The Rose and the Thorn

by Kate Macdonald

  “A great battle was fought,” he explains. “Between light and darkness.”

  “Who won?”

  “Neither. In the end, both parties destroyed one another, and this place along with it.”

  “Why does it appear in my meadow twice a year?”

  “It doesn't,” he replies simply. “It can appear in many places, all over the world. It's just perchance it appeared to you.”

  “Then why does it appear at all?”

  The Beast tilts his head. This next reply takes time. “Old magic,” he says. “It has rules that must be followed. Every curse cast must have a chance of being broken.”

  “Every curse?” my interest is now truly piqued. “This place is under a spell?”

  “It is not merely a castle.”

  “What else is it?”

  “A prison,” he says darkly.

  I swallow, because I realise, for the first time, he is not just talking about me. This is his prison too. I wonder what he did to deserve it. I wonder if he did anything at all. I wonder if he, like me, is dying to be free.

  “How... how long have you been here?” I ask.

  “My entire life,” his voice is very light. “I know no other home but this.”

  “But if the way opens twice a year-”

  “Somehow I do not think I would be too warmly received in your world.”

  Guilt, regret, sympathy -some faint pang of emotion- rises in my throat.

  “You have not been alone here all this time?”

  He shakes his head. “There were survivors, after the war. Loyal servants. They were my constant companions for many years. Then the magic that sustains this place began to wane. They sacrificed themselves to ensure it didn't fade completely, becoming part of the very walls. That was perhaps ten years ago.”

  “Have you been alone since then, or have other people found their way in?”

  He nods. “Seven, including you. But not one for almost three years.”

  Three years of this utter solitude. How can he bear it? The question falls to the tip of my tongue but I catch it just in time. Don't let him think you care. But why does it matter if he does? What do I possibly have to lose by making a friend of him? He doesn't seem to have any say in me being here, and I can't deny that I am... intrigued by him. And in our short conversation so far, I have stopped counting the minutes.

  “What do you do?”

  He startles a bit, looking like a cat might after sneezing. “I'm sorry?”

  “How do you fill your time?” I ask.

  “I er, I mean, sometimes...” he flusters as if he's never been asked this before. “I suppose I walk a lot, and I used to hunt and fish, back when there were animals, and, um, well, I read a lot.”

  “You read?”

  “I know, it may sound-”

  “No, no. I love to read. I was hoping -I'd not managed to locate it yet- but I'm supposing there's a library here somewhere?”

  The smallest twitch of a smile crinkles in the corner of his jaw.

  “A library, you say? That I can help you with.”

  The first thing that hits me, as I step into the darkened room, is the warm, familiar smell of dust and paper. The second thing is the tree growing right of the centre of the floor. At first, I am entirely perplexed- a tree, in this place, in a room without light or water? But then I realise that it is a cleverly-painted sculpture. The leaves are made of fabric. They brush the high, arched ceiling, and despite my usual dislike of overly-painted ceilings, I can't help but marvel at this one. There are mermaids' lagoons, dragons, pirate ships, princes and princesses, mountains and castles and desert islands, valiant steeds, sword fights- beautiful, swirling images from every story I'd ever read.

  “It's beautiful,” I sigh.

  “Do you like it?”

  I gaze around at the little balconies and spiral staircases, and the books in every colour imaginable, stacked fifty feet high. I've never seen so many books in one place before, never seen a room so tall look so cosy. I know at once that whatever other marvels the castle holds, whatever other magic inhabits its walls, nothing will please me more.

  “It's perfect,” I breathe, unable to stop the admiration rising from me.

  He nods his head. “I shall leave you then,” he says. “Enjoy your reading.”

  He turns to leave, but before he goes, I ask, “How many have you read?”

  He stops. Finally, he says quietly, “Almost every book here.”

  “Almost every single one?” There must be thousands.

  “Well, some of them were very dull-”

  “That's so many!”

  “I didn't have much else to do.”

  That stops the conversation for a little while.

  “Well, which one is your favourite?” I ask.

  “My favourite?” For a moment, I think he will say he doesn't have one. Most people do not. I know of about five I could whittle it down to. “This one,” he says eventually. He turns to the shelf beside the fire, right at the bottom, and delicately pulls a out a tome with a single claw. It is incredibly old, with yellowing pages, and is covered in dust. He has not returned to it for some time.

  It is a story I know, albeit one I have not read for many years. I can just about remember it.

  “Tromeo and Lessida?” I query. “It's a love story!”

  “What of it?”

  “I just... I never really thought-”

  “A curious choice for a monster, I suppose?”

  “A curious choice for a man.”

  A weird silence passes between us. It is not an uncomfortable one, but strange and new. Finally, he throws his head back and laughs. A deep, throaty chortle, quite alarming, really.

  He stops when he sees the look on my face.

  “Sorry,” he says quickly. “Where- where would you like to begin?”

  With the history of this place.

  I point towards a bust on one of the desks. It is of a strange, warty little man with pointed ears. “I cannot help but notice...” I start, “That the past occupants of this castle... don't appear fully human?”

  “That is correct.”

  “What were they?”

