?

  ?The gate was twice the height of a man. Wrought iron, black, tipped with gold. Two women stood before it, one on each side. Their robes were a single piece of cloth, fastened at the shoulder, falling to the knee and nothing below. Gold braid wound through their dark hair. Their faces were still. Their eyes looked past her.

  ?

  ?They did not move as she approached. They did not move as she passed.

  ?

  ?She walked the gravel path alone. Hedges rose on either side, cut flat at the top, cut straight along the sides. Fountains lined the way—stone basins, still water, no statues. Beyond them, roses. Rows and rows of roses. Red and white and something between. The air was thick with their smell.

  ?

  ?A man stood among them. His back was to her. Broad shoulders. Dark hair cut short at the nape. His shirt was plain, fine cloth, sleeves rolled to the forearm. His hands moved with precision—selecting, cutting, letting fall. The shears closed. A stem dropped. He moved to the next.

  ?

  ?Margaret stopped at the edge of the path. Her right hand held a report. Its edges were soft, creased from gripping, warm from her palm.

  ?

  ?She waited.

  ?

  ?The shears clipped. A rose fell. Another. He did not turn.

  ?

  ?She stepped onto the grass. Her boots left prints in the damp. She stopped ten paces behind him.

  ?

  ?"Your Highness."

  ?

  ?The shears did not pause.

  ?

  ?"I have a report." Her voice was steady. "Cadet Aurora. The girl from the northern province. She has demonstrated abilities that—"

  ?

  ?"It is not enough."

  ?

  ?The shears closed. A flower fell. His hand moved to the next stem.

  ?

  ?Her hands remained outstretched. The report hung between them. She watched his back—the breadth of his shoulders, the easy movements, the flowers dropping one by one onto the soil.

  ?

  ?She lowered her hands.

  ?

  ?The shears clipped. A pause. Then clipping again.

  ?

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  ?"Your Highness." She held her voice where she had placed it. "With all due respect. Cadet Aurora possesses every requirement you needed. She has shown power beyond any child her age. She has drawn the attention of the scribes. If you would only read—"

  ?

  ?"Do not presume to know my needs, woman."

  ?

  ?He did not turn. The shears moved. Another stem. Another fall. A white rose lay near his boot.

  ?

  ?Her jaw tightened. Her arm fell to her side. Her fingers curled against the paper.

  ?

  ?The garden held only the clip of steel, the soft impact of flowers on earth.

  ?

  ?"Prince Atticus—"

  ?

  ?"I have no need of your report." His voice was calm. "I can smell it from here."

  ?

  ?The shears closed. A flower fell, brushing his boot.

  ?

  ?"It reeks." Another fell. "Of your desperation."

  ?

  ?Her grip on the report tightened. The paper creased.

  ?

  ?"And it draws." A rose. Red. "Unwanted attention."

  ?

  ?He straightened. Turned. Faced her fully for the first time. The shears remained in his hand, blades slightly open.

  ?

  ?His hair was gold. Not yellow, not brown—gold. It caught the light and held it. His eyes were the same color. Pale gold, like sunlight through honey. They held nothing.

  ?

  ?He was taller than she remembered. His face was beautiful in the way of things made to be looked at.

  ?

  ?"You have made too much noise, Margaret."

  ?

  ?She did not blink.

  ?

  ?"I did what I had to do." Her voice did not shake. "For the kingdom."

  ?

  ?His head tilted. A fraction.

  ?

  ?"For your daughter."

  ?

  ?Her eyes moved. A flicker only. Then stillness.

  ?

  ?He studied her face. The bones beneath the skin. The years written there. What remained and what had faded. Her hair was grey now. Once it had been dark. He did not mention it.

  ?

  ?Then he laughed.

  ?

  ?The sound was deep, cavernous, older than his years. Behind him, the roses trembled. Their petals shivered as though touched by wind that did not exist.

  ?

  ?She did not move.

  ?

  ?"Do not make that face," he said, still laughing. "Your daughter is safe."

  ?

  ?He waited. The laughter faded. The garden held silence.

  ?

  ?"Along all the blessed ones in my care."

  ?

  ?He walked toward her. Stopped close enough that she could smell the garden on him—soil, cut stems, something else beneath. His right hand rose. His index finger touched her chin. Lifted.

  ?

  ?She did not move.

  ?

  ?His gaze traveled her face. Slow. Deliberate. Across her brow. Down the line of her nose. Across her mouth. He turned her chin to the right. Held it. Turned it to the left.

  ?

  ?"You are a beautiful woman," he said. "I understand why my father favored you once." He studied her profile. "You must have been quite the looker in your youth."

  ?

  ?He lowered his hand.

  ?

  ?"Not to my taste."

  ?

  ?His voice was flat. He turned back toward the roses.

  ?

  ?"Your daughter might still be."

  ?

  ?Her hands trembled. The report shook in her grip. Her teeth found her lower lip. Held. Blood welled, traced her chin, dropped onto her collar.

  ?

  ?The fabric stained red.

  ?

  ?He reached for a white rose. His fingers brushed its petals. His grip tightened on the shears. They closed.

  ?

  ?The rose fell. He caught it in his left hand.

  ?

  ?"A pity," he said without turning. "But she could still be sent back to you."

  ?

  ?Her lip relaxed. Her jaw loosened a fraction. The blood continued its slow path.

  ?

  ?He raised the rose to his face. Inhaled. His expression did not change. He let it fall.

  ?

  ?He turned.

  ?

  ?"I need more than what is in your report." His voice was neutral. "For this cadet to have my attention, I must see something worth my time"

  ?

  ?He stepped toward her. Leaned in. His face was close enough that she could see the pale gold of his eyes.

  ?

  ?"Do not come back empty-handed."

  ?

  ?His voice was harder now.

  ?

  ?She said nothing.

  ?

  ?He held her gaze a moment longer. Then he straightened, stepped past her, and walked toward the gate. His footsteps receded on the gravel. The gate opened. Closed.

  ?

  ?She stood alone among the roses.

  ?

  ?The shears lay where he had left them, blades open, resting among the fallen flowers. The white rose he had discarded lay near her feet. The red rose rested against a stone.

  ?

  ?After a long moment, she knelt. Her knees pressed into the damp soil. Her hand reached out and closed around the fallen white rose. She brought it to her chest. Held it there against the bloodstained collar.

  ?

  ?"Rosa."

  ?

  ?The name was barely air.

  ?

  ?She rose. Turned. Walked toward the gate. The white rose remained in her hand, pressed against her chest. The report hung forgotten at her side.

  ?

  ?The gravel crunched beneath her boots. The gate opened. Closed.

  ?

  ?The garden was still. The shears lay open among the flowers. The roses did not tremble.

  ?