The Rose and the Thorn

by Kate Macdonald

  “I'm not afraid!” I spit, more venomously than I mean to.

  “Yes, you are,” she says softly, “and it is killing him.”

  My mind churns over what Ariel said. Why couldn't she tell everything about the curse? Why must I “speak my heart”? What does that mean? Why should it matter? Aside from pumping fiercely against my chest, my heart is mute. My head, on the other hand, is loud and angry. Frustration rattles around inside.

  “I'm so confused,” I say aloud. “Just... tell me what you want me to do. Help me break the curse.”

  But the castle is silent, and my heart says nothing on the matter.

  I tell Thorn about Ariel, but by the time he rushes back to the hall, she is gone, and does not come when he calls. I tell him she'll be back, but I wonder if her form is permanent. Maybe she isn't tangible all the time, like the sorceress' power.

  I do not tell him what we spoke about, her final words bubbling in my mind; my fear is killing him. My fear of what, exactly? Contrary to what I told Ariel, what I tell myself, I have so many. I don't see how any of them could hurt him any more than they would hurt me.

  I return to the hall each night after he has gone to bed. I do not see Ariel, although I catch a few more snippets of the castle's history. I see it turning grey and lifeless. I see the fairy queen dismissing her subjects. I see her creating the gateway in the meadow, closing it for good. The gardens lose their lustre, slowly begin to shrivel. The sun darkens.

  I see the fairy queen weeping over the ruined crib, and then...

  Then she is gone, but the gardens begin to bloom again.

  What happened to her? Where did she go? Is she, like the shadows, still somewhere within the walls? She was certainly the woman Thorn was talking to, but was he merely addressing her portrait, or something else?

  I don't know what I'd do if I lost you both.

  Who was she to him? If setting her free brings magic back, ensures that Thorn won't be alone when I leave, that we can see each other again... then I will gladly do it, if I know how. But... I will not deny the stab of jealousy I feel, at her being here in my stead, of her being Thorn's confidante, companion... whatever I am, whatever she was. I want to ask Thorn more about her, but I'm afraid of his answer.

  I am afraid of who she was, and what we are becoming. I am afraid of what will happen when the magic runs out, if the curse is completed, if whatever lurks in the shadows is released, if she is free. I think about what she said to the queen, her clear disdain for mortals. I do not want to think about what she will do, but it haunts my thoughts.

  Maybe I shouldn't leave. Maybe it's irresponsible of me now, now I know what I know. But what do I know? So many mysteries, so few absolutes. If life returned because of me, will it go when I do?

  Perhaps it will take years, like it did the last time. Perhaps I will be able to find a way to break it back home. Perhaps it's not even me. Perhaps I can come back.

  Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps.

  Sleep is impossible, so I turn to another mirror and check in on my family one more time. They are mostly all asleep. Hope and Beau are curled up in bed together. She has an open book against her chest. Papa is sleeping in his own bed for a change. Nanny is tucked up in bed her hair in rags. I figure night time is not the best time to spy on Honour and Charles, so I skip to Freedom.

  He is still up, burning a candle in the tool shed he uses for painting. Red swirls around the canvas. The image is just as shocking as it is moving.

  Me. He is painting me.

  I press my fingers against the glass. A tear rolls down the painting's cheek. No, it is my own tear, my own reflection. I whisper his name, and an awful question rolls up inside of me.

  “Show me... show me my family missing me.”

  I regret the words almost as quickly as they tumble out. I witness Honour sobbing in Charles' arms, the night of her wedding, still in her dress, crying that she should have waited. I see Freedom searching the woods, ten, fifty, a thousand times. I see Beau screaming to go too. I see Nanny coughing out tearless sighs as she cooks, Hope sitting quietly in a snow-covered garden. Papa's is worse. He is crouched by mother's grave. Snatches of awful conversation spasm about the room. “Help us... guide her home... I failed you... I'm so sorry, Grace...” and he wails, wails like he did that night over her coffin.

