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White Rose	By : CeeCee Category: X-men Comics > FemSlash - Female/Female Views: 10609 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own the X-Men fandom. Marvel Entertainment owns these characters. I make no money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1
- 2
- 3
Summary: A stranger offers Winston Frost safe haven from the storm… at a price.
Author’s Note: Hiya! I’m borrowing from fairy tales again, and amusingly, from Disney once more, too. No animals or furniture breaking into song, thankfully, but the themes are about the same. You might have already guessed the identity of the Beast in this, and did I mention already that this is femslash?
Sorry in advance for the weird paragraph format. I don’t like the new HTML text area upload spacing, I get the same problems when I upload using rich text in LiveJournal. It took me a long time to even get something resembling a first chapter for this, even though the plot bunny has been chewing holes in my brain for weeks.
The broken wheel slowed his progress; the trail went from slick to muddy in a matter of minutes as he struggled to repair his wagon. Winston’s hands were frozen and smarting, and he cursed over a splinter that slipped into his finger. The horses whinnied and shied at the sound of thunder. Lightning scattered the trees with flickering radiance and made the hairs stand up on the old man’s nape. A spasm gripped his knuckles, and he cried out as the wrench slipped from his hand, landing in a puddle.
He was losing light, and the winds picked up, chilling him to the bone. There was little use in trying to go into the village now, but he would have an equally hard time trying to ford the stream that separated him from his farm. He hefted the heavy wheel back onto the axle and screwed it securely into place, hoping it would hold for the duration of the storm. By the time he was finished, he was soaked to the skin.
He clambered up onto the seat and took the reins, but before he’d even made it a mile down the trail, the horses began to shy again. The trail was a messy, oozing slurry, and the horses were having an impossible time keeping their footing. Winston feared that they would throw him if they couldn’t manage to steady themselves, and then he’d never make it home. The raindrops sluiced off the brim of his hat, and he struggled to hold onto it as a rough gust threatened to sweep it off.
Winston considered his options. His best bet was to abandon the trail and to take temporary shelter. In the worst-case scenario, he could head up. He scanned the skyline and the hill, noticing the eaves of what looked like a house protruding from the trees. Surely they would grant him shelter?
*
Emma regretted listening to Adrienne, as usual; the weather was dreadful. She nearly slipped in a slick patch of grass as she made her way through the woods, picking up the familiar trail in the fading light. The two-mile trek was normally easy for her, but large raindrops smacked her scalp once she grew far enough away that she couldn’t see the house.
The egg basket was heavy now that she’d carried it for a while, and she tried to avoid stumbling and breaking her burden, compromising their income for the week. Emma felt the puddles soaking her thin shoes down to the soles, and she sneezed wetly. Catching the ague was the last thing she needed.
The closer to the village she grew, the more her stomach began to grumble, telling her she was missing supper. Not that it mattered; Adrienne and Cordy could easily make a meal out of the last of the leftover stew and would save her nothing. Lazy wretches.
The grass beneath her feet changed to cobblestones, and she noticed the townsfolk beginning to light lanterns and candles in their windows. Tempting smells of stew and pies drifted to her nose, frustrating Emma. She hurried past the tavern that Christian frequented, not wanting him to catch her out in this weather, and knowing he wouldn’t want her to catch him in present company, either. Where Adrienne preferred the Wild Duck Inn for her meetings with Donald Pierce, Christian favored the rough-and-tumble crowd at the Black Trident, boasting the finest ale and promise of silence for its patrons’ exploits. Emma fisted her hood more tightly beneath her chin, knowing she looked a sight, and she made haste for the market.
Many of the booths were locked up or deserted, but a stubborn few remained at their stands, calling out bargains for out-of-season fruit and questionably fresh fish. Emma stopped at old Celeste’s stand just as the toothless crone waved her over, grinning at her state.
“Look like a wet hen, y’do,” she informed her. Celeste was fond of Winston Frost, and his youngest child was the only sweet apple in the whole rotten barrel.
“That’s fine talk, when I’ve come all this way with fresh eggs,” Emma hmmphed. “Look. You won’t find any better than these.” Celeste flipped up the lid of the basket and peered inside, humming to herself as she picked up a few of them.
“They’ll do. I’ll give you a pound for the lot.”
“A mere pound? That’s robbery!” Emma was crestfallen, and she rose to the occasion, readying herself to barter.
