One minute she was clambering across the parched ravine. Then all at once the stream came alive, spurting over the ledge above, forming a real waterfall, its current so strong it swept Aurora instantly off her feet and sent her swirling into an ever-deepening, ever-quickening whirlpool, swishing downriver, faster, faster.
She kicks her legs and flaps her arms, trying to keep her head above water, thinking of fair Alcyone, who fell in love with the morning star—and in her grief, drowned. Aurora had adored that story, back when it had only been one of many myths to read and savor. Before she understood what it might really feel like to lose someone.
The river engulfs her; she feels its longing, its loss . . . and the truth about Sommeil flows through her, clear and crisp as the river. Even as Aurora moves with the current, she is buoyed by this new certainty: Belcoeur isn’t trapped here at all, but she retreated to this place, both of solace and loneliness, not unlike Aurora’s own tower room back in Deluce. Aurora remembers the starling, the one that possessed dark faerie magic and could speak . . . the one that taunted her for being a caged bird.
She’s been so blind. To think she was a prisoner of circumstances, that it was her lack of voice, a jealous faerie bargain, that held her back all these years. Really, it has always been her own obedience—her desire to please, to do everything right, to follow instead of lead—that has stopped her from truly living.
The thought urges her to kick harder, with more confidence. She is not just swimming toward safety now but away from her former, meeker self. She can almost hear the wail of the old Aurora, weak and scared, carried downstream, far away.
She has finally made it to the shore when she hears a distant sound. There is someone wailing. She looks back to the river, madly rushing on its course. There’s someone else out there—a little girl.
She can hear her crying.
She can hear her screaming.
Aurora races downstream along the muddy banks. A young girl is thrashing and struggling in the waves. Without thinking, Aurora plunges back into the cold water and drags the little girl to shore by the collar of her blue dress, one arm wrapped under her armpits.
By the time she pulls her up onto the riverbank, she’s shaking and exhausted. But the girl, who can only be around five or six years old, seems oddly unfazed.
The child stands up, smiling. “Roses are red. Violets are blue. Children behave and so should you,” she says, her hands on her hips, her eyes black and blazing. She’s apparently unaware that she’s drenched, her dark, shoulder-length hair tangled and wet.
“Where’s your mother?” Aurora asks, catching her breath. “You shouldn’t be playing by the river all alone.”
“I’m looking for violets!” the girl declares. “Roses are red. Violets are—”
“Do you live at Blackthorn? What’s your name?”
The girl shrugs. “Daisy? Daisy! I need violets.” The girl clasps her hands together. “Violets for the tea party. Violets are blue. Children behave and so should you.”
She begins to skip ahead, then turns back, as if remembering Aurora is there. “You will help me, right? I can’t go home without the flowers.”
“Daisy?” Aurora says. That must be the girl’s name. “You need to tell me where you live so I can bring you home.”
The girl cocks her head, blinking. “Violets are blue. Roses are red. Evil will reign when the faeries are dead.”
Aurora shivers, even though the sun is burning hard, drying her off. “You like rhymes?”
The girl nods. “I’m the best at puzzles. Will you help me?”
Aurora bends down so she’s at her level. “How can I help you? Do you live near here?”
The girl’s eyes wander, as though she’s trying to remember. “I think so. . . .”
“Why don’t you show me which way you came? Your mother must be so worried.”
“My mother?” She barks out a surprised laugh. “Will you help me find violets? We must have violets for the tea party. Tea is black. Milk is white. Naughty children are thrashed at night.” Now there are tears in the girl’s eyes. “You’re not going to leave, are you? Please don’t leave me!” She grabs on to Aurora’s hands. “I’ll never find them in time.” Even through her tears, her voice drops low. “The tea party will be ruined.” Suddenly the girl runs ahead, darting into the woods.
Aurora’s pulse hammers. “Daisy! Come back here!” She starts to run after her. “Daisy? Slow down!” She stops running and turns in a full circle, trying to get her bearings. The river has disappeared. Her neck feels hot. “Daisy!” she calls out.
Then she hears the girl muttering to herself and heaves a sigh of relief as her head bobs back into view—she’d been crawling through tall grass nearby.
“Daisy Daisy Daisy,” the little girl says to herself. “Where’s Daisy?”
“You’re Daisy,” Aurora says, though anxiety rustles back up through her chest.
“You’re Daisy,” the girl repeats. Then her face changes. “No. Daisy is baking the cherry tarts. Peach for a pudding. Cherry for a tart. Nothing tastes sweet to a broken heart.”
Belcoeur too had spoken of cherry tarts. “Are you Daisy or not?”
The girl looks at her. “I’m Marigold!”
Aurora sighs. Either the girl is being purposefully defiant, or just playing some sort of game. Or—
Of course . . . the girl is an Impression. Like Heath told her about.
Beside her, Marigold—if that is the girl’s name—has been plucking wildflowers and knotting them into a small crown, discarding the buds that displeased her. “There,” she says happily, putting the finishing touches on it and then placing the crown on her head. “Now I am the queen and you must obey me!” she exclaims, then bends forward, giggling.
Aurora feels a chill. It looks like the girl is, somehow . . . flickering.
She blinks, and shakes her head. Once again, the child is solid before her.
“Marigold is naughty,” the girl says. “Daisy is nice. For goodness does not strike the same nest twice.”
Once again, her rhyme sends a shiver through Aurora. All of her limericks have a dark side. “Goodness doesn’t strike the same nest twice. . . . What does that mean exactly?”
Marigold looks up at her, and once again, her face seems to flutter, like a moth’s wings against a lantern—white, light, white, light, white, light. It must be a trick of the sun setting behind the trees, but it leaves an unsettling feeling in Aurora’s gut. “One night so mild,” the girl responds, “before break of morn, amid the roses wild, all tangled in thorns, the shadow and the child together were born.”
One night so mild. “It’s the rose lullaby,” Aurora says . . . but the way it starts is One night reviled. “Where did you learn that?”