Rose & Thorn

  “We-ell . . . ,” Quirk said with a shrug. “I’ve had an idea about that. Come back to the fire, and we’ll talk it over.”

  CHAPTER

  15

  “OH, SURE YOU HAVE AN IDEA,” GRIFF HEARD ROSE MUTTER as they followed Quirk and Timothy back to the camp. She turned to him. Even in the foggy dawn light, she glowed with beauty. “We’re going to find out what he’s been planning now, don’t you think?” she asked.

  She was like a flame, Griff found himself thinking, then shook his head ruefully. Quirk’s odd way of talking was rubbing off on him, at last.

  “Well?” Rose prompted.

  What were they talking about again? Oh, Quirk. “Probably,” he answered.

  “Something devious,” Rose said with a decided nod, and they joined the others around the coals of their fire. The fog among the pine trees started to thin, and the day brightened.

  Timothy stood with hands fisted on her hips. “Right, so what’s your idea, little man?”

  Beside her, Quirk looked very small. “Well now,” he said slowly. “What I’m thinking is that you might not be the best person to hold this particular thimble.”

  “I’m not giving it to her,” Timothy spat, pointing at Rose.

  “I don’t want it,” Rose said quickly. She pulled the tie from her hair and started combing it out with her fingers. Something she did when she was nervous, Griff realized.

  “No,” Quirk agreed. “Not Rose.”

  Timothy dipped into her coat pocket, pulled out the thimble, and held it out to Quirk. “So you want it, Quirk. Why didn’t you just say so at the beginning?”

  “No, not me either,” he murmured. Putting his hands behind his back, he leaned forward, not touching the thimble, but examining it closely. “No roses,” he said. “Just thorns.” He slid a glance at Griff.

  No, Griff thought. Not me.

  “What is it?” Rose asked suspiciously. “What are you planning?”

  “It seems we have no choice,” Quirk muttered. Straightening, he nodded. “I have an idea,” he said, “that if you put this thimble on your finger, Griff, and ask for a path to lead us to the outside world, the Forest will have to give it to us.”

  “I don’t think so, Quirk,” Timothy put in acerbically. “Griff is a Watcher. He’s not our ally. He wants to take the construct back to the City.”

  “No, he doesn’t,” Rose said, her fingers weaving her blond hair into a braid.

  “Yes, he does,” Timothy insisted. She turned her glare on Griff. “Don’t you?”

  “No,” he answered. He wasn’t sure why Rose was so certain about him, but she was right.

  “That’s it?” Timothy scoffed. “Just no? Would you care to explain yourself further?”

  Quirk laughed. “You’re lucky you got that much out of him,” he said to her.

  Rose smiled sunnily at both of them. “If you think about it, it makes sense for Griff to take the thimble. He’s a Watcher, so Story can’t have much hold over him. If it’s trying to draw us back to the City, he can resist it better than any of us, even better than you, Timothy. Don’t you think so, Quirk?”

  “Hm,” Quirk said noncommittally.

  “Oh, but wait a moment,” Rose said. Griff saw that she was frowning as she finished tying off her braid. “Timothy was right about one thing.” She pointed at Griff. “You’re not our ally. You could go back to the City now, couldn’t you?”

  “Yes, but—” Quirk started.

  “Be quiet, you,” she said to him. “You’ve been manipulating us—all of us. Don’t pretend that you haven’t, Quirk. I don’t have any choice, but Griff does. He shouldn’t have to take the thimble if he doesn’t want to.” She gazed up at him, and her eyelashes did flutter a little. They were so long; she probably couldn’t help it. “What do you want to do?”

  Griff considered it. He wasn’t used to it—getting to choose. For as long as he could remember, he’d followed orders, usually without question. What he should do was refuse the thimble and insist on returning to the City. On doing his duty. But now that he’d seen the Forest, and all its life and color, it would be hard to go back to the drab gray of the citadel, where he’d have to face his father’s cold disapproval and a reassignment to Luth’s prison cohort.

  With the thimble, the four of them might manage to escape to the outside world; that is, if it had the power that Quirk seemed to think it did. Without it, Rose and whoever went with her would be drawn back to the City. And then, one way or another, Rose would die.

