The Rose Master

by Valentina Cano

  “Please sit.” She pointed to the only chair as she sat on the edge of her bed. In such a vulnerable position, with her hands tucked into the folds of her skirt, she looked like a girl in clothes much too big for her. I felt the sudden urge to hold her hand, to comfort her somehow.

  “I am also concerned about Mr. Keery. I fear he may not last much longer.”

  I shifted my weight forward, my elbows on my knees. “We need to call for a doctor.”

  “We can’t,” she said.

  “Of course we can. I can manage with the horses. I’ll go to the nearest town and bring back someone to look at him.”

  “No, Anne. None of us can leave. And even if we could, I doubt anyone would come back to help Peter.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  Ms. Simple rubbed her wrist, where I could see a vague dimpling of skin—deep puncture marks—the surrounding flesh chafed into a brown rawness.

  “This house has seen more than its share of misfortune, and people are frightened to come near it. At first, it was just the superstitious that refused, but slowly, everyone has abandoned us to this endless isolation. It’s hard to imagine, Anne, but at one point, years ago, every room was full and every bed held a warm body at night. A busy household, like any other. There were celebrations and music— Lord Grey’s mother loved all that. Oh, the music that used to course along these walls! You wouldn’t have recognized the young Lord either. He was a happy creature, especially when Miss Bellingham was around. They were so close.” She nodded. “He was a different person with her, all smiles and kind words.”

  Miss Bellingham again. What had happened between them? I was about to ask when Ms. Simple continued, and I dared not interrupt.

  “And then it all changed so suddenly. The young master left for London when he came of age, to study and pursue his many interests. But one winter, five years ago, he returned without warning, brimming with energy. As soon as he stepped foot in the manor, everything changed. He’d always been an excitable youth, but now, his energy was smothering. I would pass by him and feel myself overtaken, my insides spinning into nausea, my thoughts getting more and more confused. He had that effect on everyone, including his parents. There was a deep well of violent energy in that boy. It was difficult to be around him then, but it got worse after his mother died. Instead of normal grieving, the kind his father was dealing with, he kept himself aloof from everything and everyone. There were days when his bed was not slept in, and I would find him curled up around a book, his eyes wide and too bright.

  “Soon after, things began to happen. Benign things at first: lights bursting on in the middle of the night, the stomping of sudden thunder vibrating through the house, things of that sort. His father intervened, to no avail.”

  “But what was Lord Grey doing? What caused all of those disturbances?” I asked.

  “I’m not sure. I was never very close to Lord Grey. He always frightened me, even when he was a young boy. All I know is that things got much worse. One night, I was woken by the breaking of glass from the upstairs rooms. Half the household rushed to see what had happened, and we found the young master unconscious on a mattress of glass shards, cuts and bruises staining his body’s every surface. The beginning of the end was gathered up along with those mirror shards. The cold slithered in and refused to leave, and on its tail, an even colder fear. That’s when the first batch of servants gave notice, six in all. And that’s when—”

  Her voice sliced off and was replaced by a dull clap. My eyes widened as Ms. Simple’s head jerked to the side. She raised a hand to her cheek.

  “Ms. Simple! What is it?” I was by her side. Fear chilled me to the bone. The dread I’d felt (and chalked up to nerves), for the past three weeks was reflected in Ms. Simple’s eyes. I pulled her hand away from her face, and saw the imprint of a large hand on her skin. It was a damp red, a painful rose against the snow of the housekeeper’s face.

  Ms. Simple did not want to say anything else after that, and I couldn’t blame her. Something dark, a slug of night, was living between these walls, making life reach unbearable levels of fright. Lord Grey was involved, that was obvious, but how? And why?

  The questions followed me through a tight dinner, the three of us women attempting to ignore Mr. Keery’s feverish mumblings.

  Dora flinched at Ms. Simple’s cheek, but uttered no questioning word. The little conversation we could muster up between cold bites of beef stew was focused solely on housework.

