Rosemary and Rue

I DIDN’T WORRY ABOUT PROPRIETY as I came running out of the audience chamber; I just dropped my skirts and let my forehead rest against the cool stone of the nearest pillar, taking deep breaths as I struggled not to break down and cry. I’d been avoiding the Torquills for six months because I didn’t want to face Sylvester, and all I’d been doing was letting him sink further into his own guilt. Had I been doing anybody any favors with the way I’d been behaving?

The page was gone when I looked up. Good. It had been a long week—one that kept getting longer—and I didn’t trust myself to be polite, especially not after what had just happened with the Torquills. My manners have always been the first thing to go when I get upset, and some people say that they stopped coming back a long time ago.

Slicking a few wayward wisps of hair back from my face, I turned to start down the hall, and nearly tripped over the hem of my dress. Cheeks burning, I picked up my skirt and started again, swearing under my breath. I hate Court attire.

At least the irritation lifted my mood, making it harder to dwell on how wrong I’d been about Sylvester’s reaction to my return. I walked around the corner, stepping over a hopscotch grid some kid had finger painted on the marble floor and opened a door at random. The walls of the hall on the other side were papered in a tasteless pattern of yellow mustard and flowering heather, and I nodded, satisfied that I was going the right way. I kept walking.

The first time I came to Shadowed Hills, I was nine years old, and I was awed. Then I was annoyed, and then I was lost. The halls bend back on themselves and loop in long, impossible curves; doors you’ve seen before lead places you’ve never been, and doors that weren’t there yesterday take you right back where you started. It’s like a giant labyrinth with a sense of humor, and it can be really annoying. I learned to find my way around the place by memorizing landmarks, combining practice with sheer good luck, and sometimes I still found myself wishing for a pocketful of bread crumbs.

The yellow-and-purple walls gave way to plain stone, cobblestones replacing the checkerboard marble of the floor. Rose goblins watched me from windowsills and the corners of rooms, replacing the more common cats that tend to lurk in knowes. Sylvester, ironically enough, is allergic. Luckily, his wife’s gardens provide plenty of spiny replacements for the standard feline. Rose goblins look like cats, act in a similar fashion, and shed thorns instead of fur. The perfect hypoallergenic pet.

Most of Shadowed Hills borders on tacky, but Luna’s gardens make up for it. She has at least a dozen, and she tends them all herself. Kitsune aren’t known for their gardening skills. Luna’s something special. She’s a goose girl in a lady’s clothes when she’s playing Duchess, but among the flowers, she’s a Queen. They do everything but bow when she walks by.

The third hall I turned down dead-ended just past the winter kitchens, ending at a plain wooden door with a stained glass rose set at eye level. Smiling, I pushed the door open and stepped through into the Garden of Glass Roses.

Anything Luna touches grows, but roses have always been her pride and joy. The Garden of Glass Roses is entirely enclosed, filling a circular room with white marble walls that give way about ten feet up to a filigreed silver-and-glass dome. White crushed quartz pathways glitter in the sunlight that filters through the roses, throwing up glints of prismatic color. And everywhere, roses, growing in wild, seemingly unfettered profusion. Their slight transparency seems odd at first glance, until the mind admits what the eye is seeing: every flower, every petal and bud, is living, blossoming glass, stained with washes of flawless color. Best of all, glass roses have no scent. That garden is one of the very few places in Shadowed Hills that doesn’t smell like roses.