It was then that she had first seen the ugly side of Ursula Gruen. It was too late for second thoughts, Ursula had growled. They had trusted Carole, taken her into their confidence. She knew too much about the Rose to be simply allowed to turn away. Their pact had been sealed with blood. It could not be broken. Carole must join the Silver Rose or die. And the child must be sacrificed.
Carole had clung to the babe, pleading. She would go with Ursula and Odile as promised, but there was no reason her babe had to die. Jean Baptiste could be left with her aunt and uncle. They had always promised to care for her child if it was a boy.
But her pleas had fallen upon a heart of stone. Ursula had pried the babe from her arms. As Jean began to wail, Carole had been obliged to release her grip, fearing he’d be hurt in the struggle. Weakened as she was from the ordeal of childbirth, all Carole could do was cry as Ursula tore the infant away from her.
Odile had leaned over the bed to soothe her, urgently whispering in her ear. “For mercy’s sake, come to your senses or Ursula will dash the child’s brains out right in front of you, then kill you as well.”
Carole had smothered her sob, trying desperately to think of something to do or say that might save her child. How she wished she had never stumbled across Odile and Ursula on the beach that day, never heard all of Odile’s enticing stories about the Silver Rose, how the sorceress was the champion of all women who were abused by their lovers, their husbands, their families, and all the rest of the harsh, unfeeling world. Join her and Carole would never know fear or want, never have to suffer scorn and cruelty or feel so helpless ever again.
What a fool she had been to listen, to believe their wild tales. Why had she been so angry and pigheaded that day when Miri Cheney had been kind, offering to help—
Mademoiselle Cheney. At the thought of the Lady of the Wood with her soft but compelling silvery-blue eyes, an inexplicable feeling of calm had descended over Carole, a glimmer of hope, perhaps the only one for her petit Jean. She had swallowed her tears, apologizing for her moment of weakness.
It had been hard, but she had pretended to be revolted by the babe, declaring she knew the place he should be abandoned, on the rocks by the river deep in the wood. No one lived anywhere near there. The site was perfectly isolated, she had insisted, the lie tripping off her tongue.
Her courage had almost failed her when the moment had come to abandon Jean, but she had gulped back her tears and laid him carefully near the stream, wrapped in her best shawl. She had tried not to think how fragile he looked, how dark and threatening the forest loomed around them. Instead she had prayed that all the love her grand-mère had woven into that shawl would somehow protect her little boy, keep him safe until Miri Cheney found him.
She thought she had Ursula and Odile completely fooled. Ursula in particular with her mean squinty eyes was not all that bright. Carole didn’t realize how badly she had underestimated the woman until they were in the dinghy rowing away from Faire Isle, when Ursula had informed her with a malicious grin of the other gift she had left for the Lady of the Wood, that poisonous silver rose.
Very likely, by now both Mademoiselle Miri and Jean were dead. Carole’s eyes burned and she winked fiercely to hold back her tears. No. She could not allow herself to believe that. If she didn’t think it, it wouldn’t be true.
She prayed that the angels in heaven would somehow look out for her son and the Lady of the Wood, protect them. Carole’s lip quivered. Perhaps the Almighty would not listen to the prayers of a girl as evil as she. She prayed instead to the soul of her gentle grand-père, begging him to intervene with God on behalf of his namesake. That Jean Baptiste might be permitted to live, grow tall and strong, become a good man, have a good life.
That was the only thought that had kept Carole going all these weeks, that and the idea she might somehow escape, make her way back to Faire Isle. But in the beginning part of the journey, she had felt so weak from giving birth and Ursula had kept such close watch over her.
The big woman had relaxed some of her vigilance since they had passed through the gates of Paris. She and Odile were so deep in conversation, Ursula did not appear to notice that Carole had lagged behind. This might be Carole’s last, her only chance to flee before they reached the lair of the Silver Rose. She slowed her steps even more. Neither of her companions looked back.
