Rose Bound Magic
Caitlin Crowe
This book is dedicated to A, L, O, and S. I wouldn't be here without them.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter One
Once upon a time, life hadn’t been this hard. In fact, her life used to be splendidly easy, a thought that was not making Belladonna feel any better today. One could only be comforted so much by lukewarm memories when they were cleaning up the shattered remains of the last nice teacup.
“I’m sorry,” whispered her father. She turned to look at him – he looked scared and small, a child bracing for the reprimand they knew was coming.
“It’s okay, Papa. It’s just a cup.” She patted his shaking hand as she turned to the bin, dropping the broken ceramic in without a second look. There were only two rough-hewn mugs left, but there was nothing she could do about that. With her father’s inability to hold anything steady, there wasn’t much in the house that wasn’t broken or chipped. Beggars couldn’t be choosers; new teacups didn’t fit in their meager budget.
She kissed his balding head as she passed. “I have to leave. Otherwise, I’m going to be late.” Pausing, she watched him stare blankly at the wall across from him, no reply to her forming.
In the beginning, he only forgot where he put his most recent book or his glasses. Small items easily laid down and walked away from. At the time, his sudden forgetfulness hadn’t bothered Bell even though she had no memories of him losing anything growing up. Everyone deserves to misplace a few items in their old age. And Papa was old. He hadn’t been young when her eldest sister had been born, and she was married over half a decade now.
But when he started forgetting the names of the flowers outside – daffodils, sunflowers, daisies, and dahlias - a twinge of unease entered her chest. She and her sisters’ names were born from her father’s love of horticulture and for him to forget any plant’s name…
She shut the door and locked it from the outside. Starting the long walk down the dirt road to Town, she worried her bottom lip, consumed by her constant anxiety. There was no proof, but a part of her wondered if her father had been leaving the house in her absence.
Every time he was left alone, she locked the only door in and out of their cottage. Recently, her father had been having trouble doing anything that required too much dexterity, like buckling his belt, tying his shoes, holding a teacup, and even cutting his own food. Scared for his safety, she had begun locking him in when she left for the Writing House each day. There was no other option, even if her current solution ate her up inside. They had no family here. Both of her older sisters were married and in the far-off corners of the country. They were unliked by the people in Town, so there were no family friends to ask to watch after her father in her absence. It was only the two of them against the world.
Bell was almost certain her father wasn’t opening the door on his own. Papa’s accident this morning reassured her that he wouldn’t be able to work the rusted and ancient lock. But that didn’t explain the odd things she kept finding when she got home – a fresh flower of the wrong color in the vase on the table or a few more apples in the almost empty barrel she had counted five times the day before. She was most unsettled when she found two teacups and a nearly empty teapot sitting in the sink. When she had asked her father, he had smiled vaguely and mumbled something about a Fae stopping by for tea.
Unlike the majority of the people in Town, Bell and her father still believed in the old magic. At least, in theory, Bell did. She had sat on her nurse’s knee far beyond an acceptable age, listening to the tales of imps, witches, goblins, and fairies, who played with and maybe helped humans they favored. Papa had always been an avid believer, thanking the old magic for every joyful event. Bell believed her father believed, but she wasn’t sure she believed herself.
However, the idea of a Fae stopping by to have tea with her father was disturbing, to say the least. If her father was to be believed - she was pretty sure he had imagined it - it was something to be worried about. The Fae were just as likely to be helpful as they were to be cruel; it depended only on their mood. If he had offended one, no one knew how bad the consequences would be.
When the tides of fortune had destroyed her family, Bell, the youngest child, had been left to find a place for herself and her father. At the bottom of a trunk tucked deep in the attic of their old manor, Bell had found a crumpled will bequeathing Flor Cottage only to her and no one else.
Although she couldn’t remember much of her mother, she knew the woman who had left the house had the same maiden name, Elphame. Her mother, along with her side of the family, was a mystery to Bell as their father refused to speak of them. Their mother had died when Belladonna was young. Even before her death, she had been a cold and distant figure, leaving only memories of swishing skirts and pats on the head.
Belladonna’s feet took her to the door of the Writing House of their own accord. Entering, Bell breathed in the intoxicating scent of ink and paper. Unlike most of the women in Town, Bell was an avid reader. The best tutors had been engaged to teach Bell and her sisters, and there was nothing she loved more than a good book. It was a remarkable stroke of luck that Flor Cottage was located within the only parish on this side of the country to have a Writing House and that it was within walking distance. Bell was grateful for the proximity every day.
“Good morning Mr. Arqam.” Smiling at the bent old man, she swept into the room, removing her light shawl and hanging it on the hook by the door.
“Ah Belladonna, I’m so glad to see you this morning. What a pleasure!” Every morning Mr. Arqam greeted her in the same manner like he was surprised she had shown up again. At first, he had been shocked, she returned again and again, but after almost a year it was said more out of habit than anything else.
