Ariel pauses for a moment, and I realise this isn't as straightforward a question as I thought.
“With all but one thing,” she says eventually. She stresses the “all” but all I hear is the one thing he doesn't.
“And what thing is that?”
“The thing that matters most. The thing you have yet to trust him with, either.”
For some reason, this irks me. “I trust him with everything.”
Ariel sighs. “You really think that, don't you?”
I try to put it out of my mind. What does Thorn not trust me with? Why does it matter so much?
The days creep closer together. Five more till the full moon.
Thorn and I are sitting in the library. Bramble is at my feet, basking in the warm glow of the embers. It is getting late, but neither of us are in the mood for sleep just yet. Thorn is reading a story aloud. I enjoy his readings. He always does different voices for the different characters.
He reaches the end. “And their happiness, as it was founded on virtue, was complete.” He sighs a little. “Another happy ending. I'm glad.”
I laugh a little. Thorn always treats the characters in books like real people. He is affronted whenever they are wronged and devastated when tragedy befalls them, as if they were friends of his. It is utterly endearing.
“You are smiling at me, Rose.”
“That is because you are very sweet,” I reply.
“They deserved their happy ending,” Thorn says testily. “After everything they've been through-”
“I am not disputing that in the slightest.”
“Oh. Excellent. For a moment, I thought you were teasing me.”
“Whenever I say you are sweet, I am not teasing you.” I reach up and tug his ear. “Other times, however-”
“Oh, Rose!” He pulls my hand away, but them he holds it, his thumb gently caressing my palm. “Rose,” he says again, softly.
I have a feeling he is going to say something, but then he doesn't speak. “You say my name a lot, do you realise?”
“Do I?” Thorn looks genuinely confused. “I did not realise. I suppose I just like the way it sounds.”
“So do I,” I return, and then he looks at me, and my cheeks feel oddly hot. “On your lips,” I add, and my face feels even hotter.
I get up from my seat beside him and move towards the writing desk. I barely know what I am doing, but it was too hot where I was before, and here, beside the window, is a semblance of coolness. I can see a heap of papers in the corner; he has being trying to practise, with fair degrees of success. One page contains a full poem.
“What's this?” I ask, holding it up.
Thorn rushes upwards. “Ah, that, yes, um, no-”
I begin to read. “Like flames, my heart has flickered, felt before-”
“It's just a work in progress-”
He moves to snatch it from me, but I dive under his arm and dart to the other side of the room.
“Yet never till those eyes held mine
Did it move, and beat, like unfurling wings
To fall in rhythm with each breath she took.
O, that I have lived to feel such joy,
And weather each hard pain it brings.
Endure her closeness, heart I beg thee,
For each step she takes from me is hell,
And each moment with her bliss, heaven-kissed.
Such sweetness turns my withered heart to spring.
Whenever I should die, cut it from my chest
It lies there in my breast, my heart, rose-shaped.”
I look up from the page, and my eyes hold Thorn’s. It is as if our gazes have been threaded together. In the fireplace behind him, a log collapses. Sparks flutter up the chimney while ash spills onto the grate. Neither of us speaks.
“It's just a... writing exercise.” Thorn says. His voice is feather soft, and deep as darkness. “A silly thing-”
“It was beautiful,” I breathe. “Where… where did those words come from? How… how long did that take you-”
“It was just there…” he replies. “Written. In the space between…”
“The space between?”
He comes closer. “In the space between. In the only between that matters.”
The clock on the wall chimes two. two? I look at Thorn in shock, and his face mirrors mine. “Good lord, it’s late!” I say, and then I laugh. “What would my Nanny say? Up until two with a man after dark… I do hope he declares his intentions!”
Thorn looks at me and opens his mouth. It hangs there for a while, unspeaking, frozen. The question he eventually asks comes as quite a shock.
“Will you marry me, Rose?”
“What?”
That is quite possibly one of the worst things you can ever say to someone who has just asked to marry you, but I am sure, at first, that I must have misheard. He cannot be serious.
“Forgive me. That just… slipped out. But answer, yes or no, without fear.”
I smile. “As if I could ever fear you, dearest.”
His eyes light up. “Is that a-”
“No, Thorn.”
All at once, the light that has been there vanishes, extinguished in an instant.
“For a start, there is no priest to marry us, and what would my family say, if I did not invite them to the wedding?” I say breezily. “I do like to do things properly.”
Thorn laughs.
“What amuses you so?”
“Your answer. I have never imagined such a pleasant rejection.”
“I am sorry it was a rejection.”
“Do not be sorry,” he says, and for a minute, I almost believe he means it. “Goodnight, Rose.”
“Goodnight, Thorn.”
Part Four: Autumn
When reeds are dead and a straw to thatch the marshes,
And feathered pampas-grass rides into the wind
Like aged warriors westward, tragic, thinned
Of half their tribe, and over the flattened rushes,
Stripped of its secret, open, stark and bleak,
Blackens afar the half-forgotten creek,—
Then leans on me the weight of the year, and crushes
My heart. I know that Beauty must ail and die,
And will be born again,—but ah, to see
Beauty stiffened, staring up at the sky!
