The Silver Rose (29 page)

“And he would have been wrong. God is not that cruel, Simon. He would never destroy what he so lovingly created. I think he strives to refashion even the worst of souls into something finer. I don’t really believe in hell.”

“I do. Although I don’t think it is any lake of burning fire and brimstone as Le Vis claimed.”

Miri wished she could make out his features. But even with the moonlight streaming in, she saw no more than the shadow of his beard-roughened face, his head propped on his arm as he rested on his back, gazing up at the window.

“What do you think hell is like, then?” she asked softly.

“Cold. Dark. And when you reach out into the void to touch someone, there is no one there.”

The emptiness in his voice tugged at her heart. All her resolves about the wisdom of holding herself at a distance were forgotten. She scooted closer, groping until she found his hand. Although he tensed, he didn’t draw away, his fingers entwining with hers. After a long moment, he spoke again, more hesitantly.

“My father would have agreed with you . . . about the drought. I remember something he said to me the year much of the village’s crops were destroyed by an overabundance of rain. He told me there is no fathoming the ways of nature. One can only try to live in harmony with the earth, rejoice in the days of bounty, put something by to get you through the seasons of want, and have faith in God to see you through.”

“Live in harmony with the earth,” Miri murmured. “That is exactly what my mother taught me.”

“You would have understood my father. He—he would have gotten on well with you.”

“I am sure I would have liked him, too. Tell me more about him,” she coaxed, gently massaging his fingers.

She feared he would refuse. It was hard to get Simon to talk about his family, but perhaps he found it easier lost in the shadows, only their hands connecting. He spoke slowly at first, then warmed as he described for her life in his small village, until she could see it so clearly, from the winding lane to the well-tended cottage.

Javier Aristide with his work-roughened hands, imparting his gentle wisdom, teaching Simon all he knew of animal husbandry. His mother, fiercely reigning over her kitchen, keeping both her cottage and her family in tidy domestic order, but always free with a gentle caress, a beaming smile. And his little sister Lorene, trailing adoringly after Simon, running to him first every time she skinned her knee or had any small treasure she’d found to display.

Although Miri was certain he was unaware of it, Simon revealed to her the kind of boy he had been as well, kind, openhearted, quick to laugh and to tease. She caught glimpses of the gentleness she had seen when she had first met him, even after he’d fallen under Le Vis’s influence, traces that still remained in the man who grasped her hand in the darkness.

Miri found herself talking about her own mother, the wondrous Lady of Faire Isle who had taught her the magic of brewing herbs, how to apply Maman’s healing skills with people to the simpler creatures of the earth. Her bold, handsome father who had taken her on so many journeys into the rich realms of imagination, hunting for unicorns in the woods. And her sisters, solemn and gentle Ariane, who had become like a second mother to her. Impulsive, teasing Gabrielle, with whom Miri had so often quarreled, but whom she had known she could always count on to be her fiercest protector.

As she held Simon’s hand, she suddenly realized how dangerous this was, this sharing of memories only deepening her feelings for him, forging bonds stronger than mere desire. And yet she was filled with a peace she had not known for a long time.

Her eyelids grew heavier and heavier. She fell asleep, her hand still linked with his. But it was a peace that didn’t last as she was drawn into the dark world of her dreams . . .

The salamanders were crawling up the palace walls. Miri avoided them as she hammered against the castle door, frantically seeking admittance. As she paused to catch her breath, she heard voices that seemed to float from somewhere far away, across the green expanse of lawn.

Miri stumbled in that direction, racing along garden paths that sloped down toward a sparkling river. The path ahead was barred with statues. No, not statues, she realized, her heart thudding. But the familiar menacing figures of the chess pieces towering above her.

Only there was something strange about them, something more disturbing. Miri froze as she saw there was no white queen, only two dark ones and the hapless white knight was trapped between them.

The pawns rumbled to attack as they had done before. Miri tried to call out a warning, but her voice came out in a hoarse croak. One pawn moved forward, smaller than the rest, not wielding a mace or a club, but a book. As the pawn cracked the volume open, it exuded a sinister green mist that enveloped the white knight.

He breathed it in and tumbled to the ground, helpless as the other pawns attacked, smashing him. Miri rushed to his aid, but as always, she was too late. The stone shell had fallen away, revealing a man, broken and bleeding.

When Miri stroked his hair back, her fingers came away dark and sticky. But this time, she could see his face all too clearly, blood streaming in a dark river over his scarred cheek.

