Do not waste time bothering whether you ‘love’ your neighbor; act as if you did.

As soon as we do this we find one of the great secrets.

When you are behaving as if you loved someone,

you will presently come to love him.”

-C.S. Lewis

“A gardener must be diligent.

Patient and faithful…and unafraid of thorns.”

-A.R.

Chapter One

Once Upon A Time

“Ow!”

                “What did you do now, Daisy?”

                “It bit me!”

                “Ha! It did not bite you.”

                “Yes, it did!” Daisy insisted. “I’m bleeding!”

                Rose snorted and pushed the brim of her straw hat up so she could see the dark-haired girl, across the rose-bed, pull off her glove and shake out her hand. Daisy knelt, her calico dress and cream-colored apron covered in dirt, in front of a particularly old, snarly rosebush. Rose sat back on her haunches and rested her own gloved hands, and spade, on her knees.

                “Well, were you talking nicely to it?” she asked, lifting her eyebrows.

                “Talking nicely to it?” Daisy repeated, shooting Rose a narrow look, her brown eyes flashing. “Why on earth would I talk nicely to something that bites me?”

                Rose smiled, bent forward and continued churning up the soil around the base of her own rosebush.

                They sat in the full, golden summer sunlight that bathed this side of the mountain, flooding the brilliant flower garden beside the walls of the thick, tall, ivy-draped fortress. She could practically taste the heady scent of roses on the air as she worked, the bees happily buzzing and bumbling through the branches just above her head. She wore her own calico dress and apron, her long, curly, honey-blonde braid tucked up underneath a wide-brimmed hat. And, as she churned up the soil around the roots of a great, ancient bush that bloomed roses the color of midwinter snow, she whispered to it.

Then, she paused. Waited. Listened.

The wind came up, and the rose bush rustled in reply—like an old woman laughing.

                “All right, what are you saying to yours, Rose?” Daisy huffed.

Rose’s secret smile grew, now.

                “Nothing.”

                “Right, nothing. I can hear you, you know,” Daisy protested.

Rose glanced over at the younger woman.

                “Really. It’s nothing. Just a little…extra gardening.”

“Magic?” Daisy demanded. “For what?”

“Just for encouragement,” Rose admitted, gesturing to the twisted plant. “This one is a grandmother, after all.” Rose reached into her bucket for the scoop of bone meal, and began scattering it around the roots. “She’s survived decades of frost, and the ice this past winter could have broken her graft.”

“You’re talking to the plant,” Daisy said flatly.

Rose stopped, and looked at Daisy.

“All right, madam—what kind of curses did you come here to learn how to break?”

“Dragon curses,” Daisy answered, glaring at the cut on her hand.

“Then you’ll need to learn the fundamentals,” Rose told her.

“I know the fundamentals,” Daisy replied, lifting her uninjured hand and counting off on her fingers. “Defy the nature of the curse; Deny it power over you; Design a sanctuary; Destroy darkness with that which was lost; Decide to do the impossible.”

“All right,” Rose said, stirring the soil over the bone meal. “So how are you going to decide to do the impossible if you can’t even talk to a plant?”

Daisy snorted.

“I think Effrain just put me out here because of my name,” she muttered.

Rose laughed out loud. The sound rang through the garden—and past it, the boughs of the pines chuckled.

Daisy heaved a sigh, tossed down her gloves and threw off her hat, then trudged round the corner of the bed toward Rose. She flopped down onto her back on the grassy path and closed her eyes against the sunlight.

“You’ll get more freckles if you don’t cover your face with your hat,” Rose remarked.

“Good.” Daisy grinned. “I like freckles.”

Rose returned her grin.

“How long have you been here?” Daisy asked, shifting her position.

“Twenty years. I was sent here when I was five,” Rose answered, finishing stirring the ground.

“And why did you come?” Daisy probed, playfully lowering her voice to secret-telling pitch. “So you can learn break the curse on your family castle? Wake your parents from an unwakeable sleep?”

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

Rose frowned at her.

“Who told you that?”

Daisy sat up on one elbow.

“You’re a princess.”

Rose let out another light laugh.

