I slam the door furiously behind me. I am growing ever more sure that the ice did not crack of its own accord. Something was lurking in this castle, something more than a shadow. Something that wanted to hurt me.
I avoid Thorn for the rest of the day, either because I am annoyed by his secrets, or fearful of my own. I spend time in the gardens, although it is a grey day, and ignore meal times. It is getting late by the time I make my way back to the castle, but I am fearful of being out after nightfall.
Turning onto my corridor, I see a thin shard of light punctuating the darkness. The door at the end of the hall -the forbidden room- is open, just a little. I teeter towards it without a second thought. I would feel more guilty about violating his trust if I didn't feel so angry.
I do not go in. Perhaps this is so I can claim I didn't break my promise. Instead, I listen. I can hear Thorn prowling about the room, on all fours, if I'm not mistaken. I haven't seen him walk this way in a long time.
“Rose has seen her,” he says. I crane my head towards the door. Who is he talking to? As I push my head further into the gap, three tiny pinpricks of light scuttle along the floor, clear as day. They stop in front of my feet, almost expectantly. I have the strangest feeling I am being judged.
What? I mouth.
Two of them trail into the room, the third remaining just a second longer. It butts against my slipper before following the others.
“I haven't seen any hint of her or her followers for years,” Thorn's voice continues. “I thought, if you were gone, then she must be too, but if she's still here... you must be as well. Am I right?”
Only silence follows.
“Where are you?” There is the sound of something crashing. Thorn has thrown something.
“Is she in danger?” he asks quietly, the rage pulled back. He sounds sad, desperate even. “Please, just... find a way to tell me. Is she in trouble? Can I protect her?”
Another long pause.
“I am not sure I could survive losing you both.”
I wait a little while, but he says nothing else. As I turn to leave, I think I can hear sobbing.
A few weeks after Mama’s death, Honour found me curled up under my bed, crying. The hard sobbing had stopped by then, the sobbing that came first and went on for days without ceasing, bleeding us all of tears. There were just days now, days when it was all a little too much. Soon, everyone told us, it would just be moments.
Honour crouched down by the bedside. She turned her back, and I saw she had little Beau in her arms. He stared at me with large, unblinking, unashamed eyes.
“Would you like to hear a story?”
In my little nest of blankets under the mattress, I nodded.
Honour is not good at stories as a rule, but she was good at this one. So much so, that Hope appeared out of nowhere and scurried under my arm, and a pair of feet in the doorway showed that Freedom was listening too.
“On the day of Mama and Papa’s wedding day, the first true flowers of spring bloomed in the woods. Mama couldn’t stand the thought of not having any to decorate her simple dress with, so she strolled off to find some in the early hours of the morning.
“When it came to breakfast time, and she did not return, no one worried too much. Mama did love the woods so; she was probably distracted by their beauty this time of year. And it was the morning of her wedding- perhaps she needed a little time on her own.
“But then another hour went by, and then another. The wedding was to be in a few hour’s time, and the bride was still missing. So, her mother sent her sisters into the woods to search, and the rest of the party carried on readying the village for the wedding as if nothing were amiss.
“Hours ticked by, and still no Mama came. The woods had been searched; not a leaf was left unturned. The church bells tolled and the villagers assembled. Still no Mama. The groom’s family twittered and fussed, and Grandmama kept on excusing and dithering- ‘there’s a hole in her dress’ ‘they’re just fixing her hair’ ‘the cart has thrown a wheel’ – until there were no excuses left. Finally, Papa stormed out of the Church and demanded to know of his would-be-mother-in-law where exactly Mama was.
“’Oh, dear Henry, I wish that I could say! Alas, dear Grace, she is-’
“And then, as if swept in by the clouds, Mama appeared in the village square in a shower of rose petals. She was wearing the most beautiful gown that anyone had ever seen, silk and gossamer, and embroidered with such delicate needlework that spiders themselves couldn't have spun it. She was covered in flowers, head to toe, and never a more radiant bride had the village ever seen.
“To this day, no-one knows where Mama went during those missing hours, or how she came by such a beautiful gown. The petals eventually faded, as did the radiance of the fabric, and some who came across it later said that apart from the stitching, there was little special about it. But the villagers could never forget her beauty that day, nor the way she kissed her bride-groom at the church, with such passion they thought for a second that she might be a fairy changeling herself.”
By the close of the story, Freedom has crossed the room and put his arm around Honour, and reached his hand under the bed and grabbed mine. I did not know what he meant by this at the time, but looking back, his actions spoke louder than Honour's words. But they were both saying the same thing:
We'll be all right, the five of us. We're together. We'll look after each other. The world is not as terrible as it appears right now. You'll see.
Honour made up a lot of stories about Mama. She was not dead, she was a fairy, who had returned to her own kingdom, or transformed into the flowers she so loved. I didn't like the first excuse. I had seen her body, cold and stiff and there. But I did quite like the one about the flowers. Perhaps that's why I cared for her garden so.
