“I think it's time for a dance now,” I say, going over to the music box. A jaunty tune immediately springs to life.
“A dance?” Thorn sounds fearful. “Are you sure? I can't really...” he looks down at his feet awkwardly, the long, padded paws.
“You were graceful enough on the ice,” I say.
“Yes, but...” his voice trails off.
“Suit yourself.”
I dance anyway. It has been a long time since I last danced. Not since the Winter Ball at the mayor's house, where I awkwardly danced one song with James Saintclair after I impulsively kissed him. Perhaps I should feel awkward now, dancing on my own, but I do not.
All of a sudden, there is a presence besides me. I open my eyes, and Thorn is there.
“Changed your mind?”
He nods.
“Good.”
I grab him by the hands and charge down the room with him. He is taken aback at first, but he quickly gets into it. He is much more co-ordinated than his awkwardness might have implied. He is almost as sure-footed here as he was on the ice, and we speed up, going faster and faster, spinning around, the two of us almost out of breath by the end of the song.
“There,” I say, trying hard not to pant, “that wasn't too bad, was it?”
He shakes his head. “No.”
“Were you afraid you'd step on my feet?”
“A little,” he admits. “I... I've never danced with someone before.”
“What, never?” I spurt, before I can help myself.
“No.”
I am the first person he has ever danced with. I feel overwhelmingly sad and a little bit privileged as well, to have shared this with him. Something in my face leads to an awkward silence, and then he says, “So, presents?”
“Presents,” I smile.
“Close your eyes.”
I do. I hear Thorn rustling about in his pocket. Gently, his hand brushes mine, opens it. Something small and cool drips into my outstretched palm, the size and weight of a pebble. I open my eyes. It is a round, amber pendant on a golden chain, with the smallest, tiniest rosebud preserved in the centre. I have seen perfect pearls, polished diamonds, gleaming jewels before. They all pale compared to the value of this gift.
“Do you like it?” asks Thorn, his eyes as gleaming as the necklace itself.
“Yes,” I say. My voice is very faint. “It's beautiful. It's perfect.”
“Then it suits you,” he says.
I brush my hair over my shoulder and gesture for him to fasten it around my neck. His fingers skim my skin, graze it gingerly. “I- I can't...”
His face is as taut as his voice. I turn my hands to the back of my neck and do it myself, and then take his hands before they can drop away. I hold them, not willing to let them slip from mine. I know he is ashamed. However stupidly, however needlessly, he is embarrassed that he cannot do a simple thing like attach a necklace. I worry about my gift; is it long enough?
The pendant rests coolly on my bosom.
“Where did you find I?” I ask.
“I, er, made it. With a little help.”
“Thank you'"
I do not know why I am so moved. Is it because of the time and effort he must take taken to craft it? Is it because it is simply so beautiful, and so clearly a thing I wanted, even when I didn't know it? Is it merely the swell of sympathy I feel for him?
Perhaps I am a little moved by how well it matches my gift.
I pull a little black pouch out of my pocket and pry open the string, dropping the gift into his hands as he did to me.
His eyes light up.
It is a polished piece of rosewood, on a leather string, fashioned in the shape of a thorn. It took me several attempts to get in just right, several mishaps, and a lot of whittling and sanding, all of which is worth it to see the look on his face.
“Rose, this is... this is lovely, thank you. Thank you so much.”
I take the pendant and loop it over his chest. It rests against his heart, a perfect fit. I hold mine up to his.
“We match,” I say teasingly.
A smile pours out of him. It is a real, genuine, true smile, and it suits him beautifully. He does not often smile, and if he does, not for long. Like he becomes self-conscious halfway through, and decides not to show me that part of him. Tonight, there is none of that. He is only and completely him.
Somewhere, in the distance, a wolf howls.
“What was that?” whispers Thorn, stepping back.
“A wolf, I think.”
“A wolf,” Thorn sighs. “It has been years since I have heard one.”
“They were common enough back home,” I say sadly. “I have always had a strange affinity for them.”
“You like wolves?”
“They sound so beautiful when they howl,” I reply. “Sad, impossibly lonely, but beautiful too.”
“I have never liked wolves particularly,” Thorn says. “And you wouldn't either, if you'd ever fought with one. I wonder why they've returned.”
The clock chimes seven. Thorn jolts. “It's getting late,” he says quickly. “We should head to bed.”
“To bed?” It's barely evening, as far as I'm concerned. We haven't even had a proper dinner, only picked at the remains of our birthday lunch. How many nights have we stayed up until midnight, reading in blissful silence?
“I'm... I'm tired,” he says, sounding anything but. “I wouldn't want to...”
“To what?”
“Nothing.”
“Haven't you... did you not enjoy yourself?”
Thorn stills for the first time since the clock chimed. “Today has been... one of the very best days,” he says calmly. “I think we should leave it like that.”
“But-”
“You should stay in your room tonight.”
“I doubt that the wolves are going to come into the castle.”
“I mean it,” he sounds fearful. “It's better... safe than sorry. Stay inside.”
“All right,” I say, slightly concerned. “I wasn't going to wander out anyway.”
