Rose & Thorn Page 4

  “I won’t,” I mumbled, and fell down into a deep pit of sleep and grief.

  WHEN I WOKE up I cried all the tears I had left in me, and felt wrung out, like a rag, dry and empty. It was morning, I realized, when I stepped out from behind the curtain and into the dim, cramped main room.

  Merry wasn’t there, but an animal was. It was small, with black fur and white paws and white-tipped ears, and it was curled on a cushioned chair by the hearth. I stepped closer to see. Without opening its eyes, it flicked its ears, as if telling me to go away.

  “Oh,” I breathed. “You’re a cat, aren’t you?” It was so pretty and sleek; I wanted to pick it up and stroke it, but cats, I knew, had claws, too, and could scratch if they didn’t like you.

  Circling its chair, I went to the door and peered out. Merry had wanted to keep me hidden away. I assumed it was because Shoe had told her that I was under a curse.

  At the thought of Shoe, a feeling of desolation swept over me. Opening the door wider, I stepped outside, sat on Merry’s doorstep, where no one from the village could see me, and found that I did have some tears left in me after all.

  After a while, I gave a shuddering sigh and scolded myself. Shoe would have something to say about all of this weeping. How can you see your way forward, Rosie, if your eyes are all smudged with tears?

  “You’re right, Shoe,” I whispered. Wiping my tears away with the hem of my dress, I sat up and looked around. A narrow dirt path led from Merry’s cottage, through a gate in a stone wall, and then joined a wider path that led to the village. The air smelled of woodsmoke and animal manure, but I could still smell the fresh pine and fern scent of the forest, too. The houses that I could see were built of logs plastered with some sort of white substance, with small windows and low roofs. Getting to my feet, I walked to the gate to see better. The nearest cottages had little gardens at their backs, and a shed for animals, and had stacks of firewood piled nearly to the eaves. Winter was coming. Shoe and I had been chopping our own firewood, up in our valley.

  “Stop it,” I told myself, as tears threatened again.

  I heard a squeak and a rattle, and looking to the left I saw, on a path leading from the forest, some sort of small horse with long ears pulling a wagon piled with logs. Next to it walked a young man.

  I couldn’t help it—I stared. He was the first person I’d ever seen who was even close to my own age. He wore a homespun brown shirt and leather trousers and ill-made boots—Shoe could have done better—and he was tall and had a wide, full-lipped mouth, and brown hair cut very short.

  When he saw me, he stopped, staring right back at me. His horse—I didn’t think it was a horse, really, it was something else—took two more steps and then it stopped, too.

  “Who are you?” he asked bluntly. He came closer, then, slowly, examined me from head to foot, his gaze lingering on my face.

  I wasn’t used to being stared at. I crossed my arms over my chest—as if that was any protection—and looked down at the ground.

  His footsteps crunched on the path, and then he was leaning over the wall, reaching out with a big hand to tip up my chin so he could see me better.

  I flinched away from his touch.

  “Well, well, well,” he said. He spoke with a different accent from Shoe’s, and from mine. The same as Merry’s, I realized. As if he was speaking through a mouth full of pebbles, all blurred and drawling. “A visitor, are you?”

  He was still staring at my face.

  I wasn’t shy—I’d always wanted to meet more people—but the hungry way he looked at me made me feel strange. Prickly.

  “What’s your name, you pretty thing?” he asked.

  Rosie, I almost said, but that was Shoe’s name for me. I didn’t want this young man to call me by it. “Rose,” I answered.

  “You’re a pretty one, ain’t you, Rose?” he asked, leaning closer.

  I was glad for the wall between us. “I—I don’t know,” I stammered. Was he making fun of me? I knew my eyes must be red from crying, my hair tangled, and my face smudged with tears.

  “Oh, you know you are,” he said. His mouth twisted into a smile that didn’t seem very friendly. “I’m Tom. My da is the blacksmith.” He nodded toward the village. “We live just down the—”

  He broke off. Coming up the path from the village was Merry, carrying a covered basket and scowling at me. As she came through the gate, she turned her frown on him. “Get along with you, Tom,” she said with her usual crossness.

