by Emma Beaven
Where the Briars Sleep
Emma Beaven
Tangled Tree Publishing
WHERE THE BRIARS SLEEP © 2021 by EMMA BEAVEN
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All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any written, electronic, recorded, or photocopied format without the express permission from the author or publisher as allowed under the terms and conditions with which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorized distribution, circulation or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly. Thank you for respecting the work of this author.
Where the Briars Sleep is a work of fiction. All names, characters, events and places found therein are either from the author's imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to persons alive or dead, actual events, locations, or organizations is entirely coincidental and not intended by the author.
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In production with Childress Ink LLC, Literary Agent, Kim Childress
Product Developer: Kelly Anne White
For information, contact the publisher, Tangled Tree Publishing.
www.tangledtreepublishing.com
Editing: Hot Tree Editing
Cover Designer: BookSmith Design
Ebook ISBN: 978-1-922359-50-6
Paperback ISBN: 978-1-922359-51-3
Hardback ISBN: 978-1-922359-75-9
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Library of Congress Control Number: 2021901590
I dedicate this book to the spirits of the Baltimore horror writers who have gone before me.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
The New House
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
About the Author
Acknowledgments
About the Publisher
One
North Baltimore, Maryland - 1803
The ribbons were scattered. A blooming array of colors twisted and wound about the wood floor like brightly colored snakes. But there was one color distinctly missing.
Maggie.
Rose went to find her younger sister, glancing briefly at the wardrobe as she passed, avoiding looking at the mirror.
“Maggie! Where are my new ribbons?”
No answer.
Why must she insist on wearing my new ribbons when she has more than enough of her own? Rose fumed and went to find her younger sister. As she stormed out of their shared bedroom, she briefly glanced at her reflection in the wardrobe mirror as she passed, immediately seeing the wisps of black hair that had escaped what would have been a perfect twist.
At the top of their curving staircase, she grasped a swath of her skirt and ran down the stairs, taking care not to trip. She had tripped twice before and not broken her neck only by chance.
Rose pushed through the glass-paned doors of the sitting room, where she found Maggie with her embroidery. Right underneath Mother’s portrait. Rose tried not to look at it and instead focused on her sister’s perfectly coiffed hair. “You’re wearing my ribbons.”
“You haven’t used them since you bought them.” Maggie smiled smugly, looking up from her sewing. “Plus, they look prettier on me.”
Rose breathed in deeply, her dress constricting her throat and wrists. She didn’t envy Maggie’s straw-blonde locks, though she would never say it. “I need them so I can match my dress for the party,” Rose said, brushing back another escaped black curl. She fingered her pale blue dress, a slight frown spreading across her face as she thought of how plain it seemed. She had to do much better for the party. And better than Maggie, especially.
“Were you still planning on the dress we saw in town? The one you asked Father to bring?”
“What if I was?” Rose asked, feeling a warmth creep up her face, and not from the muggy morning humidity.
“Oh, nothing,” Maggie said quickly. “I’m just not sure these red ribbons would match the blue of that dress.
Rose let her back relax against the velvet sofa and studied its detailed embroidery, gold flowers against dark navy blue.
A slight breeze blew lightly through the lace curtains from the front of the house into the stuffy parlor. Rose tilted her face in its direction.
The old grandfather clock chimed, and Rose startled, her gaze inadvertently drawn to the eerie moon on the clockface, then to the two paintings hanging on the wall next to the clock.
One showed a younger Rose and Maggie. Rose’s dark tresses fell from the confines of a pearl comb while three-year-old Maggie’s light hair was cut short. They wore matching green dresses with thin lace along the arms. Rose had one hand on Maggie’s shoulder, the other holding three white lilies. Rose’s stormy eyes stared directly at the painter, whereas Maggie’s dark blue eyes gazed expectantly at her older sister.
Rose felt a twinge of guilt. It had been a long time since Maggie had looked at her that way—perfectly trusting and somewhat in awe.
The other painting showed Mother. Though she died nearly fifteen years ago, it still hurt Rose to look at the portrait. But at this moment, she let her eyes linger. Mother’s honey blonde hair was a shade paler than Maggie’s, pinned into curls encircling her softly curved face. Her mother’s green eyes glimmered like jewels, the light bouncing off them while she focused thoughtfully on some faraway object. She wore a heavy gray dress trimmed with fur and dark blue floral embroidery. The room behind her was decorated with opulent thick rugs and an ivory pedestal with a flowing bouquet of exotic greenery.
