The White Rose (18 page)

We sit like that in the quiet of the night, as white flowers bloom and fade around us.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................

I
WAKE AT DAWN TO FIND
S
IL STANDING OVER ME
.

She’s wearing her signature overalls and a thick woolen scarf. Clutched in her hands is a thin leather portfolio, sheets of yellowing paper sticking out around its edges.

She puts her finger to her lips and jerks her head toward the trees.

Ash is sleeping peacefully beside me. I untangle myself from his arms and the blankets as gently as I can—he sighs and rolls onto his back, but doesn’t wake. We slept in the shadow of the barn, so the trees are close by. Sil wanders through the edge of the forest, always keeping the White Rose in sight, until we are a good distance from Ash. On the far side of the clearing, gray light is kissing the treetops,
hints of orange and gold peeking out through their branches.

“I didn’t want to burden you with this last night,” Sil says, holding up the portfolio. “I know you had a lot to take in.”

I nod. The air is chilly and I miss the warmth of Ash’s body. But at the same time, I can feel the whole world waking up.

Sil stops at a huge sycamore. She groans as she lowers herself onto the ground, resting her back against its wide trunk.

“Sit,” she says, patting the grass beside her.

As I do, I become very aware of the earth beneath me, its rich, heavy texture, the roots that live and grow inside it. Somewhere deep below, I think I sense the rush of water. An underground river, maybe?

“You feel it all, don’t you?” Sil says.

“There’s so much,” I say. “How are you not . . . how can you . . . live normally?”

She barks out a laugh. “I don’t.”

The sun begins to rise, painting the sky with streaks of pink. Sil puts the portfolio between us.

“You need to learn your history,” she says. “When this power came to me, I had no understanding of it. I was terrified. And I was alone. For years I wondered where it all came from, this magic that got twisted into the Auguries. Was it some failed royal experiment? Then Azalea came, and Lucien, and he had access to the oldest library in the entire city.”

“The Duchess’s library,” I say. I remember the Duchess
bragging at dinner one night about how her ancestors built the Great Wall, how it was her
duty
to preserve the literature of their time.

Sil nods. “Lucien has been smuggling anything he could find out of that library for me. Piece by piece, I’ve put this puzzle together. Or at least, I’ve done the best I could. The only ones who could truly explain it are long dead.”

She opens the portfolio. I pick it up with trembling hands—the pages are very old and I’m afraid that if I touch them they’ll crumble to dust. The first page looks to be a map. It’s the island, but without the city—there are markers on it that I’ve never seen. Several red Xs line the coastline. Other areas within the island are circled, with scribbled notes that I can barely make out. “Topaz deposit,” one says. “Rich soil,” another circle is marked.

I flip to another page. This one is filled with thin, slanted writing. It looks like a list of names, but they are strange and unfamiliar.

Pantha Seagrass

Jucinde Soare

There are twenty names in all. I would guess they are all women—the names feel distinctly female to me. And at the bottom of the page is a note that sets a chill creeping through my chest.

Execution date, March 5, in the year of the Founding.

The year of the Founding. The year the Lone City was formed.

I turn to the next page. It’s filled with very crude illustrations—one shows a woman holding what appears to be a handful of flames. Another shows a young girl, her arms outstretched, a massive blue wave cresting over her head.

Other pages are too smudged to read, with only a few words and phrases written clearly.

. . . to stomp out the source at its heart . . .

. . . ours to command . . .

. . . mercy . . . of death . . .

. . . riches . . .

. . . promised . . .

But it’s a page near the end that holds my attention. Probably because it is the oldest and yet the best preserved. I have a feeling that when Lucien recovered it for Sil, she took great pains to take care of it. It is almost entirely legible. There is a date at the top that I don’t recognize . . . was this document written before the Founding?

I start to read, and the first sentence makes my stomach swoop, like I’ve missed a step going down stairs.

The island was called Excelsior, the Jewel of the Earth.

I look up. Sil is watching me with a steady gaze, her silver eyes sparkling in the early-morning light.

