36. The Stolen Bride
After the ball, I couldn’t stop thinking of Briar. I knew we couldn’t go back in time. I knew we couldn’t go home again. But I still longed to see her.
All of the plants looked healthy. Everything was planted just as I remembered. Why wasn’t it working? Where had I gone wrong?
Of course, I had been very young in that memory. I might have forgotten a detail, or perhaps, the garden needed to mature.
I trailed my finger along the plush white rose blossoms. Did they need fertilizer? Then I pricked my finger on a thorn, and a drop of blood dripped into the fertile earth. Suddenly, the garden came to life. Whispers rose up from the susurrus, and I kneeled down to listen.
”Hello,” I said softly.
”Hello, beautiful child.”
The voice was familiar. One I had heard once before in a memory. ”Gran?” I asked.
The flowers laughed, and the sound was as gentle as a bee’s buzz. ”You remember. How wonderful. Your mother would be so proud.”
Hope and longing swelled in me. ”Is she here?”
”No, love. I’m sorry. Is there something I can help you with? I’m afraid your spell is very weak. It won’t last long, and goodness knows you didn’t plant this garden to talk to an old lady,” she whispered.
Despite the soft volume, I heard shrewdness in her tone, the sort that came from raising many children and knowing their moods and feelings like the back of her hand. I found myself wishing I had known this wise woman, my gran.
But there was no time for that now. ”My older sister. Can you tell me where she is?”
There was a pause before Gran answered, ”She rests with us now.”
Her single whisper was joined by many others, but I couldn’t make out any of their words.
Panic rose in my chest. ”You don’t mean…”
Gran’s voice was softer now. The spell was beginning to fade. ”She is dead. I’m so sorry.”
My heart was breaking. How could any of this be true? How could Briar be dead? Hawthorne had told me she was alive. He couldn’t lie! Had she died recently, or had he himself had been lied to?
My frantic thoughts were interrupted. ”Your mother wishes me to tell you something.”
”Momma?” I asked, my voice cracking. I longed to hear my mother’s voice, for her to tell me everything was okay.
Instead, Gran whispered back, ”She says she loves you always, and she’s sorry.”
”Sorry for what?” I asked desperately.
The only reply was a soft, barely intelligible whisper. ”Ask your husband-to-be.”
I flattened myself against the ground, trying to hear more, but the flowers were still and silent. The garden had fallen back asleep, and I had no idea how to wake it.
The flowers had given me all the answers they could.
I lay on the ground for hours and hours, crying until my breathing finally slowed and sorrow crept into my bones. I stared at the darkening sky until I accidentally fell asleep.
When I woke, the stars were out.
It was time to talk to my husband-to-be.