A Rose in Winter

by Shana Abe

  She pretended the matter was insignificant, though she felt the heat in her face from her own sense of confusion.

  She sat with them awkwardly, having been given a golden needle and an edge of the tapestry to mend, and listened to the silence that had settled around her. They had been talking before she arrived, she knew. What were those sly looks they exchanged now? Were they laughing at her, at the less than neat stitches she at­tempted? Or worse, far worse, were they laughing at something else about her, her history, her shame? Did they know about her scars?

  She bent over the needle and pretended not to no­tice until she thought she had stayed long enough to escape without rudeness. And although she searched the faces of each of them—a Mildred, a Stephanie, a Jenafer, Gwendolyn, Jacqueline and Julianna, who were sisters, even a Main—she still couldn't read the depth of truth around her. It was more than discon­certing, it was frightening.

  Still, she smiled and bade them well as she left, and they echoed it back to her with identical inflections, inviting her to come again if she wished.

  She did not wish. Not until she had some measure of calm infusing her, or until she was able to under­stand better the people now around her. For although the castle itself was a balm to her, the folk that lived in it had, so far, treated her with varying degrees of re­spect and distance. It was a watchful situation, but that was not new to her. After all, she had spent a good many years of her life learning to ignore prying eyes and finding ways to make herself invisible to them.

  The secret passages at Du Clar, for example, had been a discovery almost too good to be true. She had stumbled upon the first one not quite by accident, for she spent much of her time in the chamber they called hers, and had many a long hour to study the pattern of carved vines in the woodwork by the fireplace, to trace the dark corners with her fingers, pushing, pulling. She was someone who still believed in fairies and miracles; it had only been a matter of time before she managed the right combination of flowers and vines that un­locked the old hinges leading to her eventual freedom.

  In any case, it had literally opened up a whole new world to her. During her stay at Du Clar, they had al­lowed her rides through the woods, allowed her to ex­ercise her mounts with a closely monitored gallop in a group of people. It had been her only treat, the daily rides in the fresh air, but it was never freedom. She was never more than a few paces from any of her guards.

  Nevertheless, she had used every occasion to im­prove herself: practicing her riding skills, testing her memory of the forest paths. She had no plans to stay forever. She was just waiting for the right opportunity to come to her.

  Eventually it did. After she found the passageways she became a nocturnal creature, going out at night via the hollow walls of the keep, all clogged with cobwebs and dust. The only footprints she ever saw back there were her own, but she was always cautious.

  At night, with the retainers and the serfs and those hated women fast asleep, she would leave Du Clar, wending her way through the woods on foot, memo­rizing paths and markers for her final run. It was a slow process, and she was determined not to make a mistake that might lead to failure.

  The woods offered her another gift, humble and scorned by farmers and shepherds: a ragged clump of common henbane. The sticky, toothy leaves would act as a sedative if she used them sparingly. How often had she seen Damon take it to his patients, sometimes brewing it, sometimes having it smoked to relieve pain? Solange had gathered a handful of the leaves, then another, uncertain of how much it would take to douse the entire population of the keep. Three nights before she planned to flee she chopped the leaves into very fine pieces, crept into the buttery, and emptied all of it into the large barrels of mulled wine served nightly. The spiced flavor of the alcohol was strong enough to cover the faintly bitter taste of the henbane, and the tiny broken leaves would appear to be just an­other herb to the uncaring eye. It might just give her an added advantage when she fled.

  And so it had. No one had awakened to hail her as she left with Damon. No soldiers followed them that night certainly, though that had proved not to last.

  She had to take a sudden gamble that Damon him­self would not partake of too much of the drugged wine with his dinner, but could hardly have ordered it not to be sent to his rooms without arousing suspicion. It was fortunate that his drinking habits had not changed over the years. . . .

  "My lady? My lady, have you seen enough?"

  Godwin was facing her, solicitously patting her hand to gain her attention. "Have you seen enough of the storeroom yet? We can go on."