  I go back to my room, horrified what I have seen, what I have done, and know I cannot wait another six months.

  Whatever the cost, I have to go home.

  Chapter Eighteen: The Solstice

  I get so badly burned by the sudden burst of intense, summery heat over the next few days, that Thorn fetches a bucket of water from the fountain for me to bathe in. Ariel -or one of the other sprites- summons me an ointment made from aloe vera to soothe my raw skin. The following day I am flaky and brown. Thorn tries not to chuckle as I shed skin like a snake.

  “You're enjoying this,” I spit.

  “I enjoy nothing that causes you pain,” he returns. “But I do enjoying being the attractive one, for a change.”

  Attractive. Thorn thinks I'm attractive. I'm not sure he's ever said anything about my appearance before. I am not naïve; I have seen his eyes linger on me whenever I wear a particularly lovely dress. I have felt his gaze skim my bare flesh. But he has never said anything before, never really alluded to it.

  You always look the same, to me.

  How do I look to him? Why should it even matter?

  “Attractive, am I?” I probe.

  “Well, compared to some,” he teases. Perhaps something in my face changes, because he quickly adds, “You are very attractive, Rose, and well you know it.”

  My cheeks redden furiously, because until that moment, I hadn't really felt I was.

  It has become so warm here, so hot, that the weather keeps me up at night. I twist and turn in my sheets, like a fish on land. The heat is suffocating. I have cycled round to that phase that must come once a year for all who live in countries with such defined seasons; I almost long for winter. I cannot remember why I hated the cold so. I can't even remember what it felt like to be cold. It cannot be as much of a hassle to get warm as it is to get cool. At least in winter, you can shelter under blankets, surround yourself with firelight, curl up beside your loved ones. Heat is inescapable.

  It sounds foolish -and also impossible- but I like the idea of doing winter again with Thorn. Dosing beside the fire, my head in his lap. Our warmth pressed together. Our winter was over quickly, and we were not so close before. Things are different now, so different that I cannot imagine my winters -any seasons- without him. I will have others by my side, but they will not fill his shape. Wherever I go, whatever home I have, there shall always be a space beside my fire that Thorn is suppose to fill. That he will fill, for I shall feel his absence as solidly as a physical presence.

  The heat also makes it difficult to concentrate. Despite the volumes at my bedside, I get through so little. I try to read whenever I can, try to fool myself into sleep by tiring my brain with words, but nothing sinks in. I will read pages only to realise I have read nothing; the words do not seep in, and the frustration tangles with the heat and makes me ever more frustrated. I do not sleep properly, and I snap at Thorn in the mornings, which I think hurts me more than it hurts him, at this point. I am wasting my time with him.

  I have only two weeks left. I have not discovered anything new about the curse. I think perhaps this is it. What more can I do? I try to spend more time with Thorn, enjoy the hours we have left, but all the minutes I spend with him are tinged with sadness, regret, annoyance. I could have done more. I should have tried harder.

  I should have been better to him. I should have cared more when I had the time.

  One night, we sit together on the rooftop garden. It is breathtaking, lit by flowers and candlelight. We are both trying to read, but neither of us are succeeding. It is too beautiful tonight to do anything but breathe and stare.

  “Rose...” his voice is a whisper, and his
eyes grow dark and serious. I can tell from the slight waver in his voice that he is nervous, but he does not turn away. Our gazes are fixed. “Are you happy here?”

  I respond in an instant. “Why wouldn't I be?”

  I expect his expression to lighten, but the most I get is the twitch of a smile. He is still nervous. “I know it is impossible for you to return the sentiment,” he continues, “but... I'm very glad you came here.”

  For a moment, his words hang between us, while I unravel their meaning. Of course he is glad; I'm sure he was glad when the others came, too. A break in his solitude, his loneliness. But this is not what he is saying.

