by Ana Mardoll
As we are organized by function, Lavender doesn't stand near me against the wall. The Ornamentals are clumped closest to the great doors, painfully lovely to look at. Some of them change color over the seasons, their hair or skin cycling through different hues and shades; others maintain an unchanging ethereal loveliness. Of us all, the Ornamentals come closest to approximating the beauty of the May Queen but it is they she weeds the most often. They are the lowest of us Flowers, though they still outrank the gnarled tree-people who grow as guards along the edges of the estate, line the vast gardens as exotic fruit-bearers, and will serve tonight as coat-racks in the mansion's entrance chambers.
After the Ornamentals come the Fragrants, with Lavender among their number. Grouped so closely together, their scent is dizzying even in the cavernous space of the ballroom. Their emotions are identifiable through the heady aromas: the lemony tartness of fear, the sharp green apple of simmering anger, the overpowering stench of anxious spicy clover that coats everything around us. I purposely avoid seeking out Lavender with my gaze, but spot her out of the corner of my eye. Her skin is pale under the cap of her loose purple hair and the spray of freckles across her face and bare shoulders. I wonder again if this plan of hers will work, and if she can manage to be near me at the exact moment necessary in order to pull it off.
Lining the far end of the hall, away from the giant doors that open onto the main lawn, are the Nightshades. We are less beautiful than the Ornamentals and less alluring than the Fragrants. The lords and ladies assume we are the lowest of her servants, not realizing that we are cultivated for our hidden thorns. Lokelani stands at silent attention on my left, her warm rosy hair a sister to my own. To my right is Violet, her hair a brilliant cloud of dark purple corkscrews, her lips begging for kisses. Across the hall are the twins, Heather with her soft lilac curls and Hyacinth with his wavy blue locks. There are a good forty of us Nightshades in all, the rarest of the May Queen's flowers.
I feel a stab of guilt for my brothers and sisters around me. How can I escape and leave them behind? Yet there's no way I could take them with us; if Lavender can pull off her plan to get the two of us excused for even an hour, it will be a miracle. Perhaps if I escape, they will be treated better for a time, as the favored few who did not run away. I pray that at least they will not be treated worse.
Our mistress stands in the center of the hall where we wait, her exquisite face watching us with unreadable emotion. Tonight her hair is as dark as loamy earth and her eyes match our uniform bright green. She is otherwise colorless, her skin and lips so pale as to be almost translucent. She is moonlight striking a fertile garden as it waits to be tilled; she is a ghostly will-o'-the-wisp floating through a freshly-dug cemetery; she is the embodiment of death waiting to strike us. When the faery lords and ladies arrive, she smiles brightly at them but her white teeth are bared like fangs and the delight on her face utterly fails to reach her eyes.
The visiting faeries are as beautiful and dangerous as she. One lord is as bright as the sun and dazzles my eyes so I have to look away or be blinded. A dozen manservants follow behind him, each more handsome than the last. The men are pretty toys which the May Queen may assign one of us to break; their lord may suspect his hostess of ordering the mischief, but courtesy forbids more than token complaint. The lady beside him is wrapped in a dress of auburn leaves, each rustling in an invisible wind. A small cream-colored monkey creeps behind her on a silver chain, casting about the room with eyes which look terrifyingly human. I remind myself as I stare into those wide eyes that there are worse things than being a killer for our mistress.
Twenty faeries arrive in the first wave of guests, each of them trailing servants in their wake. More guests will trickle in as the night stretches on, especially if this really is intended to be a lengthy forty-course event. As it is there are already several hundred bodies in the ballroom: the faeries who have come to be entertained; the dancers such as myself and Lavender; and other sundry servants who set out the food, provide the light, and perform a thousand menial tasks for their masters. As tonight's hostess, the May Queen will supply the majority of these servants, many of whom are those not awoken as Flowers.