“That’s it, dearie. That’s all I can spare. Business has been rough.”
“Which business might that be?” Emma knew Celeste made her true profit from selling back-alley ale brewed in her own washtub without a license. The crone gave her a telling scowl and held up her finger to her lips.
“Hush! That’ll be enough out of you, young Emma!” Celeste eyed the eggs with disdain. “Some of ‘em are cracked.”
“That’s rubbish. They’re all fine, laid fresh this morning. Two pounds.”
“Those hens of yours don’t lay eggs of gold! One!”
“You’d see us all freeze to death? I need to buy oil!”
“Your brother has no such worries,” Celeste sniffed. “Saw him stagger off this morning, out that door.” She pointed to the Black Trident’s entrance, and Emma fumed.
“Please, Celeste.”
“Don’t go giving me that look, miss. You won’t sway me with those innocent blue eyes this time. I can’t give you more than a pound for ‘em. It’s been a lean week.”
“You’d give my father a better price.”
“Your father and I used to trade all the time, when he had anything to offer, sweet.”
“He will again,” Emma argued, but Celeste huffed a laugh.
“Sure, dearie. Sure, he will. Speaking of which, does he know you’re out in this sinful gale?”
“He hasn’t returned home yet,” Emma explained. “He’s gone beachcombing.”
“Oho! While the cat’s away, the mice will play! Get on home with you, Emma Frost! You’ve no business out here, alone and this close to nightfall!” Celeste dug into her box and handed Emma a crumpled note of money, along with a few pence. “That’s the best I can do.” Emma surrendered the basket, and Celeste emptied the eggs into one of her own quickly. “Your brother should have made the trip here.”
“I can handle it myself,” Emma informed her. “Someone has to.”
“That someone shouldn’t be a slip of a girl who should be home by a hearth, mending socks for a big, strong husband.”
“No, thank you,” Emma sang as she took her leave, adjusting her hood and closing her basket.
“Stubborn little thing,” Celeste muttered under her breath, shaking her shaggy gray head. But she admired the girl’s tall, proud posture and quick, steady gait. Winston had his hands full with that one.
Emma continued to fume as she made her way to the vendor who sold kerosene and other household wares. She dickered with him over it until he offered her a fair price. Emma also looked longingly at the spices, but she couldn’t justify the cost when they needed money for the week until her father returned. Maybe his ship would come in, if she prayed for a turn in his fortune long enough. Or maybe not, and she would be a drudge a while longer.
Emma still had her dreams. And they were free.
*
Sebastian paused at the door of his carriage as his footman, Jase, held it open for him impatiently. “It’s rough weather out, milord.”
“The young miss would agree with you. Let’s offer her a ride,” he told him, earning a low sigh as he backed away from the door, turned on his heel, and hurried after the girl in the sopping wet cloak. His strides were long and confident, and he had a haughty bearing.
“EMMA!” His voice boomed across the street, and Emma made a sound of disgust.
“Damn it,” she muttered. She continued to hurry back the way she came, but Sebastian Shaw’s boots were heavy on the cobblestones and she recoiled when he caught up to her. His hand was large and warm at her back as he accosted her. Her expression was demure when she greeted him, but her blue eyes were flinty.
“Someone hasn’t the good sense to come in out of the rain,” he told her, grinning.
“You’re out in the rain,” she challenged.
“Let me help you with that.” He snatched her basket from her grip before she could stop him and headed back in the direction of the Black Trident.
“You’re not helping! Give that back! You’re going the wrong way!” Her voice was shrewish, she knew, but she didn’t feel like wasting time on pleasantries for the likes of Sebastian Shaw.
“Then tell me where we need to go. Jase, help her inside.” He beckoned to his footman, and Emma smothered a grimace. Jason Wyngarde was a weasly looking man with lank brown hair and a sparse mustache that made him look like he had a dirty upper lip. He leered at Emma, enjoying the way her damp skirts clung to her body, exposing shapely ankles and calves. Emma’s cheeks and lips were rosy and flushed from the cold. He grinned at her with crooked teeth.
“In with you, now,” he bade her, urging her to climb into the carriage. Sebastian’s transport was well-appointed and lush, with rich velvet upholstery and curtains inside. It would be a great deal warmer than traveling home on foot, but Sebastian was a rake. Emma had no patience for womanizers and refused to be another notch in his bedpost.
