“What is it you wish me to learn, madame?” she asked the statue.

  The figure made no answer, and the moonlight shifted, draping her features in shadow.

  Rose wiped away her tears and again grabbed her needle. She was hard at work when she heard the bells and the shouting and pressed her lips together, too hopeful even to hope.

  “Rose? Rose!” Elise called in the distance. “It is your father!”

  With a gasp, Rose jumped up, gathering the cloak against her chest with shaking hands. Something caught at her hem. It was a purple rose, thorns embedded in the velvet like the fingers of a little child yanking on her skirt.

  “You are loved,” the rose whispered to her.

  She bent down and freed her skirt. Her hair rippling behind her, she ran past the silver stream, through wave after wave of roses, bounding like a fawn. Then she galloped past the deer statues at the entrance of the grotto, where Elise raced toward her.

  “Can it be?” Rose cried.

  “Oui! Elise replied.

  They fell into each other’s arms, embracing, laughing, weeping. In the dark afternoon, the servants swarmed around them as everyone hurried to the chateau. Seeing Rose’s joy, they burst into cheers and applause.

  She and Elise climbed the stairs to the watchtower. Elise huffed and puffed as the two flew up, up, and up like butterflies, and finally burst out the door. Monsieur Valmont was there. It was he who had been ringing the bell.

  “Voilà! Look!” he cried, pointing to the craggy mountains in the distance.

  “Où?” Rose demanded. “Where?”

  She leaned over the wall, searching for the parade of horses against the bright orange sunset. Far away, shapes moved against the carpets of mustard plants and lavender. Horses and riders, navigating the treacherous mountain road.

  “I see them!” she cried, embracing first Elise and then Monsieur Valmont. The faithful man was crying with joy, tears streaming down his thin, wrinkled cheeks.

  “At last, at last,” Monsieur Valmont said. “I have prayed to Hermes for this day.”

  And we to Artemis!” Rose said, grabbing Elise’s hand and squeezing it. Her old nurse was weeping as well.

  Rose rushed back to the parapet and placed her fingers against her lips to blow her father a kiss, just as the dying sun dipped below the hills. And in that very moment, it was as if the axis of the earth shifted and the scales of Libra lost their balance. Colors bleached to gray and white. The temperature dropped like a stone off a cliff.

  She slowly lowered her hand and touched her neck; her pulse fluttered. Despite the cold, her forehead beaded and her cheeks tingled with feverish heat.

  “Something is wrong,” she murmured, unable to swallow past the tightness in her throat. “Something is wrong with my father.”

  Elise cocked her head and raised her finger as if she were testing the wind. She reached forward and cupped Rose’s cheek.

  “Mais non,” she said gently. “No. Everything is fine.” She cupped Rose’s chin and turned it in the direction of the riders. “See? There he is.”

  But as Rose stared into the gathering darkness, she knew something was wrong. She was no stranger to tragedy and she recognized the cold hand of death on the back of her neck.

  “All is well;” Monsieur Valmont assured her.

  “Please,” she whispered, “bring him home to me.”

  There was no answer in the breeze.

  Night fell and Rose’s father didn’t arrive. Elise explained that he had probably made camp. The mountain pass was narrow and difficult. It showed prudence to wait for the morning light.

  “He’s in danger. We must ride to him,” Rose begged. “Please, let’s get some of the men and saddle horses—”

  “Go to bed, ma petite,” Elise urged her, bringing her a goblet of wine and a muslin nightdress. “Your father will wake you when he comes.”

  Then the old lady glided from the room into her own chamber and shut the door. When Elise finally blatted out a snore, Rose leaped out of bed and ran to the chest where her beautiful birthday dress was kept. She caught her breath. She’d forgotten how exquisite it was. The gold sparkled; the deep rose hummed as if with life. The silver embroidery gleamed in the light of her candle.

  She tore off her nightdress and lifted up the wondrous gown. Then she pulled it over her head. She wanted to look like a princess for her father. She hoped to soften the blow of the loss of his wife.

  As the fragile fabric floated around her shoulders, she reconsidered. The gown was very delicate, feather-light as could be. It was cold tonight and she had hard riding ahead. She didn’t want to ruin it.

