The Rose and the Thorn

by Kate Macdonald

  He just blinks back at me.

  Leaving him to get settled in, I try to eat myself, but I can only manage a few mouthfuls. The incident with the dog had been a welcome distraction, but there is nothing more that I can do for him now. My thoughts return to Thorn. I imagine him lying in a ditch, too hurt to call out.

  What if... what if it's worse than that? What if he's dead, and I am alone here? What if it's my fault, and he would have been fine as long as I stayed inside?

  It is then that I hear the main door swing open.

  Thorn.

  I race towards the entrance hall, and my heart leaping like some demented creature. I want to scream his name but I can barely breathe until I see him, standing at the threshold. He is dishevelled, his cloak muddy and torn, but he is alive.

  I race down the stairs, stopping a few feet short of him, and am just about to throw my arms around him when he speaks.

  “I saw your crossbow in the woods,” he says numbly. “There was some blood nearby. I thought-”

  “I rescued a dog,” I say quickly. “This morning. I locked myself in all night, just like you told me.”

  “Why were you out in the first place?” his voice sounds rough, even... even angry.

  “Excuse me?” I say incredulously. “Why was I out there? You were getting attacked! Why were you out there?”

  “It doesn't matter-”

  “Of course it does! You can't put yourself in danger and be mad at me for trying to help you-”

  “I can look after myself.”

  I gesture to the wounds seeping through his clothes. “Clearly!”

  “It takes more than a few wolves to defeat a monster like me.”

  “You are not a monster!”

  “Look at me!”

  “I am looking at you!” I close the space between us, reaching for one of his hands, but he jerks it out of reach. His nails are coated with blood.

  “Do you know a man who can rip apart wolves with their bare hands?” he asks quietly.

  I know men who would like to, but I do not like them. And I do not think you are one of them.

  “I didn't say you were a man,” I snap shortly. “I said you weren't a monster.”

  Thorn scoffs. “You don't know what you say.”

  His tone is twisted and bitter and it makes my blood boil. I don't know what I say? As if I haven't been here long enough to know something of the person he is, however much he tries to keep from me. He may not be a monster but he is certainly infuriating.

  “Neither do you!”

  I was stupid to have worried about him. He clearly doesn't care. And there's not been one word of an apology for making me worry about him all day. I suppress the childish urge to stamp my foot and scream that I hate him. Instead, I turn on my heels. The whole way back to my room, I wait for him to stop me.

  Why was he out in the gardens? I try to trace his actions back through the day. He knew the wolves were there; we heard them together. He seemed concerned about them, worried about their presence. But then why go out in the gardens at all? And why tell me to stay inside? The door should have been ample protection. And then, there was the howl I heard. The monstrous, inhuman roar.

  With a shudder, I remember the monster I saw in the gardens, the night of the last full moon.

  Was there a connection between the wolves and the monster? Or... or was he worried that the howls might be from the monster? I had sworn I heard it outside my door before. If it had got in once...

  He was trying to protect me. But he was doing so by lying to me.

  I run back to Thorn's room and hammer on the door.

  “Yes?” his reply is groggy.

  “Is there a monster in the grounds?” I demand.

  There is a long pause.

  “Is there?”

  An even longer one follows. I swear I can almost hear Thorn breathing on the other side, trying to find the right words.

  “Thorn!”

  “Yes,” he replies, with unexpected firmness. “There is.”

  “Why wouldn't you just tell me-”

  The sound of his voice gets louder. “Oh, I don't know,” he throws open the door. “Because maybe 'Oh, hello Rose, nice to meet you, I hope you enjoy your imprisonment here. I should mention, once a month the castle plays host to a ravenous monster that might eat you. Have a nice stay' is not the best way to welcome someone!”