Emma Frost made him salivate. Sebastian was captivated by her surface beauty, but also by the haughtiness and disdain in her eyes, something she employed to drive off weaker men. She was tall and slender, and he knew her curves were ripe beneath her worn brown cloak. Gleaming blonde hair cascaded down her back in a thick plait that had seen better days; stray tendrils were pasted to her brown from the rain, emphasizing patrician features and high, sculpted cheekbones. He considered her a challenge, and a prize worthy of only him.
Sebastian Shaw was wealthy by birth, and he made himself even wealthier through trade and his investments. He was an avid hunter and marksman, and his estate was decorated throughout with the hides and heads of his kills, rendering it more macabre than elegant. He was a large man, easily topping six feet and broad through his chest and shoulders, and his hair rippled like black marble down to his shoulders, which he clubbed back in a simple ponytail. He was classically handsome, with perfect, straight white teeth, but there was cruelty in his slate gray eyes. He wore a black vest and coat with a crisp white shirt, cutting the severity of it with a red silk cravat. Despite the rain, Sebastian tipped his hat to Emma, completing his image as the perfect gentleman.
“I don’t want to detain you. Good day, Mr. Shaw.”
“You only detain me with your refusal.” Emma turned her back on him, giving him the cut direct, but he hurried ahead of her and placed himself in her way.
“I wouldn’t want to keep you, sir.”
“I’ve no obligations to take me away from you.”
Find some. “I fear I have several of my own.”
“Then let me speed the way for you to return to them. My carriage is warm and dry.” Emma could tell the weather was vexing him, if the way he shrugged further into his coat was any clue. But he maintained his bright smile and dissembling. Emma sighed.
“I’m afraid I must refuse, Mr. Shaw. I thank you for your most thoughtful offer.” She wasn’t in the mood to be polite, and her feet were protesting their cold, cramped condition inside her snug, wet shoes.
“You won’t tarry a moment and share a mug of hot cider with me?”
“I can’t afford to tarry, Mr. Shaw. Good day.” She held out her hand imperiously for her basket, which he surrendered in good grace, but he held onto the handle a moment too long, making her jerk it impatiently from him. She flounced off, annoyed.
“Sassy miss, that one,” Jase whistled as Sebastian climbed into the carriage.
“I like her fire,” he mused. “And I love it when they fight back.”
Emma hated the rain, but she didn’t regret for one second that she slogged through the mud instead of riding, virtue compromised, in the confines of Shaw’s gaudy carriage.
*
Winston felt some dismay that his promise to his daughters almost a fortnight ago wouldn’t be kept, after all. Adrienne and Cordelia begged him to bring them back presents from his travels.
“A comb, Father!”
“I need some perfume!”
“Emma?” He beckoned to his youngest, who was fighting with one of his socks, trying to darn it for him. She looked up at him from biting off the end of the black strand of thread.
“Yes, Father?”
“Do you need me to bring you back anything?”
“I can’t think of anything offhand,” she said blandly. Adrienne and Cordelia were making faces at her behind Winston’s back, mimicking her. When he turned away, she stuck out her tongue and went back to her sewing.
“Surely you wouldn’t mind some small trifle? Ribbons for your hair?”
“Father, please,” Emma snickered, waving him away. He reached over and chucked her under her chin. She hadn’t worn ribbons in her hair since she was five.
“Perhaps some nice fabric? Or a little mirror for your vanity?”
“No, thank you, Father.” It was so tempting to ask for something she couldn’t get for herself, but she couldn’t justify the cost. Emma had no need for trifles.
He asked her again after supper, wandering over to her seat by the hearth, where she had her nose buried in a book. Adrienne was upstairs, letting Cordelia brush her hair before they went to bed. “Emma? Darling, tell me what I may bring back for you. It’s only fitting, if your sisters have asked for presents. I won’t slight you.”
“You’ve never slighted me, Father.” She reached for his hand and rubbed her cheeks across his old, weathered knuckles. He nodded and smiled.
“Flowers, then?”
“If you like,” Emma conceded. “The daffodils are almost in bloom. Or thunbergias are nice.”
“Don’t insult me, Emma. I wouldn’t dream of bringing home such provincial blooms. You’ll have a rose. A perfect, white rose.” He leaned down and kissed the top of her head and ruffled her hair. Emma grinned back and shooed him away.

