‘This is going to take all bloody night,’ Saskia says. I can hear the pleasure leaching into her words.
My fingers slip, scraping across the bark, and when I finally risk looking down, I get this giddy feeling. But when I look up, I see only branches and leaves and twigs – the window seems unreachable. So I finally utter the words I’d been secretly avoiding. ‘Can someone get Ash?’
‘Ash?’ Saskia says. ‘He’s not part of this, you know? He’ll start askin’ questions and if word gets out we’re, you know –’ she lowers her voice – ‘rebels, it won’t be safe. Not all Imps are trustworthy, that’s what I’m saying.’
‘Well it’s Ash or a broken arm,’ I say, hysteria rising in my voice.
I hear Nate pleading below. ‘Yeah, come on, Saskia, Ash isn’t going tell anyone. He fancies Violet way too much.’
I hear a reluctant sigh from Saskia, and I look down just long enough to see Nate dashing from view.
By the time Ash arrives, I’ve returned to the first branch and I’m back to hugging the trunk. I’m just so relieved he’s back from the city – if he’d got the later bus I’d be screwed. I glance down and see his massive grin. In the dusk, it’s pretty much all I can see.
‘You enjoying yourself up there?’ He’s unable to mask the laughter in his voice.
‘Yeah, it’s great up here . . . the views are stunning . . . lots of bark.’
I feel the tree shudder as he hauls himself on to the branch opposite. I can’t see him, but I feel the warmth of his hands as they cover mine. I suddenly feel very safe. He sticks his head around the trunk and smiles. The compassion in his face pushes away any doubts I had about requesting his help.
‘You OK?’ he asks.
I shake my head.
He smiles. ‘When you’re a beginner, you should only ever have one limb free from the tree at a time. Got it?’
I nod.
‘And always test a hold before you put your weight on it. Because if you commit to a weak branch, you’re only going one way.’
‘That’s really helpful, but I was kind of hoping . . .’
‘I’d climb it for you?’ he asks.
‘Yeah.’
‘So why exactly am I climbing this tree?’
I risk freeing a hand, and I pull the rose from my overalls. It looks more like a wilted strip of seaweed.
He takes it from me and frowns. ‘You want me to put a rose . . . where exactly?’ He looks up and must figure it out because he makes this ‘ah’ noise.
‘Third floor, fourth from the left.’
‘And why should I help you with this . . . whatever it is . . . daft idea.’
I don’t know what to say. I just stare into his face – the night robbing his eyes of any blue – and mouth the word please.
‘OK, OK, don’t use those big brown eyes on me,’ he says.
The next thing I know, his feet disappear up into the leaves like he’s being vacuumed towards the sky. Leaves and bark rain down on me, and I have to lower my head to stop my mouth and eyes filling with debris.
Several minutes later, he’s a bloom lighter and helping me back down to the ground.
Nate slaps him on the back like they’re best buddies. ‘Thanks, mate.’
Saskia just looks grumpy. ‘Well let’s just hope it works after all that.’ She stomps across the grass away from the manor, dragging Nate with her.
I turn to follow, but Ash grabs my arms and whispers into my ear, his breath like hot water. ‘You know Saskia’s got a bad reputation here? There are rumours that she and Matthew are . . . rebels.’
‘Would that be so bad?’
‘Not really, it’s just, if you’re caught up in some rebel plot, it will probably end with you dancing on the gallows. What is it with you and hanging? It’s like you want to hang.’
I daren’t tell him he’s spot on. I daren’t speak the words – they’re just too scary. Instead, I take his hand. It sits like a hot stone in my palm – all heavy and dusted with leaf fragments. ‘Thanks for helping me, Ash. You’re a real friend.’
‘I’m a bloody idiot.’ He looks kind of sad, his lashes hiding those night-bleached eyes, but he doesn’t move his hand. We stand for a moment beneath the oak canopy, all these words forming on our tongues but never leaving our lips.
A light flicks on in Willow’s room. It filters through the leaves and causes shadows to dapple our skin, pointing out how far we are from safety, a sharpening of reality. Our hands part. We sprint away from the manor, into the trees and the privets and dark. And I know that somewhere behind me, Willow has just figured out my pseudonym.
I wait for Willow in the orchard again, same spot by the plum tree. There’s this light mizzle, barely visible in the dark, but I feel it dampening my nose and eyelids, the leaves offering little protection. Nate and I decided I should meet Willow alone this time – in this scene there’s just too much movement for Nate to remain hidden. But he paced the route through with me only moments ago, reminding me of my lines and when I should say them. I can’t help smiling, thinking of him as he turned his slight body towards the stables and ran his hands up and down his back so it looked like he was kissing someone. ‘Ooh, Willow . . .’ he said in this silly girly voice, which I prayed sounded nothing like me.
I lean against the plum tree and try to make my body look lean and sexy, but the nerves flicker in my stomach and I struggle to keep my limbs from fidgeting. Tonight is the first kiss scene; hopelessly romantic and beautiful. I should feel excited, but I just feel terrified. What if he doesn’t kiss me? Or worse, what if he does and it makes him puke? And I just can’t get that damned gherkin-tongue out of my head. All my insecurities hover in my peripheral vision like fat droning insects. Quickly, I recap my lines in my head, the lines which led up to that first, perfect kiss.
WILLOW
I’ve never met anyone like you before.
ROSE
An Imp, you mean?
WILLOW
No, anyone so free.
ROSE
I’m not free. I’m a slave. Your father’s slave, to be exact.
WILLOW
I know, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that . . . It’s just, I don’t know, it probably sounds stupid me saying this, but I wish I could be more like you.
ROSE
(Cups his face in her hands)
You can be.
And then he kissed her.
Passionate. Heart-wrenching. Perfect.
But the reality is I’ve been sharing a mouldy toothbrush with Nate for three days, and my mouth tastes of feet.
I hear Willow’s step before I see him, fast but not urgent. My pulse quickens and the taste of feet grows stronger. He steps through the arch looking even more beautiful than usual, the moon illuminating the fineness of his features. He sees me and chuckles, stroking the underbelly of his chin with the petals of the rose. And then, just like he should, he delivers his opening line: ‘Rose . . . You look like a Rose.’