Glass

by Alydia Rackham

  Nikolas’ shining blue eyes flew open—and he saw her.

  Rose let out a shocked, watery laugh, and clapped a hand over her mouth.

  “Your Highness!” Captain Elfrid yelped. “Are you all right?”

  Nikolas didn’t answer. He jerked into a half sitting position, bracing up on one elbow, his breathing fast and ragged. He blinked, and tears ran down his cheeks.

  “Oh, you frightened me,” Rose scolded him, her voice trembling uncontrollably—and equally-uncontrollably, she reached up and brushed his curls away from his forehead. “What were you doing?”

  “I’m fine,” he muttered hoarsely. Then, he frowned painfully, his head came up, and he studied her for a long moment. “What did you do?”

  Rose laughed again, curling her fingers around his collar.

  “Bit of magic,” she managed.

  He said nothing, just stared at her, the tracks of his tears gleaming in the light of Elfrid’s lamp. And she felt his gaze trace her forehead, her eyes, and her own tears.

  “Why?” he asked.

  “You broke your promise,” Rose said shakily.

  “Does it matter?” he murmured.

  Rose’s brow twisted, and she stroked his curls from his forehead again. She couldn’t speak.

  And he watched her face, his expression filling with quiet bewilderment—but he didn’t pull back.

  Rose made herself smile again, dropping her hand to grip his arm.

  “Let’s build the fire back up again, shall we?” she suggested. “It’s far too cold in here.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  The Blizzard Ceased

  All was quiet, save the drowsy crackle of the fire in the hearth. Captain Elfrid and the other guard had gone, shutting the door behind them. The wind no longer roared outside the towers, nor howled across the battlement. Stillness possessed the entire palace. Rose lifted her free right hand and quietly drew aside the thick drapes that covered the prince’s broad window.

  And let out a long, low breath.

  The blizzard had vanished. And a radiant winter sky shone as far as the eye could see, bordered by fantastic rolling hills of sparkling sugar. Sunlight spilled through the panes, and Rose turned slowly to study the pattern it made across the brilliantly-colored rug, the pile of decorative pillows on the floor…

  And the way it rested upon the prince.

  He lay on his back, utterly at peace, swathed in scarlet blankets and pure-white sheets, surrounded by sumptuous down pillows. Though still pale, his stormy brow had smoothed, all tension gone; and his splendid curls turned to leaves of gold. He breathed deeply, evenly, a silver ring on his left-hand forefinger winking at the morning. His night shirt hung half off his right shoulder, and she could see his chest rising and falling. The sunlight, together with the brilliance of the sheets, his curls, and his night-shirt, made him almost too brilliant to look at. Yet Rose lingered upon that sight for longer than she could remember.

  Finally, she took her teacup and saucer in both hands again, and soundlessly stepped bare-footed back around the foot of his great bed and to his right side, to the couch where she had spent her vigil. She carefully sat down on it, then tucked her feet up beside her, gazing at his shining profile through the steam of her tea.

  A few minutes later, his eyebrows drew together. His breathing changed. His eyes moved beneath soft lids. And then they blinked open.

  He frowned, squinting at the ceiling, and took a deep breath. Then, he caught sight of her out of his peripheral. He instantly turned his head to her. The silver bit in his eye flashed.

  She smiled softly at him.

  “Good morning, Your Highness,” she said.

  He frowned harder, then gradually relaxed his neck to lay back again into his pillow. But he never took his eyes from her.

  “How long have you been here?” he asked quietly.

  “I stayed the night here, on this couch,” Rose told him. “Though, just a bit ago, Captain Elfrid stood watch over you whilst I went back to my tower, dressed, and found my bag. But he’s just left, you see. So, I am here. As long as you require me.”

  “And what would I require from you?” the prince asked, his voice hoarse.

  Rose’s smile faded as she watched him, and she ran her thumb across the lip of her cup. A shadow passed across the prince’s face. He swallowed hard.

  Carefully, Rose set her teacup beside her, folded her hands, and took a breath.

  “Your Highness—”

  “Nikolas,” he whispered. “You may call me Nikolas.”

