Rose & Thorn

by Sarah Prineas

  He had his patrol knife; Timothy had her sword, and Rose would fight, too, but one of them would have to carry Quirk. “No,” he answered at last. “We can’t.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I thought.” Timothy got to her feet again, as if she was too restless to stay seated. “I’ve spent the last two days collecting supplies.” She picked up the burlap sack.

  His stomach sank. “You’re abandoning us.”

  “No,” she said, with a flare of anger. “Stupid Watcher. I’m going for help.”

  “Who can help us?” Griff asked, surprised.

  “I’m from outside the City, remember?” she answered. “I have friends, not too far away from here. Other Breakers. They knew Pen, and they’ve been watching this castle for a long time, ever since Story’s latest Godmother came here and set this place up.”

  “The Godmother?” Griff interrupted.

  “Yeah.” Timothy studied him for a long moment. “You know how she did it?”

  He didn’t want to know the answer to that question.

  “About twenty years ago Story found a new Godmother so it could escape from the City. Then she worked Story’s will. She came here and had the castle built, and turned animals into the servants, and she brought Rose’s mother and father here and took their memories away. She probably had to force them together to conceive the baby, since they obviously don’t like each other very much. And how did she do all of this?” Timothy paused and then answered her own question. “She used the thimble.”

  No. He hadn’t known that. The horror of it froze any words he would have spoken. His hand dipped into his coat pocket and drew out the thimble. It felt icy cold under his fingers.

  “Yeah, that thimble,” Timothy said. “It was hers. The Godmother’s.”

  CHAPTER

  23

  OLIVE AND AMITY WERE SO COMPLETELY WRONG.

  The kiss did matter.

  I walked through the door from the kitchen, still feeling Griff’s lips against mine, and the diminishing heat of the blush that had flashed from my head to my toes as he had kissed me. I was lost in thought, trying to hold on to that feeling, as I started down the finer passageway, intending to return to my rooms. There I encountered a cluster of people. At the center of the group was my father; trailing him was a servant with fur-tipped ears, and a few lavishly dressed courtiers.

  Seeing me, they stopped. The courtiers stared at the beauty. It made me feel prickly. Uncomfortable.

  “Daughter,” my father said. Like when I’d met him before, he wore a fur-edged mantle and his lordly gold chain. His face didn’t change when he saw me; it was like a mask, bland and blank. “Why are you not with your ladies?”

  My guards, he meant. I was not a very good liar. “I was . . .” I looked frantically around. Just the hallway, paneled in dark wood, lined with doors. “I was . . . I’d like to find a book to read.” Good answer, I thought.

  My father inclined his head. With a snap of his fingers, he summoned three of the courtiers, young men, who stepped forward and bowed to me.

  I curtsied back to them.

  “Accompany Lady Rose to the library,” my father ordered. “Then see she goes back to her rooms.”

  So the courtiers were my guards, too.

  “We will meet at dinner tonight,” my father stated, and with a rustle of silks and satins, he and his entourage continued down the hallway.

  “I am Sir Roland, Lady Rose,” said the first courtier, with a sweeping bow.

  The next bowed. “I am Sir Richard, at your service, Lady Rose.”

  “And I am Sir James,” said the third, with a bow and a flourish of a laced handkerchief. All three of them were blandly handsome and wore colorful coats—light-green silk, peach velvet, blue satin—over embroidered waistcoats, and pale pantaloons with silk stockings and buckled shoes. They all wore narrow swords at their hips, too.

  I couldn’t help but compare them to Griff. They were sleek where he was shabby; they spoke smoothly, where he barely spoke at all. But . . . I eyed their mouths. Roland’s was smiling silkily; Richard’s was loose and wet; James’s thin lips were chapped. I had absolutely no desire to kiss any one of them.

  “This way, Lady Rose,” said Sir Roland, and bowed again. That was three bows for Roland, two each for Richard and James.

  I let them lead me to another part of the castle. It was deserted, silent, and chilly, but even more ornately decorated. All three of them stared at the beauty, which made me feel on edge.

