. A tribe of formless shadows, like genies summoned to a wish. But it is their eyes that give them away, ruthless yellow crescents asold as time. She raises the red hood of her cape like armor, backs up—Moonlight traps her, the forest’s torch.They circle. Boys in breeches of black leather, their chests bared, theirforearms taut with veins. For a moment, she thinks this is all a ruse: thatthere were never wolves, only boys marking a girl for themselves. A girl torun with their rebel tribe. A princess for wayward princes … But now shesees their lips coated with drool, the trail of hair down their bellies. Shesmells the feral musk.This is the problem with wolves. They are tricksters. Shapeshifters thatdraw you close. Killing you is not enough. They want to play with you first.Your choice, speaks one of the boys, dark-skulled and long in the tooth.His words are wet yet plaintive somehow, an unusual plea.Then she sees the hunger in his eyes. In all their eyes.Now she understands.She must choose which wolf will eat her.That is the game.Play along, she thinks.Survival comes not in resistance to the game but in winning it.She takes her time, evaluating each, while her hand slides into the basket,feeling for the knife, her eyes roving up and down their lean, famished ribs,as if they’ve starved the whole year for this moment. But there is one whois different. He, the leader of the pack, hidden in the shadows, arms crossed,chest full, the one who isn’t famished at all, who frankly looks bored. Hehas pearl-white skin and dark unruly curls, like he’s Cupid himself, hisbeauty so unmatched by the others that he knows he will be picked, just ashe has always been picked before. But there is no conquest in this, his eyessay. He sees the ugly duckling inside her, beauty found instead of earned.She won’t taste as good because of it. Pick someone else, he’s telling her.He’s had his fill. But it is no use. For he is beauty incarnate. Which is whyhe knows she will choose him.And she does.Go, he tells the others.They whine but do not fight, limping into the trees.They’ll have the scraps, he tells her.She is alone with him now. He looks her over. The cold yellow eyeswarm to gold. His pale cheeks fleck pink. With the other boys gone, he’s considering her anew. He stands erect. Saliva sops his mouth.Then he sees her hand in her basket.She squeezes the knife.Either he hasn’t spotted it or he isn’t bothered.Be my guest, he says. Eat your little picnic. Fatten yourself up. You’llonly taste better.It’s for my sister, she replies. She lives across the river. WithGrandmother.His ears twitch.River’s past our territory. Don’t know the girls who live out there, headmits. Nothing but skin and bones, I bet.Not true, the girl sighs. My sister’s more beautiful than I.The dots of pink in his cheeks expand. Younger or older?Younger.Across the river? Where?She chuckles. As if I’d tell you that!He lunges, snatches her by the throat. Your grandmother’s house. Whereis it. Blood rims his eyes, foam flying off his lip. Tell me.Or what? You’ll eat me? says the girl. You’re already going to do that.He lifts her off the ground, over his dripping jaws as if he’ll swallow herin one gulp. But it’s not she that he’s dripping for.Tell me and I’ll let you free.She considers this. And your friends?They’ll follow me the moment I go. You run back home and kissMommy Daddy. Now tell me before I change my mind.She pauses. Wolves lie.So do girls too big for their britches, he snarls, his claws cutting into herneck. Could be making this all up so I free you.Blood trickles down her throat. It doesn’t stop him. Nothing will stophim. He will make her tell him, no matter what tortures he has to invent.Follow the river around its east banks, she says. Her voice a crushedwhisper. There’s a willow grove. Cross to the other side and you’ll see acottage in the glen.He drops her hard to the ground, then kneels over her on all fours, hisface and chest turning hairier, hairier, his voice a hot-mouthed hiss. If sheisn’t there, I’ll find you and rip out your bones. Mommy Daddy too.He slashes his claws across her cheek to mark her. Then he starts to run.Soon, she hears the scamper of wolves caught unawares, loping aftertheir leader.Relief.So much relief as she hustles away. Not because she’s free. Reliefbecause she isn’t beautiful anymore, her cheek carved up, the sign of a girlwho strayed from the path. She can imagine her mother’s and father’s facesupon her return, first joy, then pity, for who would want such a girl—thetown’s offering, sent in sacrifice, sent in submission, but too willful to playthe part. Bad Girl, they’ll whisper. Broke the rules. Other girls might getideas. No, no, no. Better to be eaten by wolves. Even her mother and fatherwould agree. Only it’s not her mother and father she’s going to see. Grandmother’s house is a short distance to the west. Wolves run quicker,of course, but she’s sent them east, around the river, which even at thefastest pace will take a fair bit of time. She pries between trees, tangled indarkness, but the fear is gone. She takes time to marvel at the forest: thejackknife of