  Rose stared at him. But he only looked back at her, that deep and penetrating pain in his brilliant eyes.

  “I would be honored…” she said. “Nikolas.”

  He did not smile, and the pain did not fade. But something in his features softened. So, Rose summoned a smile of her own and straightened up.

  “I brought something for you,” she said, arose, and moved to her bag. She opened it, reached inside…

  And carefully drew out a perfect, long-stemmed rose—with white petals edged in pink. When she turned and carried it into the sunlight, the petals lit up, revealing every blush of pink, every delicate vein in both the petals and the leaves.

  Nikolas sat up onto his elbow, his eyes flashing.

  “What is that?” he whispered.

  She carried it back to him, and sat down on the edge of the bed.

  “It is a rose,” she told him, carefully holding it out to him.

  He stared at it, his breathing unsteadying. Then, just his suspicious eyes lifted to find hers.

  “No, it isn’t.”

  “Yes,” she chuckled.

  “But…” he trailed off.

  “It’s alive,” Rose finished. “Well, as long as I put it in some water for you soon.”

  “Alive?” he repeated.

  “Yes. See, touch it,” she held it closer to him. “Take it. Just be careful of the thorns.”

  Nikolas sat up the rest of the way, cautiously holding out his hands. Gently, she set the stem down in his palms.

  He twitched, blinking—then focused deeply. He held the bottom of the stem in his right hand, and very slowly ran his fingertips up the stem, across the sharp thorns, to the paper-thin leaves. He pressed the leaves between his finger and thumb, silently marveling at their jagged edges. Then, his hand strayed up to the blossom, as if afraid to touch it…

  Rose watched every movement he made, as fascinated by him as he was by the flower.

  He cupped the rose blossom in his palm, then ran his thumb across a petal.

  “It’s like velvet,” he breathed, lifting his eyebrows as if stricken to his core.

  “Smell it,” Rose urged.

  He glanced at her, but she just waited, so he lifted it so it brushed his lips, and took a deep breath.

  He suddenly stared at her. Then he shut his eyes, and took another breath. His brow furrowed, an edge of anguish to his expression.

  He lowered the flower, and slowly opened his eyes. Gazed down at it.

  “Magic?” he asked.

  “No, not particularly,” Rose answered. “I have them growing in my room—they have all just started to bloom and I adore it. But roses grow and bloom all over all the kingdoms—of all colors and sizes and kinds.”

  “And they stay this way?” Nikolas absently stroked a petal with his thumb again. Rose smiled and shook her head.

  “No. They just look like this for a few days. Then they wilt and their petals fall off. But,” she canted her head. “Just as soon as that happens, four more are waiting to burst into bloom to replace it.” She shrugged once. “I find that’s what makes them beautiful. They’re so fleeting that if you aren’t looking, you miss them.” She paused, considering him. And her tone gentled. “But…they’ll always try to show you again.”

  He said nothing for a long moment, studying the flower he held.

  “It will die, then,” he said softly. “Even if you put it in water.”

  “Well, that is
the fun part,” Rose beamed. He looked at her, frowning.

  “Fun part?”

  “Well, it means I get to bring you a new rose every other day,” she declared. “I have several colors—which would you like? I have white, red, pink, orange, this white-and-pink one, erm…I think I also have a few yellow ones.”

  Nikolas said nothing. Just held her gaze as if he had never seen her before.

  “What?” Rose asked. “What is it?”

  “You would bring me this, every day,” he said, his voice low and rough. “This—which, in the whole of Spegel, might be worth more than every treasure I own.” He shook his head once, searching her face. “Why?”

  “Because I would enjoy sharing them with you, if you like them,” she answered. “I have always loved giving roses to my friends.”

  Nikolas sat back away from her, his brow knotting as if he had been cut.

  “You cannot mean that,” he breathed.

  “Why not?” she wondered. “They don’t last very long, and I have so many…” She stopped—and she realized that had been only half of what he meant.

  She lifted her hand, reached out, and hooked her forefinger gently around his left-hand thumb.

  He swallowed. And she smiled.

