Thorn is very quiet for a moment. “You know, I've often asked myself the same question.” His tone is bitter. “You've seen my true form now. Do you see now, why I told you I was a monster?”
I am petrified of my next question. “Have you ever hurt anyone?”
Thorn swallows. “Yes,” he replies. “Never willingly, never wantingly, always apologetically... but I still did it. It never mattered to me that I had no choice, that I couldn't help it. Only a monster could do what I did.”
“Only a monster could do that and not care.”
My words do not seem to be enough to convince him that I cannot, will not, ever agree with him. He is no more monster than me. Most days.
“How... how is the curse broken?” I ask, when Thorn says nothing in response.
“The details are a little... hazy. It was said that only a young woman, fierce in soul and fair of heart, could break it. Every time the gateway opens, it has pulled in another maiden.”
“And... and what is she supposed to do?” I have read many a story about a curse before. My mind whirs with thoughts off blood-letting, frog-kissing, and virgin sacrifices. I'll happily kiss a frog, but sacrifice is not really my preference. And I cannot imagine it is something as simple as a kiss.
“I am unsure,” he replies, although the tiny pause in his voice, the way he looks to the side slightly, make me think that he knows a little more than he is saying. “But I am fairly sure you are doing something right.”
“Because of... the garden?”
“The entire place. The mirrors, the magic, the light... Life returned to this place, once you came.”
“Slowly though,” I say quickly.
“I was once told all the best things happen slowly.”
“I still... I still don't feel like I'm doing anything though.”
“But you must be,” Thorn says, with some desperation. “You must be.”
The fervour of his gaze is alarming, and strikes me senseless for a moment. What does he think that I am doing? Or is it more a desperate hope?
“When you transform, what's it like?” I ask, attempting to turn his attention to something -anything- else.
“Painful,” he admits, after a pause. “It shouldn't be. My form doesn't change. The pain is all in my head. But it is... unpleasant.”
“And... are you inside, the whole time?”
“I'm not... I'm not sure. The night after, I always seem to remember it, but like one does a dream. Hazy. You might have noticed I'm never myself the day after.”
“You hurt yourself.”
“Yes, usually trying to get out, if I'm caged. I don't... I don't usually bother with that, when it's just me here. When there's nothing else living about, I don't seem to be a danger. The first few full moons you were here for, I didn't lock myself away. I had forgotten what could happen until you told me that you'd heard me.”
I stroke the scars on his arm. “These were for me, then.”
“The lesser of two evils, I assure you.”
Why does he think my pain is any less important than mine? He might be talking about how my death is worse than a few injuries on his behalf, but I am not convinced.
His hand is still bleeding from where I sliced it yesterday. Another injury he has endured for my sake. “Will you argue with me if I insist on doctoring you?”
“I am slowly learning that there is no point in arguing with you.”
Part Three: Summer
Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate.
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer’s lease hath all too short a date.
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimmed;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance, or nature’s changing course, untrimmed;
But thy eternal summer shall not fade,
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st,
Nor shall death brag thou wand'rest in his shade,
When in eternal lines to Time thou grow'st.
So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
William Shakespeare
Chapter Fifteen: The Rose Garden
Thorn and I reach an agreement: I will lock my door every night of the full moon and not come out, but I insist that I am the one to lock him in the crypt at night. It sounds strange to him at first, but I tell him that I will feel happier, knowing where he is, assuring myself that he is safe no matter how much he screams. He concedes to this, and I am satisfied. I know he still thinks I am afraid of him, but I am less afraid than I have been in months, now that I know what truly stalks these halls. Now that I know what secret he has been keeping.
Thorn rests for most of the day, recovering and also, I think, hiding his shame. Coming to terms with letting me see this ugliness inside him. I do not really want to be apart from him, but I do not think this is something I can fix. He needs to learn how to be at ease with this himself.
Bramble, thankfully, does not appear to be injured, and spends the day beside his master's side. I busy myself with cleaning up the mess of last night's escapades. The little sprites help, and I am glad to see them unhurt. They do not say anything however, even though I was sure I thought I heard them this morning.
The next day, I ask Thorn about his previous guests again.
“Did any of them come close to breaking the curse?”
“No,” he returns instantly.
“How can you be so sure? Did the gardens not-”
“It took a long time for magic to vanish entirely from this place. The gardens were the last thing to start crumbling. They could not be used as an indication.”
“Then how could you tell they didn't come close-”
Thorn goes silent for a moment. “Quite frankly, most of them did not really care,” he says eventually. “They did not engage with the castle -or me- in the way that you have.”
“And… all of these girls... They all chose to return to their families when the time came?”
“Can you blame them?”
I realise before I speak that that is what I am planning to do.
“Does the portal never open again in the same place?”
“It can do. It has several places it er, docks, as it were. It has opened in the same place before.”
“Is... is there any way to control it?”
“Possibly,” he replies. “Why do you ask?”