  “Been hiding this dainty one away?” he asked, jerking his chin in my direction.

  “Tcha” was her only answer, and seizing me by the elbow, she dragged me with her into the cottage, slamming the door behind us. It was dim, the only light coming in through a small window. “I thought I told you to stay inside,” she complained, handing me the basket and then lighting a lamp. “Here, make yourself useful and put these away.”

  The basket was full of food. “I didn’t know you meant—” I tried to explain, but she interrupted me with another impatient tcha. I unloaded the basket, setting dried apples, a pottery bowl of butter, and a small loaf of bread on the table. I didn’t know the proper place for any of it, so she slapped my hands and put it all away herself, on shelves next to the hearth.

  I retreated to the window and looked out.

  “Get away from there,” Merry scolded.

  The cat was still curled in the chair, so I crouched next to the hearth. The fire there had gone out, and the ashes were cold and dead. I sighed, feeling rather gray and chilly myself. Shoe had never spoken to me the way Merry did. I didn’t know what I’d done to make her so cross.

  THE NEXT DAY, Merry set me to dusting the shelves over her work counter and helping her sort through all the boxes and bags and bottles. I tried asking her questions about Shoe and the Penwitch, and about the City, because she seemed to know more about it than I did, but the only answer I got was a glare. For dinner, Merry made potato pancakes with applesauce, which we ate in silence at her small table. That night Merry took her own bed back again, and I slept on the floor by the hearth with the cat’s cushion under my head. It was wet with my tears before I managed to fall asleep.

  The next morning, there was a knock on the door. Merry went to answer it. Standing on her doorstep was Tom, along with another young man, who craned his neck, trying to peer over Merry’s head and into the cottage.

  “Can’t your pretty visitor come out for a walk around the village?” I heard Tom’s deep voice asking.

  I jumped up from the hearth, where I’d been trying to pet the cat, who was just as cranky as Merry, putting its ears back and hissing whenever I reached out a hand to it. I was used to being outside for much of the day, working in the garden, or looking after the goats, or rambling around our valley. I hadn’t much liked Tom when I’d met him before—something about the way he looked at me made me feel on edge—but Merry’s tiny cottage was starting to feel like a locked box, and I was itching to escape from it.

  “I’d like a walk,” I said, shaking out my skirts. When I had woken up, I’d washed my face and combed and braided my hair, so I hoped Tom wouldn’t stare at me as he had before.

  Merry had been irritable all day; despite her intention to keep me in, she wanted me out as much as I wanted to go out. “Go, then,” she said with a shrug. “But be careful.”

  It was too soon after losing Shoe for me to smile, but I brightened as I stepped into the brilliantly golden autumn day. The sky overhead was a deep blue, and the air felt clean and brisk as I breathed it in. I knew the village was tiny, but it seemed like an entire new world to explore, full of many new people to meet.

  “Oh, you were right, Tom,” said the other young man. He was shorter than Tom, and broad, and had thick, wavy black hair and a pockmarked face that was made distinctive by heavy black brows that overshadowed his narrow eyes. “Hello, Rose,” he said, giving me a gap-toothed smile. “I’m Marty. You and I are going to be friends, aren’t we?”


  Friends. I liked the idea—I’d never had friends before—but I didn’t smile back. “I suppose so,” I answered.

  Tom leaned closer and seized my hand, then placed it on his arm. “Let’s have our walk, Rose.”

  Marty took my other arm, and they led me through the gate and away from Merry’s cottage. I glanced over my shoulder to see her standing in the doorway, scowling. Then she shook her head and went back inside.

  Tom and Marty showed me around the village—I saw the smithy, and a mill, and a shop that sold everything from needles and thread to salt and sugar. We encountered some other people, but even though I wanted to stop and say hello, they didn’t introduce me, they just dragged me on.

  “This way,” Tom said, and he was looking hungrily at me again. “You’ll want to see this.” He started pulling me down a path that led toward the forest.

  I was starting to feel like the rag doll that Shoe had made for me when I was small. “No, thank you,” I said, disengaging my arms from both of them. “I should get back to Merry’s cottage. She won’t like me to be gone for too long.” This wasn’t entirely true, but I was feeling less and less certain that I wanted to go along with them.