  “These were the Godmother’s rooms,” Sir Richard volunteered. “She only stayed here for a short time, but they are just the way she left them.”

  “Oh,” I said, more alert, and continued down the carpeted passageway, stopping when Sir James opened a door with a silver handle.

  I stepped into the room, which was lit by blazing candles. Tall windows edged by ice-blue curtains let in the last rays of the fading sunset. It was a library, all right, lined from floor to ceiling with shelves of books. I turned in a circle, trying to decide where to start. I missed reading. Shoe and I had told stories, but we also read them aloud to each other, and on every trip into the village he’d taken our old books with him and come back with new ones.

  All the books on the Godmother’s library shelves were bound with leather, the same ice blue as the curtains. I stepped closer to examine them. They were all the same size, all the same width. And on the spine of every book was the same title, printed in shiny silver letters. Story.

  A frisson of worry shivered down my spine. I pulled out one of the books and opened it. On the page were printed the words

  Rose pulled out one of the books and opened it.

  I slammed the book closed, then dropped it as if it was hot enough to scorch my fingers.

  “Oh,” I breathed. The blue-covered book lay there on the blue carpet. It had to be a coincidence. I shivered and backed away.

  “Are you all right, Lady Rose?” asked Sir James.

  I turned, and they were still watching me without blinking; Sir Richard licked his lips and smiled wetly at me.

  “I think . . . ,” I stammered. “I’ll go join my ladies-in-waiting.”

  They led me to the sitting room. At the door, they bowed again.

  As before, Amity and Olive demanded details about my so-called dalliance with the good-looking stableboy.

  I didn’t tell them everything. Just enough. And I did it without blushing, which I considered an enormous triumph.

  “Ooh,” Miss Olive squealed. “And you’ve met Sir Roland and Sir Richard and Sir James. Aren’t they handsome?”

  Miss Amity sniffed and looked faintly disapproving. She was doing something ladylike with a thick needle and a bobbin and white thread. Her fingers flew, making loops and twists and braids, and a patterned web took shape.

  Beside her, Miss Olive was holding a length of what looked like golden hair in one hand, and in the other a length of wood about the size of a pen, with a sharp end. She was twirling it to tease the hair into a thread, then winding the thread around the pen’s base.

  I got up and walked around the room, thinking about Griff, but also thinking about the library, and how strange it was. What would happen, I wondered, if I looked into another part of the book?

  I shook my head. Better not to think about that.

  But . . . I could almost feel Story in the air. A kind of heaviness. Entangled, I’d told Quirk, but it was more like stuck. Like a bee in honey.

  We had to get out. Tomorrow when I went to Griff for my fighting lesson, we would have to decide our next move. Surely Quirk would be well enough to travel soon.

  After walking around the room again, I sat down next to Miss Olive. “What are you doing?”

  She nodded at Amity. “She is tatting. Making lace.”

  Oh, so that’s what tatting was. One of the ladylike accomplishments, I remembered.

  “And I am spinning the thread for the lace,” Miss Olive added. She held up a stick wound at the top with a length of
golden hair-like stuff. “This is flax on a distaff.” She licked her fingers and twisted a bit of the flax around the wooden pen-like thing. “As you see, I draw it out with the spindle.”

  She kept talking, but I didn’t hear her words. A roaring filled my ears, and I froze, suddenly frightened as something rose within me in response to seeing it.

  Spindle.

  Miss Olive kept spinning, pulling the threads, twirling the spindle between her fingers. She watched me. “Would you like to try?” She held out the spindle. It was made of smooth, dark wood, wrapped with the spun thread at one end. The tip at the other end was made of metal, and it was very sharp. Like a needle.

  “No,” I croaked, shaking my head, but I couldn’t stop staring at it, enthralled. Against my will, my hand lifted. I could feel it. Story. It was so heavy, so powerful, and it wanted me to reach out and take the spindle into my hand; it wanted my finger to prick itself on the metal tip. There would be just one drop of blood. . . .

