Rowan.
“She is making progress, sir.” I hear him say.
Progress?
If they’re talking about me, he’s lying. Rowan knows that isn’t true.
“Miss, please don’t make this difficult,” Thomas pleads with me.
“Okay, I’m coming,” I whisper. Then I hear the King, firm and certain as he says,
“You know the plan, Rowan,” he says. “You know what you must do if this fails.”
What plan?
Before I can even think about what he means, Rowan replies, “You have my loyalty."
“That’s it. I warned you, Miss,” Thomas says, pulling my elbow and leading me away. I don’t fight him. I let him drag me away, the words replaying in my head as I try to figure out what it all means.
Is the plan simply just get the plant and fix the gates?
Or is it something else?
Thomas leads me to Rowan’s quarters, where I drop his cloak off in silence before he leads me back to the glasshouse. Once past the glass doors, the air is transformed, feeling less spacious and more stifling. The warmth of the glasshouse presses around me, thick and cloying. I kneel beside the bed of seeds, the soil undisturbed, the Widowsbloom unchanged. My thoughts drift back to home, to the list of daily tasks on the whiteboard every morning. About how I used to moan about that list. But now, I’d give anything to wake up tomorrow and see that list of jobs. Hear Sam telling me his plans for the weekend, challenging me to a game of chess on lunch break. Pleading with the soil, I place my palms gently on top of the cool earth before resting my head on my arms and closing my eyes.
“She’s been like that for an hour, sir. I’m sorry to call you down, I just…”
I hear the faint murmur of Thomas’s voice through the glasshouse, followed by heavy footsteps.
Rowan.
I’ve been sitting in the same position for hours now, unsure what to do with myself. My mind has been in a continuous spiral.
“Didn’t take you for the praying type.” His voice cuts through the glasshouse with an echo. Turning my face to him, my tears have dried on my face.
“I’m not praying, I’m negotiating.” I say. He raises his eyebrows at me before leaning against the worktop and crossing his arms.
“And how’s that working for you?”
“Oh, yeah, great. Look at my successful first and second attempts,” I say, pointing at the soil which shows no sign of life. He glances down at the soil, his expression unchanging.
“You have two seeds left,” he says.
“Yep.”
He only nods. I consider bringing up his conversation with the King, but I know he would simply shut down and give me nothing.
“You know, when I was a boy, there was this old tree in the training yard. It’d been there a while, its roots running deep under the soil,” he says. I look at him, not sure where he is going with this, but not daring to interrupt anyway. “One year, it didn’t bloom. They planned to cut it down and get rid of it. But the gardener, he stopped them, said it simply needed to be left alone,” he continues, “So they left it alone. The following spring, it bloomed. Bright and full.”
“So you think I need to just leave the Widowsbloom alone?”
“I think sometimes you can’t choose how something survives. You need to let nature decide for itself.”
Looking back at the soil, I concentrate hard in the hope of willing some idea to fill my brain. Hoping Rowan’s words unlock the key to my problems. But nothing comes. Returning my gaze to Rowan, feeling defeated and tired.
“I wish it were that easy. While I appreciate you trying to soothe me with your inspiring words. It doesn’t help me figure out the science behind this.” He lets out a small laugh as he rolls his eyes.