  They were standing in a cold stone room hung with slabs of meats and strings of sausages. Braids of peppers, garlics, onions, and other dried plants crept in rows down the walls.

  "Yes. I have seen enough."

  But as they were walking out to the bailey, a soldier intercepted them, saying that the steward was needed down in the soldiers' quarters to settle a fight between a local tavern keeper and a soldier accused of not pay­ing for his drink, and that it was looking "a mite ugly" when he had left to fetch him. Godwin excused himself with all evidence of sincere regret, adding that he hoped to finish their tour sometime in the next millennium.

  Damon was gone for the day, out in the village visiting the field workers, he had said, to find out first­hand about the harvest. Solange wandered about aim­lessly, examining some of the rooms she knew already, avoiding those with people in them. The second time she passed the darkened archway set far back from the main hall, she paused to peer inside curiously, but she could see nothing but a spiral of stairs fading up into the darkness.

  The young maid whom Solange cornered to ask about it shook her head fearfully, declaring, "Oh, no, my lady, you don't want to go up there!"

  "Why not?" Solange asked, thinking perhaps the floor was rotted or the roof was missing.

  The maid looked around, then lowered her voice dramatically. "Because, mistress, up theres be haunted!"

  "Really?" That certainly sounded interesting. "Haunted by what?"

  "Nasty ghosts, mistress, gibbering things what cry at night, or else laugh like the madness, and shift things around!"

  "Is it locked?"

  "I dunno, milady. I nevers been up there to see. No one goes up there, milady, not even his lordship."

  "I see. Thank you."

  The maid bobbed a quick curtsy and hurried off, late to whatever duties she performed. Solange walked back to her room to fetch a candle, a beautiful beeswax candle, she saw, not the smoky, smelly tallow ones she had been given at Du Clar.

  She wondered, on her way up the darkened, lonely stairs, if Damon kept bees.

  There was a door at the top of the stairs, and it was not locked, although if anyone had been past it in years, she would have been surprised. The hinges protested loudly at their use, and Solange opened it only enough to steal through the crack, leading with the arm that held the candle, then wedging her body past the ancient wooden frame. Although the candle flame flickered and dipped, it did not die.

  She was in another storeroom, but not one built for food. In fact, she suspected it had not been intended for storage at all, but rather as a sitting room of sorts. She was at the top of one of the towers. High above was the inverted cone of the ceiling, lanced with black­ened oak beams. Strange that the room would be so neglected; she wouldn't have thought Damon a man to let a few ghosts stop him from anything.

  Battered trunks lay at every angle across the bare floor, three-legged chairs tipped drunkenly aside, chipped tables bore the weight of moth-eaten rolled rugs and tapestries, broken crockery, what might have even been petrified remnants of food. Set deep into the wall was a narrow window of grimy glass that allowed in enough sunlight to cast an eerie brownish glow upon everything.

  "It looks likely enough for a haunting," she said un­der her breath. She walked forward carefully, picking her way around the broken furniture, inspecting a clay pot here, a faded sash there.

  There was a noise beh
ind her, a tiny scratching sound. She whirled, raising the candle high, but saw nothing, not even a mouse. However, right beside her was one of the dusty trunks filling the room.

  This one looked no different from the rest, with dark, stained leather over wood that had seen better years before time and a menagerie of rodents had got­ten to it. But it had no lock upon it, and the thick, stiff leather straps securing it had been unbuckled.

  She knelt, wedging the candle upright in the narrow neck of a cracked vase. The lid was heavy, much heavier than it looked, so that when she managed to push it open all the way it fell back abruptly, releasing a cloud smelling of musty, dry lavender which made her sneeze and cough.

  She waved a hand in front of her face to clear the air, blinking down at the contents of the trunk.

  First, of course, she saw the dried purple flowers on their spindled stems, laid daintily across the folded cloth as if the owner might return at any moment to refresh her wardrobe. Solange removed them delicately and placed them to the side.