  “Come have breakfast,” she said. “It’s all laid out by the fire—there’s lemon curd and honey-butter on blueberry scones, and strawberries and cream. You might die of deliciousness; I almost did. Do you have something here that could pretend to be a vase?”

  Chapter Nineteen

  The Curse Began to Clarify

  “You said you grow roses in your room,” Nikolas prompted, then picked up his glass and drank the rest of his raspberry juice.

  “Mhm,” Rose nodded, finishing the last bit of her blueberry scone.

  “How?” Nikolas wondered. Rose shrugged.

  “It’s just a little spell—almost like seeds,” she explained. “I learned a lot of flower magic when I was little. It came naturally to me.”

  “And you say you have several blooms?”

  Rose looked at him. He watched her.

  “More than several,” she said. “Would you like to see them?”

  Nikolas raised his eyebrows.

  “Now?”

  “Unless you have another engagement,” Rose amended.

  Nikolas snorted.

  “And what would I have to do, if Iskyla isn’t here?” he muttered, tossing his napkin on the short table.

  “Well, then,” Rose forced a smile, trying to banish the chill that name invoked. “I’ll wait if you’d like to dress yourself.”

  Nikolas sat back and stiffly got to his feet, then winced and pressed his fingertips to his breastbone. Rose watched him, her smile fading.

  “What was it you drank last night?” she asked quietly.

  “Liquor and lye,” he answered shortly, not looking at her. “I’ll just be a moment.”

  Once Nikolas had dressed and donned his cloak, they left his chambers and stepped out into the chilly hallway. Sunlight lit the gorgeous glass of the walls and walkways, only slightly dimmed by the coat of frost.

  Nikolas didn’t speak as they went, and gazed, unfocused, at the corridor ahead. Rose didn’t say anything, but walked right beside him, listening to their footsteps.

  Finally, they entered Radiance Towers, which shone with captured white light, and drew up in front of her bedroom door. Rose pulled out her key and put it into the lock, and turned it. With a brisk shove, she broke the ice sheet around the edges, and pushed the door open. She turned a grin to the prince.

  “Come in, Nikolas,” she said, and strode in—onto the carpet of grass.

  But he didn’t come in. He just stood on the threshold, staring.

  Rose pretended she didn’t notice, though inwardly she was beaming with delight. She tugged off her cape and tossed it on the bed, and her gloves soon followed. And then she faced him.

  He didn’t move his head, but his eyes roved across the room, from floor to ceiling. From the lush, emerald grass carpet, to the winding rose vines that climbed the walls and formed a canopy over her bed, to the happy fire dancing in the hearth, to the hundreds of sunlit blooms of all colors. The brilliant sunlight dappled through the overhanging leaves, creating patterns upon the grass and furniture—and the air hung heavy with the perfume of roses.

  “Come in!” she insisted, motioning to him. “Come in and shut the door.”

  Nikolas, as if he were venturing out upon thin ice, gingerly set his booted right foot upon the grass. It sank down into the plants. He pulled his foot back. The grass slowly righted itself.

  His eyes found Rose’s.

  “What is this?” he demanded. She giggled.

  “It’s grass! It’s a plant that covers the ground—horses and cattle and all kinds of other animals eat it. And it smells so nice when the summer sun has baked it.”

  “Sun doesn’t bake anything,” Nikolas muttered. “Just glares in your eyes.”

  Rose didn’t reply to that—just watched him consider venturing in. Finally, after studying the way her feet stood firmly amongst the green, he came inside, grasped the door, and swung it shut.

  “Here,” Rose offered, stepping up to him and holding out her hands. “I’ll take your cloak. It’s far too warm in here for it.”

  He lifted an eyebrow, but shrugged it off and handed it to her. She laid it across her bed, then turned to glance up at the flowers.

  “What do you think?” she asked, clasping her hands in front of her.

  “Quite marvelous,” he remarked quietly. “How are they made?”

  “Ha, well, that is a great mystery,” Rose replied, sitting on the foot of her bed, cross-legged. “Only the One at the Source knows that, I’d imagine.”

  Nikolas frowned at her.