She sighed. Sometimes Rose imagined she heard Mother’s voice in the back garden, floating on the soft breezes that stirred the thick, overheated air.
Rose turned
to find Maggie looking at her fixedly.
“How about we have a walk?” Maggie reached for her bonnet and smiled. “It’s hot and stuffy in here. Come on. I’m sorry. It’ll be nice. We can pick some flowers.”
“Yes, I suppose that would be nice,” Rose agreed. She greatly preferred the cool gardens to the heavy, oppressive atmosphere of the house.
“We can make a bouquet for Mariotta. One for her new vase.”
Rose’s face darkened at the mention of their stepmother. “I hate her vase. It’s so putridly ugly. We have plenty of other vases we can use.”
Maggie frowned at Rose in her motherly way, her lips tightening ever so slightly.
“I’m going to get my bonnet,” Rose said with a heavy sigh. She whisked out of the room before Maggie could say anything else.
The house was already heating up, especially as Rose climbed the stairs. She found her bedroom door closed. One of the servants must have been through already. She pushed open the heavy oak doors, and sure enough, the window was open and the bedsheets had been tidied. But the heat was still overwhelming.
She moved quickly to the large wardrobe with its broken keyhole and its door that never latched. As the temperature shifted throughout the day, the door would slowly creep open, the wood swelling and forcing the door out of its frame.
On a shelf above her hanging dresses, several bonnets, ribbons, muffs, and gloves were scattered in disarray. Rose reached for her favorite bonnet, the one threaded with yellow ribbons, and as she pulled it down, half of the shelf’s contents came with it. “Damn!”
Her bonnet floated to the floor as she dropped to her knees to gather everything that had fallen. As she reached for her bonnet, she froze.
An orange ribbon peeked out from under the white wardrobe.
Rose recoiled immediately, catching her foot in the long skirt of her dress, which caused her to trip and thud hard onto her backside.
“I know I cleaned up,” she whispered, clutching her bonnet to her chest.
“Rose?”
Rose startled and quickly jumped up. Maggie stood in the doorway, staring at her.
“I tripped. On my skirt.”
“I see.” Maggie reached for her hand. “Well, don’t trip on the stairs.”
“Stop treating me like a child!” Rose pushed past Maggie. “And why did you leave such a mess?”
“Me, leave a mess!” Maggie laughed. “When you just throw everything up there?”
“I mean on the floor,” Rose said as Maggie moved past her. “You left a ribbon on the floor.”
“A ribbon? Really?” Maggie shifted her gaze to the floor. She stepped closer and cocked her head. “That’s not mine.”
Her abdomen twitched. “Of course it is. I don’t wear orange.”
“Neither do I. It must be—”
“It’s yours!” Rose cried out before Maggie could say her name. “My God, Maggie, why don’t you just pick up your mess?”
“Rose!” Maggie shouted, her eyes wide open. “Why are you behaving this way?”
Rose rushed from the room, but before she rounded the first curve of the stairs, she saw her sister kneel beside the wardrobe, snatch up the ribbon, and quickly drop it out the open window.
Two
Rose waited at the front door, red parasol in hand, and said, “I’m ready,” as Maggie raced to the stairs. She was calmer, her head clear from just a few moments earlier.
“All right.” Maggie smoothed her dress, eyeing Rose surreptitiously as she checked the lacing on her boots.
“Storm.” Rose breathed in deeply, savoring the sudden weather change that was infecting the air. “I hope it’s a big one.”
Feeling more at ease as soon as she stepped through the heavy front doors, she threaded her way around a set of chairs and small table, heading across the wide veranda, delighting in the way the winds were already picking up.
“With the green lightning,” Maggie said, smiling. It was good for the two of them to be out together like this. Especially for Rose. If only things could be like this all the time.
Maggie blew out a breath. “You just want to get soaked. Only the sweet Lord knows why.” She seemed to hesitate, eyeing the thick purple clouds overtaking the last remnants of blue in the sky. “I don’t want to get caught in the storm.”
