One evening, when I am left alone, I bring out a little note book and count back the days. It has been two weeks now. Honour is getting married tomorrow. I wonder how she is, if she's going through with it without me, if anyone is staying up with her tonight.
Throwing back the covers, I tip-toe out of bed, sit myself at the writing desk in the corner, and take out pen and parchment.
Dear Honour,
Tomorrow is your wedding day, a day you have dreamed of all your life, and I will not be standing by your side for it. I am so sorry, dearest sister.
I know my sudden disappearance will have been hard for everyone, and I am truly sorry for all the pain I will have put you all through. I did not mean to go. Rest assured that I am well: I am safe and unhurt, and will return to you in time. I know it sounds impossible, but it appears the rumours of stepping over the stream were true: I have been stranded in a fairy realm, in a great abandoned castle. It was a little disconcerting at first, but I find myself warming up to it. It is a bit of a grey adventure, but an adventure nonetheless.
There does not seem to be much magic left in this place, but it does have miraculous food and a rather fetching bathtub. You would love the music room, and I am very enamoured of the library. Even Hope would struggle to run out of material here!
I also appear to have made a friend. I know, me, a friend! I suppose everyone has thought my quota of those filled for years? I thought so too. He is as much a prisoner here as I am -more so, perhaps, for he has never left- and there is a loneliness inside him that he hides as well as I hid mine. We share a love of literature, although not always of the same tastes, and he makes me laugh. You know precious few have managed to do that.
I want you to know that although I miss you all terribly, I'm not miserable here. At times I am almost happy, although I cannot be truly content while I know that you all will be worrying after me. Please let everyone know that I am all right and will be home within a few months. Tell Hope to watch my garden for me, and please read Beau his favourite bedtime story in my absence. Do the voices. He likes those.
I know you will look beautiful tomorrow, and I know that Charles will treat you with every bit of the admiration you deserve. I just wish I could be there to see the look on his face when he sees you in your gown. The two of you almost make me long for romance of my own.
Please, if you can, be happy. I am trying my hardest here too.
All my love,
Rose
I fold up the letter, seal it, and take it towards the fireplace. In one of Thorn's books, I heard that fairies used to send messages to each other this way. Please, I beg, if there is enough magic left here, let her receive my letter. Let her know that I am safe.
I know it is a hopeless cause, and that receiving a letter out of nowhere declaring I'm trapped in a fairy castle is going to do little to elevate Honour's worry, but I still feel better watching it vanish into the embers. That night, when I dream, it is of Honour in her dress, a wreath of holly in her hair, gliding towards the man she loves.
Part Two: Spring
I heard a thousand blended notes,
While in a grove I sate reclined,
In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts
Bring sad thoughts to the mind.
To her fair works did Nature link
The human soul that through me ran;
And much it grieved my heart to think
What man has made of man.
Through primrose tufts, in that green bower,
The periwinkle trailed its wreaths;
And ’tis my faith that every flower
Enjoys the air it breathes.
William Wordsworth
Chapter Seven: Sunlight and Snowdrops
The following morning, I get up and don my new dress; a floaty crimson creation with a gold bramble pattern on the bodice. I take a little time to brush my hair and braid back a few of the curls. Pleased with my appearance, I grab my coat and gloves and skip out onto the landing where I meet Thorn.
“Oh! You're up!” he says quickly.
“Why wouldn't I be?”
“I had thought you may wish to take it easy today.”
I shake my head. “I've had enough of that. I'm growing restless. Shall we go for a walk?” I head off towards the entrance hall without waiting for a reply. Something feels different about the castle this morning, but I cannot quite put my finger on what. There is an energy to the place, a lightness-
“Sunlight,” Thorn stops suddenly behind me, staring out of a window at the end of a corridor. “There's sunlight- here!”
I'm about to say that there's always been light here, but I quickly realise what he means. Whatever faint imitation of light occupied this place previously has been peeled away, and now the corridors are flooded with pure, brilliant warmth. Thorn's excitement washes into me.
Outside, sunlight paints the landscape. It is so warm I have to remove my gloves. The icicles are melting, our snowman sagging, our winter wonderland dissolving into slush. There are sounds in the gardens- the trickle of water, and something else too.
“Is that- is that a bird?”
A little robin sits in the hedgerows. Thorn and I both stare, mouths agape, as if it is the first bird we have ever seen. Then the little creature flaps its wings and sores into the sky, darting about the clouds with a partner.
“They must have come through the holes in the veil,” says Thorn. “It happens every now and again.”
“Birds and sunlight in one day,” I say, with mock shock, “whatever next?”
What's next is snowdrops. Thorn comes to my room one morning, hopping about excitedly, and presents me with a tiny little bouquet of white flowers, wrapped clumsily with a lace ribbon. I barely have time to process the gift before he's seized my hand and pulled me out into the gardens. Most of the snow has gone now. Grass grows in its place.
He points to a patch in the corner of an abandoned flowerbed, where, just three weeks ago, I planted the remnants of my basket.