  He glares at me, waiting, no doubt, for some venomous reply. I did have one, too, up until when he opened the door. Now, all I can think of, all I can stare at, is the dozens of deep slashes across his bare arms and torso. My breath stills in my throat as though caught on a piece of glass. His cloak had hidden most of the damage, but his clothes are shredded to the point where they barely fulfil their function. There is blood all over his shirt, gashes across his arms, his face, any exposed bit of skin. Freedom has bought kills into the kitchen in better states.

  “What?” he barked.

  “You... your... Thorn,” I whisper desperately.

  He looks down, suddenly conscious of his missing attire, his shredded flesh. “It's nothing,” he says, trying to disappear behind the door. “I can manage.”

  All fury I had at him has been somehow magically flurried away and I march in after him.

  “Why didn't you say anything-”

  “I didn't really see the point. You don't have to help-”

  “You're right, I don't. But I want to.”

  “Why?”

  I swallow. Because I don't like seeing you in pain. Because I... I just want to.

  “You helped me,” I say instead. “When I first came here, and cut my hands. And when I fell into the ice-”

  “I had help,” he says shortly.

  “The little... remnants?”

  He nods. That explains a few things, including how he managed to undress me.

  “You helped me,” I say firmly. “Let me help you. Please.”

  He sighs reluctantly, and sits himself beside the fire. There is a little pot of water there already, bandages, cloths. His shredded shirt lies nearby. The lines are so deep...

  “I'm still mad at you for not telling me about the monster,” I whisper, trying to make my voice sound harder. I press a hot cloth to the first of his wounds, as gently as I can muster.

  “I know,” Thorn replies, equally quietly. “I'm just... I'm very conscious of scaring you.”

  “Because I have been so easily startled this far.”

  “That's just it. I keep thinking, one more thing and it'll be too much for her. No one can shoulder all of this. I don't want to frighten you away.”

  “Where exactly would I go?”

  “Just... away.” He swallows, and his eyes look downwards. “You see... I rather like the part of my day with you in it.”

  “Well, that's... sweet.” It's more than sweet. It is perhaps the nicest thing anyone has said about me, but then... he has not much to judge against. “I'm still mad at you.” I snip.

  “Be mad then,” he says. “But just.... don't leave.”

  It is hard to stay mad at someone when they say things like that. I bite down anything I would say in return and I move on to a deeper set of slashes. He winces when I touch them.

  “Sorry,” I say. “It's been a while since I've doctored any wounds like this. Freedom stopped asking me to help because I was too rough with him. He said I did it on purpose.”

  “Did you?”

  “Of course. He was being careless. Someone had to teach him a lesson.” Not that he ever stopped getting into scrapes. Not that I stopped offering. Not that I ever stopped feeling just a little bit jealous whenever he asked Honour or Hope for help instead.

  Thorn smiles a little, and I try to be a bit more gentle.

  “What type of monster is it?” I ask gingerly.

  Thorn sighs deeply. “It does not have a name. I only know that it comes once a month, during the full moon.”

  “Has it... always been here?”

  He no
ds.

  “And it attacks you?”

  “Not usually. Usually it minds its own business.”

  It did nothing, I reason, for the first three months. What has changed? Me?

  “Will it-”

  “It will not hurt you,” Thorn says sharply, as if he has any choice in the matter. “I will not let it.”

  “But-”

  “Just... don't go anywhere near it. Promise me.”

  I have never heard him sound so serious before. Serious, and fearful. “I... I promise.”

  Thorn exhales, very quietly, and all his muscles seem to relax. He doesn't even tense when apply the water to a new set of bite marks. Usually it minds its own business. He endured these for my sake.

  “What do you see?” he asks.

  I blink. “I'm sorry?”

  “You said that you were looking at me, earlier, in the hall. What do you see?” There is a quiet urgency in his voice, as if he has been fixating on it for some time, and, for a moment, I do not know what to say.

  “You.” The answer is surprisingly easy. “Not a man, not a monster. Just you. Sure, you might have big hands and claws and teeth larger than most, but you are, most categorically, not a monster, as you seem to insist.”

