Renata held the long, skinny stem betwixt her fingers. Purple flowers the size of flaxseeds. That medicinal camphor that lingers at the tip of your nose. A minty after scent. Definitely not lavender. She looked to her mother. Edible? Go ahead. A minty flavor. Slightly floral too.

"Hyssop?" Her mother nodded her head. Good for throwing into a perfume for young women. It was how the blacksmith's daughter, Emma had caught the eye of a Lord. (It was not a love potion— love potions were strictly prohibited in Culorn and never worked the way you intended, so you could say it probably wasn't the perfume that had caught the Lord's eye in the first place, although it had certainly kept it).

Then, pointing at a jagged clump of leaves stacked one upon the other she looked toward Bran.

"Stinging nettle," he said without so much as a second glance or thought. "Take the bristles, throw them into just about anything, and you'll be itching for days. Will break out too."

Renata thought about that time at Oxynbrooke Professor Killian had broke into a thousand small rashes, a cluster of raised dots and bumps, an ugly constellation outlined in a smoldering red. It makes sense now.

Imagine Briar a web. A thick complex, a stretch of strings, a less elegant but equally elaborate doily. If the Manor itself was the hub of this web the surrounding lands could be considered the spirals, a ripple effect as consequence of formation of the central hub. The Rosewoods were an anchor, the piece of branch to which the web was attached, the foundation for what was Briar Manor.

This greenhouse then would be considered the somewhere in between. At the junction between the anchor and thread, itself a place of both nature and man.

Renata called it the glass cave.

The greenhouse was a long stretch of glass panels, pointed toward the south side of the estate with a framework that was made from the woods of the Rosewood. A steep roof culminated at a high ceiling. Shelves upon shelves were lined with potted plants and plant beds, filled to capacity with sage and yarrow, poinsettias and gardenias, rose hip and wormwood. And like a cave, it was a place of discovery, a place to explore, an overgrown hodgepodge of intermingling scents that was allowed to flourish but was not neglected. Water orbs, floated high above. They were amorphous things that shimmied liked mercury, sprinkling water onto the plants every so often.

Renata's mother pulled a cluster of white flowers from a nearby bed. Hemlock. "Have you two heard of the story of the White Wedding death?" Both children shook their head. Renata would have remembered. She remembered all of her mother's stories.

"Once upon a time, there was a king," she began. "He was a cruel ruler, with a penchant for making enemies. One day, his secret council resolved to kill him. On the day of his wedding, there was to be a great feast. His council decided that they would slip a sliver of hemlock into his mead before the toast. You can imagine their surprise then, when the queen stated that according to the traditions from her homeland she would drink from the king's cup, and he from hers. The council braced themselves, expecting the queen to die right there on the spot. And she did. But they not expect the king to die as well. It was then they realized: the queen has also poisoned her cup in hopes of killing of the king." A mischievous smile gathered at the corners of her billowy lips.

Helena Briar. Mother to Renata. A sad-faced, playful-eyed woman, whose scrupulous focus on her appearance bordered on vanity. She had endured much in her life and was often sick, diagnosed with general bouts of malaise and fatigue. Father had said that the death of her own father, mother and sister at such a young age had weakened her heart beyond what magic or medicine could fix. A broken heart, thought Renata.

Even in the heat of the summer, Helena wore her corset boned tightly against her already narrow stomach. Crinoline sleeves, brushed against bony wrists. How frail she was. The fluff and girth of her dresses had always dwarfed her mother's willowy figure.

"What do you even have a plant like that here for?" Inquired Bran.

"For our enemies," Helena replied playfully. Soft cheekbones became softer, until they melted away into warm laughter.

This was the reason why Renata had been sent away. Although her father would never use the words he actually thought, Helena was what he called a well-intentioned, well-meaning but distracting influence. The reason for Renata's grit. Her back-talking. Her stubbornness. Why she never backed down from a fight.

Not to say, Renata blamed her mother for her behavior. Her mother had never, explicitly ordered her to stir up trouble among her peers. Although, Renata could argue — she was merely practicing what she had been taught: to defend herself.

She often wondered how her mother and father had met. His tight-laced, rigid mannerisms, and the perpetual expression of disapproval caked across his face, was such a contrast to the eccentric oftentimes unusual behavior of her mother. The animated way she swung her hands around as she spoke. The "childish" stories she told. Perhaps it was her beauty he had first seen. Or her kindness. Or maybe, it was that sadness. That unmistakable yearning Helena carried with her like a shadow. A type of gloom like melancholy that always there so often forgotten. But there were moments of its reminder. When Renata noticed her, with distant eyes, and far off-expression, where it looked like she was reliving something, a moment in her life painful or otherwise, Renata could not say. She was too afraid to ask.

Nevertheless. Renata was happy to spend time with her mother. To see her mother in such good health was surely a sign of the successful summer that was to come, Bran Caradoc or otherwise, who had strangely taken a liken to her. Perhaps it was that mischievous twinkle in her eye that he recognized in his own.

A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

"Miss Briar," began Bran, " have you ever visited that house in the Rosewoods?"

Renata had spent a lot of time thinking back to that house in the forest and that dandelion white hair and it seemed Bran had too.

Helena’s eyes settled on Bran, with such a sobriety in her response, from the rigid way she straightened her sun hat, to the taut pull of her lips that Renata was glad Bran had asked that question and not her.

"Yes. I have," she said plainly. "Have you?"

Bran nodded his head. "Both Renata and I. We think someone lives in there. Renata swears she saw a girl, hiding nearby."

