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White Rose	By : CeeCee Category: X-men Comics > FemSlash - Female/Female Views: 10605 -:- 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
- 6
- 7
- 8
Summary: Emma has a vision of her brother in danger, but she has more pressing matters at hand in the castle.
Author’s Note: I hope someone’s still reading this. I’ve been busy with little garbage sketches out on DeviantArt, a lot of real life crap at home, working full-time at a job that emotionally exhausts me, finishing a first communion dress that came out beautifully, and planning a birthday party. I’m trying to update stories that aren’t “impossible” to see finished *i.e., any other story but Fathoms, the story that was supposed to be easy, but isn’t…* I actually concluded Not the Sun since the last time I was out here, so yay, me. *listens to crickets*
Back to the REAL author’s notes: Things will heat up in this chapter, slightly. More angst. More work on my background characters and their motivations, and also, more Shaw. I love villains. When I started writing this, I envisioned Disney’s Beauty and the Beast, but also the live action movie version with Rebecca DeMornay, who made a gorgeous Belle. Not a great movie, but it stirred my muses.

*
The ale tasted uncharacteristically bitter on Winston’s tongue, but he finished the tankard listlessly, anyway. He stared into the bottom of it, swirling the last remnant of hops and mulling them over as though he could read his future in them.
He didn’t know what the future held without his daughter in his life, but it looked bleak, indeed. He scrubbed his palm over the gray stubble that roughened his jaw, not caring that he hadn’t shaved for three days. Sleep eluded him, too.
“Another?” The tavern keeper wasn’t ready to cut him off yet, since the old man was the most civil of the lot that haunted the Wild Duck at this late hour, and he was reasonable company, telling stories of exotic lands where he traded his goods. Everyone knew Winston Frost was once the most successful, illustrious merchant in the land; tales of his ruin were widespread and told with little pity, compounded by his middle daughter’s exploits as a fortune-seeker and woman of ill repute.
“Nay,” he murmured hoarsely.
“You getting home all right tonight, friend?”
“I’ll make it home. At least I will make it home,” he mused bitterly.
“What was that?”
“Just an old man, making little sense. Never you mind, kind man. I appreciate the time you’ve idled with me,” he added as he fished out two silver coins from his pocket, when he only owed one. The tavern keeper reached for his hand first, instead, clasping it in his beefy grip.
“Godspeed. You look like a man who needed that ale very badly, friend. You look like a man who’s lost his greatest treasure.”
“I have.”
“Another downed ship?”
“Nay. I’ve lost something far more precious to me than a ship.” Heartbreak lurked in his eyes. The tavern keeper nodded sagely, and he shook his hand more firmly.
“Godspeed, then.” Winston nodded and donned his wool cap, excusing himself as he made his way through the jostling crowd. The air outside was so clear in contrast to the Wild Duck’s smoky interior, its sweet freshness a shock to his lungs.
“Good evening, sir. Mr. Frost, isn’t it?” Winston flinched as he heard the familiar baritone, pausing as he climbed onto his wagon.
“Don’t treat me like a stranger, Shaw. I know you too well, and I don’t appreciate subterfuge. It doesn’t suit you, and it insults me.”
“I meant no insult,” the dark man tutted, holding up his hands as he stepped out from the shadows. “I only meant to inquire after your health.” Winston coughed slightly, annoyed with his body’s betrayal. He’d been feeling miserable with the damp weather, suffering the ague and myriad complaints from his joints.
“I’ve one last breath of life left in me, rest assured. How solicitous of you.”
“Excellent! Glad to hear it, sir.”
“Call me Winston. We’re both grown men.” His tone suggested otherwise, but Sebastian maintained his magnanimous smile.
“My father spoke of you kindly. He knew you when you were mere lads.”
“Aye. Jacob was a hellion. He’s hardly changed.” Winston’s tone was disparaging, and the ale freed him from wasting undue tact on Sebastian.
“Time mellows all.”
“Time makes you forgetful, if it’s being kind,” Winston corrected him gently. “You’re out late. You’ve a business to run, I understand.”
“You understand correctly.”
“Then you should head home to a warm bed. Early to bed, early to rise.” He gave Sebastian credit for knowing the rest of the adage as he took up his reins, giving them a hasty little snap. “Good evening, Shaw.” He didn’t tell him to give his regard to his father for him; that ship had already sailed long ago, and he had no regrets at divesting himself of his association with Jacob Shaw.