“Yes,” she says. “This island had a name once. And it was not the Lone City.” She nods at the page. “Keep reading.”

Legend spoke of its riches—thick black dirt where any crop could grow, lush green trees that sang when the ocean breezes tickled their leaves, wild animals of all kinds, striped cats and brilliantly plumed birds and scaly lizards. But most of all, caverns upon caverns of precious gems. Diamond, topaz, garnet, ruby, emerald, sapphire. All these and more.

The next few sentences are hard to read. I see a reference to the House of the Lake, another to the House of the Stone. Something about alliances, and another mention of riches. The next paragraph is much clearer.

But the island was merely myth. The people of Bellstar—ruled by Lake and Scales—and the people of Ellaria—ruled by Stone and Rose—knew this to be true. Many had tried to find the island. None had succeeded. Those who returned spoke of evil winds that blew their ships asunder, or giant waves that swept their crew overboard to a watery grave, never catching even a glimpse of their destination.

But the royal families were not to be dissuaded. Hundreds of ships were built and the great race began. Which country would find the
Jewel of the Earth and claim it for their own? I was hired by the House of the Scales, to work as a scribe. My father did not wish for me to take this journey. But I had to see the island for myself. Dark days . . .

The rest of that paragraph is faded and smudged. I turn to the next page.

In the end, it took all four families working together to conquer the island, its magic so deep, its boundaries so well protected. But the natives were no match for the power of the cannon, the brute force of royal weaponry. I have made a further account of the attack on the western shore, though, as it does not portray the royalty in a favorable light, I imagine it will not live to see beyond this day.

The executions took place at dawn. Not a single woman in the village was spared, for who knew which of them possessed the strange and wondrous ability to speak to the sea and the wind and the earth? They call themselves the Paladin, guardians of Excelsior. They claim it is their duty to protect the island.

The royalty is convinced they will track them all down, but I am not as certain.

The rest of the page is blurred. My hands are shaking so violently, I have to close the portfolio to make sure that
I don’t harm its contents. My brain whirs as I make sense of everything. The royalty always claimed this island was uninhabited. That was the story. That they found it, settled it, built the Lone City.

They never said there were people here.

“Yes,” Sil muses, gazing out at the trees across the field. “They really are a bunch of bastards, aren’t they.”

“Who were they?” I ask. “Those women?”

“They are our ancestors,” she says. “We are descendants of the Paladin. The guardians of this island.” Her voice is warm and rich, reverent. She places her palms down on the earth beside her. “This island gives us power, I believe. In return, we were trusted with its protection. But we were lost for so long. They thought they killed us, but our good friend the scribe knew differently.”

It is strange to think of myself as descended from an ancient race of magical women.

“Maybe that’s what that place was,” I murmur.

“What place?” Sil asks. I tell her about the cliff and the monument, where I found Raven and brought her back.

“You saw the ocean?” she gasps.

I nod. Sil covers her mouth with her hand, and for a moment, I think she might cry.

“I knew we were connected to it,” she mutters to herself, “but I never . . .”

“What are you talking about?”

“When I was dying in the morgue,” she says, “I heard a strange sound, like waves, and I smelled something sharp and salty. I’d never smelled seawater before but I was certain that was it. It called to me. It comforted me.” She blinks
and looks away. “I wish I could see it. These walls . . . these damned walls have been standing for too long.” She turns back to me with a sudden ferocity. “Don’t you see? This is
our island
. They took it from us, they murdered our ancestors and claimed it as their own. This is about so much more than the Auction. This is about a race of people enslaved and made extinct. But we are not gone. They couldn’t kill all of us, and it’s time for them to pay for what they’ve done.”

“And you believe that I can break down parts of their walls?”

“I think that’s what you were born to do,” Sil says.

We sit in silence for a long while. It’s so much to take in. I hold out a hand over the grass and feel the roots in the earth groan and stretch. I welcome their strength. I feel as if I could ask them to shoot up from the ground or dig deeper into the earth and they would. I feel as if these trees had been thirsty for someone like me. The air is crisp and cold and infused with desire. To protect. To be protected. To help.