But as Carole darted a glance around her, her heart quailed at the prospect of trying to lose herself in this maze of dirty, narrow streets, amidst a sea of so many rough-looking strangers with cold, indifferent eyes. What hope would she have of survival with no money, nothing more than the ragged clothes on her back? Even on Faire Isle she had heard too many grim tales of the kind of thing that might befall a young girl on her own, swallowed up by a city like Paris.
She could be ravished, compelled to work in a brothel or—or forced into a life of other crime. She could even end up doing the hempen jig herself. But could any of those fates be worse than what might await her if she was delivered into the hands of this Silver Rose and found wanting?
Her pulse racing with uncertainty, Carole froze. Her hesitation proved costly, for Ursula noticed her lagging behind. The woman glared at her, hands on hips.
“Keep up, you worthless little bitch, and don’t even think of trying to run off. If I have to come after you, you’ll be damned sorry.”
Carole had no doubt she would be. Even if she was rash enough to make a run for it, she’d never get far, not with her blistered foot, and tired, aching legs. It was hopeless. She was trapped, completely trapped, had been from the moment she had first set foot off Faire Isle.
All she could do was stumble after Ursula like a whipped cur. She avoided a kick from the woman’s thick boot by crouching closer to Odile. The petite dark-haired woman risked giving her an encouraging smile. “Don’t worry, Carole. We are almost there. Look.”
Carole lifted dull eyes in the direction Odile pointed, toward a large house looming behind a high stone wall at the end of the street. The manor was an incongruous sight set next to the tenements and squalor of the surrounding area, like a relic of other days before prosperity had taken itself off to some more promising quarter of the city.
Silhouetted against the fading light of day, the rambling stone house with its pepperpot turrets appeared dark and decayed. But as Carole drew nearer, limping to keep up with her two companions, she saw that someone had been making efforts at repairs. Sections of the wall surrounding the property appeared recently mortared, less grime-ridden than older portions of the stonework.
Carole ventured a peek past the iron grille. Evening shadows enveloped the courtyard beyond, but she was still able to make out a garden of roses. No deadly unnatural silver things, but lush, living blossoms, a profusion of both red and white. Their sweet aroma wafted to Carole, a pleasant contrast to the stench of the streets.
Despite the heat and drought, it was obvious someone had managed to keep this garden well tended, each rose lovingly watered by hand. The sight filled Carole with confusion. She had been so numbed with misery during her journey, she had scarce allowed herself to think about her final destination, to imagine the sort of place a sorceress might dwell.
If she had, she would have been more likely to conjure up images of a cottage set deep in some dark, sinister wood, or the ruins of a castle perched high upon some rocky, inaccessible cliff. She would never have expected to find the formidable Silver Rose dwelling in a place so ordinary as the old house with its pretty garden.
Carole blinked, experiencing a stirring of renewed hope. Perhaps all the wretchedness she had endured so far, including being forced to abandon Jean Baptiste, was more owing to the cruelty of Ursula than the Silver Rose.
If this sorceress was the champion of desperate women that Odile claimed that she was, perhaps Carole could appeal for mercy from the Rose herself, explain that she had made a mistake, that she just wasn’t suited to become a witch. She could swear upon her mother’s grave that she would neve
r tell anything she had learned about the Silver Rose. The sorceress could even cut out Carole’s tongue if she wished to ensure her silence. Carole trembled at the thought of such a ghastly thing, but she was willing to brave any pain, accept any punishment. If only she could be allowed to go home . . .
———
THE CANDLE BURNED LOW in the sconce, casting a feeble glow over the rough stone walls of the gatehouse where Carole was interred, awaiting her audience with the Silver Rose. The prospective meeting filled her with both hope and dread, but no matter what was about to happen to her, she longed to have it over.
She slumped down on a stool, anxiously watching the candle, knowing that when it guttered out, she was going to be left in darkness. The only windows in the gatehouse were high apertures, too narrow to let in more than the merest sliver of moonlight. The lack of ventilation rendered the chamber hot and airless and Carole felt sweat trickle down her spine.