The nut didn’t fall from the tree, Winston mused. Jacob had raised a son who was a rake, and worse. Winston wasn’t blind to the way that Shaw behaved on the rare occasions when he came into town with his daughters to barter for a meager ration of supplies. Winston worried most about his youngest as she quickly matured from a gangly, towheaded moppet to a winsome, comely woman with her mother’s patrician features and soft curves. Thankfully, she was also blessed with his sharp wit, but Winston still worried about predators like Shaw.
Sebastian’s smile evaporated in Winston’s wake, and he watched his rickety old wagon clatter down the cobbled street in contempt. How dare he. He knew who he was, he knew his station in society, yet he mocked him. The shitty old bastard.
He straightened his jacket and turned on his heel, and Shaw returned to his favorite roost, the Black Trident. The gentleman’s club belonged to him, and while it boasted wealthier clientele than the Wild Duck, it was still a tavern, and its staff was sworn to strict silence. He nodded to Jase, his valet, who rose quickly from his stool and took his coat. The crowd parted for him, and he gave his greetings and excuses when he took his place at the card table. Shaw slaked his thirst with a glass of claret and proceeded to win three games in a row, high stakes. His smile was reptilian as the man to his left fumbled and squirmed, toying with his shirt collar.
Sebastian couldn’t wait to spell out the terms if he couldn’t honor his debt. In Shaw’s house, the house always won.
*
Jacob Shaw’s son wasn’t the only one watching Winston depart. Another pair of bloodshot blue eyes followed his departure from the corner outside, and he was heedless of the cold night as he waited for the sound of hoofbeats to fade.
Christian released his pent-up breath and sagged back against the wall of the Wild Duck. Finally, his father had left! He was dismayed to find his wagon out front when he came in to town, when Winston made his excuses to his family earlier that night that he was only going to market. Clearly his father had the same agenda he did, Christian thought bitterly.
Perhaps he even had similar reasons. Christian hadn’t slept since Emma left them, and it was killing him. He’d lost his lifeline, and the only one who could keep the nightmares at bay.
His heart pounded at the sight of Shaw, but as far as Christian knew, he hadn’t spotted him, and he didn’t see Pierce or Shaw’s horrid valet, Jase about. He grew sick at the thought that Shaw would tell his father of his indiscretions, or worse, shame him in some way about his attack, slandering him for his weakness. Christian knew that the wealthy – and the unscrululous – could twist the truth to their liking, and Sebastian Shaw was no exception.
On this damp, cruel night, Christian sought out his second source of comfort, two of the only other people he truly called his friends, even though they were both much more than that. But on this night, he needed solace and a mere shoulder, a pair of ears and the assurance that things would get better.
“Please be here,” he murmured in frustration. Christian pulled his jacket more tightly around him against the draft, and he hurried around to the back of the Wild Duck. He lingered in the back alley, feeling the dark memories swamp him. “Psst!” he hissed to a young man in a dirty white apron as he came out on the stoop. The boy dumped the contents of a serving dish out onto the ground, drawing a litter of cats to its odors.
“There y’go, lil’ mites,” he told them. “Greedy little buggers.”
“Psst!”
“What’s that? Oh. What’re you doing back here, Chris?” The boy scratched his nose and eyed him warily. “Look a sight, don’t you?”
“Where’s Jean-Paul? Or Rory?”
“Working. Where you should be, after a fashion…”
“Fuck off. Get me Jean-Paul.”
“That’s no way to talk,” the boy argued, but he shrugged and went back inside before Christian could nag him any further. Christian ducked out of sight briefly as he heard voices in the alley, not wanting to be seen. He waited several seconds, feeling an ugly tingle run down his spine. What if Jean-Paul wasn’t able to meet him?
His fears were unfounded as he heard familiar footsteps, two sets, hurrying out from the back of the kitchen, along with two bickering voices that he loved. Christian groaned with relief and only stepped back out of the shadows when he saw Jean-Paul hurry outside, stamping his feet against the cold and blowing on his cupped hands.
“It’s a miserable night out here,” he muttered. “Chris?” he called out. Behind him, his twin sister sniped and fussed.
“What’s he doing out here so late?” she complained. “Christian!” she hissed out. “Come out here!”
“I’m here,” he confirmed, and he came out hesitantly, expectant but wary. He knew they wouldn’t like what they saw.
Jean-Paul confirmed this. “What the hell’s wrong with you, Chris? You didn’t tell us you were coming out tonight! It’s not fit for a dog out here…Christian?” Jean-Paul’s arched brows scowled as he drew closer, taking in his sorry state.