“You understand so quickly,” Sil says. “This place is special. They called me here, I think—the Paladin. Their spirits, if you believe in such things. There is an energy here. I think this place might have once been important to them.”

“How did you get here?” I ask.

“That’s a long story.” She rubs the back of her scarred hand.

I wait. With an exaggerated sigh, she leans back against the sycamore.

“You know how I got out of the Jewel.”

“The incinerator.”

She nods. “I wandered around those sewers for who
knows how long. I was starving. I was terrified. When I finally made it out, I found myself in the Bank. I’d never been to the Bank before. I had no idea where I was. I hid in an alley behind a shop.” Her gaze softens. “That was when I saw my flowers. But I didn’t find them beautiful. I was frightened of them, of what was happening to me. I didn’t feel in control—how you felt last night but a hundred times worse because I was alone. I thought I was going insane. It began to rain. It rained for days, huge biting sheets of water that wouldn’t stop. It was me, I suppose, though I didn’t know it at the time. I scavenged for food in trash cans. I stole clothes and bandages for my arm. But I could only go out at night. The wind followed me everywhere. Trees would turn into twisted, gnarled versions of their former selves.” She lovingly pats a root poking out from the ground. “I finally had the courage to venture out farther into the Bank. I found a train station and hid on the train. I didn’t know where I was going but I couldn’t stay in the Bank. The train took me to the very same station it took you.”

Tiny red flowers grow up around Sil’s knees. She brushes her fingers over them before they wither.

“It was a bit easier for me, not having a wanted fugitive as a travel companion.” She shoots me a wry look. “No one was looking for me. Everyone thought I was dead. But I was frightened to be around people. I was dangerous. I didn’t know how to explain what was happening, but things would go wrong around me. There’s a little town outside this forest. I set a store on fire. A terrible wind came and ripped shutters off houses. A little boy was injured. I had to leave.

“No one knew it was me, of course. No one paid any attention to a dirty, orphaned teenage girl. But I left and came to this forest. I felt drawn to it. For two days, I ate nuts and bark, and drank water from the streams that run through it. But something pulled at me. The deeper I went into the woods, the stronger the pull became. Then I found this old house, rotting away, alone, abandoned. And I knew it was meant for me.”

Sil looks across the field at the redbrick farmhouse.

“Why is it called the White Rose?” I ask.

“I named it,” she says. “It was autumn when I arrived. There was a garden by the porch, all dry leaves and withered stalks. Nothing had grown for years. I stood there, looking at this abandoned wreck, trying to convince myself that it could become my home, that I could find a safe place within its walls. And then a single rose blossomed from a dead rosebush, right in front of me. It was whiter than snow and softer than a rabbit’s fur. And it grew out of nothing. I felt like I could do that, too, I could make something beautiful for myself out of nothing.” Sil shakes her head. “What an idealistic fool, I was.”

“But you did make something for yourself,” I say, nodding toward the White Rose.

“Yes, yes,” Sil says, as if that were somehow beside the point. “I found I could grow my own food, quickly and easily. I didn’t have to steal. I could sell or barter for clothes and supplies. I set to work fixing up this place.” She shakes her head. “The power was better here. Easier. It didn’t frighten me so much. But I felt . . . isolated.”

I try to imagine living by myself in the woods for forty
years, with nothing but a strange and unknown power to keep me company. I think I’d lose my mind.

“Then, about three years ago, this girl stumbles onto my doorstep, with a lady-in-waiting of all people in tow. I knew what she was immediately, of course. But she’d never been to a holding facility—Lucien had whisked her away somewhere as soon as she reached womanhood. He’d been hiding her in various places all over the Farm. Her family might have been elevated from living in the Marsh to the Farm, but you can bet the royalty isn’t going to let any Marsh-born girl go untested for surrogacy.” Sil’s eyes grow distant and I wonder what memory is replaying in her mind. “Azalea hadn’t been twisted up like all the other surrogates. I thought I could show her. I didn’t want to be alone with this power anymore.