A sweet, elderly man, Mr. Arqam was one of Bell’s favorite people in Town. She felt closest to him – partly because he loved books as much as she, but also because he was an outcast, too. Small and dark, Mr. Arqam spoke with a thick accent that blurred his words. He had been born in a far-off place, and he delighted Bell with stories of his boyhood that were equal to any book she’d ever read. They were filled with sand and Djinn and magic far different than the kind she had grown up on, food as strange and delicious as any her mind could imagine. In the Big City, he would have blended in, but here he was an oddity.
While setting up her workstation for the day, Bell felt deep pangs of loneliness. She had Mr. Arqam, and her father, but he seemed to be slipping farther and farther from her every day. There was no one else in Town she was close to. In the Big City, she had been surrounded by friends, many of whom had told her to keep in touch when she left. But every letter she wrote had been unanswered and eventually she had stopped wasting the postage. For no return, Bell couldn’t justify the expense on their meager income. The only people she wrote to now were here sisters even though she rarely heard back from them.
There was a general hesitancy to befriend her by the locals. She and her father were from the Big City, and the consensus of the Town was that she was too haughty to interact with the country folk. Her father had been deemed too elite, although his blank stare and lack of interaction whenever they came into Town had less to do with a superiority complex and more to do with his growing absentmindedness.
&nbs
p; Well past the local marrying age of 16, Bell ostracized herself more by having no desire to marry. Every example of marriage that had been presented to her had been distasteful, each for its own reason. No matter how reasonable she believed her stance was, in a small town it was unheard of.
The final strike against her family was their residence in Flor Cottage. Upon moving there, Bell was surprised to find out that it had a reputation for being a dangerous, magical place. The prior inhabitant, Cailleach Elphame, was considered a witch and was equally feared and respected. The cottage had sat vacant since her sudden disappearance several years prior. If there was any doubt that they were related somehow to Cailleach, it was instantly squashed as Bell was the spitting image of the old woman – or so she had been told.
Mr. Arqam shuffled over once Bell settled in. “Your favorite customer hasn’t been in yet.” His voice was light, but the grimace on his face countered his words.
“Wonderful,” Belladonna muttered, a frown creasing her brow.
Mr. Peabody, who insisted that everyone call him Roger, had never been interested in visiting the Writing House until Bell started working there. Personally, she wasn’t sure the man could read, and he always sneered down at anyone who visited. But since taking a one-sided interest in her, he started stopping by whenever she worked.
Roger was one of those people whose outsides didn’t match their insides – classically handsome with sun-kissed skin, he was as nasty as any old hag in a fairy tale. Haughty and vain, he was mean to the point of being cruel if someone wouldn’t or couldn’t give him what he wanted. His astoundingly robust ego was only egged on by the adoration of every woman (and some men) in Town. Ever a bachelor, there had been more than one young lady who had married hastily and produced rather large premature babies after their dalliances with Roger. Bell had to admit that he could be quite charming when he wasn’t being condescending. Even if she had been interested, which she was not, his treatment of those who could do nothing for him would have cured her attraction.
Resigned to his inevitable visit today, Bell sat down and pulled the latest manuscript towards her. In larger, more affluent areas, the manuscripts were copied via printing press, but those machines were expensive to buy and costly to run. Here, the manuscripts were copied by hand and bound, before the new book went on the shelves for anyone to check out and read, and the original manuscript was sent on to the next Writing House.
Once she started transcribing, Bell was oblivious to the world. She loved the opportunity to read each manuscript as it came in and was often lost within its pages in a matter of seconds. Today was no exception. Several hours after she began, Bell was pulled back to reality by a sharp rapping on her desk. Looking up, she saw Roger and had to resist the urge to groan in despair. “Why hello there beautiful,” he cooed, each word dripping with his signature charm. “Don’t you just look ravishing today.”
Bell pasted a grin to her face. “Thank you, Roger, that’s quite kind of you. What brings you in?”
“To see what I could bring home today,” he all but purred. He was looking at her like she was a prime cut of meat he wanted to purchase. Bell barely suppressed a shudder as his words crawled over her.
“Did you already finish what you checked out yesterday? You’re such an avid reader, it’s amazing there’s anything left for you to read.” She gestured vaguely around the shop and put on her prettiest smile. It didn’t seem to faze him that she had just called him out on his blatant lie.
“Oh my beautiful Belladonna, with all your hard work copying, there always seems to be something new to entertain me.” Sympathetically cocking his head, he leaned on her desk and hovered uncomfortably over her. “You work much too hard. When are you going to accept my proposal? I hate to see such a pretty little thing as you working outside the house where she belongs.”
Bell leaned back in her chair, trying to create as much space between her nose and his rancid breath as possible. “No thank you, I am perfectly fine where I am.” Steadily avoiding his eyes, she looked down at her work and picked up her quill again.
“Maybe tomorrow you’ll accept me, darling,” he lamented with a wolfish grin and sauntered out of the store. Relieved, Belladonna got back to work, determined to finish copying the last fifteen pages of the manuscript in peace.
