Phoryne Rose's Arc

Chapter 2 of 5

The next morning, Phoryne carried her stolen rose to the magic shop at the edge of the lane. She had rooted plants before, but never one that glowed pale in the dark. The old witch there could help. The shop's shelves seemed to shift as Phoryne stepped inside, jars sliding to show pink blooms and rooting powders, as if the walls knew what she wanted. "You've brought me something," the plump old witch said. Whisper smiled and set down her tea. She was the kind of woman who hugged strangers. She reached for the stem in Phoryne's hands. "Let me see, dear. We'll have this growing in no time." Then her husband looked up from his workbench. Wibbly was a bent old wizard in a star-covered robe, and he had ignored Phoryne until now. His eyes fixed on the rose. He dropped the trinket he was fiddling with. "No. No, no, no. Put it down, Whisper. Put it down before it opens." "Wibbly, hush," Whisper said gently. "It's only a cutting." "Only a cutting." He shuffled closer, fast for a man his age, and jabbed his cane at the white petals. "Where did you get this, girl? The walled place. The dark one. Say it wasn't there." Phoryne's throat went tight. "I only took one stem." Wibbly went pale. He gripped his wife's arm. "These roses don't grow on their own. He feeds them. A bloom for every soul that wandered his grounds and never came back." He tapped the stem where the thorn had cut her. "They drink. That's why they shine. And now yours has tasted you." Whisper's smile faded. She set the cutting down with care. "Sweetheart," she said softly, "how did he let you leave?" "He gave it to me," Phoryne whispered. "He said he'd remember my face." Wibbly barked a dry laugh. "Of course he did. He didn't give you a flower. He planted a marker." He waved a shaking hand at the rose. "A piece of his garden in your house. He'll always know the way to it now. To you." The shop went quiet. The shelves stopped shifting. Phoryne stared at the pale bloom she had wanted so badly. It no longer looked lovely. It looked like an eye. "Then I won't grow it," she said. "I'll burn it." "Too late for burning," Wibbly muttered. He sank onto his stool, done with the subject already. "You brought his blood-rose past your own door. He'll come to check on it. They always do." Whisper wrapped the cutting in cloth and pressed it back into Phoryne's hands. Her warm eyes had turned worried. "Take it home, dear. Keep it living. If it dies, he'll want to know why." Phoryne walked out clutching the rose she could no longer throw away. She had wanted a hedge of white flowers. Instead she carried a leash, and the man at the other end knew where she slept.