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She closes it again.

And she sighs and flops into the bed for the night.
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In the morning, the door opens, and in sidles a tray laden with delicious breakfast. She may or may not catch it in the act of setting itself up by her bedside.
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She does catch it. She attempts to interrupt the self-pouring teapot.

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The teapot rights itself in mid-pour and settles back onto the tray.

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She also attempts to catch the knife that's buttering her toast. How does this work?

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The knife stills when she grabs hold of it.

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And if she lets go, midair...?

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It puts itself down neatly on the tray.

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And now her toast is half-buttered. Hmm. She wonders how smart it is. Fairy tales never agree on what magic would do if it existed. She gets to check. "It's okay, go on," she says.

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The knife resumes buttering her toast.

The teapot tips questioningly toward the partly filled cup, not far enough to pour any more tea into it.
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"You too," she says, delighted in spite of herself, "it's okay."

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The teapot lifts itself up and pours and settles back down, all without spilling a drop.

The knife completes its task and puts itself down again, buttery side up so as not to get anything on the tray.
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"Thank you," Belle says, and she tucks in. Mmm. "Are there any people here or just a lonely magic castle that wants somebody to look after?"

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No answer from the cutlery.

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She looks around expectantly at the rest of her room. If the lights know where she is and the dishes understand speech, maybe the rug will tilt its pile into the shape of words, she doesn't know.

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Nothing.

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Okay then.

She gets up to check out the rest of the castle.

She brings her map-book. Perhaps the building is more amenable to mapping than the surrounding forest.

She's worried about Charlie, but she doesn't seem to have any way to make progress at finding him, and it's possible that someone who can help her lives here.
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The interior of the castle is reassuringly consistent. Also, very pretty.

When not leading her around, the lanterns kindle themselves wherever she looks and douse themselves when she leaves a room.
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Well, this is a nice castle, and it's going spare, unless someone is hiding from her behind that one locked door. (She doesn't pry.) She might just move into it if she can ever find out how to get between it and civilization.

It takes her until lunchtime to explore the whole thing less the single locked room.
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Shortly after noon, another tray of food comes skittering down the hall.

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Mmm, lunch.

Belle fills up and then she decides to go out and see if she can make any headway at discerning a pattern in the way the forest steers her.
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This time it lets her get much farther from the castle before steering her back... but 'much farther' is still only a few minutes' walk.

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She writes down everything she notices.

It looks random to her.

Finally she lets herself be steered all the way back into the castle to mull over what she's noted down while not trying to take more data. She gets nowhere. She gives up and experiments with talking to the furniture.
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Requests for things that involve simple movement—'come here', 'go there', 'wiggle if you understand me'—are generally obliged. More abstract queries, or statements that don't involve asking for anything, are ignored.

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She's still curious about her idea of the rug pile forming words. She writes some words of her own in the carpet: write back if you can understand me.

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