“Good Lord, Chris, you look awful,” Aurora told him as they hurried down the stoop.
“Rory, get our coats,” Jean-Paul said, tone clipped. “We’re going home.”
“You’re working,” Christian reminded him.
“Not now.”
“I’ll only be a minute,” Aurora agreed. She squeezed Christian’s hand and kissed his cool cheek. “Ducky, you do look awful.”
“Thanks.”
“I never agree with her on much, but take her word for it, this time.” Christian’s bruises had faded slightly since his attack, but his cheeks were gaunt and unshaven, and he hadn’t taken any care with his thick, dark hair; it looked disheveled where it peeked out from under his cap. Sunken blue eyes stared back at Jean-Paul, bloodshot and ringed with dark smudges.
“I don’t know why I bother with either of you,” Christian muttered.
“You know why.” Jean-Paul’s tone was thick with emotion, but he held himself in check at the sound of more voices in the alley. “We’re going home.” Aurora hurried out wearing her coat and muffler wrapped around her ears and tied under her chin and held out Jean-Paul’s.
“You’ll lose a night’s wages.”
“They hardly pay us, anyway. Get that stick out of your bum, Chris, and just come on.” Aurora and Jean-Paul huddled against him, lending them his warmth as they practically ran down the street. They turned the corner and traveled roughly twelve blocks, then rounded the corner of the millinery store. The three of them ascended the stairs of a townhouse that had seen better days, a meager but cozy home the twins shared since their parents passed away. They didn’t live on much, and they only had each other, but Jean-Paul and Aurora Beaubier managed just fine.
“Set the fire, Jean. I’ll put on the kettle,” Aurora told him as they keyed their way inside. They stamped their feet on the rag rug at the door to free them of mud, and Christian stared around at his surroundings as though they were foreign. “Come on in. Don’t be shy.”
“I’ve missed you,” he told her hoarsely when she tried to pull him forward, and he tugged her hands from his coat where she was trying to work open his buttons. Chris pulled her into his arms instead, needing the contact and human warmth more than anything else.
“What happened to you?” she murmured into his neck.
“The worst thing in the world. I’m in hell,” he choked, and she realized he was crying. “I’m in a nightmare.” Jean-Paul paused in the act of setting a log in the grate when he saw their guest break down, and he felt a knot in his chest.
“Darling, what happened?”
“They’ve ruined me,” Christian wept into her hair. Her hands stroked his back soothingly. “And Emma’s gone.”
“Emma?” Jean-Paul lit the fire with a long match and joined them, helping Chris out of his coat and carefully hanging it with his cap on a hook and leading him to their dilapidated chaise. He sat numbly down while he was divested of shoes and wet socks, and in a few short minutes, he was tucked under a blanket, cup of tea warming his hands, and with his companions huddled around him, waiting for him to give his account.
“Tell us what happened, love,” Jean-Paul encouraged.
“I…I was f-forced…” Christian closed his eyes, and tears leaked out from beneath his lids. He bowed his face into his hand, rubbing the bridge of his nose, and Jean-Paul felt him tremble.
“What did they make you do?” Aurora asked quietly as she stroked his hair.
“What…they wouldn’t even do to a lowly cur,” Christian grated out. “They treated me like an animal.”
“Who?” Jean-Paul’s voice was hard.
“I can’t tell you.”
“No. You have to tell me.” Jean-Paul’s temper pushed color into his cheeks and made his blue eyes spark. He took Chris’s hand and squeezed it. “Don’t keep this from me. I will know who did this to you.”
“They attacked you?” Aurora pressed.
“They raped him,” Jean-Paul corrected her. Rage was consuming him, and he was having a hard time keeping his bearings, when his lover needed his support.
“I can’t get their faces out of my mind. Emma made it better, for a night, but she’s gone.”
“What are you talking about, Chris? Emma’s gone where?”
“She’s… my father, he – the bastard sold her!” Chris’ voice exploded from his chest. “Just like she was a thing! Like a jewel, or a spice, or a length of cloth! Like she was a whore! He sold EMMA!”
“Good Lord,” Aurora breathed. “Why? Why… how on earth could he do that? He adores Emma.”
“Because he was desperate. He made a bargain with the devil. He owed a debt.”
“So he gambled her away?”
“No.” But Chris was too overwhelmed to go into further detail. “But Emma drove away the nightmare. She buffered it. But now that she’s gone, I can see them. I can feel their hands…” Jean-Paul and Aurora both shuddered.
“Then stay with us tonight.”