My sister is only two years older than I am, but I have always trusted her memories of her far more than my own, even when she was so clearly making them up. Mama was always magical in Honour's stories. She was perfection and light. I did not want to remember her any other way. According to Honour, Mama's touch could heal the common cold. She could predict the weather. She always knew when someone in the village was about to have a baby, and what it would be. Freedom once told me she always knew when someone was about to die, but I think he did that to scare me.
Remembering many a long sniffling cold, occasionally getting stuck with her during a rainstorm, and knowing that she could not predict her own babies all the time, I had my doubts about her mystical abilities. But I clung to them nonetheless. It kept her close, and Beau always loved the stories. I would believe anything for him.
According to my time-keeping, today is Honour's birthday. Another event in her life I will miss. I will miss Hope's too, although I will be back for Freedom's and Beau's.
My own birthday isn't too far away now. Ordinarily, I wouldn't be thinking of it just yet, but this is the first birthday I will be away from home. If I don't tell anyone, it will be like just another day. Thorn would want to celebrate it, I'm sure, but I just can't imagine a birthday without my family, and songs round the piano, and Nanny's famous raspberry sponge cake.
I miss my family with a sharp pang. I don't want to make new traditions with Thorn. I don't want to make them with anyone. The embroidery I've been working on loses its appeal. I abandon my project and go for a long walk instead, trying not to linger on the edge of the meadow, which looks much more grey than it did this morning.
When I return, it is passed dinner time, but I do not seek out Thorn. I go to my room instead, light a candle for Honour, and write her another letter. It is less optimistic than the first, and a trifle miserable, although I do wish her many happy returns. I hear Thorn moving along the corridor not long after, pausing at the door, listening out for me. I pretend to be asleep, and after a few moments, he moves on.
Chapter Nine: A Birthday
Although it takes me a long time to sleep, I feel better the following morning. I get up early, finish
my embroidery, and slip into my new dress. It's like I have sewn spring. I admire myself for a minute in the mirror. It is the finest gown I have ever owned, made more fine and more mine by the work I have put into it. I feel pretty, girlish, and dance down to breakfast with a little bit of a spring in my step.
Thorn is already there, sweeping the floor with some desperation.
“Good morning!” I say cheerily.
Clearly, my spring was a light one, for Thorn did not hear me come in. He drops the broom with a clatter.
“Ah, morning!” he says breathlessly.
“Why are you sweeping?”
“I was... trying to find something to occupy myself with,” he admits. “I wasn't sure I would see much of you today. I was afraid that-”
“It doesn't matter,” I say quickly. I am keen to avoid being angry with him today. “Let's put it aside.”
Thorn looks grateful for this. We eat together pleasantly enough, and then head outside. He helps me re-plant a few larger bushes I've been struggling with. My little garden is blossoming with tame wilderness. What I really want now is a little bench with an arbour; a little outside reading nook. I mumble this under my breath, trying to imagine where I would place it, and the next thing I know, Thorn is beside me with a stone slab slung easily over his shoulder.
“Will this do?” he asks.
I burst out laughing.
“What? Not appropriate?”
“I was thinking more a small wooden seat, not something so heavy!” I giggle.
“I can take it back-”
“No, no it's fine, just put it down in the corner.”
Together, we manoeuvre it into the perfect place. Starting an arbour is a little more work than I fancy today, so we move onwards, down towards the lake. A greyness slithers in, and the surface of the water turns almost black.
Thorn wades in and tries to catch some fish for supper. I am glad of the disruption, for the lake is otherwise as still as a graveyard, and flashes of that face keep bubbling up to greet me. Who was she? What did she want? What does she want?
The thought gnaws at my mind for the rest of the day, and I spend much of it in contemplative silence. Thorn, thinking perhaps that I am still mad at him, doesn't press it. He is thankful for any crumb of company I throw at him.
The thought of the face occupies my mind for some time following. I keep jumping at shadows, certain I see things that aren't there, and I avoid anything reflective as much as I can for days. The feeling of being watched creeps under my skin. The weather imitates my mood, and it is too damp and grey and chilly for gardening. I turn instead to the library, but the books to do not provide any answers to my questions or distractions from my fears. I don't even know what I am looking for.
Thorn must notice a change in me, but he says nothing. The days creep by with the slowness of my first hours here. I look towards the end of my time here; my birthday will mark almost halfway through.
I wonder if Thorn is still counting the days. I wonder how he feels about the fact I will soon be gone. Well, not soon. Not quite yet.
“Rose,” he asks me one evening. “Are you... are you happy here?”
I swallow. “No,” I reply quietly. “But... I'm not unhappy, either. And that part I think I owe entirely to you.” This is as good as I can manage, right now.
“Is... is there anything I can do to help you?”
Tell me the truth. Tell me who the face belongs to. But I am certain that even if he knew the truth, he would not tell me... and I do not want to wonder why he lies to me.
“Not right now,” I reply. “But maybe one day.”
He nods, and his eyes move past me the rest on the clock atop the mantel. It ticks a little too loudly that night.
We are eating a light lunch one afternoon beside my nearly-erected arbour, when I turn quite suddenly to Thorn and tell him it's my birthday in two weeks.
“Your birthday?” his face lifts. “Well, we must celebrate!”