“Look!” he grins.
Tiny little shoots, delicate white buds, peer through the snow. I know what it feels like to see the first flowers of spring; I can only imagine what this must feel like to him.
“Snowdrops, Rose! Snowdrops! The garden is still alive!”
He has lost count of the years, he explains, since he last saw them.
“What is causing this?” I ask. “Why all this change? Why now?”
“I'm not fully sure,” he says, calming down a little. “I was certain this place was only a year or so away from crumbling completely. And now this...” he looks at me. “It's probably you, you know.”
“Me?”
“The timings match up.”
“I'm not doing anything!”
“'Tis just a theory.”
“A ridiculous one.”
I go back to the castle and hunt for a tiny vase to place my flowers in. I have never been given flowers by anyone who wasn't related to me before, and never tied up with such a pretty ribbon. It must have taken some effort to find one, especially given how excited he was, how much he must have wanted to show me straight away. The way he grabbed my hand...
He has never touched me before, to my recollection, unless it was absolutely necessary. Not unless I touched him first. I can almost still feel the weight of his palm against mine...
I find a small vase in an abandoned chamber and take it back to mine. I unravel the ribbon, snip the ends of the stems to make the blooms last longer, and soak them in water. Then I put the ribbon in my hair.
That night, I ponder what Thorn has said when I reach the end of my book and lose my distraction. Am I the cause of this? I don't see how I can be. And yet...
The more I imagine this place to be beautiful -the more I want to see its beauty- the clearer it becomes. It does not seem quite so dark or empty or still any more. Even the pattern in the dining room appears to be less outlandish now.
But it can't be me. However much I
might wish for it occasionally, there is nothing special about me. Nothing at all.
One night, almost a month after my arrival at the castle, Thorn declares he is not feeling himself, and abandons me curiously early. He rebuffs all offers of assistance, and departs to his own room. I read by the firelight for several hours, but I cannot get comfortable. I have a lavender bath, dress for bed, and pen another letter to Honour. The words do not come easily, but provide the distraction I was hoping for.
Dear Honour,
Our winter here has come to a sudden but beautiful end, and I am now out in the gardens were I belong. They really are quite wonderful. I wish you could see them-
A shadow ripples across the floor. There is something outside my room.
My heart freezes. Thorn? No. It can't be him. He wouldn't lurk outside my door, not at this hour. But...
But there is no one else in the castle.
The thing, whatever it is, moves. It is big, I can tell that much, and there is the soft clink of claws on the marble. I hold my breath.
There it is again.
“Thorn?” I say, almost hopefully.
There is a low, hollow growl from outside. It is not Thorn's.
I swallow. Should I stay where I am? Did it hear me speak? Does it know I'm here? My heart thumps in my ears, capsizing my thoughts. I cannot move.
The creature shuffles on.
I wait until all is silent, then scramble out of bed, lock the door, and pull the dresser in front of it. Then I hurtle back to relative safety, snuff out my light, and hide under the covers, shaking, praying for morning to come.
I wake to the sound of bird song and slither out of bed in a half-daze, my hair sticking up all over the place. I have a faint, foggy memory of a nightmare, something horrible about a monster.
Wrapped in sheets, I pull back the curtains and let daylight spill into my room, illuminating every crevice. Two little bluebirds are sat on the window ledge, twittering away. The gardens are beautifully green, little buds blossoming in the hedgerows. This side of the castle is thick with ivy.
Leaving my window open, I go to dress. It is then that I notice the dresser pulled in front of the door.
It wasn't a dream.
I rush down to breakfast; it is late but Thorn has always waited for me before. There is no one there, and no signs of anyone having eaten recently. Bread and jam is laid out, but I have no appetite for it. I head towards the library, hoping to see him curled in a ridiculous position by the fire having fallen asleep engrossed in a book. The room is deserted.
Finally, knowing I shall never be at ease until I find him, I go to Thorn's room. It is one of precious few I have never been in.
I knock politely on the door.
No answer.
I knock again, louder.
Something stirs inside.
“Thorn? Are you awake? It's almost midday.”
I hear something grumble and moan.
“Thorn?”
The door clicks open. Thorn appears in the gap, undressed and tousled. The room is dark behind him.
“Are you all right?” I ask, instantly forgetting why I was there.
Thorn nods sluggishly. “Forgive me,” he says, his voice somewhat husky, “I did not know what time it was. I did not get the best night's sleep.”
“Are you ill?” I ask. Automatically, my hand goes towards his head; to stroke his hair, or check his temperature, I am not really sure.
He jerks away. “I'm fine, Rose. I shall clean up and be down for lunch.”
“If you're not up to it, I can bring you something-”
“I'm fine.”
The door closes in my face.
He does not seem fine when he meets me in the dining room. Not unwell, just... not himself. He is often the more quiet of the two of us, but there is a stillness to him now.
“Did... did you hear anything last night?” I ask trepidatiously.
“No.”