The first course of food is served by the silent vine-limbed people who scurry about the edges of the hall. Already tonight they are sweating profusely from their work, for the cavernous ballroom comprises an entire wing of the mansion that they must repeatedly walk. The garden doors have been thrown open to provide cool relief, but the night breezes barely penetrate the crushing heat of so many bodies. Above us, dim light is provided by the fireflies held aloft in their delicate wire cages. Their soft glow trickles down from the high ceiling, as they watch us from afar with lonely eyes, their thin hands grasping the cage bars.
This party is entirely for the benefit of the lords and ladies. They will laugh and flirt with each other, they will gamble and drink rowdily, and they will sometimes remember to eat the food that has been placed before them. A few servants—mostly the pretty Ornamentals—will be called upon to dance with our masters and mistresses, and none of us envies them their task. But the vast majority of us will dance with our fellow servants, putting on a show of civility. This is theater for them, and we are the entertainers; our roles are to be merry and our performance must be perfect. The May Queen's reputation hinges on the behavior of those who serve her.
Lavender's plan for us involves a subtle manipulation of these dynamics. If I refuse to perform my role, or if I perform particularly badly, I will be punished—and that punishment may well become the centerpiece for tonight's entertainment. The lords and ladies find our torture very amusing. Yet if I can fail in a tiny way, just enough to be sent from the room for a few precious minutes, then we have a chance to escape. The May Queen will notice when we do not return, of course, but it is not in her best interests to reveal to her guests any failure to control her household. If we are careful, we could have hours of privacy to safely escape her sprawling estates and find a way out.
If we are careful, and if we are banished from the room together, when in truth there are several dozen Fragrants, any of whom might be called upon to escort me to the dressing rooms. Then, out on the estate, we must hope that the wild stories of a dying man turn out to be true.
I look up into the face of my dancing partner. He's a beautiful man, with skin the color of warm bark and soft black scruff covering his chin just below the lips. He looks as though he were created for kissing, the edges of his mouth turning up in a wry grin as he leads me easily around the dance floor. If I stay, if we don't run tonight, he might be forced to kiss me, and I don't want him added to my long list of victims. I don't want to see his face contort in pain or his eyes glaze over in death.
Lavender is right. I cannot do this any longer; better to risk everything for freedom than to stay another night.
Smiling warmly up at the man, I drop my rose-branded shoulder suggestively as I draw him into a faster tempo for the dance. My partner grins with every evidence of pleasure and follows my quickened step with easy grace. My mind is full of questions I will never be free to ask him: does he genuinely enjoy this sensual charade and the pretty woman in his arms, or is he simply another consummate actor hiding misery? The desire in his eyes does not seem counterfeit, but I suppose the mirroring desire I have feigned to draw him into this dance seems no less real to him.
The thin gown clinging to my skin in the oppressive heat of the room flutters softly with the exertion of our efforts, the fabric lifting in the air and providing more freedom of movement to my legs. We dance with frenetic energy, whirling and dipping through the empty space that appears on the floor as the other dancers discreetly make way for us. I can sense their retreat, their fear of sharing in whatever punishment may befall us for breaking decorum in this way. I feel a sudden pang of guilt at the realization that my partner may be punished for his share in my deliberate disgrace. Yet still we dance on, his strong fingers gripping mine as I drop my head backwards
into a deep dip, held from falling only by the strength of his warm hands.
When I raise my head again my hair pulls loose from its pinned restraints, and I feel the thick braid brush against my bare shoulders. The plaited crown on which Lavender worked so hard this morning has come loose, and is weeping tiny rosebuds like droplets of water onto the marble dance floor. I move instantly away from my partner, my hand reaching up to catch at my falling hair, my voice laughing and apologizing and thanking him all at once in a profuse babble. He lets me go with a reluctance that sends a painful sliver of fear through my heart, and I turn my back on him with a finality that I hope will prevent him from following me. Tripping shamefacedly over to my mistress, I pray I haven't signed his death warrant—or my own.