“I’m not good for it.”
“No one’s asking you to be. Just stay.”
Chris wept. Two pairs of arms wrapped him in their embrace, sheltering him from tangible demons, even though they couldn’t slay the ones in his mind.
*
Emma rose from her second bath of the day – her third, after a fashion – and once again perused the armoire, sighing. So her own clothes weren’t good enough for her hostess. So be it.
“The blue one would be nice.”
“You think?”
“Try it on,” Jenny purred. She circled Emma as she lifted the dress from the press, rubbing against her legs and flicking her tail against the lush, full skirt. “It’d be lovely on you.”
“It’s awfully dressy for a night in.”
“It’s a castle. What else did you expect?”
“Good point.” Emma wanted to point out that she still didn’t know how she found herself there. She considered the dress, fingering the shining silk. The dress had a demure neckline and snug bodice with fluttering, filmy sleeves. It was a pale blue that, indeed, did bring out her eyes and her creamy skin. She hated bowing to the creature’s expectations, especially after such dire treatment.
She had pitifully few belongings of her own. According to the Wind-Rider, everything in this room belonged to her if she obeyed. It was the obedience that Emma was having difficulty with…
What did she expect of her, really? For all intents and purposes, while Emma wouldn’t call her hostess a “lady,” she was certainly female. It wasn’t like she wanted someone to sit next to at the whist tables or to go to luncheons with. Did she expect Emma to be her maidservant? Was she supposed to brush her hair every morning or bring her tea? Emma huffed. That didn’t sound very promising, nor any more stimulating than the situation she left behind. Emma often wondered what life held for her once she was out from her father’s roof and her sisters’ thumb, but at times, she came up empty.
“I don’t want to be her puppet.” Jenny made a sound between a mew and a laugh.
“You! Sweet, I can’t imagine you as anyone’s puppet. You’ve a wild streak in you. I can’t see anyone holding you down.”
“I knew you were a smart kitty,” Emma returned. She sighed over the dress and crossed the room, holding it up against herself again in the mirror. “It is lovely.”
“Looks like it’s just your size.”
“Maybe she won’t dunk me in the lake or drop me out of the window this time,” Emma said bitterly as she shed her robe. Her chamber was warm again, thanks to a fire that had conveniently been lit in the grate during her absence. Her suite door creaked open just she finished struggling into the complex, voluminous garment. Emma hissed in annoyance until she spied the two she-wolves letting themselves in and lying down in front of the fireplace.
“Turn around? Oh, that’s nice on you,” Rahne informed her wistfully. “Mistress’ll fancy that, I imagine.”
“She sure will,” Danielle agreed, shaking herself as she stretched and yawned. “That was some dip you took.”
“I’m glad you found it so entertaining,” Emma sniped. “Hmmph…”
“At least you didn’t piss yourself,” Danielle congratulated her. “Mistress has little patience for people who don’t see things her way, or for fools in general.”
“So which am I?” Emma asked, placing her hands on her hips.
“Surely not a fool, I hope.”
“You’re no help.” Emma sighed at her reflection. Her hair was a mess again. She smoothed her hands over the bodice, enjoying the feel of the fabric against her skin and the way it warmed to her touch. She made a sound of pleasure despite herself. “All right. The blue, then.”
“Knew you’d come around,” Jenny cheered. She kneaded Emma’s foot with her velvety front paws. “Your hair, then. Let’s do something about that.”
“Let’s?” Emma felt wary. “I’m the one who has to do something about it.”
“Don’t be silly. Sit tight, now.” Jenny swiveled her feline head toward the door and cried out, “Marie-Ange! Come in here, and shake your tail about it! Milady needs to get ready for Mistress!”
“Goodness,” Emma muttered, amused. The words sounded so bizarre, even more so coming from a cat’s mouth.
“Don’t get yourself in a dither, I’m coming along.” A voice accented with a hint of French reached Emma’s ears, followed by low chittering, and the next creature who entered the chamber astonished her. A beautiful, sleek little monkey hurried into the room on her knuckles, spry and lithe. Emma found her adorable. “Je suis Marie-Ange, mamselle. Comment-allez vous?”
“A little the worse for wear, sweetheart,” Emma replied, bending to better greet the beastie. “And what are you here to do?”
“Something with that lovely hair of yours, which looks like it’s seen better days,” Marie chirped.
“How do you propose to do that?”