Winston recalled that night by the hearth wistfully as he guided his horses through the brush, back up the winding trail instead of down. The imposing house grew closer, looming much larger than he’d previously guessed. Lightning flashed, illuminating the dark, rusty gates, and he saw that the estate boasted towers on either side, guarded by stone gargoyles slouching over the turrets. Their stony faces wore expressions of anguish, as if to warn him away, but Winston chuckled at his own unease. Surely the owner of such a spacious home could spare him a place under their roof?
To his surprise, the gates gave way when he gave the handle a halfhearted push, opening with a loud squeal of their hinges. He guided his wagon down the path, noticing a sturdy-looking stable on the castle’s west side. Winston climbed down from his perch and searched the barn, and he found a half a dozen beautiful, plump white horses. They grunted and nickered at him as he entered and inspected each stall. He found two empty ones, and he unhitched his old mares from the wagon and led them inside. There was a large sack of oats that had recently been opened; he poured some into two nearby feed bags and tended to his girls, locking them into the stalls for the night. The barn was large and spacious, with a large hayloft, too, when he climbed the ladder to explore it. He contemplated asking the owner if he could simply sleep in the barn for the night, but his joints protested that idea. While he didn’t wish to impose, Winston’s body ached for a warm bed and a roaring fire.
He lit a lantern with a dwindling supply of kerosene and navigated his way in the dark to the castle, amazed with the craftsmanship that went into such a structure. But it was sorely neglected, its walls overgrown with ivy and moss that snaked across the windowpanes and shutters, strangling the towers and columns. He hissed in a breath of surprise when he approached the front door and saw the brass knocker, almost as large as his head. It was carved in the shape of a demon’s head, mean-looking ram’s horns jutting from its head. Hungry fangs grinned out at Winston, and he shivered. Perhaps it wasn’t the way he would have shown his hospitality to outsiders if he were to outfit such a home, he considered. Then again, maybe that was the point.
He might not be welcome there.
Before he could stop himself, he knocked, hearing the sound echo inside. He waited a few seconds for the sound of footsteps or voices, but none greeted him. He knocked again.
The door hinges groaned and the large, heavy panel gave way from the frame, yawning open with the slightest nudge of his hand. Winston found himself wandering inside, drawn partly by the air that was much warmer than it was outside. The ceilings towered overhead, and he stood in a foyer that was large enough to hold his entire house.
He closed the door gently behind him and called out.
“Hullo? Good evening? Anyone here?”
*
The creature started at the sound of the brass knocker outside, and she felt outrage spark at the stranger’s audacity when she heard the deep male voice in her front hall. She was merely curious when the wagon disappeared beyond her line of vision, but this interloper clearly had plans to visit.
He wouldn’t like what he found; that much, she knew.
Curiosity outweighed her irritation. He sounded older, and it was cold and dark outside. What would a man in his condition be doing away from home, traveling in such a shabby open wagon?
“Mistress?”
“What now?” she replied in a surly rasp.
“Shall we serve tea?”
“Tea. A man intrudes in my house, uninvited, and you ask me if we’re going to give him tea.” The very idea baffled her.
“It’s cold, Mistress. A spot of hot tea would be no trouble, certainly.”
She growled under her breath. She offered the rats in her wine cellar that much hospitality, practically. She could spare a hot dish, provided that the stranger didn’t pry behind closed doors.
“Set out a proper tea,” she muttered. “And a place by the hearth for him to sleep, if need be. But make it plain that he’s to leave in the morning, emptyhanded.”
“Aye, Mistress.” She sighed at the sound of paws scrabbling across the fine marble floor as her maid hurried to do her bidding.
In the meantime, she decided to investigate her visitor’s progress into her home. She opened the shutters and without a second thought, leapt from the ledge. The wind whistled through her hair, making her gown and cloak whip out around her body. She savored the rush of her descent, three stories up, until her wings snapped out neatly, unfurling to pocket the air current. She soared upon it instinctively, feeling the air course through her feathers. This aspect of her curse, she didn’t mind. The sky was her friend.
It was so tempting to end it by leaping into oblivion, finding an end to her torment once she allowed herself to be crushed against the stones below, but no matter how often she mulled it, or even tried, she failed miserably. It was an animal’s survival instincts that made her open her wings every time, no matter how high a peak she hurled herself from. She lit upon the ground and strode to the barn, relieved that its doors were closed. But she spied the rickety wagon parked out back, and she snorted in annoyance.
