A Kiss like Roses: Fairy Tale Synergy Book 1
Page 1
A Kiss like Roses
Fairy Tale Synergy Book 1
Eliza Colton
Copyright © 2019 by Eliza Colton
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Cover Design by PandaFox
Created with Vellum
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
Epilogue
Afterword
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Chapter 1
“B-Bea…” My father croaked from his bed. He wheezed as he tried to say the rest of my name—Beatrice—and I saw his fingers tremble as he tried in vain to reach out to me. Swallowing, I clasped my hand over his.
“I’m here,” I said, trying to keep myself still and my voice calm. Soothing. He was suffering enough without my adding to his grief. “Would you like anything? More water?”
My success at sounding peaceful was one I accepted with ironic chagrin. I sounded more like the hired healers we couldn’t afford than his own grieving daughter, and I wondered if perhaps he’d prefer me to weep and shriek as I had in the first months of his illness.
A proof that he was still loved and wept for. That we saw him as a beloved father and husband rather than a man who had long been grieved for, a shell of his past self.
I shook that thought away.
Squeezing my eyes shut as I heard my father try and fail to say a single word, his mind and energy languishing, I thought back to happier days. The ones before the illness stole my father from me.
It was through sheer bad luck he fell ill to the misfortune. That’s what it was called because no one knew what the illness was or what caused it, but its effects were devastating. Victims were fated to wither as their limbs and organs fossilized. The illness trapped them in their own bodies and minds until they passed away, their hearts and lungs frozen.
“At least it’s painless,” our neighbors had told me when they heard the news. None of them had any way of knowing, so their words had been little comfort. They’d also echoed this classic line: “It could be worse.”
They could only say that because they weren’t the ones suffering. Their fathers weren’t limp on their beds, praying their life would end.
They weren’t the ones hiding every trace of their father’s passion and talent—the easels, the paint, the brushes, the extra paintings he’d drawn of the nation’s most elite noble families when they’d hired him for his renowned skill—because the smallest reminders of his past tore sobs out of him.
Gritting my teeth, I opened my eyes and realized Father must have fallen asleep. Good. At least in dreams, he could paint and joke around with us as he used to, his face wrinkled to a dazzling, infectious smile.
In the few hours he spent awake every day, I fed him and nursed him and told stories to him, both from books and from our daily lives, but it had been three years. There were only so many things that could occur in our small village, and I’d repeated the same stories hundreds of times.
It was clear my father’s mind glazed over the now memorized tales, which were more a reminder of his changed health than a distraction.
“B-B-Beuf—” A haggard gasp for air broke me away from my thoughts. I touched Father’s forehead.
My hand burned.
“It’s alright, Father,” I whispered, although I wasn’t sure he could hear me in his painful delirium. “We’ve overcome this thousands of times. You’ll feel better in just a bit. I promise.”
As I spoke, I snatched up the nearby small towel and dampened it with ice water before putting it to his head. It was little, but it was also one of the very few things I could do for him.
His body was frequently feverish, and we didn’t know if it was due to the misfortune making him more susceptible to other illnesses or from the curse itself.
Father gave a shuddering sigh of relief.
I sighed in exhaustion.
“I’ll find a way to save you, I swear,” I said, unable to watch him suffer like this.
I was lying.
The misfortune had only one cure, and it was guarded by the royal family. No one else knew what it was or where to get it, and rumors whispered even the monarchs had only a handful of cures at their disposal.
A cure could be purchased from them—at an exorbitant price that most nobles could not afford even if they sold all their property.
At the onset of my father’s illness, my mother, sister, and I had sold everything, sacrificed everything, worked hundred-hour weeks, and begged all the nobles in the nation to hire him before the loss of his limbs progressed.
All for one hope: that we could somehow miraculously afford a cure for him.
A pipe dream.
“I’m home.” A weak, exhausted voice spoke from our small living room.
After ensuring my father was asleep and didn’t need me, I headed out of his room to welcome my sister home. I forced a smile when I saw her.
Her cheeks were sunken from fatigue, and half her hair was falling out from her messy bun in sweaty clumps. Every inch of her was dusty, shading her hair and skin into the same jaundiced hue of her torn, wrinkled dress that resembled a potato sack.
“Beatrice,” she said, managing a weak nod.
