The Rose Master

by Valentina Cano

  Oh, for the love of everything good and holy. I walked over and joined him in front of the mirror. My left hand hovered over its surface for an instant, until I finally pressed it into place with a sigh. As soon as my skin brushed the cold surface, a jolt slithered through my fingers, pushing my hand back, off the mirror. I gasped and yanked my hand as far away from the glass as I could get. What in God’s name?

  “Sir, what—”

  Lord Grey’s expression stopped my voice. His eyes narrowed as he stepped away from me. He looked at my palm, his face as cold as the stones beneath us.

  “Interesting,” he said. He looked at the mirror once more, then walked out of the room without another word.

  I glanced down at my palm. The symbols I’d touched were on the surface, their strange angles stitched into my skin.

  Twelve

  That night, when the scratches began again, I felt more anger than fear as I ripped the covers off and stood. Sleep dragged at me, making me feel heavy and thick. All I wanted was to get some rest. Whatever blasted animal was amusing itself by waking decent people at indecent hours had better hope it could run, because if I caught it . . .

  But when I opened the door, the entire corridor was empty. A low laugh brushed by me—a wind of cold tagging me, then moving down the hallway. I covered my eyes with my hands and shook my head. What was going on? The paralyzing cold had returned, making me quiver with spasms of protesting muscles.

  As I lowered my hands, a glow appeared, hovering on my right, where our corridor fused with the extra, empty hallway. I did not even stop to grab a shawl before I set my bare feet to trace after it. I ran.

  The light, a candle from the look of it, moved forward, toward the main hall. I chased it, inhaling the dark smell of wax, but I could not see who was holding the flame. At last, it seemed to pause by the foot of the stairs.

  I wished I hadn’t drawn the curtains, since the moonlight would have unveiled the person in front of me, but the shadows seemed to feed off the candle, crowding around it in hunger. With a sweep, the light rose up the stairs, one step at a time. Why I began to follow is a mystery, but I was powerless to do otherwise. The hand I’d placed on the mirror began to itch with a force I’d never experienced before, making me want to peel back my skin and scratch it from the inside.

  I grasped the banister (it was too dark, and I was too tired to worry about my fingerprints) and placed a foot on the smooth surface of the stairs. The glow bobbed like a cork, seeming to grow brighter the more steps I climbed. My eyes felt huge, full of warm light, and all I wanted was to rest them, just for a second.

  I must have closed them, because the stab of pain that shot up from my newly tattooed palm forced my eyes open. And just in time to see a shadow rush at me, striking me with its full force. It felt as if a sack of ice had been thrown against me. If I hadn’t been fully conscious and gripping the banister, I would have been thrown down those massive stairs. Probably killed.

  As it was, it took all my strength to defy gravity. A shriek tore through the air, rushing past my ears and down the long corridor. My heart would not quiet down; I held my hand over my mouth to keep from screaming.

  I began to hear sounds from the servant’s quarters. Doors opening, voices muffled by the walls. I could pick out Dora’s voice. My legs threatened to give out under me, but I ignored them as I sidestepped down the staircase.

  Once I reached the steady floor, I launched into a sprint through the main hall, down the deserted corridor and into our space.

  Dora and Ms. Simple turned at my steps. They were both blue with cold, their hands clasped inside their sleeves to keep them from shaking. Ms. Simple was standing before my door, which was ripped off its hinges, the wood looking limp and bruised. The housekeeper extended one hand and pointed inside.

  On the floor, torn to countless shreds, was my Bible.

  I must admit, the assault shook me. That Bible had been the only item I had from my father, my only tie to my real family, and now, it lay scattered throughout the room, some pieces looking as if they’d actually been chewed and spat out. Anger replaced fear and took a firm hold of me. I would find out who’d done something so unforgivable. The secrets had gone on long enough.

  I never did get back to bed, not that I could have slept even if I had. Mr. Keery managed to put my door back in place, but it looked rather damaged. I considered switching rooms.