“Only... only I thought... I was sure...” he is so snappy and sluggish that another thought occurs to me. “Did you... did you get up at all?”
“I went for a walk at one point, to try and help me sleep.” He narrows his eyes, and then they slide open with realisation. “You heard me.”
I nod ashamedly, fearing he can sense my thoughts. I thought you were a monster. You frightened me. “I called out to you,” I try. “But you didn't-”
“I was half-asleep,” he snips.
“If you're sure-”
“Well, who else would it be?”
No one, I realise. It is just me and him.
“Would you... like to join me for a walk?” I offer, trying to sound bright. “The maze is growing. We can probably get lost in it now.”
“If you wish,” he says, making it sound as if that is the worst idea in the world.
We decide to go to the library instead, where we read for a while in angry silence. Every question, every idea I have, is rebuffed.
I ask him if he will be joining me for dinner, a question I have not asked for at least a week. We eat all our meals together now, but Thorn's mood has me questioning what I have taken for granted.
“No, not tonight,” he says abruptly, with no explanation.
“Why not?”
“I am not hungry.”
“It's several hours away!”
I come close to losing my temper when he uses the word, “whatever.”
“Fine!” I say, slamming my book closed. “Go ahead and starve!”
I huff towards the door, fully intending to march out and slam it behind me.
“Rose,” says Thorn quietly, stopping me in my tracks. “I'm sorry, I'm just... I'm not myself today.”
We all have our grumpy days, I reason.
“Is that it?” I ask, turning to face him just a fraction. He nods slowly. “Because... if it were anything else... I should like to know.”
I expect that to be the end of the conversation. I don't really feel like making it up to him. His grumpy day is making me grumpy.
“Why?” he asks.
“Why what?”
“Why should you like to know if something were wrong?”
“Nobody likes to be left in the dark,” I respond quickly. “And besides... if there were something I could do to help... I would want to do it.”
“Would you?” Thorn takes a step closer.
“Yes.”
“Why? Why would you want to help me?”
I open my mouth to tell him, quite angrily, that I am a reasonably nice person and any reasonably nice person wants to help others, but then I stop. I am not like Honour -Honour who would go out of her way to help a complete stranger- I would never help someone without considering, however quickly, the risks and time and effort involved. I am not inclined to go above and beyond. Not for people I don't care for.
I would, for Thorn.
“You are my friend,” I say carefully. “And when you're not being thoroughly miserable, you are quite a good one!”
I still slam the door behind me when I leave, feeling angry and bitter as I run myself a bath and slide under the surface.
I forgive Thorn the same way I do my family; by saying absolutely nothing for a few days and eventually getting over it. It takes him a little while to realise this, however, and he cautiously darts around me for our next few interactions. We do not see that much of each other over the next few days anyway; I have found a new distraction. Now that life has returned to the castle, it is time to resume one of my favourite pastimes: gardening.
I go out bright and early one morning in search of some garden tools, finally finding some in a little store not far from the herb garden, which is to be my first project. They are old and worn, a little rusty, but sturdy enough for my purposes. I spend the first few hours out there in the dawn, pulling up weeds, stripping out the dead plants and overgrowth. I create a huge pile of leaves and bracken. It is hard work, but I have always enjoyed it, and the rewards are reaped over a long period of t
ime.
Thorn finds me there as the clock chimes eleven. “Good morning,” he says, a little carefully. “You missed breakfast.”
I wipe my forehead with the back of my hand, no doubt leaving muddy smears across my face. “I was pre-occupied.” I give him a smile, trying to let him know that I am not angry, not any more.
“As I see. You don't need to... dig in the dirt,” he adds carefully. “The gardens do rather have a way of... sorting themselves.”
As he says that, I swear for a moment I can hear the faint tingling of bells. I turn my head a little to the sound, but he doesn't move. I must have imagined it.
“But I like digging in the dirt.”
“Then... carry on. Do you need a hand?”
“Um... you could break up those twigs for me? Clear any of the rocks and branches...”
I have barely had time to re-plant the rosemary in a sunnier part of the garden before Thorn chirps, "I'm done," and I turn around to see a neat pile of rocks, branches, twigs and leaves.
“That was quick! What did to use to break up the branches with?”
Thorn looks down sheepishly. “My hands.”
“My brother would be very jealous.”
He leans against the wall, half in shade. “I imagine it would be rather the other way around.”
“Freedom has no need for good looks,” I assure him. “His internal hideousness blinds everyone. He'd be much better off with strength. Or sense. Or intelligence.”
“I'm still trying to work out if you actually like your eldest brother.”
“Me too,” I shrug, and then I feel that familiar prick of sadness, a twinge of guilt. I'm still being mean about him, even when I miss him.
There's rustling in the bushes. I look up and see the strangest little creature under the rosemary, sweeping up loose twigs. It has a wrinkled visage, and is covered head to toe in short brown curly hair, wearing miniature mantle and hood.
“Thorn! Look!” I squeak.
The Rose and the Thorn Page 7