The May Queen stands on the outskirts of the dancing, and the cold expression on her face does nothing to quiet my fears. Reaching her, I curtsy deeply, brushing my lips through the air above her offered hand. My heart still pounds with the adrenaline of the dance and I feel a wild temptation to dive through that thin layer of air and press her hand to my poisonous mouth, but I know this is just a hopeless fantasy. Our talents do not work against those who first bestowed them, and she has kissed me countless times without being harmed in the least. There are tales of lethal servants who tried to turn their gifts against their masters; the only detail on which the stories disagree is which manner of horrific death they suffered.
"Enjoying the dance, Rose?" The May Queen's voice is high and clear, her emotions difficult to read. The shadow of a smirk on her beautiful face might be wry amusement or it might be the harbinger of a lethal temper tantrum at my indecorous behavior.
I keep my face carefully displaying bashful chagrin. "Yes, Mistress," I lie with smiling embarrassment, pushing soft rueful laughter into my voice and keeping my eyes humbly downcast. "He danced very handsomely."
"Mmm, very pretty." Strong fingers grip my jawline, and her thumb presses firmly against my chin, tipping my face so that my eyes meet hers. I stare obediently back at her with wide eyes that I pray convey only dutiful submission. My only failing tonight is one of etiquette, in dancing too wildly in the arms of a pretty boy, I remind myself repeatedly. I'm trembling with the effort to convincingly etch this fiction onto my face. Most of all, I must not look like someone plotting a breakneck run for freedom through the dark gardens.
"Shall I get him for you, Rose?" she asks, the pleasant innocence of her ethereal voice masking the harsh cruelty of the question. "I'm sure his master would deal with me. Or perhaps I should send you to lure him into the back passages? You're always so good at arranging assignations, and I do enjoy watching you work."
My face doesn't move, but my eyes drop like a stone to the floor. "Whatever you wish, Mistress," I whisper softly. I nod my head, causing more of the tiny roses to shower to the ground, hoping against hope that the indecorous remains of my hairstyle will outweigh her desire for intrigue.
Her thumb strokes my chin, tracing mocking patterns just below my lips. I stand like a statue under her teasing touch and I find I can't breathe. I hadn't felt this intense need for freedom until Lavender planted the idea in my mind. Now that hope has taken hold, the withering of my dreams feels intensely painful, like harsh frost on naked skin. Fears rise in my throat: that the May Queen will not take her eyes from me tonight; that she'll force me to kill another one for her amusement; that all this will continue on unbroken until she tires and kills me as she has done with every previous Rose.
Fortunately her mercurial nature works in my favor this time when I most need it, for she turns away from me, suddenly bored and blessedly neglectful. "Get cleaned up," she orders coolly, gesturing with distaste to my mussed hair, my braid still swinging freely down my back and shedding tiny flowers in my wake. "I won't have you looking like that before my guests." I curtsy silently in acknowledgment of her command and back away.
Only then do I smell Lavender, the familiar presence at my elbow emitting a soft, wafting honeysuckle scent. She must have been watching me and timed her own dance to end with mine. She hovers obediently nearby, silently waiting to do our mistress' bidding, anticipating her needs as a good servant should. I hold my breath again, and I can feel Lavender doing the same.
If the May Queen notices our anticipation, it doesn't show on her perfect face. "Go with her," she orders curtly. "Do up her hair properly this time, and get back down here before the third course." She sweeps away from us in harsh punctuation of her commands, heading towards the tables. Delicate confections I have no words for sit alongside vile-smelling dishes I cannot stomach. Whether we succeed or fail in our escape tonight, I take cold comfort in knowing that I shall not be forced to choke down raw carvings from the deer-man that one of the lords brought with him as tribute, the killing arrows still protruding from the poor creature's lifeless hide.
I look at Lavender and we breathe a shared sigh of relief. We nod in humble obedience to the May Queen's retreating back, then turn and disappear silently through the passages at the rear of the mansion. Our quick, furtive movements lead us away from the oppressive crush of the dancing hall towards the living areas where Lavender's brushes lie—along with the exits to the back gardens.