“Simon,” she moaned.

“Miri!”

She felt strong hands seize her by shoulders. Although she struggled desperately to free herself, both the hands and the voice were insistent, dragging her clear of the dark webs of her dream.

“Miri, wake up!”

As her eyes fluttered open, she gasped, uncertain where she was until she saw the shadow of the man hovering over her.

“S-simon.” Her nightmare was still so strong, so vivid in her mind, she bolted upright and ran her fingers frantically over his brow, his cheeks, and his beard. Finding no trace of blood, no gaping wound, she snapped fully awake with a sob of relief.

Simon caught hold of her trembling fingers, squeezing them gently. “Miri, what’s wrong? Were you having a nightmare?”

“Yes,” she whispered.

“Come here, then.” He drew her into his arms, cradling her head against his shoulder. Stroking her hair, he murmured, “Shh. You’re awake now and I’m here. It was nothing, only a bad dream.”

Miri snuggled against him, soothed by his caress, the rough timbre of his voice. But the tears still coursed down her cheeks as she choked, “No, you—you don’t understand. I—I’ve had nightmares like this ever since I was a little girl. Strange dreams that spin out over and over again until—until they come true.”

His hand stilled in her hair. “You mean like a—a prophecy?”

“Y-yes.”

Miri could sense his frown and knew that the witch-hunter in him would be leery of anything that hinted of visions or the forbidden art of divining the future. But he resumed stroking her hair, his voice gentle as he said, “All right. Tell me about this one.”

She drew in her breath with a shuddery sigh and described her dream in halting sentences, the palace crawling with lizards, gigantic chess pieces, the shattered white knight.

“And then—then I realized it wasn’t a chessman at all, but you. And you were broken and bleeding,” she concluded in a whisper.

Simon was silent for a long time, as though he did not know quite how to respond. He finally patted her shoulder and said, “Very well. I promise I’ll steer clear of salamanders and never play chess again.”

Although his voice was solemn, Miri could tell he was humoring her, doing his best to banish her fears. She could well understand how completely mad this must all sound to him, but she was filled with frustration all the same.

Thumping her hand against his chest, she drew back, straining to peer up at him through the darkness. “This is not a jest, Simon. You have got to take me seriously. I know it seems incredible, a jumbled lunacy, but my dreams are never clear at first. The things that happen are—are masks, symbols of events I never understand until it is too late.”

Her lips quivered. “And my nightmares never fail in coming true. The worst one I ever had was years ago. I—I kept dreaming about the massacre on St. Bartholomew’s Day. All those slaughtered innocents. I can’t even begin to tell how dreadful it was.”

“You don’t have to,” Simon said. “I was there in Paris with my master, remember?”

Miri remembered, but it was something she’d always dreaded to think about, wondering what terrible things Simon might have done that night under Le Vis’s orders. She stared at him, wishing she could see his face.

“Then you went out with Le Vis that night to—to—”

“No.”

Simon’s reply was brusque, but it flooded her with relief. She melted back in his arms as he continued, “Master Le Vis could tell I was not up to the task of—of—administering God’s judgment upon the heretics, as he called it. He forbade me to leave the house, but even tunneled deep in the cellars, I could still hear the screams of—of the women and children.

“May God forgive me, Miri, I did nothing to help them. It was like there was a madness abroad that night, some foul contagion that infected me. I have never felt such fear, but—but such anger and hatred as well.”

“That was the Dark Queen’s doing,” she sought to reassure him. “She released a miasma into the air.”

“What?”

“It’s a potion of the most dangerous kind. When you breathe it in, it clouds your reason, heightens all of your darker feelings.”

“Is such a thing truly possible? It would be comforting to believe that witchery was responsible for the horrors of that night, but there is a violence in men that requires little encouraging. I—I felt almost insane with pent-up fury. I actually had my knife gripped in my hand ready to rush out into the street and—and—I had to struggle so hard to fight my black impulses. I flung the knife away and sank to my knees, retching my guts out. I was every bit as weak as Master Le Vis accused me of being.”

“No, you weren’t!” Miri reached up to stroke his cheek. “Full-grown men are unable to resist the power of a miasma and yet you did and you were only a confused boy of fifteen. Do you realize how remarkable—”

Miri broke off, struck by a chilling realization. “Simon, I—I think I know what my dream means. Or at least some of it. The two Dark Queens. They are the Silver Rose and Catherine and you are somehow going to be caught between them. And one of them will release something—a miasma, perhaps—to harm you.”