  He couldn’t let that happen.

  “Well?” Quirk asked.

  Griff frowned. To take the thimble and go with them, he’d have to trust them. He went on one knee, putting his head level with Quirk’s, and studied his face. It seemed just as honest and open as it had before. But Quirk knew things that he wasn’t telling, Griff felt sure.

  “Don’t look at me like that,” Quirk said.

  “Like what?” Griff asked, expecting Quirk to turn one of his characteristic phrases.

  “Like you’ve lost your best friend,” Quirk said sadly.

  Instead of answering that, Griff looked away, staring blankly out at the Forest.

  After a moment, Quirk went on, speaking in a whisper. “Do you know what the thimble is, lad?”

  Griff shook his head. “A device of Story?” he guessed.

  “Ah.” Quirk blew out a breath. “No. Not exactly. Will you take it? And here, lad.” Quirk held the sheathed patrol knife out to him, handle first. “You’ll need this, whatever you decide.”

  Griff got slowly to his feet. Going with them would be a failure to do his duty; it would mean he wasn’t a Watcher anymore. He’d never be able to explain this decision to his father. It was like, as Quirk might say, standing on the edge of a precipice and then taking a step. But at least he’d have a good view, for a while, as he fell. And the feel of the wind rushing past. Before he hit the ground. “All right,” he said after a moment. “I’ll take the thimble.”

  “Finally,” Timothy said with an impatient huff of breath. She stepped closer and held up the thimble. Even in the dim, foggy light, it gleamed, almost like it was winking at him.

  Reaching out with a shaking hand, he took it. It was sticky with cold and oddly heavy. Then he bent to take the patrol knife from Quirk, who gave him a searching look, then nodded and handed it over.

  “Right, well,” Quirk said, with a clap of his hands that sounded loud in the muffling fog. “We’d better pack up and see if this works.”

  Rose smiled up at him. “Thank you, Griff,” she said.

  He wasn’t sure you’re welcome was the right thing to say in response, so he didn’t say anything. Taking that first step off the precipice, he hoped that he’d made the right decision.

  ONCE GRIFF HAD the thimble on his finger, the Forest gave us an absolutely straight trail. We hiked along it with hollow stomachs and light packs. I was very glad that Griff had decided to take the thimble and lead us out. I didn’t want him to go; somehow I’d started counting on his steady, strong presence.

  He led the way, ten paces ahead, with a hand in the pocket of his long, ragged black coat. And behind me stalked Timothy, glowering, with a hand on her sword.

  Overhead, the sky was gray and heavy with rain about to fall, and the air had the kind of cold-iron chill that creeps down your neck and makes you shiver. On a day like this at home in the valley, Shoe and I would be sitting cozily by the fire drinking tea and taking turns reading stories aloud from a book, or telling new ones.

  “Did Griff tell you my story? What there is of it so far, anyway?” I asked Quirk.

  “You may not have noticed,” he answered, “but Griff is not much of a talker.”

  “True. But I think you know most of it already, don’t you?”

  Quirk’s answer was a rather Griff-like shrug.

  “Typically evasive,” I said. “So you already knew about me and my curse and my rose, or you guessed it, maybe from the first moment I stepp
ed into the City.” I assumed it was why he hadn’t decided yet if I really was a construct of Story or not. But he was Quirk, and I couldn’t hate him for it. “I think you knew about Shoe, too,” I went on. “And you know something about the thimble. I wish you’d trust me enough to tell me.”

  “It’s not a matter of trust, lass,” Quirk said, his eyes fixed on the leaf-strewn path. “I just don’t know enough yet.”

  “You know a lot more than I do,” I complained.

  He shot me a wry smile. “That’s irony for you.”

  Above our heads, the tree branches that arched over the trail shivered in a sudden breeze. A few drops of rain fell. I pulled up the hood of my cloak. “Well, what’s something that you don’t know?”

  “Hm.” Quirk glanced up at the lowering sky. “I’m fairly certain we’re going to have a wet night.”

  “That you don’t know,” I repeated.