  “Then what does a monster look like?”

  “Like everyone else,” I say quietly. “There is many a monster who wears the form of a man; it is better of the two to have the heart of a man and the form of a monster.”

  “You still find me ugly then?”

  “I always said you were. Not everyone can be as beautiful as me.”

  This, at least, makes him laugh, which distracts him as I move onto the deeper of the cuts, cleaning the dried blood away from his matted hair.

  “If you have always been a beast, why should the shape of men matter to you?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “You seem to be quite bothered by the way you look. I’m trying to discover why.”

  “I have said this before; most people appear unhappy with their outward appearance.”

  “But I'm asking why you care.”

  Thorn sighs. He looks down at his hands. “I just feel as if my experiences are limited by my form... I want to be able to do the things that others take for granted. Write neatly. Paint. Ice a cake without it looking ridiculous. I don't... I don't even know what it feels like to have somebody's skin on mine...”

  “You can still feel me, can't you?”

  “Yes,” he says, ever-so-quietly. “But not in the way I'd like to.”

  I'm not entirely sure what this means, but I know that he is sad, and I want to take some of that sadness away from him. Ever-so-slowly, I slide my free hand into his. I squeeze his fingers; he thumbs mine. I want to ask him what he feels, but I am afraid to, so I take my hand back, fetch the bandages, and tell him a story instead.

  “When I was very little,” I say, unravelling the bandage around his arm, “I used to be jealous of my sister, Honour. She is so beautiful, and people are drawn to her like flowers move towards the sun. I used to think that if I looked like her, people would be the same towards me. But then my mother said that people have this strange relationship with beauty; they always think it will bring them happiness. She said that that was not the case, and even if true love fostered between beauty, true love happens but once, and it will find us regardless of how we appear. She said it did not matter if we were not loved by everyone, so long as we are loved by someone.”

  “I am not sure of what you are saying.”

  I move the bandage around his back. “Beauty is subjective, and it does not bring you happiness. Nor does it bring you understanding, companionship... love. It is a lesson I am glad I learnt young. I stopped... I stopped trying to get people to like me. I found enjoyment in being myself. I don't think I became rude or arrogant, but I stopped caring what others thought. If people don't like you for you, then they aren't worth your time. Somewhere, out there, your people are waiting. The ones who will love you unconditionally and irrevocably.”

  Thorn looks at me carefully for a long time, his head tilted to the side. “Is your friend, the one who kissed you at the party, one of these people?”

  He does not let that one slide. I almost regret telling him. “First off,” I reply, “I kissed him. And secondly... no, I don't think so. James is a dear friend, but... I have been here months and I have barely spared him a thought since I told you about him last. No, at the moment, those who love me unconditionally and irrevocably are limited to members of my immediate family, and Nanny.”

  “You are lucky.”

  “To have so many?”

  “Yes. And to be so sure of yourself.”

  “Do you really care so much, about what others think of you?”

  “I care about what you think.”

  I smile. Of course he does, as I'm his only company. But does he really think, after all this time together, than I think so little of him? “Well, I rather like looking at your face.”

  “I'm... I'm sorry?”

  “Well, like I said, it's definitely not pretty, but I still like looking at it.”

  “W-what? Why?”

  “Because it's yours,” I say. “The face of a person who's company I have come to enjoy. I mean, my father's pretty rough around the edges and I still like looking at him.”

  Thorn stares at me, utterly perplexed, unaware that I have finished bandaging him. I place my hand against his chest.

  “Better?” I ask.

  “Hmm? What?”

  I tap my handiwork.

  “Oh, yes, quite.”

  I do not remove my hand. He almost looks worse now, with the damage covered. It shows how much there was in the first place.

  I am still mad. He should not have lied. He should not have gone outside.

  I am still thinking all of these things when I lie my head against his chest.

  “I am really glad you're all right,” I whisper.