  I smile, try to make light of it. “The experience has not been as awful as I first thought it would be,” I play with the tassels on my shawl, trying to sound placid. I am not sure it works. I'm not sure I want it to. Despite myself, despite... my family... being here with Thorn is, is... “And... I'm very glad to have met you, too. I can't imagine ever not.”

  Then all pretence evaporates. I jump from my cushion and throw my arms around him, burying my face in his neck, fingers tight around his clothes. I want him to know, need him to know, just how much I mean it. I can't find the words. They don't exist. How to explain that even when torn from your home, your family, even when haunted, and miserable, I am happy. Happy to be with him, in whatever way I can.

  Pressed up against Thorn’s chest, I realise how broad he is. I feel taut muscles under his shirt. His arms are big and strong, yet they hold me with such firm gentleness. No man I have ever known has touched me in such a way. Then I remember that Thorn is not a man, not exactly, although he is in all the ways that matter.

  All the ways that matter, except one.

  I inch back and place my head in his lap. A few precious moments tick by in harmonious silence. I am so comfortable, so sleepy, but I do not wish to sleep.

  “Thorn?” I whisper.

  “Yes, Rose?”

  “I do desperately want to see my family again, but... I'm not exactly looking forward to saying goodbye.”

  Thorn strokes a lock of hair away from my face. Sad eyes gaze down at me. He murmurs something about missing me too. I can't quite make it out; I am virtually asleep. Thorn has to guide me back to my room. I half wish he would just scoop me up again. I do love being in his arms.

  I know we have another ten nights together, but there is something about this once that feels like the last. When Thorn closes my door, he stops for a moment, and looks at me like he is afraid that this will be the last time we see one another.

  “Rose,” his voice sounds almost grave.

  “Yes?”

  “I know... I know my interaction with other people has been... limited, somewhat. But, I wish you to know, that, of all the people I have ever met...”

  “Yes?”

  “I could meet every soul in the world, and you would still be my favourite.”

  For some reason, I cannot find the energy to tell him is mine, too, and always will be. I kiss his hands instead, and slip back into my room.

  I wake at first light, too early for breakfast. Knowing I am unlikely to fall asleep again, I decide to start penning a letter to Thorn, not knowing if I will ever give it to him. I think it is more an exercise in organising my thoughts.

  Dear Thorn, I begin, then quickly scribble it out. No, Dearest Thorn.

  I did not ask to come here, but now, I cannot imagine my life taking another route. I don't think I want to go. No, I know I want to go home. I do, so badly, but I am not ready to say goodbye to you.

  I don't think I'll ever be ready.

  In short, I cannot imagine my life without you.

  You are the greatest friend-

  I stop. Friend is not right, too small a word. Companion? Too formal. Thorn walks this line between friend and family. He feels so much a part of me. I should have called him Stem or Root instead.

  I leave the letter, scrunching it up and stuffing it furiously in my top drawer. I cannot say goodbye to him. I cannot.

  I just want to be with him.

  All right, says a voice, one that sounds much like my mother's, twinned, perhaps, with Honour's. They both used to speak like that, as if everything in the world were really quite simple. Then do. Be with him.

  But that is not all I want. I want to be with him and be with him. Be with him in a way I can't.

  And that isn't just what I want, either. I want a way to be with him that means I can be with my family, too.

  You can't have everything.

  It isn't fair. Most people do not have to choose between their family and their... whatever Thorn is to me. Honour has both.

  But then, life isn't fair, and sometimes there is a choice that must be made.

  I am not sure I can make this one.

  I've read enough stories where a girl is placed in a similar predicament. I can't remember anywhere she chooses her family. The story ends with her riding off into the sunset with the man of her dreams, and we a told it is a happy ending. But does the story truly end there? Why do we not get to see her two, three, five years later, when the ache of her loss has had time to broaden, and her passion lessen?

  I do not miss my family as much as I did when I first came here, for certain, but I feel that is because the gap is closing. I know it won't be forever, that it won't even be long. If I could truly never see them again, that hole inside would widen until it engulfed me. What I feel for Thorn could not possibly fill it, could it?

