Rose & Thorn

  “There’s a path just here,” Rose said, and yes, he could see it, too, a darker strip with lighter gray grasses to either side. Quirk’s head lolled against his shoulder.

  Ten more steps.

  They were never going to make it.

  Ten more steps.

  He’d taken his step off the precipice, but the fall was going to be shorter than he’d hoped it would be.

  Ten more steps.

  And the wind rushing past him was a lot colder than he’d expected.

  Ten more.

  When he looked up again, they’d reached the castle gates.

  THE CASTLE WAS surrounded by a high wall built of rough stone; it reminded me of the wall around the ruined fortress that the Forest had shown me on my way to the City. Where the narrow path ended there was a break in the wall, a dark arch. The wall was so thick that the gateway through it was a tunnel; at its other end was a faint glow of lantern light.

  I was so cold from falling in the river and climbing up the muddy bank that I couldn’t feel my legs, or my hands.

  Griff stumbled up to stand beside me. I leaned my head against his shoulder for a moment. He had to be even more exhausted than I was after carrying Quirk for so long, and colder because he’d given Quirk his sweater. Glancing up, I saw that his face was stark white, his eyes smudged with weariness.

  “Break it up, you two,” growled Timothy, who stood a pace behind us. “We need to get Quirk inside.”

  With a huge effort of will, I got myself moving; Griff followed.

  We came out of the tunnel into a wide courtyard paved with stones that glistened wet in the light of the tower windows. One lantern glowed beside a door in a low outbuilding; another shone from a door in the castle itself. Without speaking, I headed for the castle; I heard Griff’s stumbling steps behind me, and then Timothy coming last.

  Reaching the door, I banged on it with hands numb from the cold. After a moment, it swung open.

  And the castle reached out with embracing arms and gathered us in.

  WE’D COME INTO a large kitchen, I realized blurrily. A fire burned in a wide hearth, but I could barely feel its warmth. I heard a babble of voices; hands stripped the sodden cloak from my shoulders. A white ceiling arched overhead; it was stained with soot, and shadows lurked in its corners.

  “Here, lovey,” a woman’s voice said, and I was shoved into a chair. A mug of something hot was put into my shaking hands. I bent my head and let the steam waft over my numb face. I closed my eyes, too weary even to think.

  But then—Griff. I jerked my head up and looked wildly around. There he was, leaning against the wall by the door, his eyes closed, asleep on his feet. He had a streak of mud smudged across one high cheekbone, as if he’d wiped his face with a dirty hand; his patched coat was streaked with mud, and water dripped from its ragged hem. Nobody was paying him any attention. Two women and a man dressed in blue were clustered around a small figure that lay on the floor. Quirk.

  “Go fetch a blanket,” one of the women ordered in a high, piping voice. One of the others hurried away. Another person came into the room, his arms full of wood, which he added to the fire.

  “Timothy?” I said, and it came out only as a whisper.

  “Here,” she said, and I turned to see her sitting on a chair like mine, only a few feet away, with a towel draped over her shoulders. Her face was bone white with exhaustion, her eyes dark, the long lashes spiky with the rain. Like me, she held a steaming cup, warming her hands. She gave me a nod. Not friendship, exactly, but respect. “Be careful,” she whispered.

  I nodded and, raising my own mug to my lips, took a drink; hot, sweet tea burned a trail down to my stomach. All of a sudden I started to shiver; the mug dropped from my hands and fell, and I stared blankly down at the splatter of tea and shards of the mug on the slate floor.

  A woman bustled up to me. “Nah then, lovey,” she said in an oddly slurred voice. I looked up into her face. I blinked, and my brain couldn’t make sense of what I was seeing. But her hands were gentle as she helped me to my feet. “C’mon alon’ nah,” she urged.

  “But—” I said through chattering teeth. Timothy had warned me—be careful.

  “A ni’ baff lovey,” she said, and pulled at me, and other hands pushed at me from behind, and I let them bring me out of the bustle of the kitchen into another, smaller, quieter room. A fire burned in a little hearth; before it was a metal bathtub full of steaming hot water.

  “Ohhh,” I breathed, and fumbled at the buttons of my dress with numb fingers.

