Chapter
Nine
The Prince …a long time ago
he rose is red, like my blood.
The spiky thorns tried to bite me as I picked it from the bush in theT greenhouse. One of them did, but I don’t care. Maybe she’ll say I’m brave.
“Mother?” My voice is always so small in the big greenhouse. Maybe that’s why she’s standing at the glass, not looking at me.
I walk closer, holding the rose up so she can see. “Look what I got
you!”
She doesn’t turn.
My hand starts to shake. I hold the stem tighter so that— Ouch! My finger hurts. Blood runs down. It doesn’t matter. She likes roses.
“I love you.” The words come out so fast. “I love you, Mother.”
She looks down at me then: at the rose, at my hand, at the drop of blood running down my wrist. Her mouth moves, but no sound comes.
I hold it out higher.
Her eyes get shiny, her lips pressed tight. Then she turns away. Just turns.
I don’t understand. The rose is still in my hand. Doesn’t she like it?
“Do not love me,” she whispers, the words shaking like her hands.
“Where there is love, there will be grief.” She makes a sound, like a cough, then she looks at the door. “Maribel! Take the prince to his chamber.”