“Because... because I was thinking... perhaps... of coming back to see you, a couple of times a year. If... if I may.”
“You... you want to see me again?”
“Of course I want to see you again!” I snap.
Did none of the others feel the same? Did they all care for him so little, that they could abandon him to his isolation? That they were content to never speak to him again?
Thorn could not have looked more shocked if I had slapped him.
“Did... did none of them express a desire to do the same?” I ask gingerly.
“One or two of them promised to, but then a year passed, or two, and they forgot. Moved onwards, as they should.”
“I cannot believe that not one looked back.”
“Can you not?”
My chest feels tight. “Thorn, when...”
“Yes?”
I want to promise that I will return, when my time comes, but he has had that promise before, and I do not think he would believe me if I repeated it. I also realise that although I desperately, desperately want to see my family again… I do not want to leave here. I do not want to leave Thorn. Could I bear it, to be apart from him for so long? Could he bear it, to be apart from me?
He has born it with others. Why should I consider myself different?
I feel different. I feel different to me, if not to him.
“When I go,” I say finally. �
��It won't be easy. I... I don't want it to be forever.”
“It goes without saying, that I don't want it to be forever, either.”
I wish I had another choice. I wish I could take him with me, or come back any time I pleased. Perhaps... perhaps I can spend six months with my family, and then another six here. Live my life between two worlds.
But I know, somehow, that this will be impossible.
“I've grown quite fond of you, you know.”
“And I, of you.”
Fond does not really aptly explain it, and I know Thorn would give it another word too, if I let him, but I do not. Instead, I make up some task that requires my immediate attention, and sweep swiftly out of the room.
I dream of the other girls, that night. I see them, talking to Thorn, smiling at him, their faces flat and expressionless like paper. Was it so easy for them to leave? Why did not one return, just for a day? How could they leave him? How could they not love him like-
Like what? Why do I find it so hard to comprehend that no one has loved him? Lots of people are unloved through life, tragic though that truth is. Why was Thorn so different?
I find myself wondering about what people are. What makes us human, makes us special, makes us different. Because we are. There are no species quite like us, or at least none that I have known. What makes us so? What are we cut from, what spark makes our minds move?
Because whatever we are made from, Thorn is made from something else. I have never known his like before, and lack the words to give it shape.
If you care about him so much, Rose, you should just tell him. What harm can it do?
But even if I could find the words, I wouldn't speak them. The price is far too high.
One morning, just before lunch time, Thorn races into the parlour, all excitement.
“I have something magnificent to show you!” he squeals, “Come on!”
He is so excited that he quite forgets how to walk upright. He bounds out of the room, slipping and sliding, before scooting back in to check if I'm following.
“Come on!”
“What is it?”
“It's a surprise.”
“You cannot top the library, Thorn.”
“This might come close.”
He leads me to the narrow set of stairs that wind up towards the barren little roof garden with the fountain. Not really expecting much, I put on a smile and follow him up.
The first thing I notice is the aroma of flowers, the scent of honey and summer. Seconds later, I step into the sunlight and am wrapped in colour. Pink, white, red, purple, yellow, orange... roses in every shade, style and shape. Roses I never knew even existed.
“This is beautiful.”
“Roses have always been my favourite,” Thorn says softly. “Even before I met you.”
When I turn around from admiring a particularly beautiful pink rose, Thorn is standing very close. It startles me so much that I prick my finger on the bush.
“Ouch!”
Thorn grabs my hand quickly, as if I will bleed out without immediate attention. “Over here.”
He pulls me over to the little gold-bottom fountain and dips my hand in the waters. The feeble pain vanishes almost immediately. I lift it out. There is nothing there.
“Healing waters?”
Thorn grins. “Healing waters. Blessed by the fairy queen herself.”
“How convenient.”
“Well, it won't heal any serious wound, but nicks and scrapes it can manage.” He massages my finger. “You should be more careful when admiring roses,” he says smugly. “I hear they can be dangerous.”
“Personally, I've always rather enjoyed them for their thorns.” My eyes fall to the pendant I gave him.
He laughs. “You are an odd creature.”
“As are you.” I tap his chest. “Luckily, we're rather of the same oddness, so I rather think we suit.”
Thorn looks a bit awkward at this, and turns away. “I got your rosebud up here, for your necklace,” he says swiftly.
“That was months ago!”
“They certainly took their time. I wasn't sure they would bloom at all. They were the last thing that dried up, you know. The last to come back. It is my favourite place in the entire castle.”
I grin, because it is mine now, too.
“Let me show you why.”
There is a little ladder at the edge of the garden which leads to a small platform, almost like a gazebo. Thorn lets me go first.
It is the highest point in the castle. I can see for miles, the ever-changing mountains, the blue skies, the streams and lakes and trees and meadows. I fancy I can even make out little villages, and I notice that the landscape is moving, shifting slightly every few seconds.