The festivities have reached an abrupt halt. I don't feel like continuing the party, and Thorn is clearly spooked. I wonder if the wolves here are like the wolves back home, if there is something worse about them. I can't imagine Thorn being scared of much. He offers more cake, as if to lighten the mood, but I refuse. I have no appetite.
He insists on walking me back to my room. We say a brief goodbye and then he hurries off.
I had planned to have nice bath, unwind with a book, maybe put my hair up in rags. None of this appeals to me any more. I hover in front of the fireplace, staring somewhere between the flames and mirror. For a second, I think I see something, a sharp flash of darkness in the glass. But the second I turn around, there is nothing. Only shadow lies behind me.
“Happy birthday, Rose,” I tell my reflection.
The sound of a low, throaty growl tears me from my reverie. I run to the window. Three grey shapes are moving in the trees. Wolves. What are they growling at?
It is still just light. I press myself against the glass, trying to expand my line of sight. There is something else there, too.
Thorn.
Thorn on all fours, staying perfectly still, trying, I think, to look like the fiercer predator. It should work. He is far larger than any of them. He has horns, fangs- claws too. He should be able to frighten them off.
He should.
I do not know what sets them off. I do not know if they notice his clothes, or sense something wanting in his growl, something human and vulnerable. Perhaps it is none of these things. Perhaps they reason that there are more of them, and he is a threat, and they are better off taking him down.
I do not know how wolves think.
All I know is that when the first one launches at Thorn, the rest follow, and when one of them sinks its teeth into his back, I begin to run.
Chapter Ten: Wolves
It would be foolish to rush out into the ope
n, utterly defenceless, so I rush into the armoury first and grab a crossbow from the wall. It has been years since I have practised with moving targets; will it be any good against claw and fang?
I'm still attaching the quiver to my hip as I dash into the gardens. It is not hard to find them; I just follow the sounds of growling and snapping. One of the wolves is already downed by the time I reach them, but the other two are still circling around Thorn, and the forest behind them is moving. More are coming.
I load my first bolt, pull myself up on a nearby statue, and fire. It hits the ground beside the second wolf, but it does not seem to notice.
Thorn does.
I load another arrow, but he shakes his head wildly.
I fire again.
The second shot hits one of the wolves in the shoulder, but it is only a graze. The arrow strikes the floor. Now the wolves take notice. Instantly, both pairs of eyes are on me. I scramble frantically at the statue, trying to pull myself into its arms, but I have never been the best of climbers. I do not gain an inch above the pedestal, and the wolves scramble at my heels.
There is a terrific roar and Thorn's hand comes tearing out of nowhere. No, not a hand, not today. A paw, with fully-extended claws that sink into the wolf's back and drag it along the ground.
“Run!” he bellows.
I leap from the statue and stream back towards the castle, but slow when I realise that Thorn is not following. He is on the ground, wrestling with the two of them, a mass of fur and fang.
“Thorn!”
“Get to the castle!”
“But-”
He tears one of the wolves from his back and sends it flying into the statue where I stood, seconds ago. Dust and stone explode into the air. He grabs the other by the back of its throat and pins it against the ground. Its back legs flail wildly.
“I can handle a few wolves! Lock the door and don't come out-”
“And leave you here with them?”
“I'll be fine!” His words are less like words now, more like sounds. He stops for a minute, shuddering. Is he injured? Badly? The light is growing dim. It is difficult to tell.
More wolves howl in the distance.
“Go, Rose!”
I do not want to go. I do want to go. I want to flee for safety and I do not want to fight, but I also do not want to leave him here to face those monsters alone.
I mount another arrow and fire it at the one emerging from its slump at the bottom of the statue. This time, it hits its mark.
“Rose!” Thorn screams. “Leave!”
This time, the roar is directed at me. When he looks at me, he doesn't look like Thorn any more. His face is contorted, his fangs bared.
The rest of the wolves are nearly upon us, and I am shaking.
“Go,” he hisses, and then charges towards them.
Somehow, I find the strength to move. I break back to castle, his howls and the wolves' howls meshed together in a discordant cacophony that invades my very flesh. My ears scream, the breath inside me spiking against my heart. But I do not stop. I reach the castle doors, slam the doors shut behind me, and fly up the stairs.
Halfway up, I stop. An awful, monstrous, screeching howl penetrates the very stone. That was not a wolf. That was something else. And Thorn is still out there.
I swallow, lowering myself down, my crossbow raised. Any minute now, he'll be coming. I'll cover him when he does.
He doesn't.
Night invades the room, moonlight spilling across the marble. The beams cut themselves on the jagged fragments of glass. No Thorn comes. It grows colder.
The wolves continue to howl, but eventually, the wailing gets quieter. Are there fewer of them, or are they further away? Is Thorn trying to lead them away from the castle?
Is he trying to protect me? Did I make things worse by going to his rescue?
His rescue. What was he even doing out there in the first place?
A chill I have not felt in many weeks pervades the air. I light a candle, but it emits little warmth. The shadows crawl closer as I watch the wax slowly dribble into a stub.
Still no Thorn.
