The Rose Bride (12 page)

“Done,” he said.

Rose was dizzy. She had not seen that much money in years. What could she do with such a sum? What would she do? Was this a way to buy her freedom?

He reached into a leather pouch at his waist and counted out the coins, then paused and said, “Might I buy a dozen?”

On the ride back to the
château
from the village, after Rose had sold the purple roses to the gentleman, she was taken ill with a fever. Overheated and sick to her stomach, she hid the fortune the blond man had paid
her for her roses in a leather pouch under her mattress, and lay in bed all week. Ombrine was disgusted with her and threatened her with a beating if she didn’t pull herself together. But Rose took two steps from her bed and crumpled in a heap on the floor.

“We’ll go without you,” Ombrine announced. Soon after, Ombrine and Desirée left and Rose was alone. For long hours she languished in her sickbed. Her lips were chapped, her throat parched. She remembered her mother’s sweet voice, singing to her when she was ill. She could almost feel Elise’s cool hand on her forehead, sponging away the heat.

She woke up to their voices, followed by a sharp knock on the door. It opened before she could speak. As she sat up in her bed, Ombrine glided toward her with a candle in her hand, and there was something odd about her eyes. In the flickering light, they appeared completely black. Rose drew back with a gasp.

“What is it, Rose? Did I startle you?” Ombrine’s voice was a little shrill, a little wild, as if she had been drinking.

“I was asleep,” Rose managed. Her heart skipped beats. “How was it at the market?”

“The market? Oh!” Ombrine smiled. “We did well.” She reached forward and pressed her fingertips against Rose’s forehead. “You’re still feverish,” she said. “I’ll bring you a brew. Tomorrow you’ll get back to work,
oui?
There’s no rest for the wicked,”

Her smile grew. Her teeth seemed sharper than
usual and Rose tried very hard not to betray her alarm. Whatever Ombrine brewed, she would never drink it.

Ombrine turned and walked toward the door. Her shadow grew and grew, thrown against the wall like a mountain. Two tiny horns sprouted from the shadow’s head. Rose looked at Ombrine, and saw nothing but her hair piled atop her head.

I’m seeing things because I’m sick
. Rose closed her eyes, but her heart was beating so fast she was afraid she might die.

A short time later, Ombrine stood in the doorway with a goblet between her hands. Steam rose from the bowl as she glided forward.

“Here, Rose,” she said in a lilting tone. “Here is something to make you feel better.”

Rose licked her lips as she regarded the steaming goblet. A terrible odor rose from it and she knew she would rather die of fever than put her lips to the rim. Remembering the first time Ombrine had offered her a cup of wine, she took it. As she lifted it to her mouth, she feigned a cough and let go of the goblet. It tumbled end over end and landed on the floor.

“You clumsy idiot!” Ombrine shrieked.

Rose coughed again as she slid from beneath the covers and began to mop up the wine with her ragged bedsheet. The smell was so strong that her eyes began to water.

“I’m so sorry, Stepmother,” Rose said contritely.

Ombrine huffed. “Clean it all up.” Then she turned
on her heel and stomped out of the room, slamming the door so hard that she shook the plaster from the wall.

Once she was done, Rose carried the sodden sheet across the room, thinking to rinse it in the kitchen. But Ombrine had locked her in.

Rose trembled. The axis of the earth had shifted once more. She could feel it, feel the imbalance and the wrongness. Something had changed. Something was coming.

She dropped the sheet beside the door.

Then she went to check her money bag, hidden beneath her mattress.

She gasped.

It was gone.

Rose searched her entire room for her money. Someone had taken it while she’d lain asleep or in a faint. She paced, ill, half-delirious, outraged, and frightened. And yet, strangely hopeful. She had a way to bring in money now and Ombrine knew it. Perhaps at last her stepmother would value her. Even be kind to her.

But Ombrine brought her no more potions. Nor did she bring her food. She completely ignored her. That was not what Rose would have expected.

