A Kiss like Roses: Fairy Tale Synergy Book 1

by Colton, Eliza

  Of course, I knew that.

  I was trying my best, wasn’t I?

  Doubt nagged at my chest and stomach, twisting my gut with the realization that no, I wasn’t.

  My stay here had been… enjoyable, if anything, past the minor hiccups early on. I was doing nothing except forcibly pushing away my thoughts of my family, knowing it would cause me to break down, and acting like there was nothing wrong with the world.

  Though rope-like guilt snaked around my neck when I thought it, taking care of my father without rest had sapped me of all my energy and identity.

  I’d been broken over and over again by not only the pain of seeing him in such a state where I had to pour food down his throat and clean his bodily functions from him, but also the social isolation, my atrophied hope, and my keen awareness about how useless I was.

  My time with Shao had been a much-needed reprieve… but at whose expense?

  I realized just how much more I’d caused my family to sacrifice for me and my selfish whims.

  My throat felt parched, and I reached around for a glass of water I couldn’t find. I lacked the emotional or physical strength to fetch it from the kitchen, and I collapsed to the bed instead to continue reading the letters and drown myself in my thoughts.

  Although I’d tried to convince them to work far less, since we had a chance to receive a cure for free… neither had relented, and I couldn’t blame them.

  There was no guarantee of a cure. I knew that.

  But my family’s income potential was starkly lowered, and my family was now rotting inside-out.

  And it was all. My. Fault.

  I could have cried, but I hadn’t cried in a long, long time. Not since the first year of my father’s illness, when I’d become stupid in denial and mindlessly happy.

  Because that was the only way I could continue. Survive.

  That was my way of coping.

  Exhaling, I lifted myself from the bed only long enough to pick up the next letter, which I recognized as Mother’s. Her paper was filled with scribbles over written-then-regretted words, and dotted with small, faint wrinkles from what seemed like teardrops.

  My heart sunk, and my belly summersaulted with distaste and fear.

  The first few words of Mother’s letters had been crossed out by three scratchy lines; they were several greetings, started and stopped and started and stopped.

  True to her character, Mother soon gave up and jumped straight to the point rather than wasting her energy on meaningless words that wouldn’t change our situation.

  “Has Constance told you? That she has fainted three times in the past week? Has she told you? That we can hardly afford food with our further fragmented budget?”

  My eyes stung at those words, and I willed myself to cry, although the moisture only dried from my eyes, leaving them—and my chest—burning to ashes, to nothing.

  No. She hadn’t told me.

  Was it because her trust in me had shattered due to Gunnar’s lie?

  I didn’t want to think about that.

  At least, it seemed, Constance hadn’t told Mother of anything Gunnar had said. I wasn’t sure if that was a blessing or a curse, since perhaps Mother deserved to know. To hate me even more than she already did.

  Mother’s next words shook, and the letters were irregular and blotted with ink where she’d been unable to continue without taking a moment to compose herself first.

  “Your father’s heartbeat has grown terrifyingly faint, Bea, although his breaths have grown more ragged. He can no longer open his eyes or even twitch.” A pause. Blots of ink. Clouds of ink to hide the words she’d tried and failed to write. “I don’t know how much longer he has. Don’t you… at least want to be here when”—

  There was an abrupt halt to her words, and the next thing she wrote was several empty lines down. Her signature.

  Nothing more.

  I choked back my torrent of emotions.

  My fists clenched into balls but were quick to loosen; I lacked the power to keep them clenched.

  All I felt was defeat.

  Self-loathing.

  Taking one, two, three deep breaths, I stared up at the ceiling, forcing the bombarding mental images of Father’s impending death out of my mind, but to no avail.

  I wanted to throw up.

  I wanted to cry.

  I wanted to die.

  Unable to do any of the above, I shook my head weakly, and I wondered if it was possible to die from hollow loathing.

  No, Beatrice, I thought to myself. I can’t stop here. I must return home. To work. To help them, somehow.

