Bryony and Roses Read online

  I won’t move. Maybe he’ll go away. If he opens the curtains, I’ll go for the knife. I’ll scream for the Beast and go for the knife.

  The footsteps passed around the foot of the bed, moving toward the window.

  It did not occur to her that it might have been the Beast moving about her room. The Beast’s feet were utterly silent. He could have been in and out any number of times and she would never have heard it.

  Unspoken even in her thoughts was a growing belief that the Beast would not have been sneaking around her room in the first place.

  The intruder scrabbled at the desk by the wall. There was a frustrated sound to it. Paper tore.

  Not here, she thought. I’m not here. I’m a little mouse. A baby bunny. A very quiet thing that hides very quietly and isn’t here at all.

  The scrape of the window opening sounded like a crack of thunder. She jumped, and hoped that he hadn’t been watching her.

  He can’t see me. I can’t see him. These stupid pink bed-curtains may be saving my life. Does he know I’m here? Does he think I’m asleep?

  Wind sighed through the room from the open window, and then—nothing.

  Long hours passed without another sound, but Bryony didn’t sleep again until dawn light had broken through the window.

  The Beast was waiting by the garden. Bryony strode up to him, scowling.

  “There was someone in my room last night,” she said.

  He stared at her as if she had said that she had decided on roasted barn owl for lunch.

  “Impossible,” he said finally. “Are you sure you didn’t dream it?”

  “I’m sure,” she said. “Look, everybody gets nightmares, sure. This wasn’t one. I heard someone walking in my room. And they did this.” She held up the pad from her writing desk.

  The list of questions on it was still legible, but barely. Gouges had been torn in the paper and the bottle of ink had been upset on the desk, staining half the page.

  “The pen’s been snapped in half,” she said. “House cleaned up the ink bottle, but it left the rest. I don’t know if it can’t, or if it wanted me to see this.”

  “It might not have known it was supposed to,” said the Beast absently. He was reading the questions, she realized, and flushed. “The house can’t read very well. It can make books, but the insides are just a few words repeated over and over. It can read very simple phrases, so far as I can tell, but nothing complex. It probably knew that the ink bottle wasn’t supposed to be overturned, but it couldn’t have recreated the writing.”

  He paused, then added, “I am not always certain how much the house understands.”

  “It understands clothes,” said Bryony dryly. “At least, for a value of ‘understand’.”

  The Beast half-smiled at that, but a frown slowly formed over his face, dragging his lips back from his tusks. “I truly do not know what to tell you.” He handed the list back to her. Their eyes met as he handed the page over, fiery yellow to murky green, and he nodded, almost imperceptibly.

  There was a great deal more to his eyes than the golden predator’s gaze she’d seen at first. There were depths there. Humanity. Heat.

  Bryony suddenly found it hard to breathe, and took refuge in outrage.

  “You said there wasn’t a key to the lock!”

  “No, I said that I didn’t have a key to the lock,” he said. “That doesn’t mean that one doesn’t exist, or couldn’t be made.” He considered. “If I wanted to get into your room, I would simply tear the door off the hinges, but I imagine that you would have mentioned that.”

  “You could knock,” she said acidly.

  “Well. There’s that.” He clasped his hands behind his back and began to wander across the grass. “There are, as I see it, three possibilities.”

  She fell into step beside him, too annoyed to care that her breath caught when she stood too near the Beast. The scent of cloves and fur mixed with sun-warmed grass.

  “The first possibility is that you dreamed it,” said the Beast.

  “I didn’t. And anyway, what about the damage to my papers?”

  “You may have done it yourself, either for some obscure reason of your own or while sleepwalking.”

  Bryony gritted her teeth. “Thanks.”

  “It is only one possibility. The second, of course, is that I am lying to you and I did indeed break into your room and upset your inkwell myself.”

  Even angry—and fine, admit it, scared—Bryony had to admit that the Beast was being fair. She huffed a laugh. “All right. I’ll admit that I don’t think you did it any more than I did. I wouldn’t have heard you. You’re too damn quiet.”

  “Ah,” said the Beast, raising a clawed finger, “but perhaps I meant you to hear me.”

  “For some obscure reason of your own?”

  “Precisely. You have only my word for anything here, after all. For all you know, I am trying to frighten you or drive you mad.”

  “For all I know, I froze to death in the woods and I’m dead and this is Hell,” said Bryony testily. “Are you the Devil, by any chance?”

  The Beast laughed. It didn’t have a great deal of humor in it, but it was definitely a laugh, even if there was a bit of a boar’s grunt to it. “I’m not, so far as I know.”

  “You have to tell me if you are. I’m pretty sure that’s a rule.”

  “Do I? Very well. I don’t believe I’m the Devil. I can’t imagine that he would allow himself to be so inconvenienced by his form as I am by mine.”

  “Well then, I’ll take your word for it.” Bryony ran a hand through her hair, aware that it was probably sticking up like a hedgehog. “What’s the third possibility?”

  “That you are not mad or dreaming, and there was indeed someone in your room.”

  “All right.” Bryony squared her shoulders. “Is there anyone else in the house?”