  Tom stepped closer. “What, too good for us, are you?”

  I blinked. “No, not at all,” I said.

  “Give us a kiss, then,” Marty said from behind me.

  “To show that we’re friends,” Tom added.

  Before I could decide whether I wanted to kiss him or not, he grabbed me by the shoulders, leaned in, and pressed his lips against mine. I tried pulling away, but he gripped me harder.

  “Here, give me a turn,” Marty complained.

  Tom released me. Before Marty could get close, I stepped back. “No,” I said, rubbing the back of my hand against my lips, trying to scrub off the feel of the kiss. “No, I don’t think so.” I kept backing away. “I—I don’t think I like either of you very much.”

  Tom’s face twisted into a sneer. “Oh, come on, sweetheart. We like you a lot.”

  “You’re not going to run away, are you?” Marty said, and he started to circle around behind me.

  Suddenly I was frightened. As Marty reached out for me, I ducked under his hands and darted past him. Without looking back, I ran along the path, then down the rutted road that led through the village, until I reached Merry’s gate. Panting, I went through it, then checked to see if they’d followed. The path was empty. Wearily I trudged to Merry’s door. I didn’t want to go back into the dark box that was her cottage, but I was starting to realize that I wasn’t safe outside her gate.

  At dinner she refused to speak to me, and when I tried to explain what had happened, she told me sharply to be quiet. I ate in silence, washed the dishes, and looked around for something else to do. Maybe if I made myself useful, she’d approve of me a bit more.

  “I can see to the goats,” I offered. Merry was sitting with the cat on her lap, staring into the fire; she didn’t answer. Taking up the bucket, I went out the door. While we’d been eating dinner, the sun had set, but there was still enough light to see the gray outlines of the cottage and the little shed behind it. Stepping carefully, I went down the path to the shed.

  “I should have brought a light,” I muttered to myself. But Merry had only the one lantern.

  At the shed, I fumbled for the latch at the door, then pushed it open. Inside, the shed smelled of hay and goat droppings. I stretched out my hand to feel for the goats’ stall, and my fingers brushed cloth.

  A hand grabbed me from out of the darkness; before I could cry out, another hand clamped over my mouth. I was dragged deeper into the shed and slammed against a wall, and a long, hard body pressed against mine, holding me there. I gasped for breath behind his big, callused hand. He panted loudly in my ear and started to shove his other hand inside the bodice of my dress. I tried to kick him, but his weight and my skirts pinned me against the wall. Frantically, I flailed with my hands, hitting at his face, his chest, yanking at his hair, but he leaned harder, groping at me. Sparks danced before my eyes; I couldn’t get enough air.

  “Stop,” I gasped.

  He leaned his full weight against me. “You know you want it,” he rasped into my ear.

  It was Tom. My friend. “No.” I pushed at him, but he was too big, too strong. “No, I don’t.” I didn’t know what he meant, but I knew I didn’t want it.

  He shoved his hips against mine. “You wouldn’t look like that if you meant no.” He nuzzled his face into my neck.

  With a bang, the door to the shed slammed open; a dim light seeped along the walls. “Rose?” cried a querulous voice. Merry.

  The only answer I could give was a strangled cry, but it was enough.

  Tom grunted, then pressed himself against me again, his stubbled face, his mouth gaping against mine, and then he released me, hurrying from the shed, brushing past Merry, who stood in the doorway with the lantern.

  For a moment I leaned against the wall, trying to catch my breath. My mouth felt bruised, scraped raw. My knees shook as the fright echoed through me and then ebbed.

  “He was . . . ,” I gasped. “He was waiting for me.”

  “You arranged to meet him,” Merry corrected. She muttered something else.

  “No!” I shook my head. “No, I didn’t.” Taking a shaky breath, I straightened my dress. The tie at the end of my braid had come off, and my hair straggled over my shoulders.

  “Liar,” Merry said. In the meager lantern light, her face was deeply shadowed and scornful.