Helena raised a brow. She turned toward her daughter. "A girl Renata?"

Renata hesitated. Should she tell her mother the truth? "Yes," she decided. Then added, "she was hiding in the bushes. A girl with blonde hair and blue eyes."

"Blonde hair and blue eyes?" Helena exhaled sharply, a brief blow of air through her nose. "But of course. Where else would they go," she said to herself. Then, to Helena and Bran, “Did you see anything else around?"

"No ma'am."

"Would you two like to see what's in the house?"

"Have you been inside?" Asked Bran.

"Yes, I have."

"What's in there?"

Helena rested her gaze past the children as if the answer to her question could be found somewhere in the space beyond them. Vacant eyes stared beyond them , unblinking. She was in a far off place. A familiar expression, thought Renata.

"It is difficult to describe. It feels like I was there, lifetimes ago."

"What was lifetimes ago?" asked Renata. She reached forward and shook her mother's shoulder, convinced her fingers would phase through her eggplant gigot sleeves. Helena jumped beneath Renata's touch. She squeezed her daughter's hand sheepishly. What had she been thinking?

"It's better you see for yourself," she admitted. "It is not my place to be anymore."

------

"My father built it for me as a child," Helena explained, pulling a small jewelry box from her drawer. She gripped the box with both hands and murmured softly. Renata watched as the top fell open on its own accord. Inside was a small brass key tethered to a chain. "A spell," she explained. "One can never be too careful."

Renata was surprised. Her mother rarely talked about her father, the Doctor. And now to know, that unassuming house in the Rosewoods was built by him had her wondering: what else was her mother hiding?

"Grandfather must have really loved you," said Renata. Test the waters. What else could she find out about him?

Helena snorted, and pulling the key from the box handed it to Renata. Her hand was shaking. "It would sound like it. Such a shortsighted man. Even in his final moments it was about him. He claimed to have made it for me. He never thought about the consequences of what he was making though. The novelty of it was what appealed to him. A brilliant creator without foresight, doesn't care about what happens to his creations after they are gone. Or whom his creations affect."

Whatever was she talking about? Thought Renata. If she didn't know any better, she might have thought that whatever was inside that house, was a living breathing thing. Icy blue eyes, and white-blond hair came to mind. Perhaps...

"Promise me one thing children." She gripped Renata and Bran, each with one hand. An inescapable clasp. A chilling ultimatum in her eyes. "Under no circumstances, are you to tell anyone what you find in that house. If not for your sake, for mine and all that is the House Briar. Is that understood?"

Renata shivered. She looked at Bran. Pale skin was translucent. Eyes as wide as ever.

"We promise."

"Hope to die?" Silence.

Helena laughed.

Renata did not think she was joking.

-----

Renata clasped the key, buried deep into the pocket of her pinafore. It was heavier than it looked. Or perhaps it felt heavier than it was.

"Bran," she started. They walked side by side.

"What?" His voice did not carry the usual irritable edge. In fact, it was a response sharpened by fear. Even Bran Caradoc could be frightened.

"Have you heard the story of Pandora's Box?"

Bran glared at her. "Perhaps, you should leave the stories to your mother."

Ignoring him, she continued. "Pandora opened a box of the unknown. It contained all of the darkest, most treacherous aspects of the world. I can't help but wonder, whether we are opening our own Pandora's Box."

"Honestly, Renata, do you think your mother would lead us to Pandora's Box?"

Maybe not intentionally, she thought to herself.

The house looked more unwelcoming than previously (if that was possible, thought Renata wryly). Up the decaying steps. Right next to that handless door. A heartbeat so loud, she was certain Bran would tell her to quiet it down.

She was met with the sensation of cold metal. But it was not at the tip of her fingers where the key should have been. It was the flat of a blade pressed so firmly against her neck she could feel herself swallow. A pale, white arm across her chest. A wave of terror washed over her. She fidgeted beneath their hold. Inescapable.

"The nosy type aren't you?" It was the unmistakable voice of a woman.

Carefully, she turned her eyes in the direction of the voice. A robber perhaps? White blonde hair caught her peripheral.

Where was Bran? She wondered. Should I yell? Renata fought against her iron grip. If I was meant to be dead, she decided, she would have killed me already.

Renata was thrown to the ground. She hit her elbow sharply against the floor and winced. Frantically, she looked for Bran. Gone. Even in her moment of fear, she was enraged. A coward.

"Your friend took off the moment he could," explained the woman. "I think that a way," she pointed vaguely toward an area of the forest, where the trees were pressed together more densely.

Renata took a better look at her assailant. She was a young woman with delicate features, so harmonious, so congruous they seemed to be the consequence of intentionality rather than by a blind chance. Thin pink lips complimented a porcelain face, so smooth it almost glowed. Like a doll, thought Renata

"By God," the woman kneeled aside Renata and offered her a hand. Renata refused, jumping up angrily. "You look exactly like Helena, you know that?"

Helena. Anger dissipated.

"You knew my mother?"

"But of course. We all did. You're lucky you found me, you know. We don't all feel so warmly about Helena, and by we I mean him."

Lucky? "You threatened me with a knife."

"You were threatened?" A wide grin spread across the woman's face. "I couldn't hurt a fly. Honest."

Renata's elbow throbbed in opposition. "Who is we?"

"It is better I just show you. What is your name?"

She hesitated.

"Renata."

"Cornelia. But I rather you didn't call me that. I prefer Nelly."

And without another word, Nelly grabbed Renata's hand and pushed open the door. A white light enveloped them immediately.

"Welcome to the Dollhouse, Renata."