She opened the doors and peered inside, then allowed herself inside to inspect her prize possessions. The herd of white horses appeared unmolested, but she heard two sets of low whickers and what sounded like munching off in the corner. She wandered to the back and found two strange brown mares in the rearmost stalls, supping on her oats with relish. She huffed, slightly put out. Surely, he could have asked first?
But the horses acknowledged her with low whinnies, flicking their tails and bristling their manes. She was fearsome to man, but kin to beast and fowl. She sighed, holding out her palm, and the larger mare approached, leaning its neck into her caress. She stroked its ears and watched them, resigned.
“All right, then. You’ll bed down with us, tonight.” She checked the horses’ feed bags and noticed they were almost empty. She gave them another ration of oats and filled a pail with water, leaving them to finish their supper in peace. She felt no resentment for them; they were in her stable at the whim of the man who hitched them to his wagon. Horses were noble creatures.
There was still the matter of their master. She launched herself aloft, lighting inside her chamber window. Her chimney sweep chittered at her as he stoked the fire in her hearth with two narrow logs, knocking down the remains of the last with the long poker.
“Will you be retiring, Mistress?”
“Not yet.”
“Aye, then. Will we be setting the table for two?”
“No. Don’t be ridiculous.” His whiskers twitched, and he sighed, resigned.
“You won’t at least greet him?”
“And tell him what?” He opened his mouth to reply, but then thought better of it, shrugging.
“As you wish, Mistress.”
“See to his needs,” she growled after him. “But make sure he doesn’t take anything.” She remembered one last detail as he began to scurry away. “Manuel?”
“Yes, Mistress?”
“Make sure you keep him out of the garden.”
*
Emma fretted when she reached the house. Cordelia looked up at her in disgust as she shucked her shoes by the front door.
“Don’t drip all over the floor!”
“Easier said than done,” she snapped. “It’s raining outside, if it hasn’t escaped your attention.”
“I hope Adrienne has Donald bring her home in the carriage,” her older sister murmured as she took a bite of a sweet biscuit. “When are you going to make supper?”
“In a minute,” Emma grumbled. She wanted to pitch a tantrum. Her sister had done nothing but laze around the house all day by the fire, and now Emma had to cook? “Adrienne isn’t back yet?” She wasn’t sorry.
“No. Neither is Christian.” That worried Emma more. “He should have been back by now.”
“I didn’t see him when I went into town,” Emma argued as she found a scruffy hand towel and began to dry her hair.
“You know Christian. If he doesn’t want to be found, then he won’t be.” Cordelia’s eyes gleamed wickedly. Emma felt uneasy at her brother’s absence. The house felt unprotected and vulnerable without her father or Christian to settle her fears. Emma set about chopping the vegetables and dressing the meat, laying it in a roasting pan with some potatoes. Emma busied herself while it baked by folding her father’s clean shirts and putting them away in the chest by the foot of the bed, adding a sprig of fresh lavender.
Adrienne hurried into the house a half an hour later, but Emma was dismayed that it wasn’t Christian. She made a sound of disappointment, and Adrienne’s smile faltered as she caught it.
“Don’t look so happy to see me.”
“I was hoping you were Christian. Supper’s on,” she informed her, nodding to it before she went back to the window to count the stars. She knew all of the planets and constellations, occasionally peering up at them with her father’s small scope. It wasn’t the same without him there beside her, quizzing her endlessly.
“You can put it away. I’ve already eaten. Donald showed me a fine afternoon. We had roast duck,” she bragged.
“How lovely,” Emma lied. Cordelia looked jealous.
“Did he ask for anything in return?”
“Do shut up,” Adrienne warned, but she grinned wickedly. “Come upstairs with me, Cordy!” Emma knew they meant to exclude her from the gossip, but it was moot. She heard tales from the local girls in the village of her sister’s exploits, only slightly less scandalous than Christian’s. But it was worse, because Adrienne was a woman, and she was losing her prospects for a respectable marriage with her dalliances. A generous dowry would secure her position in the bridal market, but Winston’s luck hadn’t turned yet.
Emma lingered by the fire, finally dry and dressed in a flannel nightgown and wrapper, wool stockings, and covered in a thick blanket. She read by candlelight as she awaited her brother’s return.
