TWIN ROSES CAFÉ was known by its two signature rose trees: white roses bloomed to the left of the door, red roses to the right. Inside, the floor was painted cherry red; the walls were white with a mural of black roses, castles, and crowned bears in silhouette. Vanilla cupcakes went on one side of the pastry case, red velvet on the other. There were crown-shaped sugar cookies, white chocolate and cranberry scones, lattes topped with foam roses.
When you did a fairy-tale theme in Beau Rivage, you did it all the way.
Ruby Ramble brewed coffee and chatted with customers while her twin sister, Pearl, mixed batter and shaped cookies in the kitchen. The sisters’ curse had inspired the theme for their mother’s café, and they were as much a part of the atmosphere as the decor. Ruby with her bright red lipstick, Pearl withthe dusting of flour on her braided hair and dark brown skin.
There was a hand-painted sign nailed to the counter:
Please don’t feed the bears
. The customers got a kick out of it—and it
was
a bad idea. Just because the occasional enchanted animal wandered through town didn’t mean every black bear deserved a cupcake. And on the wall behind Ruby was a poster that read:
My cupcakes bring all the bears to the yard
. Though it had been years since the bear prince had appeared in the Rambles’ yard, let alone anywhere else.
The café’s best seller was their Twin Roses cupcake—red velvet cake topped with vanilla buttercream and decorated with two marzipan roses. They were a nod to the twin roses Pearl and Ruby had on their lower backs: their märchen marks, the sign of the Snow White and Rose Red curse they shared. Pearl’s mark was composed of two white roses; Ruby’s double roses were a rich bloodred. They’d had the marks since they were six months old and, unlike some Cursed, they weren’t afraid of their shared destiny. They were fated to care for each other, to always be there for each other, to keep each other safe. Animals loved them and, thanks to a fairy’s gift, no harm would ever come to them.
They were more blessed than cursed.
Until they found something they couldn’t share.
“Do you remember when we were kids?” Pearl asked. She was in the kitchen after hours, putting away a fresh batch of marzipan roses while Ruby swept the floor out front.
“Are you asking because you think I have amnesia?” Ruby called.
“No. I was just thinking. Remembering our friend.”
Our friend
was the way they referred to the prince: the little black bear who had knocked on their door one winter night when the sisters were eight years old, and asked to come in. He hadn’t been in danger of freezing—it rarely got cold in Beau Rivage—but he was hungry and lonely.
Mrs. Ramble had invited the poor cub inside, and the sisters fed him blackberry jam and raw honey from a jar. Pearl brushed the dead leaves from his fur while Ruby picked off the brambles, and then the two girls piled on top of him like he was a giant pillow, and all three watched cartoons together. That night the bear slept on the rug in front of the TV, the all-night cartoon channel keeping him company, and in the morning Pearl and Ruby fed him cinnamon toast, bacon, and waffles with honey. Some nights the bear prince made a weeping sound, and Pearl and Ruby would creep down the stairs and pat him and feed him Pop-Tarts until he seemed cheerful again.
The bear came almost every night that winter, the next winter, and the next. The winter of their eleventh year, the girls expected him; they’d stockpiled his favorite foods and made a bed of pillows for him on the carpet. But the bear prince never returned. Not that year or any year after. When the sisters were fourteen, Pearl had spotted a black bear rooting through their neighbor’s trash, and Ruby ran up to it and cried, “Where have you been?” But the bear—whoever it was—had fled.
“I remember everything from back then,” Ruby said, her voice softening. The sisters
When you did a fairy-tale theme in Beau Rivage, you did it all the way.
Ruby Ramble brewed coffee and chatted with customers while her twin sister, Pearl, mixed batter and shaped cookies in the kitchen. The sisters’ curse had inspired the theme for their mother’s café, and they were as much a part of the atmosphere as the decor. Ruby with her bright red lipstick, Pearl withthe dusting of flour on her braided hair and dark brown skin.
There was a hand-painted sign nailed to the counter:
Please don’t feed the bears
. The customers got a kick out of it—and it
was
a bad idea. Just because the occasional enchanted animal wandered through town didn’t mean every black bear deserved a cupcake. And on the wall behind Ruby was a poster that read:
My cupcakes bring all the bears to the yard
. Though it had been years since the bear prince had appeared in the Rambles’ yard, let alone anywhere else.
The café’s best seller was their Twin Roses cupcake—red velvet cake topped with vanilla buttercream and decorated with two marzipan roses. They were a nod to the twin roses Pearl and Ruby had on their lower backs: their märchen marks, the sign of the Snow White and Rose Red curse they shared. Pearl’s mark was composed of two white roses; Ruby’s double roses were a rich bloodred. They’d had the marks since they were six months old and, unlike some Cursed, they weren’t afraid of their shared destiny. They were fated to care for each other, to always be there for each other, to keep each other safe. Animals loved them and, thanks to a fairy’s gift, no harm would ever come to them.
They were more blessed than cursed.
Until they found something they couldn’t share.
“Do you remember when we were kids?” Pearl asked. She was in the kitchen after hours, putting away a fresh batch of marzipan roses while Ruby swept the floor out front.
“Are you asking because you think I have amnesia?” Ruby called.
“No. I was just thinking. Remembering our friend.”
Our friend
was the way they referred to the prince: the little black bear who had knocked on their door one winter night when the sisters were eight years old, and asked to come in. He hadn’t been in danger of freezing—it rarely got cold in Beau Rivage—but he was hungry and lonely.
Mrs. Ramble had invited the poor cub inside, and the sisters fed him blackberry jam and raw honey from a jar. Pearl brushed the dead leaves from his fur while Ruby picked off the brambles, and then the two girls piled on top of him like he was a giant pillow, and all three watched cartoons together. That night the bear slept on the rug in front of the TV, the all-night cartoon channel keeping him company, and in the morning Pearl and Ruby fed him cinnamon toast, bacon, and waffles with honey. Some nights the bear prince made a weeping sound, and Pearl and Ruby would creep down the stairs and pat him and feed him Pop-Tarts until he seemed cheerful again.
The bear came almost every night that winter, the next winter, and the next. The winter of their eleventh year, the girls expected him; they’d stockpiled his favorite foods and made a bed of pillows for him on the carpet. But the bear prince never returned. Not that year or any year after. When the sisters were fourteen, Pearl had spotted a black bear rooting through their neighbor’s trash, and Ruby ran up to it and cried, “Where have you been?” But the bear—whoever it was—had fled.
“I remember everything from back then,” Ruby said, her voice softening. The sisters
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