  “They are what is commonly referred to as the Fey.”

  Yes, very common... if you live in an fairy realm. I try to sound a bit more polite. “What's that?”

  “A group of conscious, highly intelligent, long-living beings, including but not limited to, fairies, sprites, brownies, elves, pixies, dwarves, goblins, gnomes-”

  “Those all exist?”

  “You don't sound too surprised.”

  “Well... I do live in an enchanted castle inhabited by a talking self-proclaimed beast."

  “Touché.” He glances round the room. “I could find you a book on them, if you like?”

  My whole body tingles at the thought. A real book on fairies. A chance to unravel the mysteries of this place. I try to quell my excitement, reveal less of myself.

  “Oh, yes please.”

  Without another word, he springs onto a nearby bookshelf and scuttles towards the ceiling. He pulls out a thick volume. “Can you catch?”

  “Yes, but-”

  He flings it towards me. The force is so great that I stumble back a bit. Freed never threw so hard.

  “Look out!”

  He hurls down another, then leaps onto another shelf, skims through the titles, fires down more.

  “You'll break the shelves!” I cry. “Or the books!”

  He stops for a moment to stare down at me in what I can only assume is an incredulous manner. “Nonsense. I've been climbing these shelves for years. And I'm very careful with the books.” He sounds a little hurt.

  “Why not use the la-” my eyes dart around the room for a ladder, but the first one I see is missing several steps. They are snapped clean in two. The second one I see is little better off. The third is dusty and ignored. “Oh,” I say, to no one in particular.

  A book hits me squarely in the f
ace.

  “Oof!”

  Dense pain spreads across my brow. My collection clatters the the floor. The Beast leaps down, landing with a thud so hard that the room, sturdy as it is, shudders.

  “Are you all right? I'm so sorry, I didn't look before I... I'm sorry-”

  “No, no, I'm all right,” I insist, blinking through the pain. “I'm not bleeding, just a bruise-”

  “I can get you something-”

  “I'm fine-”

  But he has already swept out of the room.

  Keeping one hand on my injury, I pick up the books scattered across the floor and stack them on a nearby table. They are incredibly old, although reading them with just the one eye is a little tricky. The Beast returns a few minutes later with a tea cup filled with water and hot cloth. He sets them down with shaking fingers and steps back, darting away from me like an insect from the flame.

  “I really am very so-”

  “You say sorry too much,” I snap, taking up the cloth. The water in the cup tingles, warm in a way that defies description. My head feels instantly better the second it's applied.

  “Keep it on for a few moments,” he insists.

  “Sounds like good advice.”

  He rocks about guiltily on his two back paws, his tail brushing the ground, his arms behind his back. His eyes go to my collection on the desk.

  “I'll take these to your room.”

  “You don't have to-”

  “It's fine.”

  He is gone in an instant. The books are beside my bed when I return to my room, but my fellow captive is no where to be seen. I call out, “thank you” into the corridors, but there is no reply.

  Chapter Four: First Flakes

  “Don't be afraid, Rose. Don't be frightened.”

  Down the corridor, an infant is mewling. Finally, finally the baby is here! I dash away from Freedom's side and run to Mama's room. I see the baby. He is wrapped up in Nanny's arms, but Nanny isn't smiling and laughing like she was when Hope was born. Her face is stark white.

  The rest of the room is stained with blood. There's blood on Papa, blood on the baby, blood on the chewed-up sheets. The midwife hovers at Mama's feet, which look limp and lifeless, but Mama's hands stretch out towards me.

  “Don't be afraid, Rose. Don't be frightened. Be brave, my dearheart. Be brave.”

  The door closes in my face.

  That is the last time I ever see my mother alive.

  A scream rips through the air. I awake clutching my sheets. My face is wet with tears. I breathe, steady myself, focused on the ticking clock.

  “I am not afraid,” I repeat to myself. “Not afraid!”

  There is the clattering of claws on marble, a brief moment of silence apart from my ragged breathing, and then a quiet knock at the door.

  “Rose?”

  My name sounds so strange coming from his lips, that I almost forget it is mine entirely.

  “Yes?” I answer quietly.

  “I was just... walking by and I heard... are you all right?”

  It takes me a moment answer. “Yes,” I reply. “It was... just a nightmare.” A memory.

  “If you need anything-”

  “I'm fine!” I snap. What does he even suppose he could do? The castle appears to be attending my whims. What else could he offer me?

  There is silence on the other side of the door. “As you wish,” he says with a tiny, traceable sound of a sigh. He shuffles off; his claws scratch the marble far-off.

  My bedsheets are hot and clammy, but a creeping cold slithers up my spine. I wrap a blanket around my shoulders and go to pour a cup of tea. The pot is usually always filled with piping hot liquid, but tonight I find it flavourless and tepid. I gulp down a few mouthfuls and sit in the window seat. Frost is gnawing at the pane.

  Nightmares plague me into the morning hours. No awful memories this time, but visions of pale faces in mirrors, screaming in the hallways, a voice telling me to run. When I finally wake, my eyes feel almost pasted shut. It is almost lunch time. In an attempt to energise myself, I make half an effort dressing for the day and head down to the dining room. Somebody has been polishing the silver, but it does little to elevate the gloom. I eat quickly, and head back to my chamber.