  As I peeled piece after piece of the sacred words off my floor (some so translucent that the words seemed written on the wooden boards themselves), Ms. Simple stepped into my room.

  She appeared to have gathered herself together, smoothing out her bewilderment.

  “The master would like to see you,” she said from the doorway.

  I stood. “Of course. Where is he waiting?”

  “In his private chambers.”

  “Should I go alone, Ms. Simple?” I had never been in such a position before, having to report to my male employer without at least having his manservant in the same room. My stomach knotted.

  “He has asked that you come alone. He won’t harm you.” She smiled gently and looked me over. “But make yourself decent first, child.”

  I realized I was still in my stiff nightdress, the cold now a permanent part of the fabric, and barefoot. Ms. Simple closed the door and I dressed with speed, not bothering to do much more to my hair than submit it to a rough brushing. If Lord Grey could not bother to care about my reputation, I would not bother to pin my hair up.

  Of course, once I made it up the stairs, with no small effort on my body’s part (it bucked at putting itself in danger again), I realized I had no clue which were the master’s chambers. There were at least ten different doors near me, and I could see many corners that could each have revealed ten more, for all I knew.

  I was about to knock on the first door, ready to try them all, when I heard that soft voice, flooded with light, coming from a room at the end of the passage.

  “Anne, my rooms are here.”

  I followed the sound, more than a little annoyed at the familiar tone. Yes, he had saved my life, but did he now think I belonged to him?

  When I reached the room, Lord Grey was holding the door open an inch, his eyes peeking at me in curiosity.

  “Come in.” He allowed the door to swing away. I took a single step inside as he moved to a seat nearby.

  There was an ocean of early sunlight touching every surface in the room, making countless jars and containers ripple. Some were empty, while others were stuffed with leaves and crackling seeds. The smell was cloying—sweet red cinnamon, acrid lemon peels, snapping ginger roots. All blended and stewing together, the roses’ scent hovering over the entirety of it. The antechamber should have been huge, but it was so crammed with books—leaning or standing on each other—and containers that it appeared much smaller.

  “Is it to your liking?” His words yanked me back, my face growing warm as I realized I’d been staring at everything around me. His eyes never left my face, and I raised my own gaze, bit by bit, until it was level with his.

  In the morning light, Lord Grey seemed young—much younger than I’d first estimated. He was only a few years older than I. His features were sharp; his mouth, a still horizon. A handsome, if troubled, face. But the thinness was impossible to veil, even in the robe he wore. I could see his bones sticking up against the cloth. With that cough he had, he could not be well.

  “Would you care to sit?” He pointed to a chair piled with books. “I could move them.”

  “No, sir, it’s quite all right.”

  His lip curled. “Not one for sitting, are you, Anne?”

  I squeezed out a smile.

  “Never mind. I heard about what happened during the night, the business with the Bible and all that. Most unfortunate.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I trust you were not injured?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Is there anything you’d like to ask me?”

  What th
e bloody hell did he want me to say? “No, sir.”

  “I’m sure being almost drowned, attacked on the stairs, and finding your book torn to shreds would pose some questions.”

  I felt a pressure against me, almost as if someone were resting a cloak on me—one made from threads of ice. Lord Grey rose and walked toward me. The pressure slinked off.

  “Well?”

  “Sir, how did you know I was attacked on the stairs? I did not share that with anyone.”

  He ignored my words, turning from me and toward one of the windows. “Anne, are you religious?”

  I pressed a hand to my forehead. The riddles were getting to be a nuisance.

  “No, sir.”

  “What about the Bible?”

  “It was a gift from my father, sir.”

  “Are you baptized?”

  “Yes, sir. My father insisted.”

  “But you are not a practicing Christian or Catholic.”

  “Practicing? No, sir. I’ve attended services for years while in Lady Caldwell’s service, but I would not call myself a devout attendee.”

  He could have sacked me for that, but since I’d seen no evidence the household ever attended church, I risked it.