Despite the closeness of the room and her mounting anxiety, many of Carole’s other discomforts had been relieved. After they had been admitted to the grounds of the manor house, Ursula and Odile had disappeared in the direction of the house. Carole had been consigned to the care of a girl named Yolette, who had guided her toward the gatehouse.
Carole had been given food, wine, and water to bathe and refresh herself. Although Yolette had been reserved and silent, refusing to answer any of Carole’s anxious questions about the Silver Rose, she had at least treated Carole with far more consideration than her traveling companions ever had. She had applied a poultice to Carole’s sore foot, and furnished her with a frock to wear, the garment a little coarse, but clean.
Carole had been somewhat heartened by this. If she was being treated this kindly, that must be a good sign. Unless she was merely being prepared for some sort of hellish sacrifice. A terrifying notion and Carole sought to repress it. As dour as the girl was, Carole had wanted to beg Yolette to remain and bear her company until she was summoned. But before Carole could swallow her pride to do so, the girl had gathered up Carole’s filthy clothes. Carole would be fetched soon, Yolette said.
It was the longest sentence the girl had spoken and she did so as she exited the gatehouse, locking Carole in. How long ago that had been, Carole had no idea. She had nothing to do to pass the time except worry and fret and watch the candle burn lower and lower.
Her nerves were strained to the snapping point when she finally heard the chink of the key in the lock. The door creaked open and this time it was Odile who entered, carrying a lantern. There was no sign of Ursula, much to Carole’s relief.
Odile was likewise scrubbed and wearing fresh garb. As Carole struggled to her feet, Odile rustled closer.
“Come, my dear. It is time.” She beamed, taking Carole by the hand. But as she felt the tremor in Carole’s fingers, her smile dimmed.
“Oh, child, you really are going to have to gain more command of yourself than you have shown thus far. Then everything will be all right, I promise you.” Odile leaned closer, saying in a conspiratorial voice. “Ursula is in a great deal of trouble. The Lady is not at all pleased with her.
“When we came to Faire Isle, we were only sent there to uncover the truth of all these rumors our Lady had heard about one of the Cheney women returning to Faire Isle. To see who the witch was, assess her powers, and then report back. Ursula completely exceeded her authority when she left that rose to kill the Lady of the Wood.”
Odile’s cheeks puffed as she blew out her breath in a gusty sigh. “But I know Ursula Gruen too well. She will try to deflect the Lady’s anger by turning it on me. She is already back there in the hall complaining that I have jeopardized the safety of the Silver Rose by recruiting someone who is unworthy.
“That is why you have got to pluck up, my dear.” Odile gave Carole’s fingers a tight squeeze. “If you make your curtsy to the Lady all weak and weepy, you are going to make me look very bad.”
Carole tugged her hand free, saying resentfully. “I have been given plenty of cause to weep, so what exactly would you have me do, Odile?”
“Why, behave more like the tough little thing you were when I first met you. Cursing your lover, your family, and all those stupid prim island women. Whatever happened to that spirited girl?”
She died when she was forced to abandon her babe, Carole wanted to retort, but she knew it would be useless. Odile might be a great deal kinder, but she was no better able to comprehend Carole’s feelings than the brutish Ursula.
“Oh, Carole.” Odile ruefully shook her head. “I realize you have been obliged to do things that must have seemed harsh to you. That is because as yet you do not fully understand the Silver Rose and her purposes. Everything will be so much clearer to you when you are admitted into the inner circle.
“But first you must survive your audience with the Lady. I don’t want to frighten you, but Ursula is insisting you are too weak to be admitted to our court, that you ought to be sewn up in a sack and cast into the Seine like a useless kitten. It’s up to you to prove her wrong.
“Our Lady admires women who are tough and strong.” Odile gave her a coaxing smile. “You just hold your head high, behave like the warrior maiden I saw on Faire Isle, and the Lady will take no heed of Ursula. All right?”
Carole nodded uneasily. “I’ll try.”
“Good girl.” Odile patted her cheek. “Come along then. It is never wise to keep the Lady waiting.”