  Perhaps it is the addition of the books by my bedside, but I am suddenly wary of how the room isn't much to my taste. I decide to make good on the Beast's promise that I am to treat the place like my own, and immediately rummage around the other rooms on my floor for paintings more to my liking. I borrow cushions to furnish the bed and chairs, roll up the gaudy rug and swap it for an elegant weave, replace the thick hangings over the bed with gossamer ones. I decide to take down the curtains and swap them as well, but before I do I become distracted with a particularly beautiful dresser, which, despite it's delicate composition, is surprisingly heavy. I can barely move it.

  “A little help would be nice!” I call out to no one in particular.

  The dresser shifts forward suddenly. I shriek and topple backwards. There is a flicker of something around it, like the embers of a fire.

  “Um, thanks?”

  Nothing else happens. I get up, brushing the dust off my clothes, and try and pull it again. It is a little better, but not much.

  “Do you require some assistance?”

  I leap several feet into the air. The Beast is standing behind me. “You must stop doing that!”

  “I'm sorry!” he says, scuttling back into the corner like a wounded dog. “I heard you moving around and thought-”

  “No, it's fine, I do need some help, actually...” I gush, my breathing returning to normal. “You can move really quietly...”

  “I've been told,” he says, as if this is something to be ashamed of.

  “Well, now that you're here...” I point to the dresser. “Would you mind?”

  He nods, striding towards it and lifting it easily into his arms. He looks far too pleased with himself. “Your room?”

  “My room.”

  We walk back to it in silence and swap over the pieces in similar fashion. He glances around at the changes. “Making this place your own, I see.”

  “That is the intention.” I am glad he doesn't tell me that I am making it my home. This place is not my home; it never will be. The best I can hope for is a prettier cage. “Put the old dresser by the window, will you?”

  “The window?”

  “Yes.”

  His brow furrows, but he follows my instructions. Once there, I use the dresser as a platform and clamber up on top of it, standing up on tip-toe to take down the old curtains. Really, it is unnecessary for a bedroom to have such tall windows.

  “Are you... do you want me to do that?” he asks.

  “Alas, I think this calls for defter fingers...” I say, trying not to stare at his massive paws as I take off the first curtain and throw it down to him in a flurry of dust.

  He sighs. “I suppose you are right. I am just concerned you might fall...”

  “Then I fall. I shall not break.”

  I take off the second one. “Could you pass me the ones on the bed?”

  He does so. They are midnight blue with gold and silver embroidery, and remind me of starlight. I stand back to admire them and my heel slips off the dresser, but before I can scream or even fully realise that I am falling, two hard arms wrap around my back and cushion my landing. “Are you... all right?”

  I tense up. His arms are like stone, and I can feel each one of his claws pressing into my back. I cannot quite untangle my feelings; am I afraid, or more embarrassed about falling?

  “Fine,” I say shortly.

  He does not let go, and suddenly I am griped by discomfort. Fear, then. I am a little disappointed in myself. I swallow. “You can put me down now.”

  “Right. Of course.”

  Hastily -and incredibly gently- he slides me to my feet. He takes several steps back. How can I possibly be scared of something so awkward? Yet, all of a sudden, his towering height is all
the more noticeable, his fangs more pronounced, and his black fur all the more dark. He stuffs his hands behind his back.

  “The room is looking lovely,” he says quickly. “Are you done with the furniture?”

  “Yes,” I say.

  He nods, and lifts up the old dresser to take it away. I do not tell him I need it for the other window, and he does not seem to notice, or want to notice. He moves silently for the door, and I do not stop him.

  I do not see him again at dinner time, so I eat another meal by myself and spend my evening sewing by the fire, not having the heart for reading. I wonder how he is spending his evening.

  I feel guilty for tensing. I am certain that he sensed it, that he could see my discomfort, and I curse my instincts. Why did I do that? I should have asked him to help me finish. I should have shown him that I was not afraid-

  I think about going to find him now, but I do not know what I would say. Apologise? That would almost be worse, admitting to him that what he feared I felt was true. Perhaps I should just go and... suggest we spend some time together? Doing what? I do not know what he likes to do and I do not know him well enough to ask. I have met precious few strangers in my life, and only one talking beast.

  Finally, I give up on my current project and succumb to sleep. I have another awful dream, where someone is hissing at me to stay away. The shadows have eyes.

  It is a relief to wake.

  “Rose! Rose, wake up!”

  Someone is knocking at my door. For a minute, I forget where I am. The voice sounds excited, gleeful, childlike. It must be Beau, desperate to show me something. I hope it's not a worm.

  “Rose!”

  “Coming...”

  It's only when my feet hit the rug that it comes back, but it doesn't take me too long to recover. I pull on my dressing-gown and shuffle towards the door.

  “You bellowed?”

  The Beast's eyes suddenly go wide, and he turns around on his back paws so quickly that he actually skids.

  “You're- you're not dressed.”

  “It is seven thirty in the morning. You woke me up.”