branches, the kiss of the underbrush, the blinking jewels ofeyes in the dark. Red, hooded serpents rear their heads at the blood-coloredgirl slithering past. It is not enough for the wolves to rule this kingdom intowhich they are born, she thinks. They want more. A suffering of innocents.A thrill of entitlement. A plunder of something they’re not meant to have.Careful, she reminds herself, sensing she’s slowed. A ravenous malemoves faster than a girl thinks. Soon she hears the burbling of water. Theriver batters her gently as she fords the shallows, fish catching in the tail ofher hood before she lets them free. Through the hickory grove and past thefern field lies the red-leafed clearing and the old wood cottage, its two smallwindows moonlit like glowing eyes, the eaves coated in gray moss like fur.She’s only been to Grandmother’s house a few times and the last long ago,but still she remembers the way, like a cat that knows the way home.Knock, knock.She does it quietly, in case the wolves have spies. Knock, knock.The door opens.Grandmother’s there, her face a shriveled prune, her bee-colored hairhacked short. She has a fat scar under her eye, her mouth twisted in a scowl.She takes one look at her granddaughter, sniffs at the wounds on her cheek.Come inside, she says.Follow the trail of spittle through the willow grove.A ring of wolves surround the house, backs arched, teeth gnashed,starving for the scraps their leader promised. They are tired, resentful of afine meal given up. They would revolt if they had the spine.The leader bides his time, rising onto two feet, shaking off dirt as his furrecedes, combing his Cupid-curl hair as he approaches the door, the perfectgentleman caller.The door is open for him.He enters lightly. His pale, hairy feet scrape along the floorboards. Heisn’t used to working for his supper. He isn’t used to being upright. Butthere is thrill in it. Pretending to be tame.A fire casts a watchful glow over the room, spitting sparks at him, snap,snap, snap. The house is old and stale, nothing worth noticing. A thick oldbroomstick. A bluebird clock out of rhythm. A blanket over a lump on arocking chair. An empty basket on a table. Some crumbs of cheese.But it is the bed in the corner that is fresh and full, a figure shrouded inmilk-white veils.Who’s there? she says.Your prince, says he.Come closer.He obeys, his mouth silvery wet.My … what wrinkled skin you have, he says.A witch’s spell. Better to hide my youth and beauty. Come closer.But what cloudy eyes you have, he says.Better to see into a prince’s soul. Come closer.But what shriveled lips you have, he says.Better to kiss my prince with and break the spell. The veil of the bed falls.The boy kisses old Grandmother’s lips, thirsty for his reward.Yet no spell is broken.Instead, old bones crack. She cackles in his face. Laughs and laughs andlaughs. She sees what he really is. An impotent beast.His eyes go jagged. He bares his teeth.The mask of a boy shamed.She knows what that means. He’ll kill and kill until he’s drunk. Until heforgets what he’s done. One leap and he’s on the bed, skin become fur, boybecome wolf—Should have checked that rocking chair!The knife impales his heart, and he spins in shock, faced with a girl in ahood red as his blood, more beautiful than he remembered.His cry sends the other wolves running in, but they are too starved tofight. Grandmother bashes them with her broom, snap, snap, snap.Together, they fall, these wicked changelings, howling to their death.But triumph and disaster often ring the same.Far away, villagers leave the forest, trusting their sacrifice complete.Each year, a new girl is marked. Her door slashed with warning.On the first day of spring, she hears the wolves call. The villagersmarshal her to the forest. She kisses Mother and Father goodbye.Quavering, she goes into the dark. Follows the path like she’s told.But at the end of the path there are no wolves.Instead, she finds a house filled with girls just like her.Beauties who’ve left beauty behind.An old woman brings her to the table.Girls gather round. Join hands like a pack.The old woman smiles beneath her red hood.She was a girl too, once.Together, they raise heads and howl.OceanofPDF.com A GIRL MARRIES A WEAK MAN.He says the right things at the right time, a prince who promises herhappily ever after. So many see only her skin, how different she is from thefair maidens of this land. They treat her like a lump of coal, like black is asin. But this prince makes her feel beautiful, something she’s never feltbefore. When he rides her to his castle, he carries her over the threshold, toa bedroom pure and white.The people are suspicious though. So is the prince’s father. His sonmarrying a girl like her, when there are so many other girls to be had? Buteveryone keeps their resentments to themselves. It is the polite thing to do.Until the king dies.Now the prince is king, his princess the queen. And the people don’twant her to be queen. They can only hold their tongues for so long. Theyoung king feels their venom. The queen does too, but the king takes itpersonally. Love is his privilege. He’s not