  I remember falling into Thorn's arms the day I slipped of the dresser. Back then, he was just the Beast, not Thorn. I cringe at how I flinched, how I wanted him to let me go. Now he is the one flinching, and I don't want to let him go.

  Slowly, carefully, Thorn's arms rise up and encase me. There is a little increase of breath against my ear, and for a minute, I am sure he is going to say something, but then his lips close. It is only when I inch myself away and turn towards the door that he finds his voice.

  “Thank you,” is all he says.

  I do not know what for.

  Chapter Eleven: The Hall of Mirrors

  What a collection of secrets this place holds, what aged whispers haunt the corridors. Who is this creature that stalks the halls? Who is the face that haunts my nightmares? And why is Thorn, a person with a noble heart made to wear the form of a monster, condemned to live here shackled to the shadows and the stone?

  My head spins with thoughts that stir me in and out of sleep. Who is Thorn indeed. He lies to me, or avoids telling the truth, and yet there is a goodness in him that far outweighs my own. Can a liar be a good person? Can I care for someone who keeps me in the dark?

  That depends upon the reason.

  But what reason could be good enough?

  That I care for him is certain. He has stitched his way into my skin with a finality that frightens me more than the secrets of this place. But though I trust him to protect me, and trust that he cares for me, I do not trust that he is honest, and thus there is a limit to my affections.

  Perhaps that is for the best, I reason. It will make it all the easier when you leave in three months' time.

  Three months' time. I am over halfway through.

  The following morning, I introduce Thorn to the pup, who I have decided to call Bramble, much to Thorn's amusement.

  “Because I found him in a bramble patch!” I insist.

  “Of course. I suppose we'll have a cat called Briar, soon, maybe a bird called Fern... how about a fish called Petal?”

  “I a
m not calling anything Petal,” I hiss. “Least of all, a fish! And you're teasing me.”

  “I will admit it is swiftly becoming one of my favourite past times.”

  I punch him on the arm, and he winces, which immediately makes my stomach twist guiltily. I turn back to Bramble.

  The introduction is somewhat limited, as he is still refusing to come out from underneath my bed. We pass him bits of food which he snatches from our fingers before scuttling back to his den, whilst we flick through a book on canines, trying to identify his breed. We decided he is mixed, and no older than six months.

  Bramble's arrival offers us a new pastime: house training. It is quite clear that wherever he has come from before, he did not live with people. It takes a few days of passing him food under the bed before he accepts us as part of his pack, but convincing him of the difference between outside and in is trickier. As he sleeps with me, morning duty is mine, and Thorn always takes him out in the evening. Sometimes, I watch them from my window, walking through the gardens in the low evening sun. Ever so often, Thorn will drop down on all fours and the two will chase each other like puppies. Sometimes, Thorn will look up to my window, and see me sitting there. He'll stop and wave, and then continue with the game with renewed enthusiasm.

  He looks up to my window a lot, I notice.

  “Where do you think he came from?” I ask Thorn one day, as the creature chases a bee through a bush.

  “I don't know,” replies Thorn. “It's possible he came through the gateway.”

  “I thought it only opened twice a year?”

  “It usually does, but sometimes tiny little holes can open up- small enough for birds, or insects...”

  “Or a medium-sized puppy?”

  “Precisely. Not large enough for a human, I fear.”

  It takes me a little while to realise what he is taking about. He is assuming I am thinking of escape. Wondering that if Bramble managed to get in, I can get out.

  I do not admit to him I have become less concerned with the days. Sometimes a week will pass before I remember to check it off. Although, I am keeping track of the moon. nineteen more days until the monster's return. I have asked Thorn little about it since he first admitted its existence, partly because I didn't want to have another argument, and partly because I am a little afraid of it. Everything else in the castle exists at all times. Even the wolves, I know, lurk in the woodlands during the day. But the monster seems to come out of nowhere.