The guard—Rose had quite forgotten about him—bowed at the waist, and lifted his voice to the monarchs.
“Your Royal Highness; Your Majesty,” he said, straightening up. “May I present the physician from the Halls of Healing, as requested, to attend His Royal Highness.”
Rose had not torn her gaze from that of the prince—but now she felt the gaze of the queen fall upon her also. And it chilled her bones.
Slowly, Rose dipped into a curtsey, then straightened, and clasped her hands in front of her.
The two royals studied her for a moment—then, the prince glanced over at the queen, and raised his eyebrows. Then he looked back down at Rose.
“Well, I think we both find this entertaining,” he said to Rose. “No one has dared to venture past our border in all my lifetime. I’m astonished that the great healers decided to send someone so flimsy.”
His tenor voice bore a singular accent: precise, firm, and sophisticated—with the tiniest hint of an impish lisp upon the turn of his “s.”
Rose drew a deep breath.
“I came as soon as we received your message, Your Highness,” she replied. “I hope that I may be of some help to you.”
“Of course you will help,” said the queen. “You have no other purpose here. It is with great reluctance that we opened our borders at all—and it is with great satisfaction that we shall close them again after your work is complete.”
Her voice—soft and passionless, like a gust of wind, hiding the depth and fury of a blizzard.
Rose frowned at her turn of phrase, and turned her head to look at her. The queen looked back. Fixed, and expressionless. That cold starlight in her eyes.
Rose said nothing. And she purposefully returned her attention to the prince.
He saw it. His smile took on the shadow of a smirk, and his right eyebrow lifted minutely.
“What is your name?” the prince asked, adjusting his hold on the queen’s hand.
“Rose Melhorn,” she answered.
“What is Rose?” the queen asked—like wind in the mountains. Rose glanced at her.
“It is a flower,” Rose replied.
“A flower,” the queen repeated, blinking once.
“Yes,” Rose answered. “A living creature that comes from the ground, sprouts colorful petals, and then dies away to make room for more.”
The queen stared at her. Nothing sparked behind those placid eyes. Yet, Rose felt that the fairy could see all the way through her.
“Sounds relatively useless.” The prince gave Rose a subtly-threatening look. “I hope you will not be as such.”
Again, Rose said nothing. And she could feel the entire court listening to every word. The prince did not break his glare—but Rose showed nothing on her face. Finally, he took a breath.
“Fine, let’s finish the formalities so she can be off doing whatever needs doing,” he stated, looking to the queen again. The queen inclined her head to him, then turned to Rose.
And she slowly, deliberately, held out her right hand.
“Healer Rose Melhorn,” she said. “Your service is welcome in Glas.”
Rose watched that frosted hand for a long moment. Then, she lifted her gaze to the queen’s.
“I decline.”
A frown flashed across the prince’s brow.
The queen blinked.
The entire court behind Rose shifted, and muttered. Fairy wings rustled.
“What do you decline?” the queen asked—a slight furrow appearing on her brow. “To remain in Glas to attend the prince?”
“No, I will attend him,” Rose amended. “I simply decline to take your hand.”
The restless murmurs behind her increased.
The queen leaned slightly forward.
“It is the custom in Spegel,” she stated.
“As I am certain you are aware, being learned in the laws of all the kingdoms,” Rose replied. “I am subject to neither custom nor judgment, nor any law save for those of my own master. As I came at my own expediency, I shall leave when I alone am willing. My only restraint as I perform my duty is that I do no harm.”
“Mine is a simple greeting,” the queen explained, her tone hardening. “And it is the height of insult if refused.”
“With all due respect, madam, I am well acquainted with the ways of your people,” Rose said, never breaking her gaze. “And you and I both know it is far more than a greeting. I am here only to heal His Royal Highness.” She paused. “You are not a rightful monarch here. And I am not a subject of the kingdom of Iss. Nor do I intend to become one.”
A low, collective cry issued from the court.
The queen gradually lowered her hand.
Then, she released her grip on the prince, and slowly rose to her feet.
Light fractured from her every movement—and the blue fire that lit the halls blazed in her eyes. She stood at least six feet tall, and upon the dais, she loomed over Rose like a monolith.
The queen raised her shimmering arm, and pointed toward the door, like an ivory figurehead.
“Get. Out.”
Rose felt the heat drain from her face.
She braced herself, trying not to sway backward as the queen’s invisible power rolled out toward her…
Rose twisted her glance away, and made herself look to the prince.
He watched the queen for a moment, then met Rose’s eyes.
Rose’s heart hammered.
“Your Royal Highness,” she said, firm as she could. “You summoned a healer. You alone may send me from your sight.” She paused, and swallowed. “Do you wish me to go?”
The queen’s crown flared as she turned her head to stare at the prince.
He didn’t stir. That sardonic curl to his lips. He rubbed his forefinger and thumb together.
And finally, he spoke.
“No one in the whole of our two kingdoms, no matter how…motivated…has been able to discover a cure to these headaches that plague me every night,” he said. “Do you believe that you can accomplish that which so many others could not?”
Rose took a shuddering breath.