used to fighting for it. So hedoesn’t. Instead, he keeps little company with his queen and strays aboutthe kingdom with women fairer than she.This reassures the people.Midwinter brews, harsh and lonely. In her room, the queen sits by thewindow, sewing and watching white snow fall in imperious, suffocatinglittle sheets. A crow settles near her, and the snow attacks, whiting out itsfeathers until it’s a dove. The queen shudders. Her needle pricks her finger,spilling blood onto the bird.If only I had a child, she thinks. A child that’s mine to love. White assnow. Red as blood. Black as a crow.And she kisses the bird to seal her wish.Soon afterward, she gives birth to a girl with crow-black skin, blood-redlips, eyes with whites as bright as snow.She calls her Snow White and laughs. And oh how she loves the child, made exactly like she’s wished, eventhough the king treats the girl badly, for there is nothing in her that remindshim of himself. So, too, do the people of the kingdom, who look upon thegirl like a curse. The queen keeps her close, warding the child like a jewel,for only in her keeping can she teach her how to be loved.But then illness comes for the queen, the way snow came for the crow,and by winter’s end, she is no more.A year later, the king marries anew. She has milk-white cheeks, a browntumble of hair, and eyes as sharp as a bear trap. This new queen has no lovefor Snow White, a stain on the family, and puts her stepdaughter to work cleaning the castle. Not that the queen wants a child of her own. A childmight take the sheen off her own rose. Instead, she bears a magic mirror onthe wall in her vast, echoing chamber, and every morning she asks:Mirror, mirror, on the wall,Who’s the fairest one of all?The mirror always replies:You, O Queen, are the fairest of all.Her eyes soften, her skin gains color, relief swells at her breast, a feelingshe calls happiness, because for a moment, what she wants to be true andthe truth are one and the same.Snow White keeps growing though, and so does her beauty, even if it’sstowed away in toilets and kitchens, even beneath a white coat of flour anddust. Her stepmother has forgotten about her entirely, the girl put in herplace, until one day, the queen asks her mirror:Mirror, mirror, on the wall,Who’s the fairest one of all?The mirror replies:My queen, you may think yourself the fairest,But Snow White is a thousand times more fair.At first, the queen scoffs. A girl like Snow White … fair? But then sheremembers the mirror had named the queen the fair one all these years, andif she trusted the mirror then, she must trust the mirror now. No one else inthe kingdom would consider the idea, of course. That Snow White is morebeautiful than her. Beauty in this world has rules. But what if Snow Whitebreaks these rules? What if other people start to see what the mirror does?From that moment on, she hates Snow White even more, doubling herchores, making her sleep in a closet, berating her husband if he gives thegirl a second glance. But it isn’t enough. The more she keeps Snow Whitedown, the more envy and jealousy snake inside her, as if her heart knowssomething she doesn’t, as if she willfully denies a higher law than her own. The girl is the blind spot in her reflection. Day or night, the queen doesn’thave a moment’s peace.Summer swelters the palace like a greenhouse. In heat, the queen’s hatredblooms wilder and grows teeth. It is not enough to keep the girl slaved andout of sight; now the queen kicks and mocks her, baiting her to rebel, like afly to a trap. The girl holds her tongue. She knows a nemesis when she seesone. A nemesis uses any excuse to kill you. Your life drains theirs of power.There is no escape now. Fate has bonded them: the stronger the one, theweaker the other. And Snow White grows stronger every day.The mirror confirms it.Snow White is a thousand times more fair.Again, again, again.Now the queen knows. The girl can’t be beaten.So she must die.A huntsman is called.Take the girl into the forest, the queen says. Bring me her lungs and liverafter you’ve killed her.The huntsman doesn’t argue. He has a wife and two sons to feed, and thequeen pays well.But when he takes Snow White into the woods, she doesn’t flee. Nordoes she cry when he pulls the knife from his belt and raises it at her chest.Instead, she stares him in the eye and says: For what?No one has ever asked him such a thing. Most about to die run for theirlives as if they are guilty.The huntsman lowers the knife.Hurry off and never come back, he grunts.Into the tangled wood she goes, and the huntsman sighs. The animals willkill her by dawn, but at least it won’t be his doing. He waits until a boarcomes close and he stabs it mercilessly, extracting lungs and liver beforetaking them to the queen. All things under the skin look the same. Thequeen sniffs them, hunger licking at her heart. She orders the cook to boilthe gifts in brine and she devours them, thinking she’s drunk the girl’s bodyinto her own.A privileged child cannot survive in the forest. The vines and brambleswould reach out and strangle them. The animals would eat them, sup, sup,