The crash of the door banging open startled her awake, followed by her brother’s long, low moans of pain.
*
Winston wandered down the hall toward the sound of footsteps and low, murmuring voices, unsure of where he was going. The low thud of the front door startled him, but when he looked back, there was no servant to be found. A shiver ran up his spine as he made his way through the cavernous home. As he ventured back, he noticed myriad portraits and artwork hanging along the walls in neat rows.
He followed the glow of warmth that gradually met him in the library. He sucked in a breath of surprise at the towering bookcases lined with novels, atlases, almanacs, tomes, encyclopedias and grimoires. Emma would call this room her own corner of paradise. To his delight, a fire was already crackling in the hearth, and Winston lumbered forward to warm his hands, feeling them smart and tingle as his circulation returned.
He carefully unbuttoned his coat with stiff fingers and set his hat on the floor.
“I’ll be taking that,” a voice squawked at him. Winston nearly jumped out of his skin.
“Who’s there?” he cried, whipping around at the sound of a rush of wings.
“AWK!Don’t mind me! Just tidying up!” A huge black myna bird sailed neatly into the room from the corridor and hovered before him. “Do you set your things on the floor at home?”
“Er, no. I beg your pardon.”
“You’ll have it, if you hang your coat on that peg over there. Oh, never mind, Santo will do it. Come along, now, Santo, spit-spot!” The myna bird plucked his hat up in her beak and set it atop a coat rack that Winston hadn’t noticed when he entered the library.
“Coming,” a voice growled behind him, sending shivers down Winston’s spine. His fears were justified; an enormous brown grizzly bear ambled up to him on its hindlegs. It’s massive limbs reached for him, and he was terrified that the creature might take a swipe at him, but the bear… smiled at him. “Take your coat?”
“W-wh-what?”
“Take your coat? It’s dripping all over,” the bear informed him.
“Y-y-yes, th-thank you,” Winston stammered, offering the bear a shaky smile. His hands trembled as he shucked his coat, and he still couldn’t believe it when Santo – Santo! – hung it neatly from the rack below his hat.
“Grab some leather,” a feminine voice mewed at him. Winston watched a gorgeous orange tabby leap up onto a comfortable-looking chair near the hearth, perfect for reading a good book. She purred and kneaded her paws against the pillow sitting against the chair’s arm before she quickly leapt back down. Winston could have sworn she’d fluffed it for him. He eased himself down into the chair, and he groaned in relief, glad not to be seated behind his horses for a while.
“Thank you,” he told her, still unable to believe he was talking to a cat who’d spoken first.
“The name’s Jenny,” she purred cheekily as she nudged his leg, flicking her tail back and forth. The gesture was almost saucy. Winston chuckled and scratched her behind her ears.
“There’s hot tea here for you, sir,” a voice informed him from the doorway. Two squirrels – squirrels! – scurried forward with a rolling service cart that carried a gleaming silver pot and a fine porcelain cup. They were plump, sleek animals with plush gray coats and eyes that resembled onyx chips.
Winston didn’t know if a kindly angel was watching over him, or if he was going mad.
For the moment, all he cared was that he was warm and sheltered. The tea was a fragrant, dark brew, and his host kindly provided cream, sugar, and a plate of biscuits. He wondered how one made polite conversation with animals, or even if one should do such a thing, but they took the quandary out of his hands; when he looked up from his empty cup, the creatures were gone.
He settled back in the chair, removed his wet shoes and propped his feet on the ottoman, sighing in contentment as he warmed his toes.
Winston must have dozed; he awoke to find himself covered with a warm blanket. The fire had been stoked up again and the chill had finally left his bones. Outside, however, the storm still raged. He shuddered at the thought of having to go out in it again. Winston didn’t want to outstay his welcome, but he hoped his host wouldn’t ask him to leave until the worst of the weather lifted.
He donned his shoes once more, thankful that they were much drier, and he crept out of the library, hoping to find a window to watch the storm from, since the library didn’t provide him one. He wondered where the castle’s odd “servants” had gotten off to, and if they could give him directions, but a chime of the clock told him it was midnight. Winston heard thunder rolling across the sky overhead, and second later, lightning flashed, illuminating the hallway. He followed the flickering blue glow and found an open door. When he reached it, he gasped at the sight of an open solarium the likes of which he’d never seen.