  To bid Father farewell.

  Something I’d long convinced myself wouldn’t happen for another fifty-some years, no matter how much reality tried to knock me down a peg or five or a dozen.

  But… I couldn’t bring myself to move.

  Not even to stir.

  My current state was much reminiscent of Father’s, only… his inaction was caused by his illness. It was a painful physical plight that he didn’t deserve to endure.

  Mine was a fault of my own. A lethargy aroused by my incompetence and mistakes.

  I wanted to move.

  I wanted to escape my bed and yell at Shao and cry and scream. To return home and do something, no matter what that something was.

  To say heck with Shao’s words about the nobles’ unwillingness to pay a fair price for the roses. To disregard Shao’s stupid obsession with his stupid roses and steal them by the armfuls.

  But…

  I couldn’t.

  Couldn’t.

  Move.

  An.

  Inch.

  Chapter 11

  Time crawled by in a haze of nothingness. All I saw was the darkness behind my eyelids and the dim, speckled gray of the ceiling. My sole companions were the soft whirring of the wind and rustling of leaves.

  Numerous thoughts fought for purchase over my mind, all of which I pushed away. Soon, the absence of thought (or so it seemed) became second nature.

  Sometimes, I thought I heard hesitant, slow footsteps linger in the hallways outside my door, but my mind was too blank—or rather, too cluttered by the deliberate absence of thought—for me to make sense of it.

  I didn’t much care, anyway.

  Minutes, hours, days could have passed. Weeks, even.

  The passage of time felt both meaningless and crippling at the same time.

  I had to go home. I had to.

  But I couldn’t move a muscle, because movement—action—thought—all of it meant recognition of my past and present circumstances. And that meant I had to not only admit to my mistakes, but also face the shame of returning home after troubling my family in a way even I’d never done before… with nothing to show for it but my own despair and disappointment.

  Light trespassed through the window, making the darkness beyond my closed eyes slightly brighter. Soft chirps greeted me a good morning from afar.

  None of it had meaning.

  And then—a deviation from my routine.

  Soft knocks on the door, followed by a beat of silence.

  Taps on the floor from the other side of the door, signaling impatience.

  There was only one thing—one person—the sounds could be from, and yet my mind lingered, squirming at the pace of a snail, half dormant and uncaring and half wondering what it could be.

  The knocks grew louder.

  Even when a shout of garbled words ricocheted through the room, the knocks continued, growing only louder. I had to strain my ears and struggle to make sense of the words, and even then, they sounded like a meaningless cloud of noise.

  The male voice only continued to shout, and slowly, so slowly, I began to understand.

  “Beatrice, you haven’t been eating—”

  I hadn’t been hungry. Nor had I found the energy to head all the way to the pantry or cellar.

  “Open the door right now—or at least say something—or I’m going to enter your room wi
th or without your permission.”

  I would have laughed if I could. Hadn’t he grown enraged just a few weeks ago because I trespassed without his permission?

  He was a hypocrite.

  Which caused my chest to stir and swell fractionally before it calmed back down, unable to handle more false hope. Unable to handle any speck of happiness that I did not deserve.

  Some more knocks that I could have called bangs. Then I heard a loud thud as the door slammed open, and a masculine gasp from uncomfortably close to me shattered the remnants of the silence I’d enjoyed.

  “Beatrice, what the—”

  Some more slow, heavy footsteps ensued and were followed by a chain of rapid sprint-like sounds as Shao fled my room.

  He was running away from me. Was he disgusted by me? I knew I was a hot mess, and it was obvious in my every breath, my every pore.

  I drifted in and out of consciousness; when I woke up for the umpteenth time, I realized it was because I tasted blood. Had I been biting my tongue? My lips?

  Bad habit, either way.

  Didn’t matter, either way.

  The next time, it was no longer blood I tasted. It was warmth. It was heat. It was lava on my lips, then my forehead, hot molten liquid concentrated and heavy and dripping down to its surroundings.