  “The One at the Source.”

  “Yes, the one who made everything,” Rose answered. “The earth, the stars, the animals and the flowers, and us, of course. And just how He did it, I have no idea. We can’t seem to replicate His work—we can just help it grow.”

  Nikolas studied her with furrowed brow, but she smiled at him.

  “I’m sure your mother told you about the beginning of the world,” Rose nudged. “It’s one of my favorite stories.”

  “My mother was dead before I knew her,” Nikolas replied flatly, crossing the room toward her window to peer at the young bud of a yellow rose.

  Rose blinked.

  “Then…what about your father?”

  “He abandoned me,” Nikolas replied, short and frank. “Hated me for my ugly foul-ness and for causing my mother to fall ill.” He touched the petals of one the yellow flower. “I don’t even recall what he looked like.”

  “Doesn’t that…Doesn’t that trouble you?” Rose asked softly, breathless.

  “No,” Nikolas glanced at her. “Why should I care?”

  “I…I suppose I would care, if it were me,” Rose murmured. “But…I’ve always known my parents. And sometimes I miss them terribly. Eating with them, singing with them, taking afternoon rides through the orchards…”

  “I despise eating with great groups of other people,” Nikolas bit out, flicking one of the leaves. “All of them staring at me, silently judging and criticizing my dress, my features, my speech—I can see it in their eyes.” His nose snarled. “If I could live utterly alone, I would much prefer it. Or better yet, vanish entirely.” His jaw tightened. “Iskyla is the only one who makes it bearable.”

  Rose slowly tilted her head.

  “Have you never had a friend?” she asked.

  “No one is truly a friend to a prince,” Nikolas replied, facing the fireplace and gazing into the flames. “Niceties are observed, manners maintained—out of dread, and desire for his favor. All people are selfish and grasping—for they see the prince as the twisted, broken thing he is, and despise him for it. But for fear of their lives and livelihood, they lick his boots and smile through their teeth.” His voice quieted. “Iskyla will spare
me from all of this. When I marry her, my flaws will be smoothed away, and I will be able to bear looking at myself in the mirror again.” His voice lowered further. “If I can endure it until she returns.”

  Rose was silent a long moment, gazing at his profile. Then, she slipped off the bed and moved behind him, to the yellow rose bud he had been admiring. Taking a pair of garden shears off her desk, she clipped it. At the sound, Nikolas turned and frowned at her. She stepped back toward him, and held up the shining little blossom.

  “Yellow roses mean friendship,” she told him, looking up into his eyes—and holding the flower out to him. “I am your friend, Nikolas. And I do not despise or fear you.” She reached up, and tucked the stem through the button hole on his lapel. “In fact, I like you very much.”

  His hand came up. And his fingertips just barely touched the back of her hand.

  “Why?” he whispered.

  She smiled up at him, fighting to see past that silver sliver, and into his heart.

  “Why not?”

  Nikolas said nothing. But his hand settled upon hers, just the barest fraction.

  Rose tilted her head, glancing him up and down.

  “That color looks marvelous against your silver coat,” she told him. “You should always wear a rose just there.”

  Dear Daisy,

  Something extremely dreadful happened just the other night. Prince Nikolas attempted to kill himself by drinking a mix of liquor and lye. I am still kicking myself for leaving him alone that evening, for I had sensed a dark misery possessing him that made me alarmed—but like a fool I ignored it. Thank heaven I got there in time to revive him, but it was far too close for anyone’s comfort. I was distressed to madness.

  I have spent all of today with him, having banished the icy cold from his chambers, and feeding him from the Feasting Stone. But his mood remains somewhat dark, and I believe I am beginning to understand the nature of this curse more fully.

  Prince Nikolas is exceedingly handsome, and so splendid to look at that he is nearly blinding. And yet, somehow, he believes himself to be wretched, ugly, and foul. These are his words! He believes his court and kingdom only obey him out of fear an obligation toward the crown, rather than out of any affection for him as a man. He seemed utterly shocked when I suggested that I was his friend. As if such a one as him could never possess such a thing as a “friend.”