“Well, if, according to you, I survived it once before—”

“But—but this time I am so afraid you won’t.”

“I hope you are wrong, but even if you aren’t . . . Miri, I can’t turn back from hunting the Silver Rose just because you’ve had a bad dream.”

“I know that,” she replied, clinging to him. “Oh, Simon, I am beginning to despair that we will ever defeat these witches.” She swallowed, finally giving voice to the fear she had been fending off for days. “We—we have lost all trace of Carole and those evil women who took her, haven’t we?”

Simon sighed, brushing his lips against the top of her head. “I am afraid so,” he said gently. “That is why I have been thinking that we need to take another approach, hunt for clues somewhere else. But to do that, I need to—to take you home.”

“No! I told you before. I’ll not return to Faire Isle.”

“I didn’t mean your home, Miri.” He hesitated and then astonished her when he added gruffly, “I am talking about mine.”

Chapter Thirteen

T
HE
S
ILVER
R
OSE
trudged up the stairs to her bedchamber, dismissing her attendants with a wearied wave of one small hand. The circlet she wore threatened to slip over her ears again and she shoved it back impatiently. Her frail shoulders were weighted down by the mantle, the thick velvet garment stifling in the summer heat. Her gown, soaked through with perspiration, clung to her thin frame.

Megaera felt exhausted after another audience with the throng of women who assembled daily in the hall of the old house. To gape at her in awe, to make obeisance before her throne, to eagerly seek her favor. Her court, as Maman persisted in calling them.

No, not
Maman,
Meg reminded herself. She was to refer to Cassandra Lascelles as the Lady, just as everyone else did. Maman became quite vexed with her when she forgot. Meg fingered the five-sided medallion suspended about her neck with a tiny shiver. If there was one thing the girl had learned from an early age, it was that it was unwise to vex her mother.

She stole inside her bedchamber and closed the door, leaning up against it with a tiny sigh, relieved to shut out all her worshipful followers, even if it was only for a brief time. To be free of all those begging hands reaching out to her, those hopeful eyes, those expectant faces that nibbled away at her like a swarm of hungry mice. Barraging her ears with their pleas.

“Great queen, please restore my youth . . . heal my crippled leg . . . lay a curse upon the man who stole my innocence.”

Or the pleas Meg dreaded most of all . . .
“Oh, most powerful Silver Rose, I lost my sister . . . my mother . . . my daughter. Can you not bring her back to life as you did petite Lysette that day she fell into the pond and drowned?”

Meg wanted to shriek at everyone. Lysette only
nearly
drowned. The little girl only seemed to stop breathing. She wasn’t really dead or Meg would never have been able to revive her with the Kiss of Life, a healing magic she had learned from her old nurse.

But Maman had sternly forbidden Meg to speak of that.

“Let them think you brought the child back from the dead. It will only enhance your reputation as a great sorceress.”

“But—but it’s a lie,” Meg had stammered. “I don’t have such power.”

“You could have, you foolish child. If you would learn to apply yourself.”

Meg was uncertain what frightened her more. The prospect that she would never be able to keep all the dark promises she was forced to make. Or that someday she might . . .

She tugged at the clasp fastening her mantle and breathed a sigh of relief when the heavy folds tumbled from her shoulders. She wanted to kick the much-hated garment into a heap, but she knew she would be roundly scolded for not taking better care of her “robe of state.”

Grudgingly she picked up the mantle and hung it from a peg mounted on the wall. Next she stripped off the silver crown. Her fingers inched toward the medallion suspended about her neck. The braided chain chafed her skin near her collarbone, her perspiration stinging the raw streak of red.

Meg wanted to remove the medallion, but knew she didn’t dare. She quailed, thinking what the dire consequences might be if she even tried. No, she most definitely did not dare.

Unhappily, she peered at herself in the small looking glass fixed above her ewer and basin. With the crown and mantle removed, the Silver Rose vanished, leaving only Meg. That thought was the only satisfaction her reflection gave her. She studied her sharp, angular features, her lank brown hair, and wrinkled her nose in distaste before turning away.

Feeling tired and dragged out by the heat, she kicked off her shoes and flung herself down upon the massive bed that dominated the room. Carved of heavy oak and hung with blue damask embroidered with silver roses, it was a bed fit for a queen, or so her mother said.