  “No,” I said again, hopelessly. “What did he want? What was he trying to do to me?”

  Merry huffed out an impatient breath. “Do you know anything about the world? Did Shoe explain nothing to you?”

  At the thought of Shoe, all of my sorrow welled up again. Tears rolled down my face. Wordlessly, I shook my head.

  “What a nuisance. Well, you’d better come along inside,” she said begrudgingly.

  In the cottage, she sat me down and made tea, and explained about what men wanted from women—and women from men, too. “It’s supposed to be loving,” she said. “But it isn’t always.”

  I thought I understood—I’d read enough stories to know how people fell in love. “But why me?” I asked. “He said—Tom said that I looked like I wanted him to—to do that to me, but I didn’t.”

  “It’s because they’ve never seen anyone like you,” Merry said shortly.

  “Someone who is cursed?” I guessed. I knew my rose marked me as cursed, but maybe it showed in other ways, too.

  “Tcha.” Merry set down her teacup, got up from her chair, and went to her work counter, where she climbed on the stool and took something flat and wrapped in cloth from a shelf. Unwrapping it, she handed it to me. “Look at yourself,” she said.

  I’d heard stories about mirrors, but I’d never seen one before. Never seen myself, that is. I held it up and looked into it. A young woman looked back at me. Blond, blue-eyed, her lips a little swollen from being kissed so roughly. But there was something strange about her, something different about her face, something that made me unable to look away. “I don’t understand,” I said slowly.

  “You’re beautiful, you stupid girl,” Merry said, taking the mirror from my hands. “Stunning. Gorgeous. No one around here has ever seen anyone like you. Very likely you’re the most beautiful girl in the entire world.”

  CHAPTER

  4

  IN THE GRAY LIGHT BEFORE SUNUP, GRIFF TOOK OUT A clean uniform tunic; then, wearing an undershirt, he left the room he shared with nine other Watchers who were just starting to awaken. Quietly he padded down a long hallway past other rooms to the stone stairs that led to the lower level of the barracks, which held officers’ larger rooms, the dining hall, and the infirmary. The sword cut had stopped bleeding, but it had bothered him all night, and he hadn’t gotten much sleep. In the infirmary, the physician grumpily set aside her morning tea to deal with him.

  “Sword?” she asked, as he took
off his shirt.

  Griff nodded.

  “Hmm,” the physician murmured, examining him. “Should have come in last night.”

  “Too late,” Griff said briefly.

  “Hmph,” chided the physician. “Well, it doesn’t look like an infection is starting here. You must have a strong constitution.” She looked him up and down, noting the other scars on his chest and the long-healed puncture wound on his upper arm. “I’ve stitched you up before.”

  Griff nodded. Since he was seven years old he’d trained to become a Watcher, and once he’d become proficient he’d sparred with edged weapons. And he had encountered his share of trouble when on patrol. Injuries were expected.

  “You might try being a little more careful.” The physician went to a side table, where she prepared a needle with thick black thread. Coming back to Griff, she got to work. Her hands were cold, and she was not at all gentle, so Griff found himself gritting his teeth and staring hard at the bare wall to keep from flinching as she stitched him up. She finished by wrapping what seemed like an acre of bandage around his chest.

  “There,” she said, tying off the end of the bandage with a jerk. “You’re the Lord Protector’s son. I suppose that means it’s pointless to tell you to skip training today.”

  Griff didn’t bother answering. Stiffly he pulled on his uniform and hurried outside to the training yard that was next to the barracks. Quirk was already there, along with the eight others of his cohort, a mix of men and women, all older than Griff was, and more experienced. The Watchers trained in shifts of six cohorts at a time, the same number that would, after training and breakfast, head out for patrols of the subsections of the City. For the past five years Griff had been a Watcher; about every few months his father reassigned him to a different cohort. Griff figured the Lord Protector did it partly to educate him about the City, but also to keep him from getting too attached to anyone. His time paired with Quirk was almost over, and he dreaded his next assignment. He didn’t want to leave Quirk, who was the closest thing to a friend he’d ever had, and he felt fairly certain his next assignment would be with Luth and the prison cohort.