“I think we can say, quite certainly, that the magic has certainly returned to this place,” says Thorn, appearing beside me. He sounds in awe, but a little sad, too. “When the solstice comes, the gateway should be clear. You will have several hours with which to make your escape.”
“What do you mean?”
“When you came here before, the way closed almost immediately. There was not enough magic to keep it open any longer. This time, I think it will be open for a while.”
“Oh, good.”
Thorn looks at me quizzically.
“I don't want to have to rush.”
A hand slowly drifts across my cheek. It stays there, half in my hair, half on my skin. Thorn's eyes are tied to mine. They are such beautiful eyes, bright and blue and so wonderfully his in way that is hard to put to words. I do not want to move. I want to press this moment between the pages of a book, preserve like a flower. I want to take it out again, admire it, keep it close to me, like Thorn's snowdrops.
“Stay here,” Thorn requests.
He leaps off the platform and disappears behind the roses. “No peeking!”
The view is just as captivating without him, but a little less magical without him by my side, as if I need a second pair of eyes to fully soak up the sight, grasp every colour. I can see a deer grazing in the woodland, make out the rustle of life in every bush and every tree. We are certainly not alone here, any more.
I thumb my little amber necklace. A sudden thought occurs to me. “How did you make this, when you say your hands are so clumsy?” I call down.
“I had help,” Thorn replies. “From our little fairy friends.”
He reappears at my side, and the lights are buzzing around his face. “Oh, hello!” I say, “How nice to see you again!”
Thorn grins, and extends a hand to touch them. “It's been a while, old friends.”
“How did they help you if you haven't seen them?”
“Just because we cannot see someone,” he says, “Doesn't mean they aren't there. They've been here my whole life, keeping me fed and the castle as upright as possible... fixing chains and tying ribbons.” He holds out his other hand. It is filled with the most beautiful bouquet of roses and greenery, soft yellows and pinks and bright oranges, little pops of red, tied with a scarlet ribbon.
“Thank you,” I breathe, clutching them to my chest, inhaling pure summer. “You truly have a talent when it comes to arranging flowers! You're extremely good with colour.” I begin to wonder if his desire to paint may not be a bad ambition, and am struck with a sudden idea. “Wait here,” I tell him.
It takes me a while to locate them, and even longer to haul them up the stairs, but I eventually emerge on the rooftop with an easel, paints, and a blank canvas.
Thorn frowns as he helps me set up the easel. “What... what are you doing?”
“Painting!”
“You want to paint?”
“Actually, I'm a terrible painter, but I can sketch well enough. You're doing the painting.”
“Me?” Thorn steps back. “I'm not sure that's a good idea-”
“Well, how will you know until you try?”
Thorn exhales and silently concedes. He loads different paints into a little tray whilst I ske
tch the outline of the garden. Carefully, gently, he picks up a brush and begins to mix the colours. Perfect shades begin to emerge.
I try not to spend too long on my outline. I'm really not much of an artist, especially compared to Freedom. I can just about manage to copy. He was the one with vision, perspective, creativity. He could disappear into his paintings the way I could a book, and I would be lying if I said I didn't envy his talent.
I push Thorn into my seat. He gulps nervously, holds up a shaking brush... it divides against the canvas, leaving a splurge of red on the page. He looks up at me hopelessly. I ease the brush out of his fingers.
“Try it without the brush,” I suggest.
“Without the brush?” he looks at me like I'm mad.
I load my little finger with a small measure of red, lean over his shoulder, and press it against the white. I spread it out slowly, following my rough lines.
Thorn follows my example, coating his nails in various shades, dragging it along the canvas. He finds this easier. The roses begin to bloom. He layers the canvas with colour, oranges and reds. He spreads blue over the sky, rubs over clouds. I help with some tiny, fiddly bits- tiny lines, little more. I adore the way the roses burst through my sketch, the way the colour leaps from the lines. Before long, not a spot of white remains. I step back to admire it.
“It's messy,” Thorn says critically.
“Oh no, it's wonderful!” I declare. “It doesn't have to be perfect to beautiful.” I have not seen anything of its ilk. It does not look realistic, by any means, but it is clearly a rose garden, a vibrant explosion of summer and colour.
“Do you really like it?” Thorn asks.
I turn my face to his, and nod.
“Do you want it?”
“More than anything.”
We are both so close. Thorn has a spot of paint on his nose. I lean forward to rub it away, but keep my hand on his cheek, longer than I should. For a long moment, neither of us says anything. When Thorn eventually does, his voice is softer than the wind.
“I wish I was a human man, and had human lips, so that I might kiss you.”
My first response -the one that runs to the tip of my tongue before I can think it- is, If you were a human man, I’d let you. I catch it just in time. I do not want those words spoken. I fear they would do more harm than good. I do not want Thorn to hear those words, “if you were a human man” not from me, not from anyone. Thorn is a human man. Or as good as one. Or better. So much better.
The Rose and the Thorn Page 14