“I do.”
He considered for just an instant.
“Very well,” he said briskly. “If you will not bend to our customs, then we shall not bend to yours. Therefore, I shall set new terms to our arrangement: If you succeed in banishing this nightmarish condition of mine before my wedding, you shall be rewarded with a portion of priceless glass, unequalled in all the world, and sent merrily on your way, back to the Halls of Healing, to live happily ever after.” Then, he gave her a frank smile. “But if you fail, I shall drag you out before all my guests, and cut off your head.”
Rose swallowed. The queen buried her with a fatal glance.
The prince leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and interlacing his fingers. He watched Rose intently.
“Do you accept my terms?” he purred. “Or would you like to turn around and leave now?”
Rose shivered. She drew herself up.
“I accept your terms.”
Displeasure rippled out from the queen.
The prince smiled up at her.
“She should be reminded of the law,” the queen told him.
“Oh, yes,” the prince said lightly, sitting back up. “Since you have refused to take the queen’s hand, then you shan’t dine in our presence—and you shan’t touch me.”
Rose suddenly frowned.
“What? I cannot touch you? But how can I—” Rose tried.
“Not unless you’d like that beheading to come a little more quickly,” the prince amended.
“But—” Rose tried again.
“What?” he challenged, raising his eyebrows at her. “Can you not fulfill your promise after all?”
Rose bit down.
“I can.”
The prince waved a dismissive hand and looked off.
“You’ll be summoned when you’re required,” he said.
And that was all
.
The queen sat down and turned toward him, and the two began discussing something else, as if Rose didn’t even exist.
Rose ground her teeth. The guard stepped up next to her, then turned and began striding back toward the great doors.
Giving one last look at the two icy monarchs, Rose also turned, and followed the guard out of Hoarfrost Hall.
Chapter Six
And Created a Sanctuary
The guard escorted her all the way back to the Summit in Radiance Towers, even as darkness shuttered the windows, and took the glow out of the walls. Rose’s stomach growled, but she said nothing as she followed him. Except once.
“What is that?” she asked, pausing, and pointing to her right.
There, in the midst of one of the hallways in the Radiance wing, was a large opening surrounded by gold filigree, and bearing a horizontal brass bar just beneath the lintel. It was dark beyond.
“Nothing. It’s obsolete,” the guard remarked.
“But what is it?” Rose asked, stepping toward it and bending down to peer inside. “Some sort of laundry chute?”
The guard heaved a sigh.
“It is a slide.”
She straightened, and frowned at him.
“A slide? For what?”
He heaved another sigh.
“For people,” he answered. “There are hundreds of them here. The system was devised before the Jetta as a way of transporting oneself to the levels below.”
Rose stared at him—and then grinned.
“A slide.”
He stared back at her, befuddled.
“That is what I said. Now come.”
Unable to suppress her grin, Rose followed after him until they reached her door.
“Sleep well,” the guard said—with a bit of a disbelieving snort—and departed, his heels tapping the glass.
Rose watched him go, then took out her key and put it in the lock. Tried to twist it.
It fought her.
“Now, no you don’t,” she gritted, taking a deep breath and letting warmth flow out through her fingers, into the key…
Click!
The latch worked, and the door swung open. Rose crisply pulled out the key and strode in. She tugged off her gloves.
“Now, that’s enough of that,” she declared, tossing the key and her gloves onto the bed and twirling to face the door. “Now, out, you!”
She pressed her hand firmly to the door—it slammed shut—
And heat rushed out through her, and flowed into the door.
Instantly, the frost that coated the surface rippled, and melted. Large clear droplets ran down the door all the way to the floor…
And the thick ice that locked the wall around the door began to split, and slide off in thick chunks, then tumble and noisily shatter. The wave of warmth traveled up, up, to the peak of the roof, sending hundreds of droplets raining from the ceiling, striking the floor with a symphony of ringing. Rose tilted her head back and smiled—the pure drops sprinkled across her skin and hair.
Puddles formed at the base of all the walls, then turned the entire floor into a glimmering gold mirror.
Rose turned around and looked up, then clapped her hands.
The glass instantly cleared. And above her head spread a heaven strewn with a million twinkling stars.
She grinned in delight. Faced the door again, and pointed at it.
“You cannot come back in!” she declared, then clapped her hands.
The command shook the panes. The door vibrated.
And the temperature in the room rose.
Humidity clouded in the air.
Rose twirled around again, her cape swirling, and snatched up her bag. She opened the latch, reached down inside the limitless2 space…
And pulled out a small clay bottle. She popped the cork, held the bottle out…
And, ever so gently, tipped it so that three drops fell to the floor.
Golden drops, like sunlight.
They struck the water on the floor.
It shivered. Transformed with color, as if lit by the dawn.
Rose replaced the cork and set the bottle on the mantel. She reached into her bag again, and pulled out a handful of what appeared to be tiny brown seeds.
She strode into the center of her room, held her fist high over her head…
Then flung the seeds down into the water with all her strength.
Fire burst around her ankles.
