I nod. “Yes. Would you be willing to come with me?”
Flora stares at me for a moment, and then startles me when she springs off the bench and onto her feet. She yelps and jumps, doing a little dance. There’s no weakness in her—no paleness, or coughing, or pain in her eyes. Today, she’s a normal kid, excited to be going on a trip.
“Farcliff Castle! I’m going to Farcliff!” She sings and jumps around me, laying a big kiss on my forehead. “When do we go?”
“Next week.”
“Woohoo!” Flora wiggles her body in front of me, laughing so much I can’t help but laugh along with her. The tension in my chest eases, and I start to wonder if this trip to Farcliff might actually be a good idea. It’s time for Flora to see the capital. She’s a princess, after all, and she should know her Kingdom. Even though I want to keep my daughter safe in Westhill, it’s time for me to show her where I came from—where she came from—even though the few months she spent there as a baby were chaotic.
Mrs. Grey, the head of staff at Westhill Castle—and Flora’s closest approximation to a mother figure—appears at the end of the pathway and tuts at my daughter, who’s still dancing and jumping.
“Your Highness, that is not appropriate behavior for a Princess of Farcliff. It’s time for your physiotherapy.”
“Yes, Mrs. Grey,” Flora says, snapping her spine straight. She glances at me, winking, and I wonder what I’ve done to deserve such a daughter. She’s brave, and happy, and loving—all the things that I don’t see in myself at all.
Mrs. Grey curtsies, and I nod my head. The older woman produces a bottle of water and three pills, which Flora takes without complaint. My daughter’s illness is inherited, and a small part of me has always blamed myself. Both her mother and I carried the gene that caused her cystic fibrosis. I’ve watched Flora go through chest infections, difficulty breathing, and countless other difficulties—enduring it all with a smile on her face.
She’s six years old, and she’s the bravest person I’ve ever met. These days, her illness is manageable with the help of our in-house medical team, about sixty pills a day, and Flora’s unrelenting positivity.
Flora slips her hand in Mrs. Grey’s, and the two of them disappear down the pathway. I hear the Rose Garden gate open and close, and once again, I’m alone with my thoughts.
I pat my breast pocket with my hand, feeling the small lump where Flora’s pebble lies against my heart. If she’s right—and this rock brings me luck—then going to Farcliff for the ten year anniversary of my brother’s coronation will be a good thing. Bringing Flora into society will be a positive experience for both of us.
If she’s wrong, though…
Rustling at the far end of the rose garden pulls me from my thoughts. Marcel, my rose gardener, comes into view. He’s leaning heavily on his wife, Violet. Marcel brings a handkerchief up to his mouth and coughs into it, stopping in his tracks and bending over double. Violet holds his arm as he coughs, and then pats his back as he rights himself.
The gardener’s eyes drift up the path and land on me. His eyes widen, and his mouth moves up and down without uttering a word.
“Your Highness…”
“Marcel. Violet.”
Violet curtsies awkwardly while Marcel struggles to bow.
I frown. “Are you all right?”
They exchange a glance. Violet steps forward. “Your Highness, my husband isn’t well. We thought Bertrand would have told you…”
“Bert hasn’t told me shit.”
Marcel motions for his wife to back up. He steps in front of her, wringing his handkerchief in his fists. “Your Highness, I’m going back to Farcliff for treatment. I’ll be gone at least three months. But don’t worry, the Royal Rose Garden will be in good hands.”
I stare at the two of them for a moment. I can sense the fear coming off them in waves. Is it me they’re afraid of? Or just my reputation?
I nod. “Good. You’ve done a fine job with the garden this year, Marcel. If last year’s garden is anything to go off, we’ll have a good showing at the Annual Rose Festival.”
A faint blush appears on Marcel’s cheeks. He nods. “Thank you, Your Highness.”
For a moment, there’s a silence—and then I say something I hadn’t planned.
“I’m told you knew my mother.”
