Of Beauty and Beast

Probably worse.

The smile on my lips prunes into a worried pucker. Needle is taking a terrible risk to help me prove I’m a queen with more to offer my people than my blood. I can’t forget that for a moment. I will go carefully and quickly, as soon as my eyes arrive.

I’ll have Needle to thank for that, too. If she can manage—

The sound of boots scuffing along the path interrupts my thoughts. I pull my shawl farther over my head and crouch down by the wall, hoping the shadows will conceal me. I hold my breath as three soldiers—maybe four, it’s difficult to tell— scuff, scuff by on the other side of the circular planter.

If they’d taken the other fork in the path, they would have seen me.

My breath rushes out in an unsteady stream, and my legs suddenly feel wobbly. I sit down hard, the paving stones grinding against my sit bones through the padding of my old gray overalls layered over my new green ones. I have on long underwear, too, and a shawl and sweater. It will be cold in the desert.

The desert. I’m going out into the desert. This isn’t a plan; it’s an act of desperation. But what choice do I have? There isn’t time to waste. I have to trust my instincts and hope with everything in me that luck is on my side.

And Needle’s side. And Gem’s.

Gem. What if he doesn’t meet me in the garden? What if—once released from his room—he runs for the nearest gate? What if he kills the soldiers guarding it and escapes into the desert, never to return? He’s still weak, but there’s a chance he might try it. Maybe even a good chance.

I push my shawl back around my shoulders, feeling trapped by the heavy wool, but before I can drop my arms back to my side, I feel it—a vine snaking around my wrist and pulling tightly.

I almost cry out in surprise, but manage to stifle the sound at the last moment. The guards are still too close; I can’t afford to make any noise. I try my best to quietly wrench my wrist free, but the roses are stronger than I realized. The vine tugs my arm up and over my head, drawing my hand into the thick of the flowers’ nest. I clench my fist—hoping to protect my fingers—only to feel a thorn meaner than any I’ve yet encountered dig into the thin skin between my knuckles.

“Ah!” I gasp as blood spills, hot and sticky, down the back of my hand, making my true eyes fill with tears even as my borrowed eyes open on the city.

I see a tower— my tower—rising from the surrounding fields like some spiny creature from another world. The roses have never shown me the building where I’ve spent my entire life, but I recognize it immediately: the sharp gold curves of its many roofs, its red stone walls and balcony jutting from the top like a stubborn chin.

My borrowed eyes swoop toward the entrance at the tower’s base, where a boy with a silky black braid, high cheekbones, and bow-shaped lips that any woman at court would envy stands clutching a pair of muddy slippers. The boy is Bo—there is no mistaking those lips—and the slippers are mine, the ones I threw into the flowers the night of my coronation.

Bo lifts his hand to knock on the door, while, far away in the garden, my heart beats frantically in my chest. Bo has come to return my slippers, and to demand to know how I managed to lose them in the first place, no doubt. There’s an anxious look in his eyes, tension at the edges of his mouth, and an almost guilty twitch in his neck as his head turns from side to side, making sure the other guards’ eyes are averted.

I suddenly realize what a good job Bo has done of hiding his true feelings. He cares for me more than I’ve assumed—there is genuine concern in his expression—but he also fears for my mind more than I ever would have guessed. He worries I’m more than odd. He worries I’m touched by my mother’s madness, and that one day the queen he’s come to care for may become a madwoman who’ll try to kill her children in the night.

I don’t know if it’s the roses’ magic or my own intuition, but I am certain that is what Bo feels. And I’m just as certain that he won’t leave my tower without knowing how I managed to leave my shoes in a flower bed only feet from the Monstrous’s cell.

I have to go. I have to go back to the tower. Now.

No sooner is the thought through my mind than the thorn withdraws from my flesh and the vine loosens its grip on my wrist. I pull my hand back to my chest, pressing it tightly to my sweater until I feel the bleeding stop.

Breath coming fast, I draw my knees to my chest. I am preparing to leap up, run back to the tower, and hope I can make the climb up to the balcony without being spotted by Bo or the guards—when the greater implications of what has just happened hit hard enough to make my bones weak all over again.

The roses knew. Somehow they knew what I was planning and they don’t want me to go. They showed me just enough to make me afraid, before setting me free.

But should I really be afraid? I wonder as I scoot away from the containing wall, out of the roses’ reach.

It’s late, nearly midnight. Bo knows better than to come to my rooms at this hour. If he finds the door locked and neither Needle nor I answer, he might very well decide to leave and return tomorrow. Tomorrow, when Needle will be at the tower to tell him I’m not feeling well and turn him away.

Now that there’s no thorn buried beneath my skin, that scenario seems as likely as the one I fear. More likely. But the roses didn’t want me to think clearly; they wanted me to run along back to my prison. It could be they simply have the interests of the city at heart—it is dangerous for me to leave, to take such a risk when I am unmarried and the covenant is unsecured—but the vision felt more insidious, the inexorable grip of the vine more possessive than concerned.

As I rub the bruised skin around my new wound, I begin to doubt for the first time in my life what I’ve been taught about the royal garden. The legends say the roses grew after the first queen’s blood hit the ground, a symbol of the sacrifice she’d made and the covenant that would keep Yuan safe.

But what if—

“There you are.” Gem’s voice comes centimeters from my ear, close enough to make me gasp. My ears are sensitive, but I didn’t hear a thing until he was close enough to touch.

By the moons, I’m glad he’s here. I’m so glad not to be alone with the roses. I’m weak with it. Strong with it. My blood starts to rush again; my bones rediscover their sturdy centers.

“Thank you for coming.” I find his chest with my fingers, flattening my palm against the thick fabric of one of his new shirts, hoping he can feel my gratitude as clearly as I feel his heart thudding beneath his ribs.

Ba-bump, ba-bump, ba-bump, bababump bababump bababump. The beating grows faster as we sit in silence, our foggy breath mingling between our faces. Mine is hot, but his is so much hotter and it smells nothing of the cabbage he refuses to eat. Gem’s breath is fresh sawdust and sweet smoke, chestnuts and celery root, as sharp and clean as the winter air. It’s a good smell, a healthy smell that makes me wonder how breath like that would taste on a kiss.

Ba-bump … bump. My heartbeat stutters, and I pull my hand away from Gem’s chest so quickly that I hit my own throat and begin to choke.

“Are you all right?” He lays a hand on my shoulder, the same shoulder he tore open months ago, the one that bears a tight, sleek scar from the claw that cut the deepest. But now Gem’s claws are sheathed and his fingers are careful, gentle.

He’s never touched me like this before. We haven’t touched in weeks, and even then our only contact was in anger—my fists on his chest, his hands at my wrists, my fingers on his throat, his claws at mine. But this is not anger. This is … something else.

“I’m fine.” My whisper is hoarse. I clear my throat. “We should go.

The patrol—”

“They’ll be back soon,” he interrupts, his voice gruff. He pulls his hand from my shoulder, leaving my skin colder. “Go back to your tower. If I run, I’ll be back in my cell before I’m spotted.”

“No!” I say, louder than I mean to. I bite my lip, then whisper, “No.

We have to get the bulbs. I know of a secret door out into the desert. No one will see us go, and Needle will make sure we aren’t missed.”

“And how will she do that?”

“I’ve canceled your escort to the field,” I explain, ears straining to catch the scuff of boots. “No one will come to your room except to bring meals. Needle says she can convince the girl who delivers them to allow her to