“Constance! How was your day?” I asked, more out of etiquette than curiosity as I mustered energy that I lacked. She often went straight to bed when she came home, too exhausted even for small talk. “I made some porridge earlier if you’d like.”
She shook her head weakly.
“Are you sure?” I was used to her skipping dinner, but I’d never stopped worrying about her.
She nodded as she began creeping away to her room—then halted, turning her head.
“Oh, Beatrice. Have you heard the latest offer for the beast’s roses?” She said through her teeth. My eyes widened. It had been literal months since she last said anything to me other than a simple greeting.
“The beast we used to gossip about as children?” I asked, desperate to keep a conversation going. This felt like a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to bond with my sister.
Constance nodded. “Yeah.”
I waited with bated breath for her to say anything else. She didn’t.
Fidgeting with my dress, I thought back to the rumors.
A savage beast was said to live in the forest a day’s walk from here, and on his field grew golden roses that were found nowhere else in the world. He was fiercely protective of them, and no one who’d attempted to steal one had ever been seen again.
Constance shrugged. “What is there to talk about? Life is always the same.”
I bit my lip. Seeing Constance eye her door, I quickly grasped at the topic she’d brought up to get her to stay. “Well, what did the nobles offer now? Wasn’t it a million coins per flower the last time they boasted about their wealth? Have they doubled it?”
Constance shook her head and clicked her tongue. “Fifty million coins.”
Fifty million?
A single cure cost fifty million coins.
The number shocked me, and I gripped my arms, afraid I’d grab the closest thing and throw it at the wall. Those very nobles had refused to pay a single more coin than they had to for my father’s paintings.
“They care more about a flower than a man’s life?” I snapped.
“It’s a show of power,” Constance croaked. “And our father was only a hired hand to them, as meaningful as any of their maids or cooks.”
I swallowed, grit my teeth, and tried not to cry. I understood, but even so. It was a flower. Just because it was beautiful and impossible to get didn’t make it any more special than the roses sold for pennies at stalls. How could it mean more than saving a life?
“Those nobles have always been rotten,” I seethed. “Every last one of them.”
Constance bowed her head before turning back to enter her room, and I belatedly noticed a slight limp to her gait. I narrowed my eyes.
“Constance—” I began, then shut my mouth.
“What?”
“No,” I said. “It’s nothing.”
Without a farewell, she stepped into her room and closed the door behind her.
“Goodnight,” I whispered, although she could no longer hear me.
She wouldn’t have told me about her limp if I asked.
Although she was my fraternal twin, she was older than me by twelve whole minutes, and she took pride in it. In her eyes, with pride came responsibility. Over me.
And with responsibility came a necessity for deceit, for pretending everything was alright no matter how much she suffered or struggled.
When our father could no longer move, she’d fought with our mother and me, arguing that it was best that I stay at home to take care of him rather than continuing to work, despite knowing how much longer and harder she’d need to work to make up for my absence.
“I’m sorry,” I mouthed. The words died in my throat. I’d apologized profusely and often in the beginning, but now any words to her just felt unnecessary. Uncomfortable.
The last few years had fractured our family. I hated it.
We’d lost our friends when we moved to the slums. We’d lost our passions—Constance and I had to drop out of our academy, since we had neither the tuition nor the time for it.
But, most devastatingly, we’d lost each other.
No.
I refused to accept this reality, although it continued with or without my consent.
My father was still young. He deserved to recover, or to at least be himself again. My sister deserved to study and excel as she always had. My father, my sister, and my mother all deserved freedom, whether from their own failing bodies or from endless, fruitless labor.
They deserved a future. A proper one.
The thought had never ceased to haunt me, but now, I felt a single, crucial difference.
Hope gnawed at me from the back of my mind, and I seized it.
The golden roses.
I took a deep breath. My mind was set.
I was going to steal a rose.
My skin itched with impatience as I devised a rudimentary plan that was destined to fail, since I knew almost nothing about my destination and mission.
At least I’d be doing something. I’d been useless too long, and that was in part a result of my complacency. I’d always believed that. And many days, I looked in the mirror and saw someone I could only hate. A coward.
If I died trying to save my father, it’d be better than dying after only contributing to my family’s misery.
“I’m sorry,” I mumbled into the darkness. “I’m… I’m so, so sorry.”
I couldn’t tell my family what I was doing. They’d stop me, and I’d lose my only opportunity to fix things.
Lifting a small book and a quill, I scribbled a quick, terse note to my mother about my destination, then set them back down as quietly as possible.