  The Beast shook his head.

  “Could someone be there without you knowing? You said that travelers find the house sometimes, when in need. Could someone have gotten in that way?”

  The Beast opened his mouth, then closed it again, looking thoughtful. “I had not considered that. I suppose it is possible. I am generally somewhat—aware—of others in the house or on the grounds, but I would not say that it is impossible.”

  “Could someone get in by magic?” asked Bryony.

  “With sufficient magic, one could get in anywhere, I imagine,” said the Beast. “But I would expect to notice that, as well.” He, too, ran his hands through his mane, until great tufts stuck up. Bryony had an exasperated urge to smooth them back down. Her sister Holly tended to shove her hair under a hat when working, and when she took the hat off, it went wildly in all directions. It always made Bryony’s fingers itch.

  She tucked her hands firmly under her arms. “Could someone who was here before simply not have left?”

  The Beast considered. “It—has been—a long time.” She thought he might be about to say something else, but he shook his head and repeated “A long time. No. I do not believe so.”

  A queer heaviness settled in Bryony’s stomach.

  I’m not the first.

  She looked over at her garden, at the stalks waving bravely in the morning light, at the fuzzy sage leaves and the grey-green spikes of lavender. What changes did that other person make? Those other people? Are there signs of the Beast’s other victims scattered through the house?

  Did one of them plant the rosebushes? Make the dresses? Design that godawful pink bedroom?

  Will some future victim find my garden in a hundred years and think that it’s just more of House’s magic?

  She gulped.

  When she looked at the Beast again, he was watching her with his deep golden eyes.

  “It is hard to know what to say,” he said. His eyes bored into hers.

  That’s a message. He’s trying to tell me something, like he did before, at the gate.

  It occurred to Bryony suddenly that she did not want the Be
ast to have victims. Not merely because she did not want to be one (although that went without saying), but because—God have mercy—she liked the Beast. He was sharp-tongued and sardonic and occasionally abrupt, and if he had been human, she would have liked him very much indeed.

  She bit her lip.

  It’s just that he turned sod for you. You like anybody who’ll do garden chores, admit it.

  Well. Maybe a little.

  “The poetry you have been writing is interesting,” said the Beast out loud, gazing somewhere into the middle distance.

  “Poetry?” said Bryony blankly. She looked down at the crumpled paper in her hands, with the list of questions scribbled on it.

  “Poetry,” said the Beast firmly. “I think you have some potential. It still needs work, of course, but I would be interested to see any future efforts.”

  She did not need his warning glance to get the message. “Oh. Yes. You’re very kind.” She scowled down at the page. “I’ll keep working on it. If anything else occurs to me, I’ll let you know.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  She was in the library that night, bending over a book on crop rotation, which was just as dry as promised, although there was some very interesting stuff about peas, when the Beast came up behind her and said “Bryony—” and Bryony yelped and threw the book over her head at him.

  He caught it and peered down at her, bemused. She had lunged partway out of the chair, caught her shoe in her skirt, and was afraid that if she went any farther, she’d tear the petticoats right out of her dress.

  Bryony swallowed. “Sorry. I’m still a little jumpy.”

  “I would never have guessed.” He leaned down and offered her his arm. She hooked her elbow around it, and managed to extract her feet from her skirts without falling down.

  “Look,” she said, when she was finally back in the chair, “do you think you could—I don’t know—make some noise when you walk? Just a little? You’re so big and you walk so quietly.”

  “Oh,” said the Beast, looking abashed. “Um. I could try. It’s my feet. There’s hairs between the pads, they muffle everything…” He sat down on a footstool, picked up a bare foot and wiggled his toes at her.

  Bryony had not previously considered the Beast’s feet very closely. She grabbed his ankle. He made a resigned noise but didn’t protest.

  They had a large central pad, like a wolf or a tiger, and four toes with black pads. Between each toe was, indeed, thick brown fur.

  “Four toes?”

  “There’s a dewclaw in back,” said the Beast, almost apologetically.

  “Hmmm,” said Bryony, attempting to part the fur with her fingers. “I see the problem.” She ran her thumb over the paw-pad, which had heavy, creased hide like a dog’s. The claws on his feet were black, blunt, and curved. The dewclaw came around like a sickle.

  “Do you have to trim this one?”

  “Yes. The house produced any number of clippers before we found one that wouldn’t break.”

  “You didn’t have it removed as a young Beast?”

  “No,” said the Beast dryly, “nor were my ears cropped to conform to breed standard. If you’re quite though…?”

  “Oh! Yes, sorry.” Bryony released his foot. The Beast put it down on the floor and twitched his robes back over it.

  “At least you don’t have a tail to dock,” she said. “Or were you born with one of those, too?”

  “I was born quite human,” said the Beast. “My mother was very kind and would likely have kept me even if I had been born a Beast, but fortunately for all, we did not have to find out. In fa—”

  He stopped in mid-word. The air in the library had become suddenly heavy, and there were shadows in the corners that were not at all the friendly shadows of shelves and books.