  The bliaut on top was of finely spun wool dyed a rich royal blue, with tiny, perfect embroidered flowers of white around the neck and sleeves. Beneath that was the undertunic, thin wool bleached to pristine white. After that, more dried lavender, and after that, a black bliaut with silver stitching, a silver wolf on the shoul­der, similar to the one Damon had worn for the wed­ding, but without the moon. A black undertunic to go with that, then a rose bliaut, a mauve undertunic, an emerald bliaut, a teal undertunic . . .

  Each piece she lifted out held on to the faded laven­der scent, rustling with clean folds as she shifted them to the inside of the lid, where there was no dust. At the bottom of the trunk she found what she had been searching for without knowing she had been searching.

  It was a miniature, exquisitely done, of a black-haired woman with laughing dark eyes, and even though it was a tiny painting that fit into the palm of her hand, Solange had no trouble recognizing the subject.

  It wasn't so much that her son resembled her, al­though he did to a great degree. But her recognition was based more on the fact that she had seen this woman not so long ago, and in the flesh.

  Or she had thought it to be flesh at the time. And the woman's eyes had been laughing then too, not un­kindly, as she presented Solange with the gown of white, and the other woman had been smiling as well, the pale-skinned beauty who spoke to her in French. She had not remarked upon it then. It had seemed the most natural thing in the world to respond to their warmth in the blurred mixture of languages that they had all understood.

  The most natural thing in the world.

  With sudden insight she recalled the voices that had comforted her after Damon discovered her scars, re­membered the familiar cadence of them from long ago, in fact, so long ago she had almost forgotten. . . .

  The solitude of her sickness had driven her further into the fever that had taken her at Wellburn, further from the nightmare that had been her reality then and into the soothing darkness of someplace she had no name for. It had been apart from anything she had known, and yes, Damon had been there, too, talking to her, guiding her, but now she remembered these other voices, feminine reassurance in that darkness. The French and the English had been mingled then too, but not confusing. Just loving. Just the solid consolation of a sort of love that she had never known in her life, but that was not unfamiliar to her, nevertheless. It had been instinctive, maternal. . . .

  Jazel had died long ago, but it seemed she had never truly left her daughter after all. No wonder none of the women at Wolfhaven had known of the two mysteri­ous women with the gown. Perhaps no one but she believed in ghosts.

  Solange lifted a branch of the lavender and inhaled it, catching a hint of summer warmth again. She stared down at the portrait.

  "Solange! Solange, are you up there?"

  The voice was muted, as if it traveled over a long distance, but the worry it carried was distinct. Before she could answer she heard the footsteps running up the stairs and so decided to stay where she was and wait for Damon to come in.

  "Here I am," she called when she heard him reach the top.

  "Solange? Good God, what are you doing in here? We've been searching for you! Why didn't you answer our calls?"

  "I didn't hear you," she replied. "I didn't mean to worry anyone. I didn't think I had been up here that long. I thought you were to be gone for the day?"

  Instead of answering her, he shouted down the stairs. "I've found her, she's fine!"

  Damon pushed the door open as wide as it would go before a stack of trunks behind it stopped him. It was enough to let him squeeze through the opening.

  He looked upset. Seriously upset. She put the laven­der down. "Are you well, Damon?"

  "Am I well? I have just spent three of the most har­rowing hours of my life imagining all sorts of grim end­ings for you! You were lost outside, you were drowned in the ocean, you had fallen from the turret—"

  "Really, my lord, I would never be so clumsy as to fall from a turret. I have had a plethora of experience in climbing them, if you will recall."

  "I did recall! Why the hell do you think I thought of it in the first place?"

  She stood. "As you may see, there is no cause for alarm. I have not fallen, or drowned, or been lost at all, except lost in my own thoughts up here."

  He enveloped her in a fierce hug, cutting off her breath and lifting her feet off the floor. "Do not leave again without giving someone word of where you are headed, Solange."