And yet, one morning, she found that the door was unlocked and felt well enough to go downstairs and forage in the larder. As she took the stairs slowly and carefully, she found Ombrine and Desirée eating breakfast and the smell of food made her stomach rumble.

Desirée said, “Thank the gods you’re up! I swear I couldn’t cook another meal.” She grimaced at her plate of runny eggs and pushed it away. Rose was so hungry she had to force herself not to dart forward and grab it.

“I’m glad to see you’ve recovered,” Ombrine told her, but irritation and frustration rose off her in waves. Ombrine wasn’t glad. She sat in stony silence while Rose seated herself and began nibbling at a piece of cheese and a bit of bread.

“One needs a plate and cutlery,” Ombrine said tightly. “Unless one is a peasant.”

Rose was too dizzy to move, so she swallowed down the last of the bread and cheese.

“Well, then, we see what she is,” Desirée declared.

Ombrine pushed back her chair.

“Clean up,” she said as she swept out of the room.

After Rose had cleared and washed the dishes, Ombrine glided into the kitchen with Rose’s gathering basket against her chest. She held it out to her and said, “We’re quite low on food. Go out into the woods and see what you can find. Some mushrooms, perhaps. Or berries.”

As Rose took the basket, her fingers brushed against her stepmother’s stone-cold hand. In her mind’s eye, the forest shadows slithered together, forming the dark silhouette of a man. His eyes glowed red and he carried a knife.

A knife meant for her.

“Rose?” Ombrine snapped.

“
Oui
, Stepmother,” Rose managed, with a curtsy.
She began trembling from head to toe. Was she seeing her own future? Was it a warning?

“Don’t come back until you have found something,” Ombrine told her.

“
Oui
, Stepmother,” Rose said again.

Shaking, she walked out of the
château
as calmly as she could. Then she ran to the stable to hop on Douce and gallop to the village. Or past the village. To leave the Forested Land, and find somewhere safe.

But Ombrine’s stable boy was there, mucking out the stable of the dray mare. He gazed up at Rose through the grime on his face, then leaned saucily on his pitchfork as he looked her up and down.

As steadily as she could manage it, she walked past him to Douce’s stall. It was empty. Her stomach clenched hard and she caught her balance by holding onto a post.

“Where is my horse?” she asked.

‘Ain’t got one,
ma’amselle
,” he replied. “Mistress sold her at market last week.”

Rose jerked as if she had been slapped.

“Said you had no more need of her.”

Tears welled in her eyes; bile rose in the back of her mouth. She kept her wits about her and bobbed her head at the stable boy, her knuckles white as she unpeeled her fingers off the post and clutched the basket with both hands.

“Then I will take the dray mare,” she announced.

“No one touches her but me and your lady,” he
said, shaking his head. “If
madame
gives you her leave, you can do as you like.”

“Very well,” she replied. “I—I shall go ask her.”

Keeping to the shadows, she crept past the
château
.

Then she hurried into her garden. In her mind’s eye, the lush, wondrous flower grotto rippled like a stained glass window over the brown-and-green vegetable vines and sturdy beanstalks. She could see again the statue of Artemis and the fountain and the silvery stream. Gone, but still cherished.

She fell to her knees before the faceless scarecrow, where the goddess’s statue had stood.

“Artemis,” she said aloud. “Please, help me now I believe I am at the door of death itself and I no longer wish to open it. Please,
je vous en prie
. I am yours, and I beg you to save me.”

The blank-faced scarecrow stared down at her. Rose’s hands trembled hard. Just as she began to panic, a small voice whispered,
“You are loved.”

She looked down.

Another tiny purple bud had pushed through the surface of the rows of cabbages.

Little brown hooves moved into her field of vision; as she looked up, a small brown doe blinked its enormous eyes at her; then glowed with white light as its eyes turned blue. As Rose watched, it moved toward her. Then it carefully opened its mouth around the little bud, pulled it from the earth, and dropped it at Rose’s knees.