“We don't have to-”
“Of course we must! What else are we going to do? How do people celebrate birthdays again? I recall there's something about a cake-”
“You... don't know how people celebrate birthdays?”
“I've... I've read a little.”
“But what about your own?”
“Well, I've had them, of course, but...” he looks around the room, his gaze finally settling on the mirror in the far corner. We look very small in it, very alone. “It has been a long time since I've had anyone to celebrate it with.”
“Well, that settles it, then.”
“Settles what?”
“You'll have to share mine.”
“That's really not-”
“Well, it's my actual birthday, and I insist!”
Thorn tries to pretend he doesn't enjoy the idea, but he's grinning. It is a lot less frightening than it used to be. Suddenly, I'm excited by the prospect. My mind starts to think about what I can give him as a present. I will have to make something, of course, seeing as I suppose he owns everything here. Something to wear, perhaps? No, I would never be able to make something without measuring him first, which would ruin the surprise somewhat. A book is out of the question. He has so many. What to make, what to make...
“What are you thinking about?” Thorn asks.
“Oh, just birthday plans,” I muse.
The next two weeks pass relatively quickly. Our routine continues, but each day we try to do something party related. I teach Thorn how to make bunting. His hands are too large and lack the dexterity for sewing, but he can manage cutting well enough -if roughly- and is excellent at stringing things up. He leaps around the room we have selected for our festivities, looping string around lamps and frames, transforming the dull space into a festival of colour. Thorn spirits a music box from somewhere that plays a variety of music, and pulls the harp into the parlour at my request. He doesn't know it yet but I am going to sing him happy birthday. We do not have enough people to play the games I am used to -musical chairs, yes/no, charades etc- but a pack of cards and a chess set suffice.
When we are not readying our room, we are both searching for gifts. I raid most of the rooms in the first few days looking for inspiration, before taking to the garden. I have no idea where Thorn goes during this time, but he is becoming increasingly secretive. I sense that he already has an idea that he is working on. I, however, am still clueless. There's an uncomfortable itch, almost a sting, when I realise how little I still know of him, what he likes and dislikes. I am worried that his gift will be more thoughtful than mine, and he deserves a meaningful gift far more. He has never had a birthday party.
I stop besides a vacant rosebush. There are no roses yet, but there is greenery. I find a strange beauty in this plant as it is, coarse and bare. I have never stopped to notice the stem of a rose, or the way each thorn curves like a fang.
There is a stirring of inspiration inside me. I don't know if I can pull it off, if I have the skills and resources, but the more I think about it, the more I like it.
I scramble about on the ground for a thick enough branch, and take it back to the castle.
The day of our birthday arrives. I am too excited by the thought of surprising Thorn that I don't have time to miss my family, or even think about how different the day has been in the past. I dress normally for breakfast -I have another gown I have been working on for the festivities- and join Thorn in the parlour.
His face breaks into wide smile when he sees me, and I cannot help but smile back.
“Happy birthday,” he says, at the exact time I do.
We both laugh.
“So,” says Thorn. “What first?”
“First, we breakfast.” I tell him. “And then... we make cake.”
It quickly transpires that Thorn has never made a cake in his life. In fact, he has never cooked anything, ever. He's never had to. He is, however, an eager pupil, if a messy one. The kitchen is half-coated in flour by the time he is finished, whic
h is particularly impressive given its ridiculous size.
“Thorn!” I say, half exasperatedly.
“What?”
“You've aged about thirty years.”
“What?”
I gesture to the mirror out in the hall. White flour covers him from head to toe.
“Oh dear,” he says, looking down sheepishly. “Am I hideous, Rose?”
“Very,” I say, pulling his ear affectionately.
“Oh well,” he shrugs. “Guess I'll just have to make you hideous too.”
He begins to shake fervently, showering me with flour. I shriek his name until he stops, beating him with a wooden spoon.
Icing the cake takes forever with Thorn's clumsy fingers, but he insists on doing it himself while I search for candles. Eventually, our wobbly masterpiece is complete. We transfer it to the party room and prepare the rest of the food.
At lunch, I go back upstairs and change into a gown the colour of crushed sunset. I weave Thorn's ribbon through my hair. His eyes light up when I enter the room, and linger a little longer on his token.
“You look... lovely,” he says. There is a slight pause, and I wonder if he wanted to say something else.
“Thank you,” I return. He is wearing a new outfit too, a navy blue with careful silver embroidery. It makes his eyes gleam in the light. “I like your new waistcoat. Who made it?”
“Oh, er, it was just something I found,” he says, scratching the back of his neck. That seems a little odd to me, his size being so wide and tall, but I reason that he cannot be the only person with such a form to have walked this halls.
“It suits you,” I say, twirling my hair around my finger. “Shall we eat?”
We dine on sandwiches, fruit, cheese and biscuits, followed by extremely generous helpings of cake and sweet wine. We blow out the candles together, and I sing him happy birthday with the harp. He repeats the song for me. I challenge him to a game of chess (he wins, being the far better player) and then teach him how to play “beggar my neighbour”. It is a simple game that goes on for far too long, and ends in another victory for him. He is not remotely boastful and asks to play again.
The Rose and the Thorn Page 9