Meg hated the bed even more than she did her mantle and her crown. It was not so bad napping here in the middle of the afternoon, but when she was alone at night, in the dark, she often felt as though the great bed would swallow her up like some giant maw the moment she closed her eyes.

It was an infantile fancy for a girl of nine years, Meg knew, but she could not help herself. Her heart pounding with fear, she would clutch her pillow tight to her chest and indulge in a few quiet tears where there were none to see and chide her for her weakness.

She would weep and think wistfully of their English days before she and Maman had sailed back to France. Three years ago, but Meg could remember so clearly the little cottage by the sea in Dover and her nurse who had taken care of her from her earliest hours. A plump genial wise woman by the name of Prudence Waters, but to Meg, she had never been anything but her beloved Nourice.

Meg had never been afraid of the dark then, not tucked up in her small cot with Nourice’s arms about her, lulled to sleep by the whisper of the sea. Nourice had always called her little Meggie, something that infuriated Maman.

“Her name is Megaera,”
her mother would rage. All the Englishwoman had done was shrug. Nourice had been one of the few people who had never seemed afraid of Cassandra.

But she should have been, Meg thought as she stared up at the carved ceiling of her bed. A lump formed in her throat as she recalled the spring day when her mother’s friend Finette had taken her for a walk down the beach to gather shells. Meg had raced ahead, eager to return to the cottage and show Nourice the starfish that she had found.

But there had been no beaming woman awaiting her, to exclaim with delight over Meg’s small cache of treasures, to comb the salt and sand from her hair, to wash her hands and face and set her down to her supper. Nourice was nowhere to be found, not in the kitchen, not in the garden, and her mother’s only explanation was,
“You are too old to have a nurse any longer, Megaera. She has taught you all she could. I have sent Mistress Waters away, back to her family.”

Meg had been forbidden to cry or ask any further questions. She hadn’t really wanted to, something about the cruel set of her mother’s mouth frightening her. She had swallowed her grief, learned to accept the fact that Nourice had vanished from her life. Just like Cerberus, the remarkable old dog who had for so long been Maman’s eyes.

Holding up one hand, Meg examined the pale scar on the back of her arm where Cerberus had bitten her that summer she’d turned five. It had been a sweltering day like this one and Meg was sure Cerberus had never meant to do it. The poor old mastiff had been miserable with the heat like everyone else and had not wanted to be petted by the sweaty hands of a little girl.

But Maman had collared the dog. She and Finette had marched him off down the beach. Some hours later they had returned without Cerberus and Maman had said curtly,
“I got rid of him.”

“But why, Maman?”
Meg had asked, astonished and dismayed. Her mother had loved that dog more than anyone or anything in the world. Especially Meg.

Cassandra had replied coldly,
“Because of you. Nothing must threaten my Silver Rose.”

Not my daughter or my only child, but the Silver Rose, Meg reflected sadly. The legend upon which Maman had pinned all her dreams, so much that she had even been willing to sacrifice her beloved Cerberus. But she had resented Meg for it. Even as young as she had been, Meg had been able to sense that.

Meg shivered, thinking how much she had wanted to warn the new girl whom she had permitted to join their coven. That night when Carole Moreau had knelt cowering before her, awaiting her verdict, Meg had looked deep into the girl’s eyes.

Meg was good at the old wise woman magic of reading the eyes. Nourice had taught her well and Meg had a natural gift for it, although she didn’t often like to use her ability. Stare too deep into someone’s eyes and one might stumble over dark thoughts or secrets one didn’t want to know.

But as she had studied Carole, Meg had realized at once that Carole was different from the other angry, embittered women in the great hall. Carole was sad, confused, and afraid, so much like Meg herself, she had felt an immediate kinship with the older girl. Carole just wanted to go home, back to Faire Isle, and Meg wished she could have let her. But Maman would never allow that. The only way to help the girl, keep her safe, was to declare her fit to become a member of their order.

But as Carole had paid homage, kissing her hand, Meg had longed to lean forward and whisper in her ear.
“You must be careful. Never anger or displease my mother. She will make you disappear.”

Sometimes Meg wondered if that was what had happened to her father. She had never met him, never even known a child was supposed to have a father until the day she had seen the little fisher boy on the beach, his papa teaching him to mend nets.