  “Did you get to the curtains in the study today, Anne?”

  “Yes, Ms. Simple. I’ve already hung them back up.”

  “Wonderful. Tomorrow, begin with the library’s.”

  “Of course, Ms. Simple.”

  After Dora and I washed the dishes, with not a single word lost between the two of us, I headed back to our quarters. Ms. Simple’s door was ajar, so I crossed to it and knocked. Through the open slit, I saw her jump at the sound.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. I just wanted to see if you were all right,” I said, opening the door completely.

  From her red eyes, I could tell she’d been crying, but she gave me a small smile. I’d always been a weak one when it came to seeing grown people cry; all I wanted to do was soothe them back to normal.

  “Do you need anything, Ms. Simple? Water? Tea, maybe?”

  “No, thank you, Anne. You’re very kind.” She cleared her throat and gathered herself together. I watched as she brushed her eyes with a handkerchief, and then tucked it back into her pocket. Her hands were shaking badly enough to make that a difficult task. A sudden vision of my mother flooded my eyes, making my heart pound in surprise: my infant self watching her hands folding bedsheets as her tears fell onto the fabric. The sadness I’d felt then tumbled over me again. I blinked the memory away before it swallowed me.

  “We’ll find a way through this, Ms. Simple.” Whatever this was.

  She looked at me, her face dark and empty of hope. “I pray you’re right, child. I just don’t see how.”

  There was nothing else I could say; no other words I could give her that would comfort her.

  “Goodnight, Ms. Simple.”

  She nodded. “Remember to bolt your door, Anne.”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  I closed her door and staggered to my room, my body and mind so heavy, I couldn’t carry them much longer. As I sat on my bed, I wondered what could lie in store for the five of us.

  fifteen

  A different noise woke me that night: an echo of what I imagined to be a growl bounced against my door, followed by the snap of splitting wood. Coughs filled the subsequent silence. Lord Grey.

  There was not even a glimmer of light coming from the window, so I couldn’t have slept for more than a few hours. The exhaustion I felt as I moved confirmed my guess. I put my shoes on with my eyes still half-closed, ungluing them felt like too much of an effort, and thanked the Lord that I hadn’t had the energy to undress.

  A crash, the crackling of china, succeeded in jolting me into action, and I hurried to my door. There was no light in the hall, no sound from the rooms around me. Walking into the empty hallway, I moved down it and to the kitchen. From under the door, I caught a line of candle-glow and, with it, a trickle of sound.

  I opened the door and looked in.

  Lord Grey was kneeling, picking up the scraps of a broken teacup lying on the floor. For all his height, he looked so small crouching there. The teacup had been flung across the room from the china cabinet and had smashed into pieces so small, the force used on it must have been incredible. One of the chairs was also destroyed, splintered out of almost all recognition. Could the slight man before me have done that? He lifted his eyes as I stepped forward.

  “Sir, leave it. I’ll do it.” I knelt next to him and reached to take the china from his hands. He flinched.

  “I’d prefer if you didn’t touch me, Anne.”

  I blinked. What?

  He rose and threw what
he held in his hands into the dust bin, picking shards off his palm with care.

  “I think it might not be a bad thing, Anne, if you stayed away from me.”

  “Sir, why?”

  “I will not be held responsible for what might happen.”

  “Sir, what do you mean? What could happen?”

  His laugh was too dark to be comforting. “Anything, Anne. Anything.”

  He left the room. A flare of warmth ran through me; it was not right, not fair. I deserved to know what was occurring around me. I chased after Lord Grey, questions bubbling in my mouth, regardless of their propriety or lack thereof. He turned at my steps.

  “Sir, I’m sorry, I don’t want to overstep my bounds, but I’d really appreciate knowing the truth of what’s happening in the manor.”

  “You don’t need to know. At least, not yet.”

  “If I am to stay, I think I deserve to understand what I’m choosing.”

  His body oozed black hostility.