I tilt my head, staring at the couple. Marcel and Violet have been at the Westhill Castle about five years and worked on other royal estates before that. Marcel has been one of the best rose gardeners in Farcliff for as long as I can remember.
And yet… I know nothing about him. I hadn’t even realized he was sick.
“Her Majesty was a treasure,” Marcel replies, his eyes shining. “She understood the care and effort that goes into tending roses.”
I nod, making a soft noise in agreement. My mother loved this place. She was killed when I was a toddler, and I have only a handful of memories of her.
Everyone that I talk to gets that soft look in their eyes whenever they talk about her. It’s simultaneously touching and infuriating that she had such an impact on the people around her, yet I never got to experience it for myself. I was robbed of those memories before I even had a chance to form them.
One of the only memories I have of my mother is right here, in this garden. I was a toddler, and my mother was healthy. I remember her throwing me up in the air and catching me. We had laughed, and laughed, and laughed. My cheeks ached and my stomach hurt from giggling so much, and I was completely, utterly happy. The memory sticks in my mind like a bright light—a flagpole for a feeling that I haven’t experienced since that moment.
Well, except with Flora. My daughter shatters through the darkness in my heart and brings light into my life. I pat the pebble in my pocket, staring at Marcel and Violet.
Maybe that’s why I came to live in Westhill after all the shit that went down in Farcliff—Westhill is the last place I was happy.
Marcel clears his throat, and I’m dragged from the past back to the present. I motion to dismiss him, and then pause.
“Who is replacing you?”
“Well, we’ve trained Harry Brooks to upkeep the garden,” Violet starts, glancing at Marcel. I can see an unspoken conversation between them.
“Brooks?” I snort. “Are you sure there will be a garden to come back to?”
Marcel clears his throat, glancing at Violet. It’s almost as if he doesn’t want to say what he’s about to say. He drags his eyes back up to mine and nods once. “Our daughter will be coming back as well. She has the touch. She grew up with roses.”
I nod, frowning.
A daughter? I don’t remember them having a daughter.
I dismiss Marcel and Violet and watch them walk away. I still don’t know what his illness is, or anything about his daughter.
I know most of the staff’s names, bar a few new faces. I keep a close eye on what happens at Westhill. Typically, I vet all the new arrivals. I have to keep a close eye on the people in the castle—otherwise I’d be putting Flora at risk.
But I didn’t approve Marcel’s daughter, and right now, I don’t have time to do anything about it. I have my own daughter to worry about. King Charlie is commanding me to come back to Farcliff for his anniversary.
I’ll have to expose her to that city and all its evils. Its history. My history. My pulse quickens, and I clench my jaw. My hand drifts to the scar that cuts a jagged line across my face.
My scar is a reminder of everything that happened in Farcliff, everything that happened when Flora was born, and everything that made me leave.
Now, I have to take her back there.
I turn around and walk back toward the palace. My boots crunch on the gravel, and I focus on the breath that passes in and out of my nostrils.
This garden is where I feel most peaceful. When the roses bloom, the beast inside me quiets down and I can find stillness. I can hear my own thoughts without feeling like I’m drowning in them. I can see a future for mysel
f and for my daughter. I can push away the memories of the past that do nothing but hurt and betray me
Here, I can be at peace with myself.
But when the flowers start to wilt, and their petals flutter to the ground, I know that the darkness in my heart won’t be too far behind.
3
Jo
The journey from New York City to Farcliff takes five hours by bus, plus about an hour to go through customs at the border. As soon as I cross into Farcliff, my heart beats easier and my shoulders relax. I lean my head on the headrest and close my eyes. With a deep sigh, I let a smile drift over my lips.
I’m home.
I never thought it would feel this good to be back here.
This time, I’m not here for just a short visit. I’m not coming home to see my parents for two weeks. This time, it feels like I’m coming home forever—and to my surprise, I like the feeling.