  Could it?

  I would have said I could not have lived without my family, and yet I have. I have learned to live without them. I have even, miraculously, been happy.

  So happy.

  I can survive without them. There are moments, so many moments, where I am filled with wondrous, exalted bliss. I am sunbeams and clouds and cool, translucent waters. I am so many things I never was before. I know the shape and curve of my soul, here.

  I can live without them.

  I do not think I can live without him. How did I manage all the years before? How will I manage all the years ahead?

  Thorn doesn't come to breakfast. I find him in the ballroom instead. We rarely come in here, but it really is a beautiful room, especially with the blooms now cascading through the roof.

  When he sees me, his face breaks into a smile. He races over and grabs my hands. “Let's have a ball before you leave,” he declares.

  “A ball?”

  “Yes. Fine dining, beautiful music, fabulous clothing, slightly clumsy dancing.”

  “I am not sure I have the time to create something fabulous to wear...”

  “Anything you wear will be made fabulous by proximity.”

  “Oh, you-”

  “So, what do you say?” He twirls me under his arm. Clumsy dancing indeed. Maybe from me.

  “Yes,” I say hurriedly. “I say yes.”

  I raid all of the wardrobes I can find in search of something beautiful, ball-worthy, and not completely uncomfortable and over the top. I find one -white- which might do, if I can cut away the ruffles. I would love to add some gold embroidery, but I am very conscious of time. So few days left. A lot of hours to waste on a project like this, when I have so little time left with him.

  I put it away, deciding to focus on it when Thorn is in the dungeon during the next full moon. I will need something to pass the hours with. But today I want to spend with him.

  It is a beautiful day, so, at lunchtime, we pack ourselves a picnic and head to the lake. It is humming with life, completely separate from that frozen wasteland it was when I arrived. A painter couldn't have made it any more perfect. After we eat, I glare at the still, shining water like one might a nemesis, and start unlacing my dress.

  “What- what are you doing?” Thorn swallows nervously.

  “Facing a fear,” I declare, letting my loose layers drop to the ground until I am standing in nothing but my undergarments. “Would you like to join me?”

  Thorn does not refuse. He doesn't deny me a
nything. He pulls off his shirt and hurtles into the water fearlessly. I stay closer to the shallows. I am not a strong swimmer, and I have still not forgotten the face in the lake.

  “You won't drown you know, if you go out of your depth,” he says. “Not while I'm around.”

  “I know. I've just never been the best of swimmers.”

  “I'll teach you,” Thorn declares.

  We both ignore the fact that there is only so much he can do in the time we have left, and I let him pull me in. He holds me in his arms as we go further out. I am not afraid. Nothing bad can happen as long as he is here.

  We spend several hours in the water, before lying down on the bank to dry. The evening rolls in, but I don't want to go back yet. Thorn catches a fish, which we fry on a fire we build ourselves, and dine on along with the remaining picnic.

  That night, I pen a letter to Honour. I forget to mention anything about being home soon: my letter is filled with news of my swimming lessons, of Thorn and Bramble playing fetch in the shallows, of how it felt to stretch out in the sun beside them and feel like the warmth was coming from me. Time seemed to stop, that afternoon.

  It is moving exponentially now.

  On the day of the full moon, Thorn and I pack enough food to last us an entire day and spend all of it outside. We eat breakfast in the orchard and read aloud summery poems. Then we head to the lake for another swimming session. I almost make it to the island in the centre, before I panic and have to turn back. Thorn doesn't tease me, this time.

  We have a long, slow, hazy lunch, savouring every delectable morsel and crumb and treating ourselves to a delicate champagne. It pairs perfectly with everything.

  We try to pretend this isn't likely the last time we'll do this, what with Thorn usually needing a day to recover from the change, and the ball to plan. We try to keep the conversation light. We discuss the books we are reading, what will we eat for dinner. We sing songs, and ignore anything about the future. Anything that sounds like goodbye.