  “Good. That will be all for now, Anne. Return after lunch. I rather think these rooms are in need of some dusting.”

  “Of course, sir.” I curtsied to his back and stepped out of the room. Was everyone in the manor out of their minds?

  thirteen

  When I returned to Lord Grey’s rooms in the early afternoon (after much sighing from Ms. Simple and glinting sidelong glances from Dora), the door was wide open and the master was dressed. All in black, he looked like a languishing crow.

  “You can begin there.” He pointed to a corner that had been swallowed by a pile of books. Gravity seemed non-existent as small tomes suspended gigantic ones on their quaking covers. My hands hovered over them.

  “Sir, excuse me, but where can I move these books to?”

  “Here, hand them to me. I’ll find homes for them.” He came to stand behind me, his frame casting a thin, long shadow on the wall.

  Lifting the first dark book, I saw the cover simmering with strange symbols. I handed it to Lord Grey, who moved about the room on silent feet, a ripple of energy as he peeked into stuffed bookcases and gasping side tables, only pausing when a coughing spell overtook him. One by one, he found new places for the entire tower of books.

  I began dusting. I could feel Lord Grey’s eyes on me, a stare that ruffled my hair and set my teeth grinding. I’d never appreciated being watched.

  I knelt to wipe under a squat bookcase and saw a blink of shine. Stretching out a hand, I gripped an object—a thick crystal, darkly colored on one side, as if smoke had seeped in.

  “Sir?” I turned, cradling the object.

  “Oh, good.”

  I handed it to him and bent to grab my duster.

  “What did you do to it?” Lord Grey asked.

  “Sir, I just picked it up. I did nothing to it.”

  Wonderful, I’d gone and broken it somehow. “Is it broken, sir?”

  He kept staring at the cylinder of light, then at me. “Come here, Anne.”

  Bugger. “Yes, sir.” He stretched out a hand and pulled a stone the color of moldy cheese from a nearby table.

  “Hold this.”

  “Sir, I’d rather not. I’m afraid I’ll break it.”

  “Just do it.”

  I opened my palm and he placed the stone inside. There was a sudden burning, like a drop of hot candle-wax, before the stone grew cold, the heat disappearing. The master took it back and breathed in sharply.

  “Let me see your palm,” he whispered.

  I raised my hand.

  “No, the other one.” He pointed at my left hand, the one that had lain against the mirror the night before. Lord Grey’s shining eyes traveled to my palm, where the dim outline of symbols could still be seen. He passed a hand through his hair.

  “That’s enough, Anne. Please leave.”

  “Of . . . of course, sir.”

  I left the room, my hand still held before me.

  Dora was on the stairs waiting for me. I could see her tendrils of hair snaking around the banister as she moved.

  “So, what did he want?”

  I could not read her face, it was locked tight against me.

  “A little tidying up.” I attempted to pass by her, but she stepped in front of me, her eyes on my face.

  “That’s all? And why now, why you, after all these years?”

  I shrugged. “You would have to ask Lord Grey.”

  Dora laughed. “Right.” She slinked down the stairs like a bored cat, while I followed with my hand locked on the banister.

  “Anne, listen. If I were you, I would not get too chummy with his highness up there,” she said.

  “For goodness’ sake, Dora. I just cleaned his room, I’m not scheming to steal him away from you.”

  “From me? What could I bloody want with that stick?”

  “I don’t know. But you’re acting strange.”

  “I’m telling you, it’d be wise to keep a wide berth from that man.”

  I sighed. “I’m getting tired of the hidden nonsense this household is keeping. What is going on? Is it some twisted idea of a test? An initiation into the manor?” My voice had swollen into a shout that bounced against the walls. I quieted down.

  “Dora, I’m exhausted. My body aches with the constant cold, and nothing has made sense since I stepped foot in this house.”

  “I can’t tell you anything, Anne. I’m not free to discuss it. None of us are.”

  My eyes narrowed. “So there is something to discuss?”