  “The door is open. Leave whenever you like.”

  “No, sir, I will not abandon my post.”

  “Your post? That’s what you’re concerned about? I’ll write you a glowing letter of reference, don’t worry.” He laughed. His chest rose as a coughing spell overtook him.

  I waited until the spasm passed. “What else should I be concerned about?”

  He stepped toward me in the night-filled hall.

  “Your life.”

  Lord Grey turned again, heading for the stairs, but I reached out and grasped his arm. Me and my damn hands.

  A jolt raced up my palm, numbing my fingers and wrist, making me jerk my hand back with a yelp.

  “Not the wisest thing to do.”

  I looked up into his face, afraid of what I’d find, but his eyes were as still and quiet as always. Nothing flickered behind their stare.

  “Let me see.” He gathered an edge of his shirt and wrapped it around his hand so that no bare skin remained. He then extended the cloth-wrapped appendage toward me, but I pressed my injured hand with my left one and shook my head.

  “I don’t think so, sir.”

  With an impatient release of air, he yanked my hand toward him with a stronger grip than I would have imagined. I felt no new pain at his touch, but my palm’s numbness had begun to fade, leaving behind a trail of hot thorns.

  “I did warn you, if you recall. It’s a minor burn, nothing to sob over, but I’m sure it hurts.”

  I nodded.

  “Come, I have something to help with the pain.” He released my hand and headed for the stairs.

  Against all reason, I followed.

  Lord Grey lit all the lights in his antechamber, giving the room a comforting glow, a square of light amid the pressing darkness. Then he glanced through one of his cabinets stocked full of jars with different colored pastes and powders.

  “Here, put this on your hand.” He unscrewed the lid of a little round container and passed it to me. It smelled sweet, yet spicy, a hint of pepper tickling my nose.

  “What is it, sir?”

  “It’s a balm for burns.”

  My face must have betrayed my skepticism, because he chuckled. “It’s not poison.”

  I dipped a finger in the cool cream and spread it on my pulsing palm. I gasped as the salve seemed to gather the pain to it, erasing it from my hand.

  “Yes, it’s quite good. My own creation.”

  I handed the jar back to him, careful not to graze his skin with any part of mine. I didn’t know why, or how, he’d burned me, but I did know I didn’t want to experience it again.

  He turned away from me to close and lock the cabinet behind him. As the lock clicked in place with the dry turn of a key, Lord Grey spoke:

  “I suppose I should begin with the roses, with how I created them. It’s the most logical place to start . . . maybe the only place.”

  I shook my head. “Sir, what do you mean, you created them? You planted them?”

  “No. That is not what I mean. I thought them into being.”

  I blinked, the words still not making sense. “How is that possible, sir?”

  His thin shoulders shrugged. “How can someone sing, or draw, or play the piano? It’s an ability I was born with and that I’ve nurtured, but I think you’re not as foreign to this type of thing as you’re letting on.”

  I opened my mouth, but he waved my words away with a sharp hand.

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  Lord Grey’s hands twined around each other. The words he had already shared with me seemed to have erased some of the weary marks off his face—his brows were relaxed, his forehead smooth. He looked rather handsome.

  The thought took me by surprise, making me blush in the lamplight.

  “You don’t believe me,” Lord Grey said.

  “Sir, I would never question your words.”

  “But you don’t believe me.”

  I took a breath. “Sir, it just seems unlikely.”

  Without shifting his eyes off of me, Lord Grey exhaled, once, and my knowledge of the world tilted, never to be righted again.

  The chair next to me, trembling with books, slid across the floor, not even a single book shifting in surprise.

  “What just happened?”

  “I made the chair move.” He said it with such lightness, such boredom, that I began laughing. Loud hiccups of hard laughter traveled up my body, shaking me from head to foot.

  “Are you quite finished, Anne?”

  I wiped my eyes, attempting to also wipe away what I’d witnessed. “Sir, I need to see it again.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Fine.”