I cannot possibly sleep with him still out there, surely. But then it occurs to me he told me to lock the door. He will not be coming back here. He has probably shut himself in one of the many outbuildings. I cannot hear anything any more. That must mean that it is over.
I do not want to go upstairs. I want to go out and find him, but I know that that is a foolish idea. I will not help anyone by putting myself in danger.
Finally, I return to my room, undressing slowly, carefully, still hoping that at any moment, I will hear him entering the foyer and have to dash out again. My hopes are met only with silence, and soon all of my clothes lie in a pile on the floor. I fold them away and sit by the very faint embers of the fire.
“Is any one there?” I call out, hoping to see the faint little sparks again, the ones that scolded me for eavesdropping. I want them here now, even if they hiss at me for leaving him.
You did the right thing, says a voice.
Sure, for yourself, says another.
I am such a nasty, horrible person. I can't believe I left him there. He was hurt, too, of that I was sure-
The thought gives away to several tears, which swiftly turn into choking sobs, and I fall asleep on the rug, praying for home, hoping against hope that he is all right.
I wake painfully early, pale, bluish light trickling through the curtains, with a heart as heavy as lead. I grab my dressing-gown and head, wishfully, straight to Thorn's room.
“Thorn?” I knock loudly.
When all I am met with is stony silence, I open the handle and peer into the room.
No one is there. Not a hint of Thorn, not a whisper of anything living at all. His bed bedside the hearth lies cold and untouched. The stillness is grave-like.
I go back to my room, pull on my boots and coat, and head into the gardens, taking my crossbow with me just in case. A cold fog lingers over the lawns, envelopes the trees. My voice echoes, bouncing back against the endless, white landscape.
I find a few dead wolves and a path spotted with blood, but it is impossible to tell who or what it belongs to. I feel no sympathy for the creatures now, no kinship with these things, though they look far more peaceful than they did last night.
He took down a number of them, which is promising. And he is surely too large to be dragged away if...
A shadow runs across my path.
“Thorn!” I call out desperately. “Where are you?”
I do not know how long I call for. I search the stables, the coach house, the graveyard, the ruined chapel, the boathouse. All the outbuildings I know of. All the places that could offer shelter. There is no sign of Thorn, but I continue searching until my voice is hoarse.
He can take care of himself, I reason, at the same time that my heart thumps wildly in my chest. Be all right, be all right.
All that is left is the woodlands, but I am acutely aware that that is where the wolves are likely hiding, too, and the fog is getting thicker. I will not be able to search much longer.
My hands clench around my crossbow. I summon my courage and head for the trees, calling out as loudly as I dare. A few rabbits scuttle about the undergrowth, a couple of squirrels. No voice reaches me, and the fog is growing denser.
“Thorn?” I whisper.
I hear something else. A muffled, tiny whimper. Inhuman, but plaintive. Pitiful. It cannot be Thorn, surely? It sounds like a dog. On a whim, I whistle.
The whimper gets a little louder, turns into a bark.
I follow the noise to a wilder part of the woods. It is so overgrown it is virtually inhabitable, unexplored thus far. As a grow closer, I see something moving in a patch of brambles. I drop down. A pair of large, yellowy eyes stare back at me.
“Oh dear,” I say softly, “We've gotten ourselves in a right pickle, haven't we?”
It is a young dog, more a puppy really, long-haired, and cover
ed in mud. Its front paw is thoroughly tangled in the brambles. As I reach to pet it, it growls at me.
“None of that,” I warn. “I'm trying to help you.”
It makes a feeble snap, but I catch it's muzzle with one hand, trying to soothe with the other. I pat its head, rub its ear.
“I'm not going to hurt you...”
The creature continues to snap, and I realise that it is looking at my crossbow.
“This?” I gesture towards it. “This isn't for you.”
It does not seem to believe me, but I unbuckle it and slide it out of view. It is a little more at ease as I try to free it. The brambles are still tangled in the poor thing's paw, but I need better light and a probably a pair of tweezers to fix it. I can't help it here. Instead, I take off my coat and wrap it up. It struggles for a bit, but them simply shakes in my arms. It is quite heavy, and the walk back takes longer than ever. I cannot help Thorn right now, but I can help this little thing.
The fire is already going when I get back to my room, the bath already running. I lower the dog into shallow waters. It trembles as I wash away the dirt to try and see what I am dealing with.
Mud free, I gather him in a towel and place him on the hearth. He is shaking less now, in the warmth, as I dry him off. Finally, I get to the injured paw. He struggles as I pry the brambles away from his flesh, and I have to pin him down in order to do it safely. A couple of them are deep, and the floor is dotted with blood.
Eventually, the task is over. I leave him licking his wound by the fire whilst I hunt for food. When I return, he's hiding under my bed. I coax him out with a meaty bone and lure him back to to the fireside, where he sits contently, gnawing. He is much happier now, but still jerks and growls when I try to stroke him. He is a grey, brownish colour, quite scrawny and pathetic-looking. Where did he come from?
The clock chimes two. Thorn has been missing all day. Where has he gone?
“I don't suppose you saw anyone today, did you little one?” I ask my new pet.
The Rose and the Thorn Page 10