  The gentle hands pushed mine aside, and in a moment the chilly cloth of my dress was gone, and my undershift had been stripped off over my head, and the boots and sodden socks taken from my feet. I stepped into the bath. The water burned against my icy-cold skin, but I sank into it and closed my eyes, still shivering. The steam smelled of sweet herbs and flowers. The ice in my bones started to melt.

  As my shivers faded, I drifted toward sleep. Gentle fingers touched my hair, unraveling my braid, then combing it out.

  Soo preddy, a voice crooned. So preddy.

  When all the snarls were out of my hair, the hands took my hand, then I felt them carefully unwinding the sodden bandage that covered the burn on the inside of my wrist.

  I heard a sharp intake of breath. “Ah,” I thought I heard the slurred voice say. “Rose.” Other awed voices repeated, “The Rose. It’s th’ Rose.”

  Yes, I thought. I’m Rose. But my rose had been burned off. How did they know my name?

  I was too tired to think anymore. The sound of their babbling voices drifted further and further away, and I sank into the soft velvet of sleep.

  CHAPTER

  17

  I WOKE UP IN A CLOUD THAT SMELLED LIKE MILDEW.

  No, not a cloud, I realized, as I came to myself. Just a very soft, slightly damp bed. Somewhere in the castle, I assumed, remembering the end of our long journey through the Forest.

  Timothy had warned me. She hadn’t had time, or the energy, to explain why, but this castle was dangerous somehow.

  I struggled to sit up, and pushed tangled hair out of my face. The bed was enormous, bigger than my entire attic room in Shoe’s cottage, and had ivory-colored sheets covered by a heavy spread made of some sort of slippery ice-blue cloth, thickly embroidered; at each corner of the bed were posts of intricately carved dark wood that held up a canopy of the same blue cloth, with curtains edged with gold held back by gold-encrusted ropes. The sheets were the source of the mildew smell.

  I peered past the bed—with its canopy and posts it was its own room, really, or would be if the curtains were closed. The room beyond was also enormous, with a high, arched stone ceiling; the walls were paneled in dark wood, and a patterned carpet covered the floor. There were various heavy pieces of furniture made of carved wood—a wardrobe, a few chairs, a table. A fireplace with an elaborate stone mantelpiece took up half of one wall; in another was a door with a carved wooden frame, and across from that was a pillow-covered bench set below a row of windows made of tiny diamond-shaped panes. Watery sunlight filtered through them—it was daytime.

  I looked down at myself. I was wearing a nightdress with a row of pearl buttons down the front and a froth of lace at the collar, cuffs, and hem. It was, by far, the fanciest thing I’d ever worn. The lace at the neckline was itchy.

  I needed to find out where Griff was, and Timothy, and be sure Quirk was being properly looked after. I hoped he was warm and sound asleep in a bed even more comfortable than this one. Moving stiffly—I was still tired from our long hike—I pushed back the coverlet and crawled to the edge of the bed. It was very high off the floor; I started to climb down, then slipped on the shiny cloth coverlet and slithered to the rug, landing with a thump on my bottom.

  At the noise, the door opened and two odd faces peeked into the room.

  I stared back at them.

  Both women wore crisp white aprons over matching light-blue woolen dresses; uniforms, maybe. One had a
frilled cap tied over her perfectly bald head; she had no eyebrows or lashes, either, and a straight, lipless mouth, and strangely round, golden eyes with a long narrow slit for a pupil. The other, plumper and shorter, had mouse-brown hair, a sharp nose, and furred, paw-like hands that were folded neatly at her waist.

  “Hello . . . ,” I said hesitantly. They didn’t seem dangerous.

  At the sound of my voice, the two women withdrew, and I heard a rush of nervous-sounding conversation; then they pushed the heavy door open and hurried into the room, the bald one carrying a tray and swaying sinuously, the other pattering on quick feet to where I sat on the carpeted floor. After the tray had been set on a low table, they both lowered themselves into abject-seeming curtsies.

  I climbed to my feet and curtsied awkwardly back at them.

  “Ooh,” whispered the mouselike, plump one. “What do we do now, Sally?”

  “Shhhh,” said the other. Sally. “We’re not s-s-s’posed to speak, only serve.”

