The two come crashing together when Belle strokes his cheek and says, playfully, “How would you feel about growing a beard?”

A cold, hard weight drops into the pit of his stomach; suddenly wrong-footed, he almost stumbles over the next step of the dance. It’s the wrong reaction, he knows it instantly – she was only joking. He forces a smile, a laugh; pulls her closer by the hand settled on her waist. He has no idea what his face is doing, and hopes that to the hordes of fellow dancers he still appears to be the happy bridegroom.

The worst part is, of course, that Belle can see straight through him – has since the moment she was washing his wounds by the fire. Her face has gone pale, eyes wide and lips narrow. “I didn’t mean –” she says, sotto voce.

“It’s alright,” he replies in a similar tone.