  With regret, she took it off and laid it carefully back on her bed. She would put it on as soon as they returned home together. Making haste, she shimmied into one of her black mourning dresses and draped a heavy traveling cloak over her shoulders. She pulled on black leather riding boots and gloves.

  Elise’s heavy snores covered the squeak in the floor as Rose tiptoed out of her room. Downstairs, she dodged Monsieur Valmont, who was bellowing commands at the scullery maid. Then she crept into the larder and grabbed a handful of sugar cubes from the silver covered dish.

  Then she sneaked out the back door to the stable.

  The little mop-haired stable boy was asleep in the hay. Rose walked on the balls of her feet past him to the row of bridles hanging from a row of pegs. She unfastened the harness of Douce, her little mare. The petite gray chuffed softly as Rose approached, stomping the hay-strewn floor in welcome.

  “Hssst, ma belle,” Rose whispered as she pushed the sugar cubes against Douce’s nostrils. Douce sniffed the tantalizing aroma and eagerly gobbled them down. Rose cupped the horse’s soft mouth and eased in the bit. Douce took it, and Rose rubbed her forelock in gratitude.

  Then she picked up a lantern and quietly led Douce out of the stable beside the geranium-covered wall. She lit the lantern; then, gathering up her skirts, she climbed onto the wall and slung one leg across Douce. She hadn’t ridden bareback in years, but she didn’t want to risk waking anyone by saddling her mount.

  She and Douce quickly found their rhythm as she walked the horse through the silent wheat fields behind the château. Douce bobbed her head, as eager as Rose to gallop away. Rose pressed her knees hard against Douce’s sides, ordering her to take it slow. She wanted no one to hear the report of Douce’s horseshoes clopping against the earth. As it was, her heart beat so loudly she imagined it would awaken the night watchmen. She worried that the bubble of light from the lantern would betray them, but clouds obscured the moonlight and she didn’t know the way well enough to ride blind.

  An owl hooted, startling her.

  Ducking her head, Rose murmured, “Goddess Artemis, keep us safe,” and kissed the side of her forefinger to seal the prayer.

  Douce shook her withers, and Rose leaned forward to give the horse a comforting pat. She gazed over her shoulder at the large dark shape of the château. Here and there, windows glowed with a halo of amber—servants were preparing her father’s wing of the house, making sure everything was presentable for his inspection.

  Perhaps it might be better to go back. What was she doing, riding out alone in the dark?

  “I’m doing what I must,” she whispered. It didn’t matter if it was the safe thing or the wise thing or even the right thing. It was what she must do. What her heart told her to do.

  Raising her chin, she squared her shoulders and rode past the scarecrow.

  “Où? Où vas-tu?” the wind whispered to Rose.

  The stars shifted overhead. The owl had taken flight long ago and tiny creatures skittered in the bushes along the familiar path toward the village. The night pressed down on Rose like a weighty hand. She was fatigued already.

  Moments later, she reached a little wooden shrine where people could say prayers for the safe delivery of Princess Lucienne of the Land Beyond. She was carrying the son of Crown Prince Jean-Marc. His father, King Henri, ruled the Forested Land as well as the Land Beyond, but the Forested Land was only a province. The Land Beyond was where he lived.

  Rose raised the lantern and inspected the shrine. A thick, tallow candle had been set in front of a foot-tall figurine of a woman. It had blown out. Impulsively Rose opened the door of her own lantern, picked up the tallow candle, and relit its wick with her little flame. Steadying Douce, she leaned over and set it in front of the figure.

  “Health and long life to the lady princess and her child,” she whispered.

  Then she took the fork that led to the mountains. The path was pitch-black, save for the distant star field lining the dome of the sky. Rose guided Douce carefully around sharp curves and switchbacks, holding the lantern up high.

  “Papa?” she called. Her voice echoed off the mountainside. There was no answer and she moved ahead.

  The mountain to her right dropped away and she licked her lips as the lantern light revealed a sheer drop into a chasm. At the next sharp curve, billows of fog tumbled over the road like the stream of silvery water in the rose garden. It became so heavy she couldn’t see her gloved hands gripping the reins.

