The Bimbettes — cardex

Claudette — Red The eldest by mere minutes, Claudette has always carried herself like she expects the world to catch up to her. Sharp-tongued and sharper-eyed, she’s the one who notices when a hem is fraying or a compliment is hollow. Underneath the practiced pout is a girl who’s tired of being looked at and never truly seen — by Gaston, by the village, by anyone. She keeps a small knife tucked in her boot “for emergencies,” though she’s never had to use it. Until now. Laurette — Amber The dreamer of the three. Laurette is soft where Claudette is sharp, and she’s the one who still believes — somewhere under all the bruised pride — that someone out there will love her without needing to be talked into it. She hums old village songs under her breath without realizing it, and she’s the first to notice when something in the woods feels wrong before anyone can explain why. Paulette — Green The quiet storm. Paulette says the least and watches the most. She’s the steadiest hand of the three — the one who actually knows how to skin a fox, set a snare, or read a darkening sky. Where her sisters chase romance, Paulette has always been a little more interested in surviving it. That instinct is about to save all three of their lives.

It had been three winters of watching Gaston ride past their gate without so much as a glance, three winters of perfumed letters and rehearsed laughs that earned them nothing but his back turned toward Belle’s window instead. Belle, who didn’t even want him. Belle, who’d vanished into the old castle on the hill and come back glowing with a love none of the village could explain or forgive. “She gets the monster,” Claudette muttered one evening, yanking her shawl tight against the cold, “and we get nothing.” It was Paulette’s idea to go foraging that night — furs were thin on the ground that winter, and a good pelt sold dear at market, dear enough to buy three new dresses and not think about Gaston for a while. Laurette agreed before she’d even finished hearing the plan. Claudette came because she wasn’t about to let her sisters wander the treeline without her. They should have turned back when the moon disappeared behind the clouds. They should have turned back when the path forked twice and neither fork looked familiar. By the time they admitted they were lost, the forest had gone utterly silent — the kind of silence that isn’t empty, but listening. The first howl came from everywhere at once. “Run,” Paulette said, and for once nobody argued with her. They ran until their lungs burned, until Laurette’s skirt tore on a bramble and she didn’t dare stop to free it, until Claudette’s knife was out of her boot and shaking in her hand. The wolves were close now — close enough to hear the wet snap of their jaws, close enough to see lean grey shapes weaving between the trunks like the trees themselves had teeth. Paulette saw the cave first. “There!” They didn’t reach it. A wolf broke from the pack and lunged for Laurette’s heel — and something enormous came down between them and it, a shadow with claws and a roar that shook frost from the branches overhead. For one terrible heartbeat the sisters thought they’d traded one death for another. But the shape didn’t turn on them. It turned on the wolves. It fought like something that had spent a long, long time being afraid of exactly this kind of night, and had decided it would never be afraid again. Claws and fury and a snarl too articulate to belong to any ordinary animal — within a minute, the pack was scattering back into the dark, yelping, and the three sisters stood frozen at the mouth of the cave, staring at the heaving, broad-shouldered silhouette now standing between them and the forest.

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It had been three winters of watching Gaston ride past their gate without so much as a glance, three winters of perfumed letters and rehearsed laughs that

earned them nothing but his back turned toward Belle’s window instead. Belle, who didn’t even want him. Belle, who’d vanished into the old castle on the hill and come back glowing with a love none of the village could explain or forgive

“She gets the monster,” Claudette muttered one evening, yanking her shawl tight against the cold, “and we get nothing.”

It was Paulette’s idea to go foraging that night — furs were thin on the ground that winter, and a good pelt sold dear at market, dear enough to buy three new dresses and not think about Gaston for a while

Laurette agreed before she’d even finished hearing the plan. Claudette came because she wasn’t about to let her sisters wander the treeline without her. They should have turned

back when the moon disappeared behind the clouds. They should have turned back when the path forked twice and neither fork looked familiar. By the time they admitted they were lost, the forest had gone utterly silent — the kind of silence that isn’t empty, but listening

The first howl came from everywhere at once. “Run,” Paulette said, and for once nobody argued with her

They ran until their lungs burned, until Laurette’s skirt tore on a bramble and she didn’t dare stop to free it, until Claudette’s knife was out of her boot and shaking in her hand. The wolves were close now

— close enough to hear the wet snap of their jaws, close enough to see lean grey shapes weaving between the trunks like the trees themselves had teeth. Paulette saw the cave first. “There!” They didn’t reach it. A wolf broke from

the pack and lunged for Laurette’s heel — and something enormous came down between them and it, a shadow with claws and a roar that shook frost from the branches overhead. For one terrible heartbeat the sisters thought they’d traded one death for another

But the shape didn’t turn on them. It turned on the wolves

It fought like something that had spent a long, long time being afraid of exactly this kind of night, and had decided it would never be afraid again. Claws and fury and

a snarl too articulate to belong to any ordinary animal — within a minute, the pack was scattering back into the dark, yelping, and the three sisters stood frozen at the mouth of the

cave, staring at the heaving, broad-shouldered silhouette now standing between them and the forest. It turned to face them. Eyes too intelligent for a beast. Too lonely for a man.

“You’re hurt,” Laurette whispered — to it, not about it — and stepped forward before Claudette could grab her sleeve

Paulette, ever practical, was already pulling a strip of cloth from her torn hem. “Sit down before you bleed out on us. We didn’t survive the wolves just to lose our rescuer to a scratch.”

Claudette said nothing for a long moment, knife still in hand, gaze flicking between the retreating dark and the strange, breathing thing in front of her. Then, slowly, she lowered the blade.

“Well,” she said. “At least this one noticed we existed.”

For the first time in three long winters, none of them were thinking about Gaston at all.

The cave smelled of damp stone and pine smoke from the fire Paulette had coaxed to life. The beast sat hunched near the entrance, one arm wrapped where Laurette had tied the cloth, watching the three of them with an expression caught somewhere between wariness and disbelief. Claudette: (arms crossed, still gripping her knife loosely) You could have let them have us. Would’ve been easier than fighting a whole pack on our account. Beast: (low, rough, like a voice unused to speaking) Easier. Not better. Laurette: (crouching closer, undeterred) That’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to us all winter, and you growled half of it. Beast: (a huff that might be a laugh) I don’t get much practice with words. Or company. Paulette: (checking the bandage, matter-of-fact) You fight like something that’s done it before. Recently. Often. Beast: Wolves don’t knock before they come in. Neither do most things out here. Claudette: And yet you didn’t eat us. Forgive me for finding that the strangest part of the night. Beast: (quiet) You looked at me like I was a monster before I’d done anything. Most things do. I’m… not used to anyone looking at me and waiting to see what happens next. Laurette: (softly) Maybe that’s because most people decide you’re a monster before they let you prove otherwise. Beast: (a long pause, eyes flicking to her, almost startled) That’s a generous thing to say to something with claws this size. Paulette: We’ve spent three winters being generous to a man who didn’t deserve it. Figured we’d try the opposite for once — being honest with something that actually earned it. Claudette: (half a smirk, sheathing the knife at last) Don’t let it go to your head. We’re grateful, not friends. Yet.

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