I thought I wanted to be Miss Independent, living in the Big City. I thought I wanted to make my own way as a writer. I left Farcliff with stars in my eyes, not remotely prepared for the struggle and the grime that would paint the next six years of my life.
Coming home is like being thrown a lifeline. There’s nothing for me in New York anymore. All I’ve left behind are failed relationships and unpaid bills. Over the past few days, I’ve sold off what furniture I could, and given away the rest. It took me less than a week to get all my affairs organized, scrape together enough money for the bus ticket, and lock my apartment door for the last time.
My landlord didn’t even blink when I said I wasn’t coming back.
When the bus crosses into my home country, I feel more at ease than I’ve felt in the past six years. I grip my backpack to my chest and watch the countryside turn to a cityscape. My heart thumps, and I feel like I’m starting a new chapter.
Coming home isn’t moving backward—it can be a fresh start, right? Maybe in Westhill, surrounded by the gardens and solitude, I’ll be able to find my voice. I’ll rewrite my book and I’ll finally be able to convince a publisher to pick it up. Maybe I’ll write a new book. My father will get the treatment he needs, and my family will find a bit of stability.
As we drive into the city, I feel more at ease than I’ve felt in a long, long time.
Farcliff Castle juts out into the sky up ahead, and the tree-lined streets of Farcliff City greet me. My heart sings. I never thought I’d be so happy to see this place, but I can’t wipe the smile off my face.
At Farcliff Central Bus Station, my mother stands waiting for me. She wraps her arms around me with tears in her eyes. When my mother pulls away, she keeps her hands on my arms and draws her eyebrows together in concern.
“Jolie, you’re so thin! Have you been eating? You look tired. Look at the bags under your eyes! You’re working too much, aren’t you? And your hair! It’s brittle!”
I snort, pinching my lips together. “Nice to see you too, Mom.”
My mother fusses over me and leads me to the car. I drag my suitcase behind me and sling my backpack over my shoulder. These two bags contain all I own in the world.
The past couple of years have been a struggle to make ends meet, and I think I kept going out of sheer stubbornness. The only thing holding me in New York was a shitty relationship with Ryan and my own damned ego. Leaving that dingy, old apartment behind is like being unchained. It makes me feel like I can take on the world.
My mother wraps me in another tight hug before getting behind the driver’s seat. I load my bags into the car and slip into the passenger’s seat, glancing at the city as excitement blooms in my heart.
Hanging on every lamppost are pendants celebrating the King’s ten year anniversary—both of his coronation and his marriage. The city is exploding with color. There are flowers planted into every available space and fluttering banners flying high. There’s an energy in Farcliff that I haven’t felt in a long time.
I grin, forgetting for a moment that I’m flat broke, homeless, and that my father is seriously ill.
“So, I was thinking I’d head over to Westhill the day after tomorrow.” I glance over at my mom.
“So soon?” Her eyebrows draw together. “There’s the ceremony in three days! You could stay in Farcliff until then, at least. Your father and I would love to spend some time with you.”
“I think Dad would agree that we shouldn’t leave Harry Brooks in charge of the roses for too long.”
My mother lets out a dry laugh and nods her head. “That’s probably true.”
She tells me a thousand and one things about the garden, the Prince, his daughter, and everything that has happened since we last spoke on the phone. We head towards their new home and I settle into my seat, only half listening to my mother’s rambling voice. I watch the trees and buildings zip by us, and I inhale the fresh air in the Kingdom.
I’m home.
My parents are staying in a small rental apartment near the hospital, and have a blow-up mattress set up for me on the living room floor. I look at the makeshift sleeping arrangements, and decide that I definitely won’t be staying longer than two nights.
“Jolie?” My father limps out of the bedroom, wearing a big smile. He looks weak, but happy. “Thank you for coming back, kiddo.” He wraps his arms around me in a big bear hug. “I appreciate it.”
“I’ll make sure the rose garden is in good shape for when you come back.”
My father gives me a tight smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, and I wonder if he thinks he’ll be coming back to Westhill Palace at all. My chest tightens, and I try to ignore the feeling of dread that crawls into my heart.