  “Yes, well.” He walked quietly for a few steps. More raindrops pattered down. “I don’t know enough about Griff,” he said darkly. “He’s not going to talk to me about himself, that’s certain, and there’s something very odd going on here.” He brightened. “Lass, do you think you could—”

  “No.” In the distance, thunder grumbled. “I’ve asked him to tell me his story,” I said. “But he won’t.” And I knew Griff was struggling. He wasn’t any more certain of himself than I was of myself.

  “Ah.” As he spoke, his breath came out as a puff of steam in the chilly air.

  It really had gotten cold; maybe we’d have snow instead of rain. I glanced behind me. Timothy had pulled up the collar of her coat, and had the scarf wrapped around her head; only her face peeked out.

  The path grew narrower, so that we had to go single file. The rumbles of thunder grew more frequent, and the patter of rain became a drizzle and then a downpour. Droplets edged my hood, and the shoulders of my cloak grew wet and heavy. Keeping my head down, I trudged after Griff.

  Then the rain turned to sleet.

  As I was taking another plodding step, I ran into Griff, who had stopped on the path ahead of me. He steadied me with a hand on my arm. Blinking raindrops from my lashes, I looked up at him. The gray of his eyes, I found myself noticing, was the same as the cloud-covered sky.

  “What’s the matter?” I asked.

  Timothy stepped up beside me. “Keep moving,” she mumbled.

  Griff shook his head and peered through the falling sleet, beyond me. I turned and saw Quirk’s small figure, stumbling along the path, far behind us.

  “He’s littler than we are,” I said. “He’s gotten cold faster.”

  Griff was already taking his coat off. Handing it to me, he stripped off a thick woolen sweater; under it he was wearing a ragged shirt. He put on his coat again.

  Quirk trudged up to us. Water dripped from his chin, his straw-colored hair was plastered to his head, and his teeth were chattering; he had the sleeves of his Watcher’s tunic pulled over his hands.

  “Here.” Griff crouched and gently took Quirk’s pack from his shoulders, then pulled his sweater over Quirk’s head. It hung down to his knees. Quirk just stood there as Griff rolled up the sleeves. Then Griff took off his woolen half gloves and put them onto Quirk’s small hands.

  Standing, Griff frowned down at him.

  “I-I’m all r-right,” Quirk said. His face was bone white, and he clenched his teeth trying to keep from shuddering with cold.

  “Oh, sure you are,” Griff muttered. He took off his own pack and crouched beside Quirk. “Come on.”

  Oh, he meant to carry him. With clumsy hands, I pushed an unresisting Quirk closer to Griff, who hoisted him onto his back, then climbed slowly to his feet.

  Our eyes met. Griff nodded wearily. We both knew how much trouble we were in. As he turned back to the trail, I saw him dip his hand into his pocket to put the thimble on his finger again. At its touch he shivered, ducked his head against the pounding sleet, and led us onward.

  Twilight came on. The branches over our heads, I realized, had thinned. Instead of the impenetrable darkness of the Forest, the path wound through a last few trees that were tossing their branches in the wind. Wet leaves scudded past us. A few steps more, and we came to the end of the trees. Timothy stopped, and then Griff, and I stood next to him and Quirk, surveying what lay ahead. The clouds were lighter here; they spat out a few last icy drops of sleet. We stood on the bank of a wide, rushing river that ran shallow over a rocky bed. Ice crusted along its edges. Beyond it was a gray plain swirling with a low fog. In the distance was a huge shape, dark against the oncoming night, but with a few twinkling lights high up in what looked like looming turrets.

  “Huh,” Timothy grunted.

  “It’s a castle,” I said through lips stiff with cold.

  Quirk lifted his head from where it had been resting against Griff’s shoulder. In the advancing twilight, his face looked gray, but his eyes glittered, feverish. “No . . . c-can’t . . . ,” he croaked. His lips moved, but I couldn’t hear what he said. He wasn’t shivering anymore; I knew what a bad sign that was.

  “He’s right,” Timothy said wearily. “We can’t go to the castle.”

  I turned to glance over my shoulder at the Forest. Like a door slamming closed behind us, the path had disappeared. “We have nowhere else to go,” I said through chattering teeth.

  Timothy shook her head. “I’m telling you, the castle is the last place we want to go.”

  That didn’t matter. “We don’t have any choice, Timothy. If we don’t get Quirk warm soon, he’s going to die.”