And suddenly, a carpet of grass rolled out from beneath her feet and consumed the water, rushing all the way to the edges of the room.
Then, when it struck the curtains against the walls, the grass there changed shape altogether.
Rose vines burst from the grass, sprouting thorns and beautiful, shiny reddish leaves, twisting up and through the red curtains, climbing toward the ceiling. They also began winding and binding around the posts of Rose’s bed, hiding the glass and creating a living canopy high over her blankets and pillows.
Then, Rose grabbed her bag by the bottom, and violently shook it out.
A shower of pebbles burst from the bag—
Only to spring, life-size, into the shapes of her old stump-clock, her ornate unicorn tapestries, her frowning wardrobe and trunk, her worn woven rug, her musical mobiles, her scented candles and brass lamps, her writing desk, and several stacks of books.
“Go, go, go!” she urged, laughing. And as if taking orders, the wardrobe, tapestries and clocks all swept into their new places in the free spots against the walls; the trunk snugged itself against the foot of her bed, the rug spread luxuriously down on the grassy floor, the mobiles and hanging lamps grabbed hold of various rose vines and dangled there as if they were quite at home. The books stacked themselves neatly atop the trunk, the desk settled next to the only window, facing it, and the accompanying stool scooted underneath it.
Setting her bag down, Rose lifted both hands and snapped her fingers several times.
The lamps and scented candles burst to life, their flames winking like living chips of gold, banishing the harsh, icy illumination of the moon and stars, and filling the air with scents of lavender, cinnamon, and ginger. Then, Rose faced the fireplace, and with a crisp clap, as if she were dusting off her palm…
Fire leaped to life in the hearth—real, living fire; red as a heartbeat, vivid as summertime. Its heat filled the mantel, the wall itself, and bloomed out into the chamber, immediately drying Rose’s bedsheets and curtains.
“Aha,” Rose sighed, smiling at everything and taking off her cloak, for it had gotten far too warm in here to wear it. “Much better.”
She moved to her wardrobe, opened the door, and hung her cloak inside. Then, she faced the rest of the room, glancing across the rose vines that hung from absolutely everything.
“I expect you to be blooming by morning,” she warned, giving them a wry smile—then headed toward the water-closet to thaw the pipes and take a steaming hot bath.
Rose, quite warm enough in her summer nightgown and light dressing gown tied with a sash, tied off her long braid as she emerged barefoot from the bath room, her face flushed.
She immediately went to her bag, grabbed it, and sat down cross-legged on the rug. She stuck her hand inside and grasped a single smooth black stone the size of her hand, which she gently set on the rug beside her. Putting the bag aside, she stretched out a hand over the stone, then tapped it twice with her fingernail.
Like a lily blossom, the stone leaped to life and spread…
Into a short stone table, draped with burlap. A small brown jug of mead sprouted from the burlap, along with a basket of steaming-hot bread, a silver plate of ham doused in creamy cranberry sauce alongside a scoop of garlic mashed potatoes, a mug of dark tea with honey, and a bowl of fresh strawberries drizzled with more honey.
A knife and fork bounced to life next to Rose’s hand, and she eagerly took them up, her stomach growling again.
She eagerly ate and drank everything, relishing in every delicio
us, steaming taste. The scent of the food filled the room, joining the heady smell of the candles.
When at last she had finished the last morsel and wiped her mouth, she tapped the center of the table with her fingernail again…
And the table folded like paper, shrank…
And shivered as it turned back into a stone. Smiling, Rose picked it up and set it back into her bag.
Then, stretching, she got to her feet, took a lamp down from the place where it hung, and set it upon the desk. Then she sat down at it and opened one of the drawers.
There lay Daisy’s gift—the eitil, the magic paper that she could write on with anything, send it out the window to Daisy, and it would erase itself when she told it to…
And then Daisy could write back.
Smiling at the thought, Rose pulled out a fountain pen, unfolded the battered paper and smoothed it in front of her, thought for a moment, then began to write by flickering lamplight.
Daisy,
I have arrived safely in Glas. The masters were right — even though it is summertime, the land of Spegel is filled with winter, and has been for many years, it seems. The palace of Glas is immense and stunning. I’m not sure any words of mine can properly describe it. I cannot imagine what sort of craftsmanship and imagination it took to construct it.
I have met Prince Nikolas in audience. He is handsome and fierce-looking, and is quite cold and careless. And he is indeed engaged to be married to Iskyla, the Queen of Iss. I have met her, as well, and her fairy subjects, for they seem to have moved into Glas and act as if they are at home. The queen and her court are beautiful, but chilling in every regard. Like living ice. She herself seemed to want to speak on the prince’s behalf, as if she were the ruling monarch, when in fact she has no rights other than those he grants her. I was not rude, but I gave all deference to him first.
Also, she endeavored to enspell me by trying to force me to take her hand. (She has clearly done this with the prince himself and all his court, for they walk about humorless and pale, and somehow have no need of basic warmth or hot food.) When I declined her hand, she attempted to banish me—somehow forgetting that I am here to heal her fiancé’s punishing headaches. A fact which, happily, at least he remembered.
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