  As it cooled, I felt its light bristles when I inched to the side, and I realized it must be a towel.

  I opened my eyes again, but the candles had been lit, and the light was bright and burning. I quickly shut them, finding strength to wince.

  Once more, on my lips—an unbearable heat, causing a tiny yelp to escape my lips. There was a pause and a gentle, relaxing blowing noise before the next batch of fire flooded my mouth, and although still unpleasant and foreign, it was far cooler.

  This continued for some time, for I was powerless to stop it, and the liquid oozed down my throat without my participation.

  I drifted back asleep.

  The first thing I saw upon waking up one last time was Shao, sweat slicking his arms and the visible bits of his face. I tried to reach up and stroke his face, but my attempt was in vain. I’d regained some strength, but not enough.

  I managed to smile. The thought of sickly sweat clinging between his mask and skin, causing massive disgust and discomfort, amused me far more than it should have.

  “You can take a break, you know?” I asked. My voice came out far hoarser and quieter than I intended, and it required a miracle for Shao to understand. My throat ached as if I’d been yelling for the past several hours. Cringing, I cocked my head to get a better look at Shao.

  He lifted his eyes to look arrogant, but his attempt was ruined by the flowers of purple bruises lining his sallow skin and surrounding his eyes.

  I puffed out a giggle that was part mocking, part grateful.

  “Are you sure you should be taking care of me?” I asked again, then coughed.

  “Someone has to,” he replied, his voice gentle yet strong. “And we’re the only two people here.”

  I wanted to shrug, but again failed.

  “Pretend I’m shrugging?” I said, grateful I at least had my voice back. Sort of. I could endure the pain, even revel in it. Shao’s companionship was a heavenly gift I couldn’t refuse, no matter how much I wanted to deprive myself.

  Shao snorted, but all I saw in his blue eyes was worry rather than mirth.

  “You look like a troll,” I said, trying to get back to him for his silent mockery. Even a troll was too generous a word for him.

  Shao narrowed his eyes, and all I could see was purplish-gray. I wasn’t sure if I should laugh or… if I should laugh, but also feel bad about it.

  “Last time I checked, you thought of me as a beast,” he said. “I think I preferred it.”

  “Have you seen yourself in the mirror lately?” I retorted. “A beast would look far more gorgeous and majestic.”

  “Are you saying I looked that way before?” That almost-smug expression again. If not for my current weak state, I had no doubt he’d be cocky as a bull, and I’d probably have wanted to peg his ego down a notch.

  Right now, though?

  “Maybe you did,” I said instead. “Although I’d have a far better idea of your looks if not for your—”

  I halted. The conversation we’d had minutes before I’d stormed into my room and discovered my latest letters stormed back into my mind, and I twisted my gaze away, frowning.

  Shao sighed.

  “You don’t have to tiptoe around me like that, you know,” he said.

  “I’m not—”

  “You are, and you know you are,” he muttered, and I swore I could hear him shake his head through the subtle variation in his tone. “Stop talking. It hurts you; I can tell.”

  “I—”

  “I’m going to stop responding to you. If you talk, you’ll only have yourself to reply.”

  I released a grunt before trying to turn away. I managed to lift myself two inches before I dropped back down helplessly.

  Silence droned as Shao replaced the towel and fed me some more. This time, it was some sort of porridge, rather than broth-like liquid.

  “Meat?” I pleaded.

  “You’ve gone four days without food. I’m scared you’ll throw it up if I feed you right away.”

  I grunted again.

  At least he’d responded to me, contrary to his declaration. I considered it a victory.

  “And I won’t respond to you again,” he said, crushing my little moment of joy.

  Jerk.

  My mind wandered through a haze of smoke, mulling over his words, and I gasped when a realization struck me.

  “Four days?” I cried. How had it been so long?

