Rosemary and Rue

TWELVE

I DIDN’T WORRY ABOUT PROPRIETY as I came running out of the audience chamber; I just dropped my skirts and let my forehead rest against the cool stone of the nearest pillar, taking deep breaths as I struggled not to break down and cry. I’d been avoiding the Torquills for six months because I didn’t want to face Sylvester, and all I’d been doing was letting him sink further into his own guilt. Had I been doing anybody any favors with the way I’d been behaving?

The page was gone when I looked up. Good. It had been a long week—one that kept getting longer—and I didn’t trust myself to be polite, especially not after what had just happened with the Torquills. My manners have always been the first thing to go when I get upset, and some people say that they stopped coming back a long time ago.

Slicking a few wayward wisps of hair back from my face, I turned to start down the hall, and nearly tripped over the hem of my dress. Cheeks burning, I picked up my skirt and started again, swearing under my breath. I hate Court attire.

At least the irritation lifted my mood, making it harder to dwell on how wrong I’d been about Sylvester’s reaction to my return. I walked around the corner, stepping over a hopscotch grid some kid had finger painted on the marble floor and opened a door at random. The walls of the hall on the other side were papered in a tasteless pattern of yellow mustard and flowering heather, and I nodded, satisfied that I was going the right way. I kept walking.

The first time I came to Shadowed Hills, I was nine years old, and I was awed. Then I was annoyed, and then I was lost. The halls bend back on themselves and loop in long, impossible curves; doors you’ve seen before lead places you’ve never been, and doors that weren’t there yesterday take you right back where you started. It’s like a giant labyrinth with a sense of humor, and it can be really annoying. I learned to find my way around the place by memorizing landmarks, combining practice with sheer good luck, and sometimes I still found myself wishing for a pocketful of bread crumbs.

The yellow-and-purple walls gave way to plain stone, cobblestones replacing the checkerboard marble of the floor. Rose goblins watched me from windowsills and the corners of rooms, replacing the more common cats that tend to lurk in knowes. Sylvester, ironically enough, is allergic. Luckily, his wife’s gardens provide plenty of spiny replacements for the standard feline. Rose goblins look like cats, act in a similar fashion, and shed thorns instead of fur. The perfect hypoallergenic pet.

Most of Shadowed Hills borders on tacky, but Luna’s gardens make up for it. She has at least a dozen, and she tends them all herself. Kitsune aren’t known for their gardening skills. Luna’s something special. She’s a goose girl in a lady’s clothes when she’s playing Duchess, but among the flowers, she’s a Queen. They do everything but bow when she walks by.

The third hall I turned down dead-ended just past the winter kitchens, ending at a plain wooden door with a stained glass rose set at eye level. Smiling, I pushed the door open and stepped through into the Garden of Glass Roses.

Anything Luna touches grows, but roses have always been her pride and joy. The Garden of Glass Roses is entirely enclosed, filling a circular room with white marble walls that give way about ten feet up to a filigreed silver-and-glass dome. White crushed quartz pathways glitter in the sunlight that filters through the roses, throwing up glints of prismatic color. And everywhere, roses, growing in wild, seemingly unfettered profusion. Their slight transparency seems odd at first glance, until the mind admits what the eye is seeing: every flower, every petal and bud, is living, blossoming glass, stained with washes of flawless color. Best of all, glass roses have no scent. That garden is one of the very few places in Shadowed Hills that doesn’t smell like roses.

Twitching my skirt away from reaching thorns, I walked down the nearest path to a bench carved from the same unornamented marble as the walls. Gowns are for dancing, not for roving in the roses—not that I do much of either when I can help it. I sat down with a groan, dropping my head into my hands.

This case was like a puzzle box: Every time I pushed a piece aside, there was another one waiting. Human logic has never been able to stand up to fae insanity, and I’d been thinking like a human for too long, because the longer I looked at things, the less sense they seemed to make. Evening was working with Devin, right up until the hope chest she’d somehow been hiding got her killed. Sylvester was surprised by the murder, but Raysel laughed. The Queen of the Mists wouldn’t help me, even though Evening was a pureblood, and she didn’t want me looking for answers. What the hell was going on?

Nothing ever makes reliable sense when the fae are involved: the only constant about us is that we force things to change.

Something rustled in the underbrush. I raised my head, but the only motion I saw came from the crystal butterflies flitting dutifully from flower to flower: glass insects to pollinate glass roses. “Hello?” I called, fighting down my natural paranoia. Nothing would attack me in Shadowed Hills. Besides, if something did, I’d just hit them with the local flora until they cut it out.

“Hello!” The cheerful reply originated from inside a thick patch of red and purple love-lies-bleeding. “That you, Toby?”

“Usually,” I said, tone wary. “Who’s there?”

The flowers rustled, and Connor O’Dell rolled out of them, grinning. He’d managed to lose his coronet somewhere between the throne room and the garden, and there were rose petals in his hair. “Me,” he said, standing. At least someone was having a decent day. Maybe it was just getting away from Raysel; that could cheer anyone up. “I didn’t think you liked roses.”

