Like a prisoner gazing on the boundaries of her prison.
Daylily’s view extended over the southern part of the Eldest’s lands, off into the parks and gardens that sprawled for acres. These, like Daylily, were no longer what they had once been, ravaged now by both the winter and the Dragon. Most of the shrubs and bushes had withered into dry sticks and would never bloom again, come either spring or frost. Only the rosebushes remained alive. But these had not bloomed for twenty years and more.
From her vantage point, Daylily saw all the way to where the grounds broke suddenly and plunged into a deep gorge. She saw the white gleam of Swan Bridge, which spanned the gorge in a graceful sweep. But she could not see the darkness of the Wilderlands, the thick forest that grew in the depths of the gulf.
For the briefest possible moment, Daylily thought she should like to throw on a cloak, slip from the House, make that long walk across the grounds to the gorge, and vanish forever into the Wilderlands.
It was a wild fancy, and she shook it away even as it flashed across her imagination. After all, she was Lady Daylily, daughter of the Baron of Middlecrescent, the most beautiful woman in the Eldest’s court (despite the Dragon’s work), beloved of all Southlands and bride of Prince Lionheart. Prince Lionheart, who would one day be Eldest, making her queen. It was her father’s dearest wish. It was the purpose of her entire life.
But how bitter was its fulfillment! Daylily clutched her hands in her lap, refusing even a trace of emotion to cross her face, though there was no one to see. If only she had kept her heart in check. If only she had remained the icy and unreachable statue she must be in order to fulfill this role. If only she’d never permitted herself to love—
She shook her head sharply, refusing to admit that thought. No, better not to dwell on such things. Better to focus instead on the cold reality of her dream come true.
The Prince of Southlands would marry her. But he did not love her.
A movement near to hand caught her eye. Daylily dragged her gaze from the bridge and the gorge to a closer plot of ground. A small figure, stooped and thin, walked among the struggling remnants of the garden. A nanny goat followed behind her like a tame dog, nosing the shrubs for any sign of something edible, while the girl gathered what greenery she found into a bundle on her arm.
She wore a white linen veil that covered the whole of her face.
Daylily gnashed her teeth. In that instant, she looked like a dragon herself. “Rose Red,” she muttered. “Witch’s child. Demon.”
She trembled with sudden cold when the shadow passed over the sun and fled swiftly across her face.
The day was cold, especially for Southlands, which was used to balmy weather even in winter. The goat snorted, and streams of white billowed from her nose. But Rose Red, bundled from head to toe in her veils, scarcely noticed the chill. She searched the shrubs of the one-time garden for any sign of life. Some rosebushes had miraculously escaped the Dragon’s fire and, though withered, still managed to produce some green. Rose Red ran her hands through them, not noticing if the thorns caught at her gloves or pierced her sleeves. She put her nose up to the leaves, and they still smelled sweet.
It was difficult these days to find anything that could bring freshness to the poisoned chambers of the Eldest’s House. But Rose Red cut stems as she could, gathering a great armload. She would spread these through her master’s chambers while he was busy at the banquet tonight. Perhaps it would cheer him to return and find greenery among those gloomy shadows. Or perhaps he would not notice.
“Beana!” She turned suddenly on her goat, which had a large sprig of leaves sticking out of the corner of her mouth. “Don’t eat that. You’ll be sick.”
“Bah!” said the goat, spattering leaves about her hooves. When Rose Red reached out to snatch the mouthful from her, she shook her horns and turned her tail on the girl.
“Beana, I need every bit I can find. There’s precious little as it is without you snackin’ on it! You don’t behave yourself, and I’m puttin’ you back in the pen where you belong.”
The goat muttered and trotted several paces back up the path, still chewing. Rose Red turned back to her bush, parting the thin stems to better reach a patch of lingering growth.
She paused, taking a startled breath.
Deep within that tangle of brown and dying leaves, almost hidden by thorns, was a blossom. Pure white, almost too pure to be visible, as though made of light itself, but fragrant, extravagant even. It was like nothing the girl had ever seen.
But when she blinked, it was gone.
The goat, standing some distance from her now, turned suddenly and shivered. “Bah,” she said and trotted quickly to Rose Red’s side. “What do you have there?”