It was full of lush, exotic plants, and they were so verdant that the room steamed slightly from the plants’ natural moisture. Winston breathed the fragrance into his lungs and wandered around the room, inspecting the hanging pots and creeping vines. The furniture in the room was spare and elegant, and the windows began at high as his waist and reached almost up to the ceiling. It was a perfect room to count the stars; Emma would approve.
But his thrall was broken by another flash of lightning, this one pouring liquid white light over the landscape outside. “Good heavens,” he murmured as the statues outside were illuminated and picked out against the dark backdrop of the sky. Within a row of white gates stood one of the loveliest gardens Winston had ever seen.
Wordlessly he turned the doorknob and let himself out. It was still raining steadily, but the winds had died down a bit. He meandered down the paved path, staring at the graceful stone figures with awe. They were carved out of marble and alabaster, angels mingling with nymphs and centaurs, and the centerpiece of the garden was a ring of rosebushes of every color. Salmon pinks, scarlets, buttercup yellow, peach, cream, tourmaline, all of them made his eyes pop out of his head, but it took a while to find the ones he was looking for.
White.
Brilliant, blazing white roses, unspoiled and pure of human touch, beckoned to him from the edge of the garden, and Winston laughed in triumph. He would have Emma’s gift, at least, before the night was through.
*
The creature awoke with a start at the sound of footsteps in the corridor downstairs; they sounded too heavy to be any of her servants. Cursing silently, she rose from her bed, stretching limbs and rustling wings in annoyance. She wouldn’t tolerate unsupervised tours of her home, and she was galled at this stranger’s nerve. Hadn’t she allowed him a roof over his head?
She strode downstairs and swept through the hall toward the library. Santo said that was where they’d put him, but to her alarm, he was missing.
“Goddess help you if I find you where you don’t belong,” she growled. Her hackles rose and wings bristled, almost knocking one of her portraits off the wall. She caught his scent, breathing it in deeply. Yes. Old. Male. He’d been to the beach recently; she could smell the sand and surf on his flesh. Anger rose in her chest, simmering in her veins, when she realized he’d headed toward the solarium. Low growls grew in her throat, and her heartbeat sped up as she caught sight of the damp shoe prints tracked across her floor.
He’s in my garden! FOOL! Upstart!
She charged outside on swift feet and took wing, sweeping down the path, where she found him reaching for one of the delicate stems of her flawless white roses.
“THIEF!”
Winston felt the rush of wind and the beating of wings, but it wasn’t the civil scolding of a myna bird that greeted him this time. He was knocked to his feet and the breath was crushed from his lungs by a creature found only in his foulest, most terrifying nightmares. Harsh, hot breath steamed his ear and neck; the being was panting with rage and growling in such guttural, hostile tones that he nearly urinated on himself.
He was roughly flipped onto his back, and he sorely wished he hadn’t been. Cold, murky, slate blue eyes bore into his, gradually shifting and swirling into glowing white. They were hideous, with reptilian slitted pupils. The beast stood taller than he, or he would have guessed as much, if he’d been allowed to remain upright. The beast was crouched over him, beating broad, menacing white wings with black-tipped feathers. Unlike the other occupants of the castle, this creature wore a dark indigo cloak, obscuring the rest of its body, but at first glance, he could swear it was vaguely… female.
Its face bore high cheekbones and a nose and mouth that could only be called a muzzle, which was currently snarling at him. It was almost leonine, and the being’s hair was silvery white. Fur covered its skin, golden brown, again, like a lion’s, but it stood at odds with the feathered wings. Most unsettling were the ram’s horns that curled out from its brow, coiling around just shy of its pointed, tufted ears.
Fetid breath steamed Winston’s face, and his heart pounded in his chest. Gleaming white fangs threatened to tear out his throat as the beast spoke.
“You dare… to come into my home, enjoy my hospitality, and then steal roses from my garden, little man?”
“N-no! Not steal! I swear that I wasn’t stealing! Taking… no! Borrowing! I just wanted to… borrow…” Winston realized too late how foolish that sounded, and the creature huffed a harsh laugh.
“Do you mean to put it back?” She glared accusingly at his hand, where he held the treasure he’d plucked in a quivering grip.
“Good heavens.”
“No one there can help you now.”
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White Rose