Of Thorns and Beauty by Elle Madison
Chapter Thirty-Five
It doesn’t take long for me to decide to explore the passage in his room again. The way he looked at it before he left told me enough to know that it’s important.
I must have missed something.
I push the tapestry aside and scan the wall before my eyes snag on the stone brick that sticks out just a bit farther than the others. I press it, and it gives way to reveal a solid stone door. I open it to the winding staircase, this time feeling the walls along the way for anything I may not have seen the first few times I was here, during all those weeks he left me to my devices.
Khijhana mews and tentatively climbs the steps while I slide the heavy door back into place. The motion brings Einar’s words back to mind.
The hell you willas he slammed the door.
Slammed the door. Ordered me to stay.
He doesn’t even realize the web that’s being woven around him, and the stubborn bastard refuses to trust me, refuses to believe that I might be able to help him.
My blood boils as I make my way up the private stairs.
I don’t even know who I’m so furious with. Einar for shutting me out again, or myself for deserving it. Or, most of all, Madame.
I can still help him,I tell myself.
I can’t risk outright disobedience, though. Images of my sister’s fair skin and golden hair reappear, as they always do when I contemplate the very notion.
The sound of her laugh. The way she smiled and followed my every move without question, for better or worse.
Worse, as it turns out.
I push the memory away. This is different. I wasn’t given any direct orders about this.
Unless...I think about the second set of instructions I was sent with. It had seemed so trivial, weighed against marriage and a baby.
Steal something valuable and replace it with something worthless. He’ll never know the difference.
A betrayal, but a relatively minor one, all things considered.
I have been so, so stupid.
Desperately, I focus on my surroundings.
What did I miss?
The staircase ends in a vast room with a domed ceiling and rounded windowpanes.
Each wall is full of books, plants, and alchemist’s tools.
There are graphs on the wall of various plants and their anatomy broken down piece-by-piece with a small description of the medicinal or toxic properties. But most prevalent are drawings and notes on one flower in particular.
A rose.
The reminders of her are endless, even as the pieces of this twisted puzzle click horrifically into place.
Several vials line the walls with papers next to them. I had largely ignored them before, but this time, I shuffle through each paper.
1 Rose petal - 3 ml of lavenaia berry juice - claw of raven - Turned to a combustible black substance.
1 Rose petal - 7 drops puffin blood - stardust - Boiling acid that rots flesh.
1 Rose petal - 8 ml wolfsbane - tail of scorpion - Promising at first - but seems to accelerate effects of poison.
They go on and on in this way, all of them with slashes drawn through them, notes and warnings scribbled next to them. There must be hundreds of variations here that he has tried, and all have failed.
I hastily search the drawers and cabinets and vials for answers, but I come up empty. And the longer I’m here, the more I realize that I will only find what I need if I’m with him.
He’s not the only one running out of time.
With those thoughts, I sneak back into my room and discreetly change into the warmest clothes I can find, packing an extra cloak in a small bag along with whatever food is left over from earlier, as well as a canteen of water. It isn’t much, but it will do in a pinch.
The memories reappear.
I’m thirteen again. Rose and I are packing what few belongings we have to escape from the window balcony of the villa.
I had just arrived home and found her sleeping. Her eyes were red and swollen from tears. She knew I hadn’t wanted to go. She knew I was scared.
It was the night I became a woman. It was the night that whatever was left of my childhood had been sold to the highest bidder.
‘You’re of age now. Let’s not let this go to waste.’
When the first signs of womanhood appeared, the bidding started.
I had fetched a very high price — enough to pay for the burden of keeping me housed and fed. Or so I was told.
I couldn’t allow her to do the same to Rose. Not my Rose.
I’m creeping past my bed when Sigrid’s voice reaches my ears.
She motions for me to come closer, and I do, in spite of the time I’ve already lost. I ignore the voice in my head that tells me this may be the last time I see her.
“Where?” she barely croaks out, but I understand her meaning.
“I am going after him,” I answer honestly, careful to keep the emotion from my face.
She swallows hard, and I help her take a sip of water.
Her frail fingers apply the slightest pressure to my hand as she nods in understanding.
“So…so many --” Her words are interrupted by a coughing fit, so I help her sit up for another drink. It isn’t until she’s laying back down that she finishes.
“--thorns, but less than before.” She reaches for my face with a shaking hand, smiling through her pain while she touches my cheek.
This simple gesture nearly breaks me in two. I don’t deserve her kindness, but I treasure it, nonetheless.
Her words are an echo of what she’s said before. But this time, it’s different. It’s an unspoken understanding that there are layers to each of us. Broken pieces that make us who we are. And on some level, I get the feeling she understands me better now than she did then.
I’m just not so sure it’s a good thing.
Leif clears his throat behind me, the physician at his side once more.
“I’ll leave you to it,” I say, quickly removing myself from her side and heading out the door without looking back.