  “I meant to give you a week alone,” Shao said with a heavy eyeroll, silently hinting that he was ignoring—rather than forgetting—his decision from moments ago. “Because that’s how long you gave me. But… I noticed that not only were you avoiding me, but that you were also not eating. Not ever leaving your room. And I got terrified—”

  He exhaled; I inhaled, realizing something else.

  I was positive Shao hadn’t been taking care of me for longer than a couple hours to half a day at most. Which meant his uncharacteristic dark circles were from something else.

  He’d… worried about me?

  After all, what else could have caused him so much stress and lack of sleep?

  I felt presumptuous, but I felt right, too.

  “Has anything bad happened?” I asked anyway, my hope thrumming. “You know. To cause your dark circles.”

  He snorted, and his fingers lingered on towel on my forehead a second too long.

  “Would you believe me if I told you I worried about you?”

  “Why?”

  “Because…” This time, I saw Shao shake his head. “I’m a sheltered little noble, you see. I may have seen a lot of death in my life, but all of it has been sanitized in the form of roses. I’m too pampered to look at corpses, much less handle them through their stench.”

  “Ha. Right.” I snorted twice for emphasis, and I smiled when Shao rolled his eyes. “For whatever it’s worth, thank you.”

  His eyes seemed to brighten as they looked at me, drank me in. I pretended heat was only pooling in my cheeks because I was getting sick from starving myself for so long.

  I wanted to let his gaze and presence swallow me whole. To let him distract me from my circumstances once more.

  But I couldn’t.

  The letters returned to me all at once like an audible slap in the face, and I sucked at a tooth.

  “Shao,” I said.

  At the same time, Shao spoke my name in a tone that caught me unawares.

  My heart skipped a beat; my gaze snapped to his.

  The blue of his eyes seemed deeper than usual, and my lips parted involuntarily—

  Heat flooding my cheeks, I tore my eyes away from him, and I saw Shao quirk his lips in my peripheral view. My pulse thudded.

 
He arched his brows in a silent demand for a reply.

  “I have to go home,” I said, tearing my eyes away.

  “Did something happen?” He asked, his voice so gentle and worried for me that it was as if he wanted me to break down before him.

  “My father—”

  The moment I said that dreaded, cursed, beloved word out loud—father—tears started pouring down my cheeks, and I made what must have been a tragically ugly face as I was wracked by sobs.

  When I wiped them away, more spilled to take their place, and I gave up, grabbing my legs so tight they’d later bruise.

  “I’m scared,” I managed in a gargled voice between tears. “I think he’s… dying.” I hated the vulnerability of crying, and I hated that of all people, it was Shao I was showing my worst fears to.

  Shao’s voice was muffled.

  He bent down and lifted me up into a hug, and I wailed into his shirt, leaving a trail of tears and snot.

  I shook my head. “I’m not a crier.” Like that mattered.

  I feared it was because Shao was here that I was crying so much. I couldn’t tear up back home. Everyone was already struggling themselves—I’d always had to stifle, stifle, stifle.

  Now I no longer had to. Now I… had someone who, though I couldn’t quite believe it, had seemed and sounded genuinely concerned for me.

  Not exasperated with me. Not too tired with troubles I was only compounding to deal with me. But worried.

  That felt far more significant than it had any right to.

  “It’s alright,” Shao said, his voice further muted by the weight of his body around my head and ears, but it seemed to echo. Resonate. “He’ll survive. I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

  I hugged him tighter. As tight as I could.

  “When—no, if—my father—” I gulped. “I want—”

  “Of course,” Shao whispered, his tone almost… defeated. “You can go home as soon as you recover—I think there’s more than starvation hurting you. Perhaps you got sick from fasting in a weakened state. You’ve been feverish and you look like a corpse. You can’t very well leave now, especially when other thieves may roam the forests in search of potential victims to threaten for a chance at a rose.”

  I saw him shudder, and it filled me with bliss that he feared for me.