  "But I only—"

  "Unless you wish for me to die young from acute distress."

  "Of course not! I just—" "Promise me."

  He kissed her cheek. His breath warmed her ear, making her smile in spite of herself. "Very well, Da­mon. I promise."

  "Thank you." He released her and took a look around the room. "Now, be so good as to tell me how you managed to pick the lock to this place. None of our attempts have met with success."

  "Pick the lock? I didn't. The door was unlocked."

  His gaze was sharp. "Impossible."

  "I assure you, it is very possible, since it is true."

  "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to imply otherwise. But there is no key to be found for this door anywhere. It has remained shut up tight since before I took over the estate. Some of the serfs even swear it's haunted up here." He gave a short laugh. "Which is why, I sup­pose, I've left it alone for so long. I'd been planning on knocking out the door sooner or later."

  Solange went back to the trunk she had been going through and knelt again. "I'm glad there's no need for that. Come look what I have found."

  She showed him the miniature. He studied it in si­lence, then knelt beside her and handed it back. "Where did you find it?"

  "Here, underneath these clothes. Damon, this was her trunk! These were your mother's things, I'm sure of it."

  Once she said the words, she felt better immedi­ately, as if by voicing her thoughts aloud they had come true. She picked up the black bliaut, wanting to show him the wolf embroidered on the shoulder, but he had seen the twigs of lavender and raised one to his nose.

  "I remember this," Damon said slowly. "I remem­ber this smell."

  "Yes," said Solange. "I remember it too."

  "No, I mean from long ago. From before I came to Ironstag."

  "Ah, well," she said, "I have discovered it much more recently than that."

  "She loved lavender. She always did." He seemed far away, twirling the little stick of dried flowers be­tween his two fingers. Solange sat by quietly, giving him time to capture the memory. His profile was handsomely intent, a purely masculine version of the painted lady's features. She loved them both, mother and son, and the ache in her heart now was bitter­sweet. At least he has this, she thought, at least there is this small thing for him. For us, she amended, when she saw the smile he gave her.

  "What else is there?" he asked.

  The next few hours flew by again, lost in the dis­covery of scrolls and bits of je
welry, of old saddles and spurs and ragged cloaks. They were forced to leave when even the little candle sputtered in the vase, its glow becoming dimmer in the advancing darkness. Be­fore they left he scooped up the sum of the gowns Solange had discovered, saying, "Why don't you take these until we can get some new ones made for you? I don't think she would mind your having them."

  "No," Solange replied, opening the door for him, "I don't think she would either."

  It was their secret place. She was scrambling away from him, laughing, almost choking on her laughter, while Damon chased her, scolding her.

  She was young, very young, with Damon still a full head taller. He almost caught her but at the last second she danced out of his reach, giggling, waving her fist playfully in front of her face. The green of the grass around them was very rich. No, no, said Damon in his stern voice, and she didn't

  understand yet that his anger was real, not play. She hadn't understood.

  She clutched her prize tighter in her chubby fist, loving this new game. Again she moved it toward her mouth.

  No! cried Damon, leaping for her again, and he had Red­mond's face, and Redmond's blank eyes, and it was Red­mond's hand reaching out for her, trying to hurt her—

  NO!" cried Solange, waking with a start. Damon was with her instantly, holding her, murmur­ing to her in a soothing voice. " 'Twas only a dream, my sweet." He wrapped his arms around her and kept her close, stroking the hair off her forehead until she relaxed again. She turned in his arms and lay on her side next to Damon so that she could see his face.

  The bed was soft and deep. Eventually his caresses slowed and faltered as he slipped back into sleep. It was not so easy for her.

  He liked to keep her in his room at night after they made love, claiming the bed was wider. She hadn't minded. Her room was close enough for convenience, but she would have been happy beside him wherever he lay his head. He slept heavily these past few days, worn from working from dawn till late in the evening. Yet when she expressed concern he claimed he was content enough as long as he had her to come back to.