  And now I saw what Quirk was afraid of. He had warned me. So had Griff and Timothy. Be careful. I hadn’t realized.

  But now I knew.

  It hit me physically, like a blow; I shuddered, and black spots swam before my eyes.

  I really was a construct of Story.

  So were my parents; it explained why they were so blank, so empty. Story had made them, and it had made me. It had made me for this. I was nothing; I was hollow, and Story would fill me up.

  I trembled with the horror of it.

  My hand kept reaching for the spindle.

  My heart pounded; I felt a scream rising in my throat.

  And then I remembered what Griff had taught me about panicking during a fight. Fight. Will.

  It took all my strength. My reaching hand clenched into a fist. Slowly, carefully, I got to my feet and willed myself to back away.

  The Misses were watching me avidly, Olive still holding out the spindle.

  “Come, Lady Rose,” Miss Amity said, and her words seemed to echo in the room. “Take it. You know you want to.”

  “Take it,” Miss Olive echoed.

  I steadied myself, my back against the door to the stairs that led to the pink bedroom, my hand groping for the knob. “No, thank you,” I said, surprised at how normal my voice sounded. “It’s late. I think it must be time to dress for dinner. I don’t want to keep my mother and father waiting.”

  My hand found the knob. Turning it, I fled, slamming the door behind me.

  CHAPTER

  24

  “GRIFF,” HE HEARD, A WHISPER. A HAND SHOOK HIS shoulder.

  He jerked awake. The loft in the stable that he shared with Arny was dark. He’d been dreaming again about the fall from the precipice, listening to the wind whistling past, trying not to think about the ground that had to be rushing up at him, even though he knew it was coming. It would all be an awful mess when he landed.

  “Griff,” came another whisper. “It’s me. Rose.”

  He sat up, the straw rustling, and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes.

  “I need to talk to you,” she said.

  From not far away came the sound of Arny snoring, then snuffling and turning over.

  He nodded, even though she couldn’t see him. “Not here.” He heard her bare feet pad across the floor; climbing out of his bed of straw, he followed her down the ladder to the main room of the stable, where he lit the lantern.

  Rose was wrapped in a pink robe; her hair hung tangled around her pale face. “I’m not sure I’ll be able to get away again,” she said. “They’re going to be guarding me more carefully.” She looked around vaguely. “We should find Timothy.”

  “She’s gone. For help.”

  “Oh. Good.” She shivered. “But I’m afraid it might be too late for that. I found out about the spindle.”

  He nodded. He wanted to reassure her, to, maybe, put his arm around her for comfort, but he knew that would just make him want to kiss her again. And now that he knew about the thimble, he should stay as far away from her as he could.

  “And . . . ,” she added, her voice trembling, “I’ve learned more about Story.”

  “We should go to Quirk,” he said.

  “That might be best,” she agreed. “He knows a lot more than we do about what’s going on, and I think it’s time for him to tell us. But maybe we shouldn’t wake him up.”

  “It’s all right.” Griff had checked on Quirk after dinner, and his fever was almost gone. He took the lantern and Rose followed as he headed for the stable door. They crossed the paved courtyard and went into the shadowed kitchen, then down the hall to the closet.

  As they entered, the light from the lantern spilled across Quirk’s bed, and he sat up. His straw-colored hair stuck out in all directions, but his eyes were bright and clear of fever. “What’s the matter, children?” he asked.

  Griff set the lantern on the floor. Rose stood, her face half in shadow, her hands clenched together, and looked down at Quirk.

  “I’m really frightened,” she said.

  “What’s happened?” Quirk asked sharply.

  “Oh,” Rose said, and it was almost a sob. “You told me about Story, and you told me to be careful, but I didn’t understand.”

  “And now you do,” Quirk finished for her.

  She nodded. A blink, and a tear rolled down her cheek, shiny in the lantern light. “You were right,” she said, almost inaudibly. “I am a . . .” She shook her head, and another tear fell. “A construct of Story. Just the beauty, nothing more.”