“I’m certain you are,” Daisy insisted, sitting up even further. “You look exactly like very princess in every story there is. Your amber eyes, and hair gold as the sunshine—”

“Clanahan’s been letting you read too many books,” Rose answered, taking off her gloves and sitting back onto the grass, stretching out her legs next to Daisy.

“I know you have royal blood,” Daisy said flatly. “Admit it.”

“I wish I did!” Rose stretched her back. “But unfortunately, no. And my family is un-cursed and unexciting. A lord and lady in a little valley, with three boys and four girls, all grown up.”

“I don’t believe you,” Daisy stated.

“Well, you will when they all come here next month to visit.”

Daisy leaned close to her, very low and very serious.

“Do you have any handsome brothers?”

“Oh, good grief!” Rose laughed, shoving her. Giggling, Daisy fell onto her back.

Just then, the bell in the fortress tower rang—a bright, merry peal that resounded over the mountaintops and down into the neighboring valley.

“Oh, no—I’m not nearly ready for dinner,” Rose realized, climbing to her feet and dusting off her skirt. “Quick, grab your hat!”

Daisy leaped up with the ease of an elf, darted over and snatched up her hat, and together the two young women hurried toward the open door in the mighty tower wall.

R

Rose tied off her long braid after brushing out and plaiting her hair, fastening it with twine first and then a white ribbon. She had changed into a simple, flowing, long-sleeved pink dress with a sash, and donned a gold chain bearing a single ruby. She glanced around the room to see if she had forgotten to do anything—she’d gotten ready in such a rush.

Her room was in the second story of the castle, with a wide, northern facing window. In the spring and summer, she opened the shutters every morning and never closed them until evening had fallen. She set vases and planters of bright flowers to sun there, and often the bees and butterflies would enter as if they were quite welcome to do as they pleased. And indeed they were.

Her whole chamber had been made of dark wood, polished by centuries of feet and hands and cloth. Little playful faces had been carved into the posts and lintels ages ago by a forgotten artist with a definite sense of humor. A tall clock, made from the twisted, gnarled trunk of a tree, stood in the corner opposite her bed, and it gonged the hours at her in the deep, rusty tone of a grandfather. Faded woven tapestries bearing gallant figures chasing white stags and unicorns draped around her four-poster bed, and a scarlet-and-gold comforter lay across the mattress. A wardrobe and trunk set, fashioned to look like glowering mouths with glaring eyes, guarded her hand-made garments. Woven rugs, of floral pattern, spread out across the floor, bearing the marks of the footpaths Rose had tread into them over these past many years. Paintings of faraway landscapes hung from the few smooth places on the walls. Musical mobiles dripping with red, green and purple dragon scales glittered and jingled by the shutters. An exotic breed of ivy sprang from a large planter in one corner and crept up the wall and partway across the ceiling. Scented candles and lamps twinkled in fine crystal settings, and dried herbs and flowers hung in bunches from the beams, filling the air with earthy deliciousness. Through a low side door was another room with a window—this room filled with shelves of books, several armchairs, and a tattered bearskin lying before a small stone hearth.

All of this—except the tapestries, which had been given her by her father—had been gifts from the other Curse-Breakers. She had known so many, all of them vivid adventurers and hearty travelers. They came first as young, inexperienced thrill-seekers with an aptitude for magic, and learned for years from the masters, and even from her (though only about using plants for healing, and breaking thorn curses). Then, they would venture out, to the wildlands and the peaks and the forests, disappearing for months, even years.

But then, they returned—with the most fantastic stories, magical souvenirs, and tale-telling scars. And they were always eagerly delighted to share every detail of their travels with Rose.

A rap came at the bedroom door.

Rose left her dresser and hurried across the rug to the door, and opened it. Daisy stood there, wearing fitted green trousers and a loose blouse bound by a belt, her hair pinned up in loose braids atop her head.

“Are you ready?” Daisy asked, smiling.

“Yes, just,” Rose nodded, stepping out the door onto the landing and shutting it behind her.

Together the two young ladies trotted down the winding wooden staircase, each step squeaking like a different note on a harpsichord. They rounded three corners, and then the stairwell opened up to a wide, stone-floored room lit by dozens of hanging lamps. Long, weathered tables and benches marched down the center, and more tables and cabinets stood off to the left-hand side bearing baskets of apples, bread and cheese; and barrels of water and honey mead.