Slowly Rose reached down and picked it up. The
deer pawed the earth once, as if impatient to be off.

“All right then,” Rose whispered as she cradled the flower in her palm. “Lead me. Tell me where to go.”

The doe turned around, then looked back over its shoulder at her as it stepped forward, toward the forest.

“Death waits for me there,” Rose protested.

The doe took another step. A breeze whispered,
“If you know true love, you shall not die.”

“As you wish,” Rose whispered. She got to her feet, put the rosebud in her pocket, and followed.

In the Land Beyond..
.

The court painter and his wife made haste to prepare their
château
for the return of His Majesty. Fully recovered from the assassination attempt during the hunt, King Jean-Marc wished to reward them for their hospitality, for he had been carried from the forest to their
château
and stayed with them for several days. It was a formal occasion and he arrived with his retinue of groomsmen and guards. His chief advisor, Monsieur Sabot, had arranged the occasion and rode beside the king in his glittering coach.

The painter and his lady bowed deeply as Jean-Marc stepped regally onto their land. Jean-Marc knew
madame
, and his heart hurt a little at the sight of her. Claire had served Lucienne as a lady-in-waiting and married the painter after he came into the kings service. She carried a little bouquet of the most exquisite roses he had ever seen. They were a royal purple, velvet and jewellike.

Upon his approach, she gazed up at him joyfully and cried, “Your Majesty, we bid you welcome. Oh sir, come and see! It is a miracle!”

He looked from Claire to her husband. A tall, blond man, his name was Reginer Marchand, and he was from the Forested Land.

Knitting his brows, Monsieur Sabot stepped forward. “What is this?” he asked Monsieur Marchand.

Monsieur Marchand bowed even lower and said, “With all due respect and deference, Monsieur Sabot, this concerns . . . a situation . . . from a time before I came to court. And so, I must leave the matter to my wife.”

Monsieur Sabot frowned. Jean-Marc raised a brow. Then Claire touched the petals of the purple roses and said, “I must prepare you, sire. There is a woman ... oh, come and see!”

“Perhaps I should go first,” Monsieur Sabot said prudently.

But Jean-Marc gave him a wave to signify his indulgence. Bemused, he allowed Claire to escort him through the lovely
chateau
. He smelled paint and turpentine.

They went into a room Jean-Marc had not seen on his previous visit. A quick glance told him it was Monsieur Marchand’s art studio. Canvases and painting supplies lined the walls and drop cloths protected the floor.

“Look,” Claire urged Jean-Marc, leading him around to face the canvas.

It was a portrait of a delicate woman with hair of silvery-gold and eyes of starry midnight blue.

She was the exact likeness of Lucienne, dead for more than two years.

“By my father Zeus,” Jean-Marc blurted. And then his heart whispered,
Artemis, Artemis, Artemis
, three times in quick succession, in time with his thundering pulse.

He staggered backward and would have fallen, but someone placed a chair behind him. He wasn’t certain that he was breathing. He could hear nothing, see nothing but the portrait, and the memory of his lost love. The wound of grief inside him gave him such pain that he gasped aloud. And yet, seeing the face of his beloved stabbed him through the heart with an equal measure of joy.

It
was
Lucienne, down to her eyebrows and her small, straight nose. Down to the curve of her mouth.

He forgot how to breathe. How to think. He was adrift, drowning. He could not see the surface of the river of his life. He didn’t want to. He wanted to see only ... her.

Seeing the kings confusion, Claire said, “Your Majesty, this is a woman who sold some roses to my husband:”

The lady was delicate and beautiful and wearing clothes of mourning. She held an armful of purple roses, identical to the ones Claire Marchand still carried.

Then reason rushed into his mind as air rushed into his lungs. He was a fool if he dared to hope so. This was no phantom. This was coincidence and
nothing more. “Refashioned by his artist’s eye into the very picture of the queen,” Jean-Marc said tightly. “To please me.”