On her way home in the evening, her thoughts shifted once again to Roger. The first time he had asked for her hand in marriage, he hadn’t taken the rejection very well. Having asked as if he was bestowing the highest honor upon her, he was utterly unprepared for her to say no. And then he was furious. Raising both his hand and voice, Bell had been quite sure that he would have hit her if Mr. Arqam hadn’t been in the shop witnessing the horrid affair unfold.
Instead, he had angrily swiped all the items off her desk and stormed out, muttering incredulities under his breath. Within an hour, the entire Town knew that that strange Belladonna girl had rejected the most eligible bachelor. Before this, Bell had only been whispered about behind closed doors, but this shocking behavior had brought the Town’s dislike of anyone different to the forefront. Bell had been treated as an unwanted stray ever since.
After his initial rage had passed, aided by a very loud gathering at the pub where she was verbally abused by everyone present, Roger had decided that Bell was the ultimate challenge. He had been accosting her with his presence ever since, determined to make her his housewife and slave. No matter how many times she pointed out all the ways they were incompatible, he refused to let go of the notion that she was the only one he could marry.
Entering her little cottage Bell called out to her father. Arm extended to hang up her shawl, she realized that the house was still dark. The stars were so bright this far from Town it hadn’t been obvious there was no light coming from the dark windows.
She called out to her father again. Nothing. Throwing down her lunch satchel, she sprinted back out the door. Once before, her father had disappeared, showing up sitting in their wild back garden on the only bench. Praying, she would once again find him lounging she rushed along the uneven stone path.
Bell stopped and stared at the empty bench. Papa was not there. Turning in a slow circle, she absorbed the unruly vegetation. No leaf stirred. Trembling, she stepped closer to Papa’s favorite spot, careful not to trip on any exposed roots. She had tried many times to remove the natural booby traps, but it seemed like whenever she managed to remove one, two others popped up in its place. She had wanted to eradicate anything that threatened Papa’s failing balance, but she had had to admit defeat to the garden's unwillingness to be tamed. Besides, he had managed to never trip outside even though he often stumbled inside the cottage.
She stepped closer to the bench, reaching out her hand, needing to touch it to believe it really was uninhabited. Her palm rested on the warm stone. Blind panic for her father’s safety threatened to drown her. Nightmares of losing her father had tormented Bell for months, but she was still unprepared for the reality.
An unformed thought tickled her. She was missing something but couldn’t yet put her finger on it. Taking a deep breath, she tried to calm her racing heart. There was something here, something that she needed to see. Her hand brushed the warm stone again, cooling in the chill night air.
Glancing down, the unformed thought took shape with the force of a blow. The stone had been warm when she first touched it, even though the night air had a chill bite to it. Papa must have wandered off moments before she arrived, otherwise the bench would have cooled. Bell turned and took in their garden with sharper eyes.
Much like their front yard, an air of wildness that refused to be tamed permeated the plant life. There was an unrefined beauty to the recklessness of life and leaf, and it grew denser the closer it approached to the hidden garden wall. Where the wall stopped, the forest started, which, according to the locals, was as haunted and magical as they came. This fear is what kept the ancient trees safe from the lumberjack’s ax. The trees would have caught a fortune in th
e Big City market, but no local dared attempt to cut them for lumber. Or even step a foot within their shade. Better to be safe than sorry.
Bell had been enthralled by the plethora of plants in her garden jungle and had spent many afternoons inspecting every leaf. There were innumerable kinds of bushes, flowers, and herbs, even some she knew shouldn’t be flourishing in their climate. To her delight, she had found overgrown paths braided into the growth, indicating that at a long-forgotten point, there had been some organization to the beds. Orienting herself, as every day the plants seemed to rearrange, she headed towards the small path that would lead to the back gate. Weaving her way through the foliage, she used small steps so she could stay on the smooth path stones. Pushing a particularly stubborn branch out of her way, she was too focused to realize an attached thorn ripped her palm open. She hesitated at the gate. Bell had never crossed this line, and she wasn’t sure the gate would open.
The Town’s stories of magical beings in the forest didn’t bother Bell; the chance of meeting an unfriendly animal did. Before living here, they had lived in the Big City where the closest she'd come to a wild animal was the dancing bear at the circus. Bell had no experience with the wildness of true outdoors and no idea what lived in such a dark forest.
“Papa,” she called out, straining her eyes for some sign of movement between the trees. A light appeared, bobbing in between the trees some thirty feet from her. “Papa! Stop! Don’t go any farther!”
Belladonna pushed against the gate, willing for it not to be rusted shut. It remained firmly in place. Growing desperate as she watched the light grow dimmer, she threw herself against it without any effect. It seemed to be pushing back with as much force as she was exerting. Bracing with both hands, she heaved with all her might. It opened with such sudden ease that Bell fell through, just managing to catch herself before toppling over. She paused, looking at the path before her that wandered straight into the densest grouping of trees. The last flicker of the light wandered deeper into the forest, leaving her behind.
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