“I love it!” Rose reached for Maggie’s hand and weaved through the grass, her eyes on the fringe of woods several hundred yards to the left. “Please, Maggie, let’s get flowers quick. I promise I’ll be good when we get back. We can sew or read or play piano or talk about the brutally lovely confines of domesticity.”
“You know picking flowers is just as bad. We’re not little girls anymore.”
Rose smirked. “Yes, but the woods are so wild. Anything could be in there. Anything but stitching.” She giggled and raced toward the woods, knowing Maggie wouldn’t abandon her to the storm.
“Rose, wait! The rain!”
Rose heard Maggie’s pounding footsteps behind her as she bundled her skirt higher to take bigger strides. They raced past the pink marble pond and through the edges of the McCanns’ yard next door, which was fenced by a perfect row of twenty large camellia bushes. Rose reached the edge of the woods as the first heavy gust of wind washed over the trees. In the darkness, she could still see clumps of wildflowers as well as a small patch of tiger lilies and large purple irises. Around them, wild roses crawled across the lower branches of the trees.
Maggie huffed behind her. “Slow down. I hate running!” She reached out, but her fingertips fell short of Rose.
Ignoring her sister, Rose struggled away and went for the irises and lilies. “Hurry and grab a bunch of wildflowers. I’ll get these.”
Maggie’s brows dipped low as she stepped farther into the patchy woods.
As Rose picked her way to the profuse growth of wild roses, a sharp, nearly incapacitating pain pierced her head. “Mama?” she whispered hoarsely, her gaze roving over what looked to be a marble step.
“Rose? What are you doing?” Maggie’s voice seemed dim and far away, drowned in the racing wind.
Confused, Rose shuffled forward to the area covered in briars that wound their way about the brighter flowers, dragging them into the darkness.
Ignoring the pain in her head, she ripped at the fragile stems as the sky emitted a heavy rumble. Reaching for another handful of irises, she felt a sharp pain in her hand. Immediately, she paused and brought the wound to her face. A thin trail of blood ran across her palm, where what looked like a thorn protruded from a soft mound near her wrist. Irritated, she plucked at it as another roll of thunder broke.
She looked up at the sky, at the deep purple clouds that threatened to erupt at any minute, and then back to the earth. Unintentionally, she had wandered there. Perhaps because she had been away, been gone. And forgotten. And now she stood by the family plot, her wounded hand lingering over her stepsister’s nearly hidden grave. A small drop of dark red blood fell from her palm, dotting the weathered marble.
“Come on!” Maggie’s hand fell onto her shoulder, a bit of lace visible in Rose’s peripheral vision.
“I’ve got a thorn in my hand.”
“What?”
“Look!”
Maggie leaned her head over Rose’s shoulder, frowning. “Just come on! We’ll check on it inside!” Without waiting, she took off across the lawn.
Rose followed slowly, uncaring as raindrops hit her face. She made her way past the McCanns’ yard and looked toward the front porch. Maggie had already made it to the steps, her flowers clutched to her chest as she tried to shield her head from the wind.
As Rose crossed the lawn, the sky’s torment exploded viciously, wind whipping the rain onto her like waves in the ocean. Her dress quickly became heavy and soggy, its hem dragging through the dirt. She tried to pull up her skirt without hurting her still bleeding palm, but it was impossible. Judging from the pain in her hand, she was sure her skin was tearing apart a little more with each moveme
nt, and her dress seemed to have doubled in weight. The wind blew harder, making it difficult to see the house as she forced her way through the yard, now thick with mud.
Maggie was completely out of sight now, but no lights had yet appeared in the house.
As quickly as she could, Rose moved, but the mud sucked hard at her shoes. And as she neared the porch, the square heel of one of her shoes embedded itself and refused to come out as she tried to take her next step. Face-first, she hit the ground, landing on top of the flowers she had picked. Cold, slick mud went down the front of her dress and coated the lace on her bonnet.
Disgusted, Rose spat and attempted to sit up, still very aware of her throbbing hand. Rain and mud ran off her face as she did so. She attempted to wipe it out of her eyes, the grit stinging sharply. Whimpering softly, she pushed herself up with her good hand and gazed longingly at the porch.