  In the dim light, Timothy’s face was shadowed. “You care about him?” She sounded truly puzzled.

  I knew what she was thinking—a construct wouldn’t care. I was freezing and close to despair, and I’d had enough. Reaching out, I grabbed the front of her coat, and dragged her closer. “Yes, Timothy,” I said, trying to put some growl into my voice. “Because I am a person, and I care about the . . . the people that I care about.” I wasn’t sure I was making sense. “All right?”

  “Yeah, all right,” Timothy said, shrugging herself out of my grip. “You don’t have to get all cranky about it.”

  “Me, cranky?” I gasped, and my outrage made me feel warmer. “Am I the one who’s been glowering around, and pulling out her sword at any excuse? No.”

  “We’d better keep moving,” came Griff’s voice out of the gloom.

  “You are the cranky one,” I muttered to Timothy.

  She gave a half shrug. “True enough.”

  “Oh,” I said, surprised at her capitulation. “Then let’s go.” Onward. To the castle.

  CHAPTER

  16

  JUST TEN MORE STEPS, GRIFF TOLD HIMSELF. AND WHEN HE had staggered ten steps along the edge of the river, he set himself to take ten more. Quirk was a dead weight on his back; Rose stumbled at his side, Timothy a step behind her. Rose had pushed back her hood and peered ahead through the growing darkness. There was just enough light to see her face as a pale oval with dark smudges for eyes.

  “I think we can cross there,” she said, pointing farther along the riverbank.

  Ten more steps.

  “At least it’s not sleeting any m-more,” Rose said with forced cheerfulness.

  “Is she always this chipper?” Timothy asked wearily.

  “It’s practically w-warm, don’t you think?” Rose added.

  Griff couldn’t answer; all his words had frozen. The thimble on his finger was another source of cold.

  Ten more steps.

  He wasn’t sure Quirk was breathing.

  They came to a place where the river curved and the rocks along its edge gave way to sand that was pale in the darkness. They were closer, now, to the lights of the castle, but it was still too far away.

  “Let’s cross here.” He felt Rose’s hand on his arm. The sand shifted under his feet; he heard the crackle of ice, the grate of gravel, and then freezing water seeped into his boots. “Step where I step, if you can
,” she said, and pulled him deeper into the river. The water rose to his knees; he couldn’t feel his feet anymore.

  “Oh, goodness,” he heard Rose gasp. Then a splash.

  He stopped, the shallow river pulling at his legs. “Rose?” All he could see was a glint of frothing white here and there on the surface of the water. The castle lights seemed unutterably distant.

  Timothy was a step behind him. “You all right?” she called.

  “Yes, fine,” Rose said, climbing to her feet, dripping wet. “K-keep to the left.”

  He followed her voice as she chattered on about the hole she’d stepped into.

  “I th-think we’re nearly ac-cross,” she said, her voice thin with weariness. “Just here—” He felt her hand on his arm again. Something loomed ahead. “There’s a bank,” she said. “Wait a moment.” A sound of scrabbling, and he could see her climbing. A few stones slid, then splashed into the water. When she spoke again, her voice came from higher up. He blinked at her. “Can you pass Quirk to me?”

  He nodded, even though he knew she could barely see him. With heavy arms he shifted Quirk’s weight from his back.

  “Here,” Timothy said, and together they lifted him.

  “A little higher,” Rose said, her voice strained.

  “Careful with him,” Timothy put in.

  He and Timothy pushed, and felt Rose pulling, and together they managed to get Quirk to the top of the bank. He followed, his boots slipping on a steep slope that was mostly mud. Panting, he reached the top. He got to his knees and, after checking to be sure the patrol knife was still sheathed at his back, reached out; his numb hands brushed wet cloth.

  “That’s me,” Rose gasped.

  A moment later, Timothy joined them, sitting down with a wet thump. “Now what?” came her voice out of the darkness.

  Rose tipped her head up, and he saw a glint of light in her eyes, a reflection from the castle windows. “We’re so c-close,” she murmured. He put his hand on an unmoving lump on the ground. Quirk. She and Timothy helped lift him onto Griff’s back again. He was even heavier than before.