Meg had marched straight home and wanted to know where her papa was, a question she had oft repeated. When she was in a more mellow humor, Cassandra Lascelles would spin tales about Meg’s father being a mercenary, a man who sailed the world plying his fearsome trade, such a fierce warrior, so savage he was known as the Scourge.

At other moments, the dark times Meg called them, when Maman had had too much whiskey, she would growl at Meg and tell her she was the spawn of the devil. Meg found both answers equally daunting and after a time, she had given up asking, learning to weave her dreams instead.

Her father had really been a king, she had decided. A handsome man, tall and brave with raven hair and twinkling eyes who had laughed, lifted her up into the air and danced her about, calling her his petite princess. Meg had been stolen out of her cradle in the palace and spirited away.

But her father was out there somewhere searching for her. One day he would ride up on a great white horse and swoop Meg off to his kingdom by the sea. There was only one problem with her fantasies and that was when she pictured herself perched on the saddle before this magnificent man . . . an ugly little troll of a girl. So in her dreams she transformed herself as well, into a fairy princess with golden curls and eyes of blue.

None of this could ever be true. She was old enough to realize that, but she didn’t care. She had long ago discovered living in a castle in the air with a papa who adored you was much better than the real world with a house full of bitter women with alarming expectations and a mother who despised you for being weak.

Soothed by her imaginings, Meg curled on her side, burrowed her nose deeper into the pillow, and fell asleep. She was awakened all too soon by a rough hand shaking her shoulder.

“Megaera! Wake up, you lazy child.”

Meg’s eyes fluttered open. The sunlight had disappeared, her bedchamber enshrouded in shadows. She squinted through the gathering gloom, peering up at the woman who had awakened her. She didn’t have to see her properly to know who it was. She recognized the shrill voice and sour smell of Finette all too well.

Wriggling away from Finette’s grip, Meg yawned and knuckled the sleep from her eyes.

“What the devil do you think you are doing, girl?” Finette scolded. “Lolling about in bed in the middle of the day.”

“I don’t know,” Meg muttered. Besides Cassandra Lascelles, Finette was the only woman in the coven who dared to speak to Meg harshly and with so little respect. Perhaps because Finette was Cassandra’s oldest and most trusted servant. That is, as much as Maman trusted anyone.

Meg had never liked the woman. Unlike her kind soft Nourice, Finette was all hard angles from her sharp face and sly eyes to her flat bosom and bony hips. And no matter how fine a gown she wore, Finette looked like a slattern because she never washed. Her skin encrusted with layers of grime, her stringy hair matted and filthy, she reeked of a pungent combination of sweat, dirt, and urine.

Standing over Meg with her elbows propped akimbo, Finette sneered. “So does your royal highness have any idea what time it is?”

Resisting the impulse to hold her nose, Meg scooted to the other side of the bed. She glanced toward the window and was dismayed to see the sun had nearly set. She had no idea that she had slept that long.

“Oh, no,” she moaned.

“Oh, no,”
Finette mocked. “The Lady has been waiting for you forever. You should have been at your studies hours ago.”

Meg cringed inwardly at the mention of her mother, but she didn’t want to give Finette any satisfaction by showing it. Scrambling off the bed, Meg hastened to find her shoes while Finette harangued her.

“You are such a selfish little brat. Do you realize how many women have risked their lives, given up everything to follow you? They are all counting on you to decipher the
Book of Shadows
and master those spells.”

Meg ducked her head, letting her hair fall forward to mask her expression of fear and loathing. She despised that book, wished she could hurl it into the fire, but it was a thing of such evil, she wondered if it would even burn.

Long ago, Nourice had taught Meg the rudiments of reading mysterious symbols and runes, crowing with delight at Meg’s rapid progress.

“What a wonder you are, my little poppet. To have learned so quickly and at your young age. I have known full-grown women who have never been able to master the ancient language, but you have a gift for it. I vow you will even surpass your old nurse one day. I am so proud of you, dearie.”

At the time, Meg had flushed with delight at Nourice’s praise, but now the memory saddened her. Nourice would no longer be proud of her, not if she knew how Meg had used the skills she’d been taught.

She
was
good at puzzling out the old symbols, even though the
Book of Shadows
was very hard to read. But the more she managed to decipher of those enigmatic pages, the more terrified she became. Even the most innocent of spells came out wrong. The powder to preserve the life of the roses turned them to deadly poison. The magic needle that could rush healing medicine into a person’s veins became a terrible weapon. At least, in her mother’s hands.