“I’ve the only one in the castle who can hold the brush,” she informed her matter-of-factly. She indicated her tiny hands, which indeed had opposable thumbs. Emma giggled. “Pull up a chair, mamselle. Let me see what I have to work with.” Emma complied, and the monkey leapt up nimbly, landing on the vanity and she began to search the drawer for the brush. She withdrew it and beckoned to the wolves. “Bring me that stool,” she said imperiously.
“Bossy little thing,” Emma mused.
“You’ll still be pleased. Marie does fine work,” Dani mentioned. “She always did on mine, before.”
“Before what?”
“Don’t speak out of turn,” Rahne warned her on a low growl. The darker wolf made a sound like a sigh and laid her head back down on her forelegs, staring up at Emma with big, sorrowful eyes.
“You can’t tell me?”
“I spoke out of turn,” Danielle offered.
Emma was confused. She remembered Jenny saying something equally odd when she first arrived about her hair… or her fur?
Mine used to be that color.
She meant her hair. It dawned on Emma that things weren’t what they seemed in this strange, bewitched castle, least of all her hostess.
She was drawn back from her musings by Marie’s melodic chittering. The monkey was expertly parting her hair into neat sections, running the brush through the waves to smooth out the tangles. Emma sighed in contentment; the bristles felt good and it relaxed her to be pampered for a change. Emma’s sisters almost never helped her with her grooming while she was growing up, and she missed her mother’s gentle hands. She’d waited on Adrienne and Cordelia hand and foot, always seeing to their needs, drawing their baths, mending and altering their gowns, buffing their nails. She could let herself enjoy this, couldn’t she, just once?
“Do you favor braids or curls, milady?”
“Braids, for now.” Curls would take too long, and Emma knew that it would suit to keep the creature waiting.
“Fine choice.” Marie began to hum, shocking Emma even more, since it was a tune that she recognized.
“You’ve a lovely voice.”
“Merci, mamselle!” The monkey’s facial muscles were capable of a smile, and the expression was comical. Emma couldn’t help chuckling slightly. Marie’s nimble little fingers tugged at her hair, deftly weaving it into snug, neat plaits. Emma watched her handiwork, amazed and impressed.
“That’s very good.”
“Merci.”
“Where did you learn how to do this?”
“From my mother, and my sisters, a long time ago. They had their own special, elegant style.” Marie sighed. “I forget what it was like to wear fine silks or dainty shoes.” Emma’s blue eyes widened briefly, but she schooled her expression into calm lines so that Marie could finish her work uninterrupted. The plaits were carefully draped and pinned back from Emma’s face and coiled at her nape. Several long tendrils of hair were left free, curling of their own volition from the dampness. The effect was feminine, vulnerable and lovely, well-suited to the rich gown.
“That will do,” Emma told Marie, nodding as she ran her fingertips over one of the shining plaits. “Thank you.”
“De rien, milady.” Emma shoved a small dish of sweets on the vanity closer to Marie, who daintily selected a sugared almond and chittered as she ate it. Emma stroked her little arm, enjoying her soft fur.
“Share the love over here. I’ve an itchy spot behind my neck,” Danielle grumbled from her place on the rug.
“You do?” Emma rose from her seat and bent to the task, glad for another opportunity to touch that fur, too, which felt thick and lush combing through her fingers as she gave her a thorough scratch. Rahne butted against her.
“Me next.”
“Of course,” she agreed. But she couldn’t tarry too long. Rahne whined in contentment as Emma scratched around her chops and ears. It was so tempting to remain in the cozy chamber, which was now very warm, but she had an appointment to keep.
“Jewels?” Marie inquired hopefully.
“Not this time.” Emma felt foolish enough wearing such a fancy dress during the daytime as it was.
“A shame.”
“It’s quite all right. I’ll manage. Thank you again.” Emma swept from the room, but Jenny stopped her.
“Do you remember how to get to the library?”
“Yes.” Emma hoped she did, at any rate. It was dark before when she first arrived at the castle, and the house looked different in the light of day.
“Go left,” Jenny added, when Emma turned right. She doubled back, flushing slightly.
“Thank you,” she called over her shoulder.
“This morning didn’t go swimmingly, did it?”
“If by swimmingly, you mean that Mistress shouldn’t have dunked her like that, then no, dear.” Danielle nuzzled her soulmate and sighed. “That was a mess.”
“It won’t do at all if Mamselle doesn’t soften her heart,” Marie added grimly.
“We’re doomed, then.” Dani licked Rahne’s muzzle to comfort her, but she had no words of wisdom.
*
“Your tea, Mistress.”
“Set it down.”
“I’ve set the cart in the library, Mistress.”