  Uneasily she dismounted, anxiously placing her foot on the firm ground, relieved that she and Douce didn’t plunge into empty space.

  “It’s all right.” Her voice quavered. “We’re safe.” She had no idea if that were true, but she had to keep Douce calm. If her horse panicked, she might leap off the path to her destruction.

  Rose stood tense and alert for a long time. Then the lantern candle guttered out, casting Rose and her little gray in utter darkness. Rose bit her lower lip to keep from crying out, and she gave the lantern a tiny shake, hoping that perhaps the wax had flooded the wick and it was still partially lit. But it was clearly out for good. She wished she’d taken the princess’s candle instead of relighting it.

  “I’m going to call for Papa again, ma Douce,” she told the horse as she set the lantern down. With her free hand, she gave the horse a soothing rub so that she wouldn’t startle when Rose yelled.

  But then she realized that the fog was just as thick for him as it was for her. If he heard her and tried to come for her, he might get hurt, or worse. She felt horribly foolish. She’d set out on this journey to rescue him and now she was the one who needed help. Elise had been right. She should have waited.

  She shouldn’t have listened to her heart.

  Rose had no idea how much time passed, but she began to sway, her gloved hand sliding off Douce’s back and her eyes drooping shut, no matter how many times she tried to keep them open. With the reins still in her fist, she felt around until she rested her back against the slimy rock face and slid, weary and done in, onto her bottom.

  Wind whistled in her ears, and snowflakes fluttered down. A snowstorm in spring was not unheard of, but the day had been so fair. Snowflakes stuck to her hair and landed on her shoulders. She shivered hard and lowered her head to pray, but instead, she began to drowse.

  As her head bobbed, she dreamed that she was standing amid hundreds of purple roses. They were whispering to her, “You are loved, you are loved.”

  Filled with wonder, she moved slowly in a circle beneath a silvery shaft of moonlight. Her face was raised to the light and she was smiling.

  Then a little brown doe stepped from among the opulent curtains and carpets of roses. Its round, elegant head was crowned with purple roses and it carried a single purple blossom by the stem in its mouth. When its dark brown eyes met Rose’s, it turned a shimmering white, and its eyes became dark blue, like hers. Then it transformed yet again, into a luminous being of light, armed with a bow and a quiver of arrows.

  It held the purple rose in its hand.

  It whispered, “I came from your lady, from Artemis. This journey will be hard. You may falter and you may give up. That is your choice. But if you stop, you stop before journey’s end. And it is the journey your mother’s wish has set you on. If you will but carry the wound into the light, her dying wish will be granted. You are loved. If you undertake this journey, you will know that. And I promise you, little one, that is worth knowing.”

  The being held out the rose.

  “Do you accept it?”

  “Oui,” Rose said, in her dream on the cold mountain pass.

  She reached out her hand to take the rose.

  THREE

  “Fear not. It is done.”

  Who spoke against Rose’s ear?

  “Papa?” Rose murmured into the warmth and joy and love. She had found him and her father was cradling her, calling her his own. He loved her. He loved her more than anything. . . .

  “Oh, child, child,” Elise sobbed, rocking her back and forth.

  Rose opened her eyes. She had been dreaming. It was her nurse who was holding her, not her father, and she was in her room, not on the mountain path.

  “Papa!” she cried, trying to ease out of Elise’s tight embrace. But Elise wouldn’t let her go.

  Over Elise’s shoulder, a long, pale face floated in the darkness like a ghost’s. It was a woman’s face, with unusually high cheekbones and deep hollows beneath. Slashes of black eyebrows arched over each eye. The lids were heavy and the eyes themselves, fathomless, ebony pools. As the face drew near, it became a woman, dressed in a hooded black traveling cloak. In her free hand she held a black scarf embroidered with the initials LM in red.

  Laurent Marchand.

  “I am Ombrine,” the woman said, biting off each syllable in a strangled voice as she twisted the scarf between her hands. Her French was heavily accented. “Ombrine Marchand. Your stepmother.”

  Rose was astounded. Her heart thundered as she struggled to throw back the bedcovers and get to her feet. Her father, where was her father?