Holding the lantern aloft, Odile led the way out of the gatehouse. Carole squared her shoulders and followed Odile across the darkened courtyard, trying to screw her features into a fierce expression.
But her courage flagged as they entered the house, her heart thudding uncontrollably at the thought that within moments, she would at last find herself in the presence of the formidable Silver Rose.
She trailed Odile into a great hall that was lit by an iron candelabrum suspended by an iron chain from one of the rafters. The light from the candles played over a sea of faces, all of them women. A dozen or more by Carole’s dazed reckoning, some appearing not much older than herself, others more in their middling years like Odile. Plump, thin, dark, fair, the women were all alike in one thing, their rapt expressions, their air of suppressed excitement, as though waiting for something important to happen.
The hall was silent except for the rasp of one voice emanating from the front of the room. Craning her neck, Carole saw a throne-like chair mounted beneath a silken canopy, but it was empty. Two figures occupied the dais near the chair. One was Ursula, the huge woman on her knees, cowering before a tall thin female garbed in a gown of unrelenting black, the skirts stiffened by a farthingale.
“The Lady,” Odile whispered in Carole’s ear, but Odile had no need to tell her that. From her first sight of the woman, Carole had little doubt that she was at last in the presence of the Silver Rose.
Never had Carole ever seen anyone who so much fit her notion of a sorceress. A mass of silver-streaked black hair flowed back in a widow’s peak from an exotic face with high slanting cheekbones and a slim straight nose. The lady’s complexion was so ice-white as to appear completely bloodless, her dark eyes cold, her mouth a cruel red slash. One thin hand curled like a talon around a long wooden staff she carried, the other toying with a strange five-sided medallion she wore suspended about her slender neck.
As Carole took in these details, her heart plummeted, any hope that she might find compassion from the Silver Rose completely dashed.
Her head bowed, Ursula Gruen groveled before the sorceress. “Milady, I—I know you regard the Cheney women as enemies, that they have done you grave injury. It was hard to glean information about the Lady of the Wood. She—she is so reclusive, but I was sure you would want her destroyed. To—to have your revenge, I thought—”
“You thought?” the sorceress interrupted scornfully. “The Silver Rose does not require any of her followers to think, only obey. My vengeance is none of your concern, Ursula Gruen. I will deal with the Cheneys
in my own way and in my own time. All that is expected of you is that you will do as you are told. Is that too much to ask?”
“N-no, milady. But I was not the only one who disobeyed,” Ursula whined. “Odile was no better.”
Carole heard Odile suck in her breath at the mention of her name.
“Instead of carrying out our mission, she was more concerned about recruiting some puling girl. Revealing the existence of our coven to someone completely not to be trusted—”
“Damn her!” Odile muttered. “I knew she’d try to turn me into the scapegoat.” She surged forward, pushing her way past the other women. Scrambling up onto the dais, she prostrated herself beside Ursula, kneeling before the sorceress.
“Your pardon, milady. But what Ursula is saying is simply not true. I have achieved high enough rank in our order. I have the right to initiate new members if I find any that I feel might prove worthy—”
“Which this miserable little wretch is not.” Ursula glowered at Odile. “Any fool could tell that.”
“But she did what was required of her,” Odile argued. “She sacrificed the male infant she bore.”
“Not willingly,” Ursula shot back. “If that treacherous little bitch had had her way—”
“Silence. Both of you!” the sorceress commanded icily, striking her staff against the wooden floor. Ursula and Odile subsided immediately, cringing back.
“I will judge the girl for myself,” the sorceress said. “Where is she?”
“Over there,” someone called out, pointing to where Carole cowered at the back of the room.
Carole shrank down even farther as all heads turned toward her, a myriad of eyes trained upon her, curious, critical, assessing.
“Come forward and present yourself, girl,” the sorceress commanded.
Carole seemed to have frozen, unable to move of her own volition. Someone gave her a shove and she staggered forward, the crowd of women falling back to make way for her. Carole felt her cheeks burn under the weight of all those staring eyes. As she approached the dais, she tried to remember all that Odile had told her. Head high, chin up. Be brave, tough, fierce.