Mara Kellison's Arc

Chapter 8 of 6

The whispers had died, but the festival had not waited. Judging day came bright and loud. Mara set her potted blue rose on the long table beside the other entries. One bloom on one stem. Beside it, her rival's table groaned under a cluster of purple roses, twenty blossoms at least, layered thick as a cloak. Mara's single flower looked small. Plain. A whole year of work, and it looked like a weed in a king's garden. "It's still the only blue one," she told her mother, out loud, low. "That has to be enough." But her stomach knew better. Judges liked lush. Judges liked full. They would walk past her thin stem and remember the purple wall instead. She reached to add two cut roses from her own garden, just to fill the pot. Her hands shook. Then a sleek black cat jumped onto the table. It walked straight past the purple mound and sat beside her blue rose, tail curled, eyes bright, as if it had chosen. A few villagers laughed. A few pointed. The cat would not leave the one strange flower. That was when the king arrived. King Edmund Heartwell was a small, round man with a white beard and a crown too big for his head. He walked the tables slowly, hands clasped, smiling at every grower like a grandfather at a feast. People bowed. He waved them up. He stopped at the purple roses and nodded, kind. "Lovely," he said. "Very fine." Then he moved on, and the smile stayed the same, and Mara understood. He said that to everyone. He would say it to her too, and walk away. He reached her table. The cat did not move. The king looked at the one blue bloom, and his smile changed. It went still. Real. "I have ruled thirty years," he said softly. "I have never seen a blue rose." He bent close, hands behind his back, careful not to touch. "Where did you get the dye?" "There is no dye, Your Majesty," Mara said. "It grows that color. You can cut it and wash it yourself." He straightened. He looked at her, then at her single stem, then at the full purple table beside it. "They grew more," he said. "You grew what no one else could." He turned to the crowd and raised his voice. "Any grower can fill a pot. Bring me the one who grew a miracle." The square went quiet, then loud. Mara's one plain bloom had just become the only thing anyone would remember. The king moved on to greet the rest. But he looked back at her twice. The dull impression she feared never touched her. Her rival stared at the purple wall that had suddenly meant nothing. Then Mara saw the judges gathering apart, whispering, glancing her way. The king had marked her. Now the real counting began.