Chapter 3
In contrast to the noise and glitter of the ballroom, all is quiet and serene on the May Queen's lawns tonight. The sprawling gardens and twisting hedge-mazes that cover the estate seep soft perfume into the evening air, promising a welcome cloak for the honeysuckle-scented girl at my side. I don't know if there is an escape route for us to find, apart from the clean death that the rain-swollen river may offer us, but if anyone is sent to track us at least they won't be able to sniff us out.
I take Lavender's elbow in my hand and guide her through one of the open windows that stud the mansion walls at regular intervals. In a few quick strides we are in the gardens, slipping silently into the hedge-maze, trusting the leafy walls that stretch over our heads to hide us from view. The grass beneath our feet is soft and spongy after the morning's rain; not so muddy as to leave tracks when we walk, but fortuitously gentle under our thin dancing shoes. Blooming night-flowers create soft splashes of color in the moonlight and mark a path through the mazes for those who know how to read them.
Lavender follows me through the twists and turns with a quick step. I'm surprised to find her so willing to be guided. Inside the mansion she had been an instigator, urging me into this escape plan which almost certainly won't succeed; yet now that we are in unfamiliar territory, she defers to my experience. I had pegged her earlier as foolhardy, plunging ahead with no apparent forethought, but now I find myself reconsidering that opinion.
I wonder what else I might have been wrong about. She knew me before today, knew that I am one of only a few dozen servants who have traversed these twisting garden paths. Did she plan to spill those flowers, trusting me with her hopes when I swore not to betray her? Yet whether or not her confidence in me was spontaneous, I have no regrets being here with her. Even if we don't escape, I cling to this newly-kindled conviction that dying in a failed grasp for freedom is more appealing than staying here another night and killing another man.
Lavender's voice at my elbow, soft and nervous, floats like a whisper on the breeze. "You do remember the way, don't you?" she asks, her head twisting to peer doubtfully at a dark trail that stretches off down the maze to our left. "I mean, you've been down these paths? They all look the same," she frets, the honeysuckle scent around us turning sharp and lemony with her fear.
"I've traveled them twice," I answer in a matching low whisper, trusting the dense foliage to muffle our voices. "The third time I rode in a carriage, over the river. That's where we're going, except through the maze rather than on the open road where anyone could see us." I take her hand, more out of a desire to reassure than from a need to guide, and draw us around a tight right turn, keeping our walking pace fast as we brush against a brilliant spray of red hibiscus. "It's not about memorizing the paths. The pattern is th
e important thing. Turn right at red flowers, go straight at white ones. Yellow means left, but you have to watch because some of them have stripes on the petals. Everything else is meant to be ignored."
I can feel Lavender shaking her head behind me. "Simple to remember," she murmurs, a little incredulous, "and simple to share. It's a wonder she doesn't worry more about people getting in and out. And that pattern will take us to the exit?"
"One of them," I say. "There's an outer ring of hedge-wall that surrounds the entire maze, with exits at regular intervals. Which exit we come to depends on keeping the right direction."
I glance up at the sky, my eyes searching the darkness for a possible guide. Tonight there is only the big moon, which comforts me; I have never liked the sight of the smaller ones. Of course, none of the moons are reliable as compass points—despite a nagging feeling that they ought to be—because they move in such unpredictable ways in order to chase the two suns. Yet since we haven't been outside long enough for tonight's celestial body to stray far from its chosen path, we can use it now as a fixed reference. "When we left the mansion, the moon was rising over the west wing of the estate. We're heading south, to the river. Watch your step; the ground is rocky here."
Lavender is silent for a moment as we pick our way carefully; speed is crucial tonight, but we can't afford to twist an ankle or break a leg. "And when we get to the river?" she eventually queries, her voice suddenly small. "We cross it and... then what?"
We didn't have the chance to talk about this part of the escape before, not when our afternoon planning had to be swiftly conducted and concluded before anyone could overhear us. She doesn't know the extent of my knowledge, nor the limits where there is only conjecture and suspicion. I find myself choosing my words as deliberately as my steps, not wanting to crush her hopes now that we've come this far. "You said we must have come from somewhere," I murmur, repeating her words from earlier.