  Without warning, the chair scurried back to its place.

  My eyes were about to slip out of their sockets.

  “If we are quite done with the demonstrations, I would like to continue. Sit.” His words were seeping with irritation. I wasn’t sure I had any words left.

  “If it’s all the same, sir, I’d rather not.”

  “Sit.”

  I obeyed without another moment’s hesitation.

  I placed the thick books on the floor and sat with care on the richly upholstered seat. He remained standing, fiddling with a loose string from his shirt cuff for an instant, then headed for one of the overburdened bookshelves. With only the slightest sign of hesitation, he plucked something from behind a pile of books and walked back to where I sat. He opened his hand, holding up the object: a small, perfectly round, silver mirror.

  “Please don’t touch it, Anne. I’d rather not have to replace this, if at all possible. Can you see into it clearly?”

  My face looked back at me, my dark eyes wide and my skin pale. “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. Now pay attention, I’ll only do this once.”

  He said one more word, one I couldn’t understand, and everything around me was swallowed by darkness. Everything except for the mirror, which glittered more than anything I’d ever seen before, more than any jewels any Lady could ever buy.

  “Look in, Anne,” Lord Grey said.

  I did.

  Rosewood Manor rose in front of me, resplendent in the morning light. I blinked. How had I gotten here? How was it morning already?

  I turned, hoping to spy some clue from my surroundings, but nothing explained what I was doing out here, when I’d just been in Lord Grey’s chambers.

  Nor why all the roses were gone.

  They were conspicuous in their absence, the red blooms which I’d grown so used to seeing and smelling. Actually, the entire manor looked different. Younger. But that wasn’t possible.

  The front door opened without warning, and out came a woman dressed in a gown the color of lavender sprigs, her dark hair pinned in a perfect bun on her head. Behind her, his face turned up to her as if she were the very sun, was a small boy. He couldn’t have been more than six or seven, but one glance told me who he was. I held my breath.

  It was Lord Grey. That boy was the man with whom I’d just been sitting.

&nbs
p; “Come, August,” the woman said. Her eyes passed over me as she looked down the long carriageway. “Your father is almost here.” She stretched out a hand and the boy took it, the smile on his face so bright it seemed to radiate outward. “Let’s see what he’s brought you for your birthday, my darling.”

  The boy looked out as well, his eyes resting on me for just an instant, his brow furrowing with curiosity. But the unmistakable sound of a carriage pulled his eyes away.

  “He’s here!” August cried, leaping into the air in excitement. The air around him shivered with his energy, with his absolute glee.

  That was when it happened: the roses, all of them, all the ones I’d seen since the moment I had arrived at Rosewood, appeared. They rose up from the bare ground, from the many planted bushes, from in between the stone steps leading to the door.

  The woman gasped, but August’s eyes never wavered from where his father’s carriage would be appearing.

  “August,” she said. “Oh, my darling.” She brought a hand to her mouth and knelt down beside him. Her skin blushed in pale imitation of the flowers all around her, and her laugh wove itself around me much like the roses’ scent.

  The horses’ hooves drew nearer and nearer, until we could all see the carriage and the two men who rode it—the coachman, a large man with drooping skin, and a man who could not have been anyone but August’s father. His face was harsher, his eyes dark as oak, but I could see the resemblance in the way he moved as he opened the carriage door.

  His smile dimmed, then disappeared.

  “Jane, what in God’s name?”

  “He made them grow, William!”

  “Who did? What are you talking about?”

  “Our son did this!” She laughed. “He’s our little wonder!”

  August’s father shook his head, fear etched clearly on his face.

  There was a sudden soft peal, almost like Lady Caldwell’s bell, and the scene around me froze. The day’s light started to ebb, quickly contracting into a small circle on which only I stood. Then, even that vanished.

  I reached a hand out to steady myself and felt fine linen against my palm. I opened eyes I hadn’t realized I’d closed and looked about.