My eyes go wide. “Wait, so—”
“Careful, darling. That’s two answers already. You owe me.”
“Fine,” I grumble. “Ask away.”
“Do you dance? And what’s your favorite flower?”
I frown. “What kind of questions are those? You want to know wh—”
“Now, now,” he teases. “Don’t ask again unless you want to owe me another.”
I sigh. It’s no use fighting him. “No, I don’t dance. And roses are my favorite. Red or white.”
He grins, glancing down at the half-forgotten bloom still in my hand. “Looks like I guessed right, then.” Then he stands up and brushes the dirt from his knees. “And you’ll need to learn before the ball. You’re quite lucky it’s been delayed. I could show you, if you like.”
My traitorous little heart leaps at the suggestion. I know he means dancing, but the way he says“show you”feels like a promise of something else entirely.
I bury my face in the rose. “No thank you.”
“Are you sure? The king loves dancing. And your fellow brides would love nothing more than to watch you fail.”
“Thanks for the offer,” I say tightly, “but I’ll manage.”
“I think we’re even now,” he says, cocking one brow at me.
“Nope. You asked if I was sure. That’s a question.”
He laughs, surprised. “A tricky little Fire. Alright. Ask away,darling.”
The way he says it makes something in my chest flutter. I shake my head, flustered, unsure what to ask. When I still don’t speak after a moment, he gently reaches for me as if to pull me down to the ground.
“Come.”
I hesitate, and his smile fades.
“Please,” he says quietly. “You want to know the truth of this place?” The warmth drains from his tone, and what replaces it is heavier, wearier, like he’s asking if I’m ready to step past pretending.
I stand, taking his hand, and allow him to guide me to another part of the garden toward a small pond, where he kneels down in the grass at the water’s edge. I kneel down beside him, my knees bare on the cool earth. He takes my hand and places it on the soil at the bank’s edge.
I yelp. “It’s freezing!”
“It’s the curse.”
“Why?”
He doesn’t answer. Not with words.
Then, “Are you ready?”
I nod despite myself, and he presses my hand into the soil again. His touch sends warmth into the cold. His eyes shine—ancient, feral, tender.
“Close your eyes,” he whispers. “Reach past the frost. Tell me what you feel.”
I obey. Beneath my palm, the soil hums, alive and whispering. The air thickens, bringing with it the tang of iron and frost. Then the world shifts.
I see barn doors, frozen shut. I pry them open to find only a single white rose. I reach out and pluck it, pricking my finger on an unseen thorn. A droplet of blood falls, and the rose turns red. It turns darker and darker, then bursts into flame.
Images flash before my eyes. Dragons. Fire. Fields of death. A woman in white drowning in blood.