“That will do.”
“I know it’s not my place,” Manuel began uneasily. The Wind-Rider sighed raggedly.
“But you’ll tell me, anyway.”
“What you did seemed a bit…unfair.”
“She can swim.”
“You didn’t know that.” His tone was accusing.
“I won’t be scolded by my staff.”
“Apologies, senorita.” Manuel’s nose twitched. “I’m just saying that it might do you some good to take a, how can I put this… more delicate approach?”
“Delicate?”
“Less…threatening.”
“Ah.” The Wind-Rider’s chuckle was deep and throaty. She blew on the contents of her tea, mulling it. “You fancy her, don’t you?”
“She’s quite fetching.”
“You’ve an eye for the ladies.”
“As do you,” he pointed out cheekily.
“Watch your step.”
“I meant no disrespect.”
“You never do,” she muttered, rolling her opaque eyes.
“I just think you might do well to take a different approach.”
“Like paying her? More blindfolds?”
“Money doesn’t buy love.”
“I won’t tolerate your insolence.”
“Nor will you hear my wisdom.”
“You only miss what you’ve lost. You don’t know what it’s like to be me.” Ororo’s voice grew cold.
“Si. I do miss what I once had. I find the ladies don’t take my attempts to woo them and sweep them off their feet very seriously, when I only reach up to their kneecaps.” Manuel’s ears flopped. “But you underestimate me, senorita, when you say that I don’t know how you feel.” He hopped closer, nosing the edge of her robe. “Talk to her, gently. Woo her.”
“You act like I’m calming a skittish horse.”
“It’s not much different,” Manuel agreed cheerfully, earning himself a snort. “Give her a chance. Get to know her! Ask her what’s on her mind.”
“She’s too quick to pry into mine for my taste.”
“What are you afraid of?”
“Nothing,” she snapped, but her fingers tightened on the handle of the delicate china cup.
“She won’t learn to love you if remain so hard, so distant,” he coaxed. “The lovely senorita seems bright. Perhaps she likes books. Or chess? At the very least, we know she’s fond of animals.” The Wind-Rider made a sound of disgust.
“That hardly helps.”
“True,” he shrugged. “But it may help her to like you.”
“I’m tired,” Ororo muttered.
“You’ve had a long morning.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
“Then tell me.” His ears twitched. Ororo sat down at her desk, mulling a chess set that had several moves executed already, one of her favorite strategies. Manuel nimbly insinuated himself into her personal space, hopping up into her lap. Automatically she stroked his fur, soothed by how soft it felt.
“What if this doesn’t work? I can’t… I couldn’t bear it. I’m not ready to live out the remainder of my life like this, Manuel.”
“’Remainder’ is a generous term, senorita.” He sounded grave. “You once had years to break this curse. Now we’re left with weeks.”
“I don’t want to want her. I don’t want to need anything from her. I can’t live with more disappointment.”
“That’s hardened your heart. You have to let her in.”
“What if she can’t love me?” He stared up at her and nosed her hand.
“Then we’re all lost, senorita.”
*
Emma took yet another wrong turn and ended up in a broom closet, making her curse under her breath. Drat this blasted castle! It was too large, too cavernous, and too many corridors looked the same. It didn’t help that she didn’t have any of her little new-found friends as guides at the moment.
Her footsteps were light over the marble floors, and she took her time now, deciding she couldn’t well hurry if she was lost, could she? She perused the paintings, taking the chance to enjoy some of them. They ran the gamut, from landscapes to still-lifes, portraits to fantastic scenes of mythical creatures. Some of them told a story, something she preferred when she enjoyed art.
One of them gave her pause when she drew back a curtain to let in a little more sunlight, allowing her to see it better. She gasped at the stark scene it depicted, rendered in heavy oils in shades of indigo, black and crimson.
It was a woman, being tortured by demons. They grinned at her with yellowing, jagged fangs. Some of them were covered in fur, some in scales. They prodded her with pins and mean-looking knives, and she was bound to a large rock with dull pewter manacles. What moved Emma was the expression of despair in her eyes. She stood back from it, grimacing, before she dropped the curtain.
“Horrible,” she muttered. “Absolutely dreadful. Why would she keep that?”
Emma continued her trek, wondering why no one had come to her rescue yet. She considered retracing her steps to her room, but when she looked back, her memory failed her.
Then she had an epiphany. She wasn’t allowed to read the creature’s thoughts, at great risk to her personal safety. But…that didn’t mean she could read the thoughts of her servants, did it? Emma searched the castle furtively, scanning it for psychic “footprints,” but it was difficult. She wasn’t sure if it would work with animals, since she had never tried before.