  “Stay away from Lord Grey.” Her cheeks had reddened in competition with her hair.

  “Wonderful. I’m supposed to tell the master of the house to ‘shove off’ if he asks for me. Good advice.” I passed by her, unwilling to continue a pointless conversation.

  I went to my room, but the walls felt tight around me, as if they were leaning in, too tired to stand up straight. I jumped off the chair where I’d been resting and raced down the corridor toward the front door. No one stopped me.

  The day was soaking with clouds that veiled the weak sun—a day for staying inside—but I would have rather been anywhere, even in the biting air, than inside the trap that was the manor.

  Where could I go? Not to the fountain, and not around the other side unless I wanted to bleed to death, punctured by the black trees. I circled around, making loops before deciding to visit the stables. At the very least, I could greet my fellow travelers.

  The large door opened with ease and no sound, and the musky odor, warm with sweat and cloying manure, pulled me in. The first two stalls were occupied by the horse duo I’d had the pleasure of meeting. They looked cozy in their mangers, their hooves pawing, noses snorting.

  The next stall contained a table and chair, both made from wood that was rough and unwaxed. The bed in the corner was even cruder, with only a horse blanket the color of a mouse’s pelt to cover the sleeper. Why would Mr. Keery choose to spend his nights in a barn stall rather than in a real room?

  I looked around for him. As I stepped away from the gurgling horses, I began to hear a muted voice drifting from the last stalls, the ones cloaked in darkness. For some reason, my insides knotted at the sound. Despite the cold, sweat broke out on my forehead and my heart sped up in my chest. I didn’t want to go further into the darkness, but I had to know what was hiding in those stalls. The voice got louder and louder as I moved down the dirt footpath, until I rounded the corner and swung the light door inward. It was Mr. Keery, talking in his sleep.

  He was sitting on the floor, flanked by straw on every side, and leaning his head against the wall behind him. His hands grabbed at his clothes, pulling, and, as I watched, a contortion of muscles shook his wrinkled skin. He cried out in his sleep.

  I wasn’t sure I should wake him when he was dreami
ng that deeply, but I didn’t want him to linger in whatever personal hell he was suffering through. I stepped close and hay snapped beneath my feet. He didn’t notice. I placed a shaking hand on his arm and shook him with as much care as I could.

  “Mr. Keery. Mr. Keery, wake up.”

  He moved, but did not open his eyes. A burnt odor breathed out of him. My skin rippled in something it understood, recognized, but that I refused to acknowledge.

  “Mr. Keery.”

  His eyes flew open, but they were not the ones I was used to; these were deeper, darker. He gave me a smile that revealed all his poor teeth, while his breath came faster, as if he’d been running.

  I gasped and leapt backward.

  “Miss, are you all right?” Mr. Keery’s voice sounded drunk with sleep, but normal. His eyes had returned to their tired blue.

  “Oh, I’m fine. I thought I heard something. Sorry to bother you.”

  Before he got the opportunity to say anything, I rose and left the stables.

  All right, one more odd occurrence, and one more place I did not want to visit again.

  Even in the open air, I began to feel choked; I gave up on my afternoon walk and returned to the manor.

  “Ms. Simple,” I called as I heard her moving in the dining room.

  “Yes, Anne?” She stopped wiping the furniture.

  “I’m concerned about Mr. Keery.”

  “What about him?”

  I sighed, rubbing my forehead in frustration. “He’s not looking well. Have you not noticed? Has no one noticed? Just now, I saw him in the stables, talking in his sleep.”

  She was watching me from across the large table. I caught her hands pecking at each other, pinching her fingers’ edges, but she stopped when she saw my eyes following them. With a sigh, she motioned for me to follow her.

  What now? Would I finally get some answers?

  fourteen

  Ms. Simple led me to her room, which was a wider version of my own and even boasted the luxury of a bookshelf. It was stark, however, the walls covered in beige paper, with the only adornment hanging over the bed—a plain crucifix swinging over her pillow.