  “Papa?” Rose rasped, searching the room with her gaze.

  “He is dead,” Ombrine said flatly. “Laurent Marchand is dead.” Her features hardened; her brows drew across her forehead. “And you killed him.”

  “No!” Rose cried and leaped out of bed. “Papa! Papa!”

  Then the fever hit her, and she crumpled to the floor.

  “He was on his way home for your birthday,” Ombrine explained to Rose, her heavily lidded eyes downcast as she touched Laurent’s handkerchief to her thin, bright-red lips. The lady was seated in a chair beside Rose’s bed. Elise had forced Rose back into bed and brought her a cup of wine, wrapping Rose’s hand around the stem of the cup with her own and tipping it back against Rose’s mouth. But Rose was too ill and shocked to drink. The wine sat on the table beside her bed, untouched.

  Desirée, Ombrine’s fourteen-year-old daughter, stood beside her mother’s chair, her hand on Ombrine’s elegant, straight shoulder. She looked like Ombrine, her black hair pulled back into a braid, revealing a long face of pale skin dominated by a high forehead and enormous, flinty eyes. Like her mother, she wore a black cloak.

  Black became them well.

  “When Laurent learned of your mother’s tragic end,” Ombrine continued, “he collapsed on the road. Some huntsmen found him and brought him to me. They thought he was dead, but I revived him. He lay in a stupor for nearly four months.”

  “Four months is a very long time,” Desirée said.

  “I devoted myself to his care, day and night, and I nursed him back to health. My own husband . . . my previous husband . . . died more than a year ago, and so it seemed . . . perfect. . . .” Her voice caught, and she lowered the handkerchief to her lap.

  “There, there, Mother,” Desirée murmured as if she were bored. “You have suffered so.”

  Ombrine glanced sharply at her daughter. Then she turned her attention back to her handkerchief.

  “I am not complaining. I told him to stay abed. I told him he could send a messenger to let you know what had happened and to say that he would be home as soon as he was well enough to travel. But he wouldn’t have it. ‘No time for delay,’” she said, mimicking Laurent’s deep voice. “He was extremely worried.”

  Ombrine turned her gaze to Rose. “Worried about you.”

  You are loved. She could almost hear the purple roses whispering the words to her.

  “About me,” she whispered.

  “Oui,” Ombrine declared. “He was very worried about you. He said you were high-strung and not very ... resourceful. He was fearful that you’d let the estate go to rack and ruin.”

  Crushed, Rose slumped against her pillows. The room rocked crazily. Hot tears clouded her vision. Had that truly been his only concern? The estate?

  Ombrine shifted in her chair and fingered the nearest creamy rose hanging, narrowing her eyes, seeing something there that Rose did not.

  “I see that the deterioration has begun.” Ombrine snapped. “Or perhaps it was never quite as grand as he described it.” She gave the hanging a flick of her fingers.

  “It’s not bad,” Desirée ventured. Then, at a look from her mother, she cleared her throat. “Although, not quite as grand as my stepfather said.”

  Ombrine continued, sitting straight on a spine of iron. Her face floated in the dull light, her features blending with the shadows.

  “So. Dear Laurent insisted on coming here with all due haste. He was still so weak. . . . When you were found this morning on the mountain pass, sick and in a faint, he thought you were dead. We all did. It was too much for him. His heart gave way.” She began to weep. “And now he’s dead.”

  “There, there, Mother,” Desirée purred.

  Rose burst into heavy sobs.

  “Non, non, ma petite,” Elise said, enfolding Rose in her arms. “It was not like that. He came because he loved you so and couldn’t wait to see you.”

  “I killed him!” Rose moaned.

  “Oui,” Ombrine replied. “It is so.”

  “Madame, please,” Elise entreated.

  “It’s better to have it all out at once,” Ombrine retorted. “And I will not have impertinence, do you understand?”

  Elise pressed Rose hard against her bosom and raised her chin. “Madame, with all due respect.” Her voice shook and she held Rose so tightly that Rose couldn’t breathe. “I was told her father died in the afternoon. On the road, before the search party found Rose.”

 

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