  A rustling noise sprang up around them, like dried leaves rattling in an autumn breeze, and the breeze itself struck them a moment later, although it did not touch the pages of Bryony’s book or make the candle flames dance.

  Bryony reached out blindly and caught the Beast’s sleeve. She felt his hand cover hers, as she tried to peer through the deepening darkness. Even the small shadow under the footstool had become as deep and dark as a well.

  “I should not have said that,” said the Beast. “Forgive me.” Bryony was fairly sure that he was not talking to her.

  The strange breeze whistled around them twice more, then whispered away. The rustling leaves fell quiet, and the candlelight grew warmer and pushed back the shadows. Bryony looked to the shelf-ladder, and could see the bindings of the books in its shadow, and even make out the titles on the spines.

  “What was—” she started to say.

  He squeezed her hand, short and sharp, and she fell silent.

  The Beast stared down at his clawed hand, where it lay over her small human one. “I will try to make more noise when I walk.“

  “That would be very kind,” said Bryony, returning to the book in her lap. She made a show of turning the pages, but her eyes did not register a word.

  So. The Beast had once been human. And someone…or something…did not want him to speak of it.

  Interesting.

  There was little to do in the garden at the moment. Bryony puttered around for a few minutes, brushing her fingers over various leaves, crushing the leaves and smelling the pungency of lavender and sage.

  She could only do this for about ten minutes or risk denuding the garden, so she shoved her hands in her pockets and scowled.

  “You have a fierce expression,” said the Beast, coming up behind her.

  She didn’t jump. He had been making an effort to click his claws on the floor inside the house, but there was nothing he could do in the grass. Still, she was getting used to it.

  Apparently you could get used to anything.

  “Bees,” said Bryony.

  The Beast looked around. “Really? Where?”

  “That’s it. There aren’t any.” She scowled at the brave white flowers on her peas. “No bees means no pollen means no peas. Or beans or squash or zucchini or tomatoes. The root vegetables will be fine, but if they don’t set seed, I’ll run out eventually and then no more radishes and rutabaga.” She scowled at the rutabaga, which were growing with great enthusiasm in this magical garden.

  And it’s the least they can do, since they’re the reason I’m here in the first place.

  “I would not expect bees,” said the Beast slowly. “Bees are creatures of order and good magic.”

  Aha! Bryony’s mind pounced on that. The rest of Bryony stayed very still, so as not to wake the listening magic.

  “We do get flies,” said the Beast, “and some beetles. I don’t suppose they’ll do?”

  There was a faint bitterness to the air, a hint that something could be listening very soon. Bryony talked over the top of it, in hopes of throwing whatever-it-was off the scent. “Not the same. I suppose if House makes me a paintbrush, I can walk around dusting pollen between flowers and pretend to be a bee. Though it’s not much fun.” She scowled again. “Then again, I don’t have much else to do.”

  “Hmmm,” rumbled the Beast. “It is possible, actually, that I may be able to help you. Give me a few days…”

  He turned, his cloak flaring, and strode across the lawn. His great feet left gouges in the turf. Bryony knew that the marks would be gone by morning.

  Now what was that all about?

  At dinner that night he was distracted. When Bryony pressed him, he said only “I have an idea, but it may not work, or it may be beyond my skill. I do not want to promise you what I cannot deliver.”

  When she pushed her chair back from dinner, he took her arm in a perfunctory fashion. “I will escort you to the library. I have my own work to do.”

  “You didn’t ask,” said Bryony.

  He blinked at her.

  “Oh! Bryony, will you marry—”

  “It’s all right.” She patted his sleeve. “I didn’t want you to get in trouble, that’s al
l.”

  He smiled at her, a real genuine smile that reached his eyes, and then went off to his own devices.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Without the Beast around to dig holes—and keep her entertained—she spent much of the next morning pacing back and forth.

  The manor house was marvelous for that. It took nearly five minutes to go from her garden, through the front of the house to the courtyard, around the birch tree and back out again. The house opened the necessary doors for her. Bryony could always think better when she was walking, and she felt that she had need of all her mental powers now.

  Bees are creatures of good magic. The Beast doesn’t expect to see them here.

  That means the magic here isn’t good.

  Well, that was hardly a surprise, now was it? Even if House sometimes seemed kindly, there was clearly something much, much darker at work.

  She abandoned that line of thought in favor of another one.

  There had been other people here once. Not for a long time, the Beast had said—but they had been here.

  That doesn’t actually mean that the Beast had other victims. Or guests. I admit that ‘victim’ doesn’t seem to cover what you are anymore. He could have meant his family or servants or anything.

  For all you know, his whole family were turned into Beasts and he’s the last one alive.

  Functionally immortal. Hmm.

  It would have been obvious to a much denser person than Bryony that there were things that the Beast did not, or could not, say out loud.

  That listening silence. The breeze. Something was watching them and eavesdropping. Something that limited what the Beast would or could say.

  It’s House. It has to be the house, doesn’t it? It can hear us at any time, and he said not to offend it.

  Bryony paced around the birch tree twice. The rose bushes exuded a sweet, heavy aroma into the air.