Pausing, I grabbed a small purse, taking enough money from the family coin jar for a carriage ride to the forest. Then I stepped into the kitchen and grabbed our best knife (which was meaningless, considering we had two, and one was a bread knife). For self-defense.
It was theft, but it was necessary. If I survived, I’d be paying it all back and then some.
If I didn’t, they’d have more to worry about than some stolen coins and a knife.
Fists clenched, I blew out the candles and tiptoed out.
Chapter 2
If I had to say one thing, it would be this: I severely overestimated the ease of finding a coach so late in the night.
The few that stopped for me laughed and left when they realized I wanted a ride all the way to the forest—and that I didn’t have the money to stop partway at an inn when the sky grew even darker. I chastised myself for my shortsightedness.
Realizing I’d find no success finding a ride, I began running towards the forest. It would take a long, long time, I knew, but I had to gain distance before my mother arrived home and began chasing after me. Might as well run until daylight, when I’d have better luck hiring a carriage for me to sleep in.
It wasn’t like me to turn back now.
I alternated between sprinting and walking, my body stiff and uncooperative from the years spent cooped up indoors. I panted against the frigid air as I forced myself to continue moving. It took every effort not to collapse onto my knees and heave until the world ended.
My surroundings seemed to whirl around me as it transitioned from the drab, ragged houses of straw and hay to the middle-class brick houses painted with flamboyant reds, blues, and purples.
With my surroundings, the sky shifted, too, from the evening’s dusky rose-gold to a pitch-black that contrasted the bright moon.
The moon and stars did little to illuminate Holika’s lands in the darkness, and everything remained obscured by shadows. I struggled not to trip or ram my face against hard surfaces.
“—ey!” I heard a muffled male voice in the distance accompanied by light thuds, but I continued running. Why would a stranger speak to me? More clearly, the voice continued. “Hey! Stop running!”
I froze. Had Mother already found me? Who was the man with her? Furrowing my brows, I turned around to see. Of course, I saw nothing but shadows, so I pivoted back to sprint away. I heard an irritated groan, which I ignored.
Only a minute later, I heard an obnoxious, loud series of thuds from right beside me. Shocked, I jumped away. My eyes widened.
When I turned my head, I came face to face with a carriage—and an old, red-haired man behind the horses who glowered at me.
“U-um. Hello?” I said. “Did I… Do something?”
“No, but I wouldn’t say it’s wise to travel alone in the dead of the night.”
I shrugged, wondering if I should be wary, but decided against it. There was a kindness in his voice that contradicted his gruff frown, and more importantly, since when could seniors be malicious? Never. That was when.
“I’m heading to the beast’s forest,” I said. Unoriginal, but that was what we called it. I’d never known another name.
The man sighed. “You, too?”
Frowning, I asked, “What do you mean?” A beat later, the realization hit me, making me feel like an idiot. The man echoed my thoughts.
“There have been countless attempts at stealing the roses since before the fools up North offered fifty millio
n. Surely you don’t believe you’re the only one swept away by the recent rumors.” He shook his head. “You’re too young to risk your life. Go home. If no one else has succeeded, what makes you think you will?”
“I-I don’t care. I have to.” The words left my lips before I could stop them, and I bit my lip, wondering if I should continue. Would the man even believe me? Or would he think I was lying for sympathy? “My father. He has the misfortune—I have to save him.”
Narrowing his eyes, he turned his head back to me and began scrutinizing me.
“The artist?” He said. It wasn’t a question. “Which twin are you? The younger?” I took a step back with my mouth ajar, this time feeling justified in my confusion.
“You know him?”
“I know of him. Great painter with a loving family. A foolish family.” Seeing me bristle at the comment, he added, “I heard your family begged all the wealthiest people over and over again for help, refusing to take no for an answer, to the point you were almost imprisoned for disrespect. Is that wrong?”
Again. Not a question, though he added a halfhearted lift at the end of his sentence. I twisted my lips, uncomfortable. I’d pushed away those memories for a reason.
The only words I could manage were, “We weren’t as obnoxious about it as you make it sound.”
Which wasn’t very helpful.
I wrung my hands, fearful I sounded like an entitled brat. Granted, I probably was one, but it had been my father’s life at stake. If I could go back in time, I would have pestered those nobles all over again, since it wasn’t like they needed their mountains of coins.