Oh, Autumn! Autumn!—What is the Spring to me?
Edna St Vincent Millay
Chapter Twenty-Five: The Consequence
I lie awake in bed that night with that question playing over in my head. What did he mean, when he asked me that? More than anything, my own answer confuses me. I was so quick to refuse his offer, but I did not wish to reject him. Nor did I wish to do so simply to spare him pain.
It was simply such a strange question, phrased so oddly, as if he were asking me on walk. Yet his pain at my refusal seemed genuine.
Perhaps he does not see marriage as I do. Perhaps he does not understand. Perhaps he has been here alone so long… perhaps he does not know what it means to be man and wife. He may only know what he has read, and believes marriage to be simple companionship. Is that all he requires from me? Is that not what we already have?
I have never known a friend closer than Thorn. He feels as dear to me as my own family, an extension of my love for them. But what is he to me? Can something exist so important, without a name to contain it?
And that poem. Those words. Were they... were they aimed at me? Were those words mine? He did not say as much, and yet he did, in every word, in every look and gesture.
It takes me many hours to sleep, and when I finally do, it is fitful. I dream I am in the meadow with Thorn, and a cold dark mist rips him away from me. Seconds later I wake in my bed, shaking so uncontrollably, it is all I can do to stop myself from calling for him in the dark.
Although we spend the next few days in each other's company, we do a terrific job of ignoring each other in the politest way possible. We converse about
the weather, we report factually what is happening in the books we are engrossed in. We compliment the food, the flowers, the gardens. Not a personal word is uttered. We barely speak each other's names.
We mention nothing about the proposal, if indeed that's what it was. I am too afraid to ask the fairies if they saw it, or if they know what Thorn was thinking when he asked me. What answer scares me more? Thorn knowing full well what the question meant, or having no idea at all?
Do I regret my answer?
The night of the full moon comes. Thorn is surprised to hear that I will be coming with him again, but he appears pleased considering the distance between us the last few days. We go down to the dungeon early, hoping to avoid the disaster that befell us last month. Bramble and the fairies come with us, our personal guard. Any last minute pleas for me to stay in the castle are ignored.
In any case, the concern is not necessary. Nothing happens. Perhaps Moya hasn't recovered from her last attack. Perhaps the magic of the castle is too strong for her now. I do not think of it too much. I count my blessings and look to Thorn.
There is no need to lock him in immediately. All of us sit in the lighted corridor. We play games, chat, elevate the tension. I have never spoken with Ophelia or Margaret at any great length, but I learn more about them here. Margaret is a Siren. She is somewhat miffed when I believe this is a type of mer creature that sits on rocks and lures men to their doom. “I am part owl!” she declares stiffly. “And the luring men to their doom part is exaggerated!”
She used to be mistress of the robes, and, when required, the castle governess. She was clearly a respected member of this ancient court, used to being obeyed. Ophelia, I sense, is a little afraid of her.
She tells me she is a Pixie, a small winged humanoid creature, but her grandmother was a nymph, and therein lay her love of the outdoors and gardening.
“I hope you don't mind me pottering around the flowerbeds-”
“Oh no, not at all!” she says honestly. “They are meant to be shared!”
Ariel, as I suspected, is a full-on fairy. She has little magical talent “apart from the ordinary” but tells us all that her “wit” is her true power. They all groan at this.
“I do not know why you're all laughing. The fairy queen herself said, 'Ariel, thou beist the most talented and most skilful of all of my domain, but thy wit biest thy greatest trait.' True story.”
“I find this very difficult to believe,” says Thorn.
“The great thing about my wit is it doesn't need to be believed to be real,” she declares.
When the hour approaches, the fairies vanish, promising to return to escort me back to the castle. Bramble stays by my side as Thorn climbs into the cell.
“I haven't seen a shadow in a while,” I tell him.
“Me neither,” he admits. “Not since the last full moon. I wonder what changed?”
I feel like a lot has changed since then, but I don't have the words or the courage to explain it.
I turn around as Thorn sheds his clothes. We sit together in the silence for a little while, our backs to each other. We still have a few minutes.
“Rose, if you could... if you could go back now- or today, tomorrow, would you?”
“But I can't go back.”
“If you could. Would you go back?”
“I... I have to see them again,” I tell him. “They have to know that I'm all right. And I miss them. I miss them so much.”
But I might not go tomorrow. And I would not go unless I knew I could come back.
I try to banish that old fear from my mind. It is another five months until I have to make that impossible decision. What was I hoping would change in the extra time I was given? Things have changed, but not for the better, not here. The changes will only make the decision worse.
Because I have to go home. I have to.
“I would not go home tomorrow,” I say. It is all that I can manage.
“Why not?” I feel him tense behind me. The change is not far off.
“I'm not done here,” I say. “I've still got to break the curse, remember?”
Thorn snorts. “Is that all?” he asks.
“No,” I reply truthfully, even though I want to say, “Isn't that enough?”