“I don’t like most roses.”

“But you like these roses?”

“I like these roses.” He walked over to sit down next to me with a jaunty flourish. I bit back a smile. “You have something in your hair.”

“Do I?” He shook his head like a dog trying to shed water after a bath, and yellow glass rose petals showered down onto the bench, ringing like crystal as they hit the marble. “Huh. I guess I did. That’ll teach me to hide out under the rosebushes.”

“No, you’ll learn that lesson the first time you roll over on one of these babies and get yourself a cut where it really hurts,” I said, flicking a petal.

Connor winced. “Are you speaking from experience?”

“Oh, yeah. Those suckers cut right through denim.”

“Well, what did you expect glass roses to be? Soft?” He grinned, obviously trying to be endearing. It only half worked; I knew him too well to fall for it.

“Not really. Fragile, maybe, or sharp.” I picked up a petal, testing the edge with my thumb. It cut deep and clean. I hate the sight of my own blood, but it was blood that started the whole mess, and it would probably be blood that ended it. “They can defend themselves. I respect that.”

“So can normal roses. They have thorns.”

“So? These roses are nothing but thorns. They can’t help protecting themselves.” I dropped the petal, rubbing my thumb and forefinger together. “Do you hide in the roses often?”

“Only when I want to be left alone. This is a good garden for hiding.”

I looked around. “I’ve never understood why people don’t come here more often.”

Connor gestured to my bloody fingers, saying, “The roses are too sharp for most people. They want to pick flowers for their lovers and write bad poetry comparing the two—‘my love is like a red, red rose,’ and all that mess.” He leaned back on his hands. “Who wants to compare their lover to a flower that’s so sharp it cuts everything it touches?”

“A flower that blooms no matter what the weather or season is like and can actually defend itself when it needs to? I don’t see the problem.” I shrugged. “If someone wanted to call me a glass rose, I wouldn’t complain.”

“No, I guess not,” he said. The light through the roses cast shadows across his face, outlining his chin and cheekbones in layers of blue, green, and pale purple. His expression was grave; there was something in his eyes that I recognized, even if I didn’t want to admit it. For a moment, I found myself cursing Rayseline Torquill for getting there first. I could’ve used a man who’d look at me that way now that I was back among the living . . . but she did get there first, whatever my feelings on the subject might be. I had my chance to take that ship. I refused it for Cliff, and for the joy of playing faerie bride. If I had the chance to do it again, would I have made the same choices? Probably. Did I regret it anyway? Yes. I did.

“We are what we are,” I said. “How’s Raysel, Connor? Did she settle down?”

Connor turned away, stopping the play of light across his face. I suddenly found it easier to breathe. “She’s fine. And yeah, she calmed down.”

“Good. I was afraid there might be something wrong with her.”

“You mean there isn’t?” He sounded bitter and amused at the same time. It was a strange combination.

“Probably not,” I said, more slowly.

“You look lovely today. I wanted to remember to tell you.” He looked back at me, smiling. “This is the first time I’ve seen you in a dress where you didn’t come off looking like a bear on a leash. It suits you.”

I didn’t want him smiling at me like that. Not now. I stood and crossed to the nearest stand of love-lies-bleeding, resting my fingertips against a flower. “I like these, too, even though they don’t have thorns,” I said, hoping he’d take the hint and let me change the subject. “They go beautifully with the glass roses. Do they grow in the mortal world, or are they another of Luna’s creations?”

“They’re mortal flowers,” he said. He was allowing my incredibly transparent change of subject. Clever boy. “I don’t know about the bluegrass—it seems too literal—but the purple flowers are a human thing.”

“They have such a great name. Love-lies-bleeding. I wonder why they call them that.” I left my fingers resting against the edge of the flower, looking down. It was better than trying to look at him.

“Why do the humans do anything?” I heard him stand, feet scuffling on the broken quartz path. “Luna gave me a bunch for my birthday—this huge vase filled with love-lies-bleeding and love-lies-dying and six kinds of love-in-idleness. If she wasn’t my mother-in-law, I’d think it was a hint, but since she is my mother-in-law, I know it’s a hint.”

“What does she want?” I asked, not looking up. “Grandchildren?”

“What would Luna do with grandchildren? Plant them?”

I had to chuckle. “True enough. So do you know what she wants?”

“Yes.”

“What is it?” I said, finally looking over at him.

Connor brushed the dirt off his pants, looking at anything and everything but me. “You know, now that I think about it, bluegrass isn’t usually blue. It’s green. It has to be something she came up with.”

“Connor—”

He raised his hand. I stopped, just watching him. He looked back at me, seal-dark eyes grave, and said, “She wants me to fall in love with her daughter.” Suddenly formal, he bowed. “Have a good afternoon, Toby. Enjoy your roses. I’m sorry about Evening.” He turned while I was still gaping, openmouthed, and walked out of the garden, leaving me alone.