Chapter 17
The crystal panes of the greenhouse muffled the ocean’s sound beyond the hedge, but amplified the moonlight, casting steady beams onto the potted rosebushes below.
Some were newly revived cuttings in porcelain containers, while others, ancient-looking, climbed iron supports toward the moon.
It was a rose maze inside a crystal box.
Alice explored the perimeter of the greenhouse’s interior.
There was not a soul to be found. She huffed, stopping before a workbench, absently turning a pair of pearl-handled cutting shears in her hand.
If no one’s here, then was it the roses that whispered?
Absurd as it was to think, Alice spoke aloud.
“Do you know where Wendy is?” she whispered, and she heard a faint sound, a hum that caused her to stop and stand motionless, allowing the sound to be carried to her on the sweet-smelling air.
She closed her eyes, in hopes that shutting down one sense could magnify the other, and pressed her ear to a large velvety rose that hung over the enormous clay pot on the workbench.
She was straining to discern the words when a hand pressed low on her waist and warm breath slithered through her hair.
She whirled, shears in hand, and gasped.
“A strange way to smell a flower,” King Evoldo murmured.
Alice stammered, and though she wanted to drop the rose shears, she could not move or act.
“Do you intend to slay a king?” whispered Evoldo, pressing his chest into the point of the shears. “How fascinating you are.” Alice moved backwards under his weight, her lower back now meeting the edge of the workbench. If she dropped the shears, his full weight would be pressed against her.
“I…” Alice tried but found navigating confrontation with someone in power terrifying—which was not her usual response to say the least. “I would have no reason to do such a thing.” She dropped the shears onto the workbench as she slid away from him, then moved through a row of high bushes, praying she could find an exit, as he trailed like a shadow.
“I am delighted to find you here. Though I had expected someone else,” he said. “Why did you speak to the roses?”
He leered so close to Alice that she couldn’t think of a lie. She shook her head and bit her lip, trying not to seem like she was hurrying, heading for the perimeter.
“Why in such a rush?” he asked in a low whisper, only a step behind her as she rounded another bench that held clipping pots.
Alice, now at the crystal wall, had a clean shot to the stone exit.
She picked up her step. The king’s stride closed the gap, and he grabbed her arm, pulling her back to the crystal glass beside an iron post. With one hand gripping the post and the other pressing firmly against the crystal, he created a cage around her.
“It is said,” he breathed, the ferment of wine washing over her from his lips, “those with the spark can command the roses, amongst other things.” His eyes invaded hers in the moonlight, his age pronounced by shadows cast from his brow and hair that silvered at the base of his neck.
“The spark that only can be possessed by a witch.” He grabbed Alice’s forearm; it was all she could do to not cry out.
He leaned in and exhaled, his liquored breath filling her nose.
“Are you a witch, Alice? Do you have such power?”
She attempted to slide from him. “Of course not! How absurd,” she managed, but he moved in closer, and she shivered as the bristle of his beard rubbed against her neck and the lace line of her dress. Bloody hell, she thought. How was she going to get away? She should not have dropped the shears.
Whispers began to fill her ears, and the king jolted abruptly. “Ah!” His voice echoed as he backed away from a rose vine that had detached from the iron brace, its thorned branch bobbing freely, brushing his neck. He held his neck as Alice broke free and hurried away.
The moment the door latched behind her she began to run, screaming in her mind at the accusation (she was not a witch!) and the horrible advance from the king, and enraged that Blinkem had not met her as they’d intended.
Safely locked inside her chambers, Alice held her cheeks, the flush of the ordeal still burning in her face.
Where had Blinkem gone? What did he know of all of this?
It felt very much that everyone around her held secrets.
Did he? Even the reflection before her held its own secrets.
She touched the glass without expecting it to be a passageway, as not all mirrors were.
However, some most definitely were. At least this she knew now was true.
But what if this were a dream? She felt very much awake and that all of what she felt was happening in consciousness, but maybe her vivid dreams had evolved. Maybe she now couldn’t discern real life from subconscious fantasy.
Had she ever been able to?