A dozen young men, and five young women, all sat already at the tables, eating and laughing. Rose and Daisy, however, made for a different table, close to the stairs, where sat two women and one man: Effrain, Reola, and Clanahan.

Effrain was willowy and strikingly-beautiful in a cool, dangerous way, with long, smooth, rose-gold hair—she was half-elvish, so she had pointed ears and aqua-colored, flashing eyes. She wore the colors of the earth, in flowing garments that never caught on anything.

Reola had black, glowing skin and white feathery hair that she kept bound in a long braid. She possessed a ready smile, brilliant eyes and a graceful posture—she was older than the fortress itself, but no one would ever suspect it. She always wore a simple, homespun white dress.

Clanahan, an old sea-farer from the east, had a faded red hair, and a beard he kept in two braids, and deep scars in his forearms from fighting sea monsters. He wore leather and fur, and had a laugh that could shake down the rafters.

“Hullo, hullo,” he bellowed, motioning to the two girls. “And what do the roses say today?”

“They say that they don’t much like Daisy Winderthorn,” Daisy replied, swinging her leg over and plopping down on a bench across from him. He laughed, and roughly patted her head, which made her giggle.

“What, did they bite you?” he asked.

“See?” Daisy said to Rose, pointing at Clanahan. “He understands.”

Rose suppressed a smile and easily sat down next to her, in front of an empty board and goblet.

“Roses merely defend themselves against foolishness,” Effrain said serenely, pouring herself some honey mead.

“Well, ours are too vain, if you ask me,” Reola remarked, cutting a piece of bread. “But can anyone blame them? Our Rosie spoils them constantly.”

“Aye!” Clanahan agreed, thumping the table. “I’ve never seen such gorgeous flowers in all my days—not even at a king’s garden. We could rival any of them—and in such dreadful weather as we have here, that’s saying a mite!”

Rose beamed at him.

“Do eat,” Effrain urged, meeting Rose’s eyes with her vibrant sea-colored ones. “We have plenty.”

So, both Rose and Daisy spread apple butter on thick slices of bread, tugged large bits of steamy, juicy meat from off a roasted country bird, carved slices of white cheese and snatched up the last of the sliced apple. Effrain poured them their own honey mead, which flooded Rose’s mouth with sweetness alongside Reola’s savory cooking. Soon, an animated Clanahan started in on another of his rollicking sea stories, and as his narration rushed and rolled and thundered, Rose grew warm all through her chest, down to her feet and her toes, as she smiled, ate, and listened. It didn’t matter if she’d heard this same story a dozen times. The rhythm and lilt of the tale beat alongside her heart, as familiar as the scent in her room, the sun upon the peaks, and the taste of mountain honey.

The front door banged open.

Clanahan stopped, his arms freezing in mid-gesture.

Rose spun around, along with everyone else…

To see Galahad Stormcrane stride through.

He was a young man, perhaps thirty, with black hair and a billowing grey cape. Rose had glimpsed him only a handful of times before—for he wandered the darkest and most perilous portions of the wildlands—but not once had she ever seen a smile cross his handsome, scarred face.

Reola immediately arose, slipped away from the table, and started toward him with a keen frown. Galahad stopped before her, and inclined his head.

“Stormcrane,” Reola watched him. “What is it?”

He straightened up, reached inside his cloak with a gloved hand, and withdrew a scroll, tied with a silvery ribbon.

“I have intercepted a message,” he declared. “From the kingdom of Spegel.”

                Startled murmurs rippled through the room. Rose, eyes wide, glanced at Daisy.

                “Spegel,” Reola repeated, eyes narrow. “Nothing has been heard from beyond those borders in thirty years.”       

                “Indeed, ma’am,” Galahad agreed. “Though many have tried to send messages past the borders and into that place, this is the first correspondence that has come from within—and even more: this comes from Glas.”

                “The palace?” Clanahan cried.

                “Yes,” Galahad nodded to him.

                “What is it?” Effrain asked, her voice low and precise. Galahad held it up.

                “It is a request for a doctor. Someone in the palace is complaining of terrible headaches,” he said. “But I don’t believe that is truly the case.”

                “And what is it you suspect?” Reola asked.

                Galahad regarded her gravely.

                “I believe the prince of Spegel is under a curse.”