Rosewing's Arc

Chapter 1 of 3

Three days before the flower festival, Rosewing had no bloom to enter. Every other fairy in Midwiddleton had a signature flower. She had a garden of ordinary daisies and a wish to win Fairy of the Year. She pulled ivy from her hair and tied it around a wilting stem, hoping to fix it. The stem drooped anyway. The judges wouldn't even look at her. She knew it. A common flower meant a common fairy, and common fairies went home empty-handed. A shadow crossed her petal-shaped cottage. Mystique landed on the front step, careful not to touch the moss. She was Rosewing's rival, and she had won last year. Her navy dress shimmered as she flicked one white nail toward Rosewing's daisies. "Still growing weeds?" Mystique said. She smiled without warmth. "I've bred a black orchid nobody can copy. You should save yourself the shame and stay home." Rosewing's cheeks burned. But she looked past Mystique, at the wild hedges beyond her garden. An idea hit her hard. "I don't need to copy you," Rosewing said. "I'll make something new." Mystique laughed and flew off. Rosewing didn't wait. She flew to the wildest corner of her garden, where two flowers she loved grew side by side. A pale pink rose and a deep violet bell. Nobody had ever crossed them. If she could, the bloom would be hers alone. But pollen wouldn't move itself. She needed a pollinator, and not a common one. She remembered the rare bee her grandmother once described. A bee with a pink and purple body and glowing blue eyes, drawn only to the sweetest nectar. Rosewing worked all afternoon. She squeezed nectar from both flowers into a single cup and set it between the rose and the bell. Then she waited. The sun dropped low. Her wings ached. At dusk, a soft hum reached her ears. The rare bee floated down, its blue eyes bright in the fading light. It drank from her cup. Then it drifted to the rose, dusted itself gold, and crossed to the violet bell. Rosewing held her breath and did not move. The bee worked both flowers, back and forth, until its legs glowed with mixed pollen. Then it lifted away into the dark. Rosewing marked the crossed bell with a strand of ivy and flew inside, heart pounding. By morning, a bud had formed on the marked stem. It was unlike any flower in Midwiddleton. Pink at the base, deep violet at the tip, with a faint shimmer along each petal. Her own hybrid. Her signature bloom. Rosewing cupped it in both hands and grinned. Now the judges would have to look at her. But the bud was still closed. The festival was two days away, and no hybrid this young had ever bloomed in time. She had made her flower. Now she had to make it open.