Bet she’s lost.
She’s too proud to admit it, that one.
Aha! Emma sighed. They were right. She was too proud. That sounded like Dani and Rahne. In the worst case scenario, they were wolves. They could track down her scent if she was gone too long. Who else was in the house? She scanned again for familiar traces and was rewarded once more.
I fancy a swim in the creek. Fish are spawning soon.
You and your fish, Santo, you big lummox.
So she’d found the bear. His thoughts sounded far away, and Emma guessed he was outside. She couldn’t be too far from the library, could she? Emma looked forward to perusing the selection of books, and her stomach reminded her that it was almost time for tea.
We’re all doomed if you don’t stop being so stubborn.
Emma scowled. That sounded like Manuel. She wondered why his emotions were suffused with so much dread, out of character for the cheeky rabbit. But he sounded closer, and she decided to hone in him, reaching out with her mind for him.
Manuel? I’m lost.
Senorita?He sounded surprised, and Emma chuckled.
Too right. It’s me. I’m lost.
Stay put. Where are you?
In a hall, standing in front of the most ghastly painting I’ve ever seen.
Demons? A woman looking scared out of her wits?
That’s the one.Emma wrinkled her nose.
I will come for you. Mistress is growing slightly… impatient.
I have no doubt. Emma rolled her eyes. This was a fine pickle, wasn’t it? She didn’t want the creature to wonder if she had sufficient wits about her to find her way through her house.
Wait for me.
All right. Emma turned away from the painting, looking for something else to distract her, and she found it in the form of a long window farther down the corridor, sunlight streaming inside. She was drawn to it, and Emma noticed a glass door. She wondered where it led, and her feet moved her toward it before she could ponder it any further.
“Where are you going?” Ororo demanded when the bunny hopped down from her lap and scurried off.
“To bring your company to tea. I will be back before you can miss me,” he promised.
“Take your time, wretched beastie,” Ororo muttered, shaking her head. She was restless for Emma to arrive, even though she was at a loss as to what to do next. Woo her. What a ridiculous proposition.
Manuel scampered down corridor after corridor, attempting to follow the voice in his head. “You’ve taken several wrong turns, senorita,” he murmured to himself.
What’s this?
“What’s what? You heard me?”
Loud and clear.
“I’m on the opposite wing from you!”
You might as well be in the same room, dearie. I can read minds.
“You can see…everything in my mind?” A chill ran through him at the thought. “Don’t linger too long in there, senorita. You might…er, see something… untoward.”
Have no fear. I won’t pry. Where does this door lead?
“What door?”
The glass one. Oh… oh, my. It’s glorious.
Manuel’s stomach twisted. “Senorita, don’t! Please leave that door alone, I beg of you! You don’t want to open that! Go back! Wait for me, I will take you to the library!”
I just want to see it for a second,Emma insisted. He shared her emotions for a moment, feeling her curiosity and wonder tinged with delight. She was in the garden.
This didn’t bode well at all.
“SENORITA! NO!”
*
She didn’t heed him. The beauty of it all stole her breath.
Roses. Angels. Goddesses. Sparkling water bubbling from stone fountains. Exotic flowers of every variety climbing over every surface, creeping over trellises and dripping nectar. It was impossible. It was incredible.
The weather was still cold, and the flowers were all out of season, not due to bloom until late spring, or even early summer, but here they ignored nature’s cycle and flourished. The grass felt springy beneath Emma’s feet as she let herself outside, and she laughed in wonder, quickening her steps as she hurried to see it all. It was like stumbling into Eden. The air smelled like jasmine, honeysuckle and peaches. She heard bees going about their labors with a steady hum and the breeze stroking her cheeks was warm, lifting her skirts.
The ring of rosebushes enthralled her with their sheer riot of color. Each one was more beautiful than the last. They were sturdy, armed with nasty thorns, but their petals were abundant and rich. The one that captivated her was the one in the center, teeming with pristine, snowy white blooms. Emma was drawn to them, breathing in their perfume and tempted to touch them.
“Senorita! Emma! Please! Go back!” Manuel was just crossing the threshold into the garden when he found her.
“It’s so beautiful,” Emma informed him as she reached for the rosebush, already snapping off the thorns from a delicate stem.
“DON’T!”
“What’s wrong? I just want one little rose. There’s plenty here.”
