and lettuces and turnips. As with Celestine’s rose garden, the seeds exploded and bloomed into a profusion of vegetables, so perfect and plentiful that soon they were the talk of the village. Ombrine didn’t give Rose any credit for the luxurious yield. The dirt was rich there, she claimed. It was obvious: Hadn’t the rose garden flourished as well?
But Desirée said, “Always give credit where it is due, Mother, or
someone
might get angry.”
“Hush.” Ombrine glared at Desirée. “You are unbelievably reckless and foolhardy.” Then to Rose she said, “You’ve done well.” She glared at her daughter again, as if in warning.
Rose had no illusions that Desirée had meant that she deserved the credit. Her stepfamily was quarreling about a different matter altogether. She cast down her eyes, picturing the strange herbs in the garden and the shadow she thought she had seen so long ago. They were still up to something, still inleague with shadows. She remembered Ombrine’s talk of sorcerers in the land, and an icy finger of dread tapped against her backbone.
Ombrine, Rose, and Desirée went to market once a week, and the masters of the neighboring estates sent their cooks to lay claim on the Marchand bounty as soon as the wagon wheels clattered into the town square.
Each trip, Rose stole away to Elise’s grave. The roses had grown into three large bushes, which sent out shoots to the neighboring graves. The mounds of the dead were wild with color. As she pruned them and fed them and checked them for parasites, Rose would sit and talk aloud as if Elise were still alive, and the purple roses would murmur to her that she was loved. The garden was magnificent and Rose knew that love made it grow. Seeing the glorious evidence that love could not die, she dared to hope that someday, another living person would love her.
One market day, as she sat beside the grave, a shadow fell across the rosebush and she looked up, startled. A tall blond man towered over her and he took a step backward when he looked at her. He was much older than she and dressed in the black-and-gold livery of the king. There was something about the smile lines around his eyes that made her unafraid of him and she smiled at him in turn.
When their gazes locked, his eyes widened, and he swept a courtly bow. Rose was amused by hisgallantry; she sat in tatters and rags, and he was clearly a gentleman, above her in every way. She got to her feet and curtsied.
“Bonjour, monsieur,”
she said politely.
“Bonjour,”
he replied. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude on your privacy. I saw those roses from the road, and I had to take a closer look. I’ve never seen anything like them.”
“Non, monsieur,”
she replied. “I expect you haven’t.”
Together they looked at the flowers. Their purple hue was vibrant and alive. Rose watched to see if he could hear their whispers but he gave no indication.
“Might I buy one?”
“Oui.”
Rose was astonished at herself. The word had sprung from her lips, although she had had no plan to say yes. Then, because she had never sold one of the roses and didn’t want to now, she named an outrageous price.
“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 paidher 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
But Desirée said, “Always give credit where it is due, Mother, or
someone
might get angry.”
“Hush.” Ombrine glared at Desirée. “You are unbelievably reckless and foolhardy.” Then to Rose she said, “You’ve done well.” She glared at her daughter again, as if in warning.
Rose had no illusions that Desirée had meant that she deserved the credit. Her stepfamily was quarreling about a different matter altogether. She cast down her eyes, picturing the strange herbs in the garden and the shadow she thought she had seen so long ago. They were still up to something, still inleague with shadows. She remembered Ombrine’s talk of sorcerers in the land, and an icy finger of dread tapped against her backbone.
Ombrine, Rose, and Desirée went to market once a week, and the masters of the neighboring estates sent their cooks to lay claim on the Marchand bounty as soon as the wagon wheels clattered into the town square.
Each trip, Rose stole away to Elise’s grave. The roses had grown into three large bushes, which sent out shoots to the neighboring graves. The mounds of the dead were wild with color. As she pruned them and fed them and checked them for parasites, Rose would sit and talk aloud as if Elise were still alive, and the purple roses would murmur to her that she was loved. The garden was magnificent and Rose knew that love made it grow. Seeing the glorious evidence that love could not die, she dared to hope that someday, another living person would love her.
One market day, as she sat beside the grave, a shadow fell across the rosebush and she looked up, startled. A tall blond man towered over her and he took a step backward when he looked at her. He was much older than she and dressed in the black-and-gold livery of the king. There was something about the smile lines around his eyes that made her unafraid of him and she smiled at him in turn.
When their gazes locked, his eyes widened, and he swept a courtly bow. Rose was amused by hisgallantry; she sat in tatters and rags, and he was clearly a gentleman, above her in every way. She got to her feet and curtsied.
“Bonjour, monsieur,”
she said politely.
“Bonjour,”
he replied. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude on your privacy. I saw those roses from the road, and I had to take a closer look. I’ve never seen anything like them.”
“Non, monsieur,”
she replied. “I expect you haven’t.”
Together they looked at the flowers. Their purple hue was vibrant and alive. Rose watched to see if he could hear their whispers but he gave no indication.
“Might I buy one?”
“Oui.”
Rose was astonished at herself. The word had sprung from her lips, although she had had no plan to say yes. Then, because she had never sold one of the roses and didn’t want to now, she named an outrageous price.
“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 paidher 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
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