His body pulses. I wheel around, stick my hands through the bars, rub the back of his neck. His forehead presses against mine.
“Why... why do you want to stay?”
“I told you before: I don't want to leave you.”
Despite the pain, Thorn manages to smile. “You didn't say that before.”
“Didn't I?”
“No. You... you implied... you... needed to... not... wanted.”
“They're the same thing, where you're concerned.”
When I open my eyes, when they're finished with flushing out tears, it is clear that Thorn is gone for the night. I do not know if he heard me.
The following morning, when we go to pick him up, it's clear that he has had a rough night. He is a bit scratched up -nothing that a quick trip to the fountain doesn't fix- and obviously exhausted. We manage to have breakfast together, but then I insist he goes to bed. It is a testament to how tired he is that he accepts this without question.
I spend a few hours by myself, but am little better off. I did not sleep much better myself, huddled under my covers, trying not to imagine Thorn in the dungeon, prowling the stones, howling, claws tearing at the walls. Covering my ears did nothing to block out the sound of his voice rattling in my head.
Eventually, I give up trying to fight the sleep. I tiptoe back to Thorn's room. He is sleeping on his side, half under a quilt, most of his limbs spread out in front of him. His ears prick up as I enter, and he sleepily opens his eyes.
“Rose?” he says in a daze.
“Ssh,” I hush him, creeping across to the bed. I press my knees into the mattress and slip under the coverlet. Our knees knock together. I put my hand on his cheek, gently thumb his lip.
“Don’t say anything.” I turn around, bend my back into the hollow of his torso, and lay my head against his arm.
“Are you comfortable, with me like this?” I ask.
He nods, and lays his own head next to mine. His hair brushes the back of my neck. He pulls it away, and his fingers skim my skin. I feel his breath there, hot and full.
He pulls the covers up to my shoulders, and then gingerly drapes his arm around my middle, unsure of where to put himself. I grab it securely, wrapping it tightly in my own, and clutch it to my chest.
Two hot tears ease out of my eyes. I pray he cannot feel them. I swallow, kiss his hand, and wriggle more firmly into him. It takes a little time, but his body relaxes.
For a few hours, I sleep soundly. Blissfully. Then I dream.
I cannot remember what it is about, but I wake aching on the inside. My stomach feels hollow, my throat parched and raw. I lie awake for several hours, listening to him breathing, and hope that his dreams are sweeter than mine.
I leave before he wakes up, and finish the rest of my day alone. Next morning, he is considerably brighter, but says nothing about my coming to his room. I wish so badly to crawl into his room again, to lie beside him in that way, but I cannot. It is not right, not allowed, not proper. It is too much, and not enough, not enough at all.
The following evening, we are sitting together in stony silence. Thorn asks me if he's done something wrong.
“No, not you,” I reply, as softly as I can manage. I don't think it works.
“Then... you?”
“It isn't that simple.”
“Could you try to explain it?”
“No.”
Thorn falls silent for a while. “Do you... are you missing your family?”
Yes. No. Not all the time. Sometimes more than ever and sometimes I don't even think of them. I'm forgetting what they feel like. I want to speak to Honour. I want to curl up in my little nook and shut away the rest of the world and just-
Just not be the me that I am
now. Not me the me that you have made me.
“Yes,” I say, not caring if it hurts him. “Yes, I miss them.”
Thorn nods, but says nothing else. I am glad he doesn't try to comfort me, I would push him away. I pick up the next book in my pile.
It is one of my least favourite books. It is about a boy and a girl, young, vain, vapid, who fall in love one “magical” night and pledge to love each other always. Unfortunately, she is engaged to another man, and he is due to fight in a war. Nothing much happens between them, as he is sent off to battle the very next day. Less than a week later, she kills herself rather than marry another. Her lover, hearing of her death, dies in the fray.
I hated the characters, their sudden, unbelievable love story, their unbearably over-dramatic ends. If they had really known each other, I reasoned, I would have felt more pity for them. If they had known each other for years -or even months- I would have found it more believable. If they had corresponded throughout the war, if you could see the slow descent into hopelessness, I would have cared, rooted for them.
It was one of mother's favourites. She found it romantic. I never did. Not remotely.
But now there exists in me the smallest twinge of pity. The slightest inch of understanding. For now I know what it is like, not to want to live without someone.
I snap the book closed and throw it on the fire. The pages blacken in seconds, edges curling, flames tightening around the cover.
“Rose!” Thorn leaps off his seat, “What are you doing?”
I stare at the title as it is licked away by the flames.
“It's a bad book,” I say coldly. “I didn't like the ending.”
Then I turn away and head upstairs, only half-knowing why I want to cry.
“I never thought that I could be driven crazy by any individual person,” says a voice, “but that was before I met you.”
I do not look up, but I can feel Ariel hovering nearby. I do not want to speak to her right now. I do not want to speak to anyone.
“You and him. You are driving me insane. Just. Tell. Him. How. You. Feel.”
The Rose and the Thorn Page 23