“They aren’t meant for picking! You can’t!” He scuttled under her skirt, scratching at her shins with his tiny claws.
“OW!”
“I beg of you, turn back, now! Leave the roses alone, or you won’t like what happens next!”
“They’re flowers,” Emma insisted. She danced about, trying to rid herself of the interloper under her dress. “Naughty bunny! Out! NOW!”
“It’s a lovely view from here, senorita,” Manuel told her, momentarily distracted by her long, creamy legs and tender nether regions barely obscured by her cotton drawers.
“OUT!”
“No! YOU get out! Get back inside, before Mistress catches you handling her prized possession!”
“The roses?”
“Si! They are sacred, not meant to be touched by human hands!”
“Then who tends them?”
“That doesn’t matter! Go, go, GO!”
“But-“
“You wanted me to show you to the library, so we’ll go there now,” Manuel snapped. Emma felt scolded and chastened. Her cheeks flushed, and she looked back longingly at the roses, but he led her to the door, nipping at her hem.
“Stop that!”
“I know my way beneath a lovely lady’s skirts, no?”
“NO!”
*
Emma was flustered by the time she reached the library, and she was annoyed to find it empty. She sighed, but she noticed the tea service sitting near the fire. She poured herself a cup of the fragrant brew and browsed the nearest shelf. The books were in wonderful condition, covers free of dust and spines uncreased. She selected one bound in fine black leather, a tome of poetry, and she sat by the fire, removing her slippers so she could curl her feet beneath her to better enjoy it.
She was so rapt in it that she didn’t hear the Wind-Rider enter the library, the swish of her robes whisper-soft. She prowled just inside the door, watching her. Ororo smelled hair pomade and lavender water and knew she’d availed herself of the tub. She also noticed Marie’s careful work with her hair and smirked. At least she’d outfitted herself properly.
Emma felt the hairs on her neck stand on end, feeling as though someone was watching her. She let the book fall shut in her lap and slowly craned her face to peer over her shoulder. The Wind-Rider lingered in the shadows of the study, transfixing her with her brooding stare.
“You obeyed me.”
“It seemed wise.” Emma’s voice was bitter. Ororo winced inwardly and cleared her throat. She entered almost soundlessly, giving her wings a little shake as she felt the warmth radiating from the hearth. She circled the chaise, eyeing her, taking in her careful grooming, Emma assumed.
“Do you always sit like that?”
“Pardon?”
“It’s rather unladylike,” she chided her, tsking.
“Well. My apologies. I just assumed…”
“Assumed what?”
“That you, er… didn’t stand much on ceremony.”
“Because I’m out here all alone, you mean?” Ororo’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “Or because I look the way I do? You assume that you can behave however you please?”
“You’ve made it clear that I can only behave however you please,” Emma countered. She swung her feet down to the floor, sitting up properly and stepping back into her slippers.
Ororo wouldn’t tell her that she looked fetching curled up on the chaise like that, exposing her ankles and long, dainty pink toes. She also liked her look of rapture as she read the book, and the way the gown fell in soft folds around her body. She’d hoped she would choose the blue.
“Stand.” Emma flushed at the command, annoyed, but she complied, rising smoothly to her full height. She stared at the floor while she was examined like a cow at the market, wondering if she would pry her mouth open to check her teeth. She heard the low rustle of her robes as she circled her slowly, pausing to touch the silk. Emma shivered at the sensation of warm breath misting over her shoulder and the inadvertent scrape of something hard against her ear, realizing it was her hostess’ long, spiraling horn. She felt the air stirring around her hair, sensing movement and almost imperceptible touch. Fingertips were tracing the coil of her plait over her nape.
“You’ve bathed.” The voice was raspy, making a statement, not asking a question.
“Clearly,” Emma whispered.
She stood still, finding it difficult not to tremble while the beast drank in her essence, sampling it through scent, sight and fleeting touch. Emma’s goods were on display in the fine gown instead of the dowdy, concealing work dress, and she felt self-conscious. Those fingers trailed down from her hair, following the line of her spine, and her heartbeat quickened. “Getting a bit familiar, aren’t you?”
What the Wind-Rider couldn’t, or wouldn’t convey was that she couldn’t resist the urge. She was drawn to the rebellion in her voice and wanted on some level to drive away that little shiver of fear, but doing so would give her the upper hand. She was the mistress of the house, so she made the rules, but she smelled her womanly pheromones and felt the heat radiated by her skin, heard her pulse rush in her throat…
Her tongue flicked out to taste it and Emma gasped.
- 6
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White Rose