  “Ah, lass,” Quirk said sadly. He patted the bed. “Come here.”

  Rose sat beside him and put her face in her hands; more tears leaked out between her fingers.

  Griff felt frozen; he didn’t know what to say to help her. But seeing her cry made something hurt inside his chest.

  “Now, Rosie,” Quirk said. “It’s true enough. Story made you. But listen.” He reached out to tap her hands. “Shoe made sure that you were more than that, didn’t he?”

  She shook her head, her eyes swimming with tears. “I don’t know.”

  “He did,” Quirk said firmly. “Shoe raised you to be good, and loving, and happy. A true, real person with her own story, not a clockwork doll. You can fight Story.”

  She scrubbed at the tears on her cheeks. “Can I? But I’m so entangled in it, I don’t know how.”

  “Mm.” Quirk was silent for a moment. “You’re not the only one entangled here, lass.”

  “You?” Rose asked.

  “No.” Quirk pointed with a blunt finger. “Him.”

  The thimble, Griff thought, with a sudden lurch in his stomach.

  “If Griff is who I suspect, he is part of this, too,” Quirk went on.

  “If?” Rose asked slowly. “Who is he, then?”

  Quirk studied him, his green eyes clear. Then he nodded. “It’s time to tell your story, lad.”

  Griff couldn’t bring himself to speak.

  “Everyone has a story,” Rose said, her face so lovely in the golden lantern light. “Once upon a time,” she began.

  “Rose, I don’t—”

  “Once upon a time,” she continued, “there was a baby boy born to the Lord Protector.”

  “He wasn’t the Lord Protector then,” Griff corrected. “That happened later, after the first Protector didn’t return to the City.”

  “Pen,” Quirk put in. “The first Protector was the Penwitch, as you call her, lass. She left the City to steal you away from this castle, Rosie.”

  “Oh,” Rose said with a blink. “That means our stories begin in the same place, almost, Griff.”

  Maybe they did.

  “What about your mother?” Rose prompted.

  He shook his head, and she and Quirk stayed silent for a few minutes, enough time for him to think it over. “The Penwitch left. . . .” He’d never told a story before; he wasn’t sure what to tell them next.

  “Telling a story is like putting beads onto a string,” Rose said.

/>   She had the same odd way of talking that Quirk did. Comparing things that were nothing alike.

  “And once you’ve got all the beads together,” she went on, “you’ve got something more than just one bead and another and another, you’ve got a necklace.”

  He frowned. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Oh.” She blew out a frustrated sigh. “It means the beads, all together, make a thing that’s more beautiful than just a bunch of beads. It’s the same with stories. When you tell them, they’re not just words strung together. A story is more than a collection of sentences. It means something more. It helps you understand.”

  He’d always thought he understood things. But maybe he hadn’t. “All right.” He considered a bead. It wasn’t easy. He’d been trained for so long to engage only with what was right in front of him. The beads, though. They required an unaccustomed effort to go back over things that had happened long ago, things he’d tried to forget. His mind felt rusty. “The Penwitch left, and the City had no Protector. But it was too late. Story had already seized its chance. In secret it had found a new Godmother.”

  He couldn’t bear to tell them the next part. He’d never spoken it aloud before. His father had ordered him never even to think of it. “A new Godmother,” he repeated. “She was . . .”

  “Go on, lad,” Quirk said gently.

  The words felt like stones as he spoke them. “She was my mother.”

  Quirk was nodding, as if this confirmed something he’d suspected.

  Griff blinked. “How did you know?”

  “These things make a kind of sense,” he said. “Go on.”

  He glanced at Rose, to see how she’d reacted to this new information. She regarded him gravely. “Tell,” she prompted.

  “She . . .” He swallowed. “My mother served Story. When I was still a baby she went away for a while—she must have come here to build Castle Clair—but then she returned. That’s when the Penwitch left. Someone had to oppose the . . . the Godmother, so my father made himself the Protector. He created the Watchers, too. There was a battle in the citadel. It was still a castle, then.”