  “You’re not supposed to speak to me?” I asked. Straightening, I examined them more closely. The tall one, Sally, licked her lips nervously with a forked tongue. The other, the mouse, gazed up at me, her sharp nose twitching.

  “What’s your name?” I asked her.

  Her black eyes grew round and she clasped her paws—her hands—under her chin and emitted a high-pitched meep.

  “Settle yourssself, Dolly,” Sally said sharply. She shifted, and I caught a glimpse of her shoe beneath her skirts. Shoes were something that I noticed, because of Shoe. Hers was made of snakeskin.

  Or no. Her foot was.

  They were so odd, but I hadn’t seen much of the world, and for all I knew it had plenty of people like this in it, and I could see they didn’t mean me any harm, despite Timothy’s warning. “Well, Sally, Dolly,” I said, nodding at each of them. “I’m Rose.” I glanced down at my frothy nightgown. “If you don’t mind, can you tell me where my clothes are? The dress I was wearing last night, and my boots?” I frowned. “I think it was last night, anyway.”

  They both stared at me.

  “I’m worried about my friends, and I’d like to go and see them,” I explained. More staring. I sighed. “If I have to, I’ll wear this nightgown.” I lifted the lacy hem and waggled my bare foot at them. “And no shoes at all.”

  Meep, Dolly said again; Sally blinked, the flick of a lashless lid across her eye. Then they both spoke at once, a flurry of sibilance and high-pitched squeaks. The gist of it was—no no no, stay, we shall assisssst you—and then a few more deep curtsies. Then Dolly pattered away to the wardrobe; she flung its door open and started pulling things out—dresses, lacy underclothes, stockings, slippers, ribbons. Sally went to the tray and brought me a plate with a hot buttered roll on it. While I ate it, she reached out and with swift fingers started undoing the pearl buttons of my nightgown.

  “I can do it,” I protested, my mouth full. She pushed my hand away, took the plate and the rest of my roll, and then bent, seized the hem, and pulled the nightgown off over my head. I blinked, standing there naked for a moment, with the cold air of the room washing over my skin, and then Dolly had pattered over with a plush blue velvet robe and the two of them swathed me in it, tying it at the waist.

  “Come along now, come along,” said plump Dolly, pulling at my hands, leading me to a chair near the wardrobe.

  “Shhhh,” chided Sally, following.

  “Do you know if my friends are all right?” I asked.

  Instead of answering, Sally pushed me into the chair, fetched a cup of tea from the tray and gave it to me, then seized a comb, and started combing the tangles out of my hair; at the same time, Dolly bent and slid silky stockings onto my feet, tying them just over my knees with thin, pale-blue ribbons. As Sally’s quick fingers worked what felt like intricate braids into my hair, I drank the tea. Dolly slipped low-heeled slippers onto my feet; then she tugged me up so that I was standing.

  “Sahhh,” chided Sally, still working on my hair.

  “Blue,” chattered Dolly. “Don’t you think, Sal? The blue? Blue to match her eyes?”

  Sally shook her head; she was looping a braid and pinning it into place; she held a few more hairpins in her lipless mouth.

  “No, not blue,” Dolly said. “You’re right, Sal. Pink.”

  “Yssss,” Sally agreed.

  The robe was whisked away, and the teacup; a moment later a lace-edged petticoat dropped over my head; I heard Sally’s hiss of annoyance, and another petticoat settled around me and, before I could gasp out a protest, a corset clasped me around the middle. I’d never worn one before. From behind, as Sally finished with my hair, Dolly laced it up.

  I stood there gasping for breath while the two women reverently lifted a dress. It was nothing like my plain dark-blue woolen dress, the one I’d worn on the long walk to the City, and the long walk away from it again, the one that had gotten a bit ragged around the hem, and worn at the elbows, and rather stained in places, and yes, it had a button missing in the back, too.