My father could be dying.
That weighs on my mind as I spend the rest of the evening with my parents. My father struggles to move around, and he’s lost the bounce in his step that he once had. He coughs into a handkerchief often, and goes to bed early.
I watch him, biting my lip. My leg bounces up and down whenever I sit down, and I find it hard to eat anything. Every time I look at my father, knots form in my stomach.
The next day, my father pats a chair beside him. I sit down and his face grows serious.
“Now, remember, Jolie,” Dad says before pausing for a coughing fit. “You have to water the roses twice a week—but don’t soak them. I’ve made sure the soil is draining well, but you’ll still have to keep an eye on it. You might need to add some mulch. Keep an eye on the leaves, some of the other gardeners in the area have said there are some beetles—” My father coughs again, and my chest tightens.
“I know, Dad. Don’t worry.”
He dabs his mouth with his handkerchief.
“They should start to bud soon. I planted some repeat bloomers on the southern side of the garden. They looked like they were in good shape when we left, so they should produce flushes of flowers every month or so.”
“Okay, Dad.” I squeeze his arm. “Don’t worry. Everything will be fine. If you’re still concerned, I can video call you every day from the garden.” I grin, winking at him.
“You don’t have to do that.” A smile quirks his lip. “Every second day will do.”
I laugh, kissing my father’s cheek. He pats my hand and lets out a sigh. I can tell it’s killing him to leave the garden behind, and I do my best to sound confident. The most gardening I’ve done in the past six years has been killing a few house plants. An award-winning Royal Rose Garden should be a breeze, right?
My father nods and kisses the side of my head. “I know you’ll do great, honey,” he says. “You have a better touch with the roses than I do.”
“I don’t know about that, but I’ll do my best.”
“The Prince…” My father’s face pinches.
“What about him?”
“He’s… troubled.” Dad glances at me. “I think it would be best if you kept your distance.”
“Troubled?”
My father nods and takes a deep breath. “I know you can handle yourself, Jo. I’ll stop fussing. I’m a bit tir
ed. I might go lie down for an hour before dinner.”
As I watch him shuffle toward his bedroom, my heart breaks all over again. I know that the only thing I can do for my parents is make sure the rose garden is well taken care of. I can’t heal my father or make him feel better, but I can provide that peace of mind.
When it’s time for me to leave in the morning, I pack up my things and give my parents another big hug. My mother drops me off at the bus station and asks me if I have enough money. I just smile and nod.
“I’m fine, Mom. Things are going well,” I lie.
“I’m proud of you.” Her eyes shine, and she holds my cheeks in her hands. She kisses my forehead, patting my cheek. “Thank you for coming back. Your father was relieved when I told him you’d take care of his flowers. The doctor said he had to relax as much as possible, so who knows? You might be helping him heal, too.”
“I hope so.”
After one last hug, I get on the bus for Westhill and settle into my seat. As the bus pulls out of the station, a warm buzz courses through my body. My chest feels light, and a smile starts to stretch across my lips.
I pull out my notebook and start jotting ideas down. I love this little book. It holds bits of scenes, turns of phrase that pop into my head, fragments of story ideas, and anything else that sticks in my brain. Interspersed between the pages are messy to-do lists and scratchy doodles.
As I write down my rush of ideas, they become too much to record in my humble notebook. Instead, I pull my laptop out of my backpack and open it up. I click to create a blank document, staring at it for a few thrilling moments.
Is there anything more beautiful than a blank page, ready to be filled with magical, inspiring words?
My lips curl into a grin. I don’t want to re-hash the book I’ve already written. Maybe the rejection letters were right. I tried to write a fast-paced thriller, but maybe my first attempt just wasn’t gripping?
For the first time in months, I want to write something new. Something fresh. I stare at the blank page in front of me, and my heart starts to thump. I glance out of the bus window at the passing landscape, and the words start to flow.
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