  This dress was made of shimmering rose-pink cloth—silk, I guessed—and it was the finest, the most beautiful, the most elegant thing I’d ever seen. It had a heart-shaped collar embroidered at its edges with dainty roses a darker pink than the silk, and tiny green leaves; the same roses, but bigger, edged the hem. There was just a hint of lace at the collar, too, and a line of tiny pearl-pink buttons up the back. Dolly and Sally helped me into it. The silk slithered like cold water over the corset and petticoats; I felt Sally’s fingers buttoning it; Dolly added a sash made of darker pink velvet ribbon, also embroidered with roses. I looked down at myself, wishing for a mirror like the one Merry had in her cottage, and ran my hands over the skirt.

  “She likes it,” Dolly whispered. “Don’t you think, Sal?”

  “Yesss,” Sally hissed back.

  “I do,” I said to them, and smiled. Dolly beamed delightedly back at me.

  I turned to feel the skirt and petticoats swish around my ankles. The shoes didn’t fit quite right, I realized. A little pinch in the toes. No matter. I supposed that Shoe had spoiled me for other shoes, ones not made to perfectly fit me. I wondered what he would say if he could see me now.

  Sally darted forward and dabbed a bit of something onto my lips.

  Then they both stepped back and looked me over, head to foot.

  “Ooh,” squeaked Dolly, clasping her paw-like hands. “Lovely. Just . . . just lovely, don’t you think, Sal?”

  “Yesss,” Sally said. “Spun sugar, so sweet.”

  I heard the door creak open, and a sarcastic voice said, “Oh, very nice.”

  I whirled; my skirts swished around me. Timothy stood in the doorway, her face set in its usual scowl. “Timothy!” I sped across the room. Seeing her was such a relief; I wanted to throw my arms around her, but she stepped back and raised her eyebrows. As she did, I realized that she wasn’t wearing her old boots and stained leather coat; she had on a pink dress similar in cut to mine, made of a lighter fabric, not silk, and missing the rose embroidery around the collar, and with longer sleeves that covered the muscles in her arms. Her neck looked slim and graceful, she held her head proudly, and her short hair had been parted at the side and combed flat.

  And around her waist she wore her leather belt, and hanging from it her sword in its scabbard. I grinned at her. “I like your belt better than mine.” I held up the embroidered end of my pink velvet sash.

  She looked down at herself. “This dress is ridiculous.”

  “No, you look beautiful,” I said truthfully.

  In response, she rolled her eyes.

  “Have you seen Quirk or Griff?” I asked.

  She snorted. “Caring about the people you care about?”

  My smile widened. She was teasing me! Then I sobered. “I hope they’re all right.”

  Timothy stared at me, then shook her head. “Huh.”

  “What?” I asked.

  “You really are more than that.” She pointed at
my face.

  “The beauty,” I said. “Yes. I am. Timothy—” I started, wanting to ask her if we were friends now, as I’d hoped we’d be.

  But a broad shape loomed in the doorway, interrupting us; we stepped back and a wide, heavy-browed woman with a streak of white in the center of her black hair came into the room. Her ears, I noticed, had a little tuft of black-and-white fur on their pointed tips. She had on the blue woolen dress that was clearly some sort of uniform, and she had a jingling set of keys on a ring at her waist. Like the others had, she swept into a low curtsy.

  As before, I curtsied back. “I’m Rose.”

  “Nah then,” she said, and I recognized her voice from the night before. She had put me into the bathtub and given me tea. “Y’ve found y’r friend.”

  I glanced aside at Timothy. Her face was blank.

  “Yes,” I said, after an awkward moment. I waited for Timothy to correct her, but she stayed silent. I went on. “I’m worried about my other friends, too. Griff and Quirk? The young man with dark hair, and the very short older man, the ones who were with us, before?” I took a step toward the door. “Will you take me to them?”

  The two maids joined us. “She keeps asking, Keeper,” Dolly said.

  “A’s well,” the broad, black-and-white woman said. Keeper of what, I wondered. Her mouth stretched, revealing widely spaced, sharp teeth. Oh, she was smiling. “Come nah,” she said, ushering me and Timothy toward the door. Sally and Dolly followed, and we stepped into a dimly lit corridor that had a polished wood floor with a faded blue carpet running down the middle of it, and walls paneled like the ones in the bedroom we’d just come out of.

  I walked quickly, eager to see Griff and Quirk. Timothy paced silently beside me, her hand on the pommel of her sword.

  “Are we in danger now?” I whispered to her.

  Her only answer was a shrug.