Chapter 2: The Withered Roses

The physician treating and examining my mother was named Aldren, and he had been lying for six weeks straight.

I could tell from his hands.

His expression was impeccable—calm, restrained, with that specially cultivated ability to deliver bad news as flatly as stating the date. But when he thought no one was watching, his hands would find each other, palm to palm, pressing together briefly before separating.

Today, at the end of his report to Father, he did it again.

Which meant he was out of options too.

"The Queen's condition remains stable," he said.

Father nodded without pausing in his review of documents. He had probably heard this report hundreds of times by now, and it served no purpose beyond psychological comfort. The coughing still echoed through the nights, and the meals sent to the Queen's chambers grew smaller and smaller.

The King had once been a tall man, but his back had bent. Not because he was old, but because of pressure and responsibility. He was a good king, a good husband, and an even better father—and I meant that sincerely. The cost was that his sense of duty, magnified by how much he cared, weighed all the heavier on him.

"Stable," he repeated.

"Yes, Your Majesty."

Aldren's hands pressed together again, then quickly separated.

I stood by the window, arms folded across my chest, eyes on the garden outside, not joining their conversation. Exposing his lie now would help no one.

"Mia."

I turned around.

He had finally stopped flipping through case files and turned to look at me. The atmosphere grew oppressive. There had always been some indefinable distance between us—I had sensed it since I was very young. He was not unkind to me, and he cared in his way, but something in that care hung suspended in midair, never quite landing.

Perhaps because Mother was ill, his mood had been perpetually sour. If distancing himself from me made him feel better, I could understand that.

"Your mother asked about you this morning," he said, "before the physician arrived."

"I went to the market," I said.

I couldn't tell if his expression was one of indulgence or exhaustion—perhaps both. He had warned me more than once, but I was more stubborn than he was.

"Go see her this afternoon," he said.

"I will."

He looked away, lowering his head back to his documents.

I had walked the garden path many times. Last night's rain had left the stone pavers still wet. I kept my hands in my cloak pockets, mind turning over alternatives for Silverthread, halfway through the thought when I nearly collided with a gardener's wheelbarrow.

The man jumped, his spade clattering to the ground, his face draining of color.

"Forgive me, Your Highness, forgive me—"

"It's fine," I picked up the spade and handed it back to him. His hands trembled as he took it, a purely professional nervousness, not because of me. I glanced at the flower bed he was tending—autumn roses, pale-colored, neat and orderly, nothing amiss.

I didn't want to interrupt his work, so I walked forward a few steps, but then suddenly stopped.

The flower bed against the east wing wall, directly beneath Mother's window. That was where the yellow variety grew—Mother had mentioned once, in a rare moment of speaking, that she wanted that color.

Those flowers were now black, the same black as the Moonpetal I had just purchased.

I stood staring for a while.

"Those flowers—when did they wither?" I asked, working to keep my voice calm.

"This morning, Your Highness," the gardener said from behind me, his voice small. "They were fine yesterday."

The blackness spread along the wall's base, roughly the width of a person's footsteps passing through.

Last night, I had been standing in the corridor outside Mother's room.

Outside the corridor now stood two court physicians and Rendell. When Rendell saw me approaching, he immediately straightened—adopting that well-controlled expression he only wore when encountering trouble. This expression on his face meant things had reached the point of "irreversible."

"What's happened?"

"Nothing, the Queen's condition is stable," he said, the same line Aldren had used, but his lying skills didn't match that physician's.

"She woke this morning with some difficulty breathing, it lasted a short while, then stabilized."

"You call this 'stable'?"

"...One could say so. I asked—it's nothing serious."

From behind the door came the physicians' low voices and the faint sounds of something being moved. But these couldn't mask the worry in their tones, and a hint of resignation.

"The flowers under Mother's window," I said.

Rendell looked at me.

"They were blooming yesterday. And this isn't the first time."

I watched his expression gradually grow complex. He understood what I was referring to. He was simply being cautious about not naming it, as if refusing to name it could somehow slow its occurrence.

"The Moonpetal I bought," I said, "it's the same situation. I stood in the garden outside her room last night, and before that I stopped in the kitchen for tea." I kept my voice at the same level I used for discussing herb prices. "Has there been any problem in the kitchen?"

He was silent for a long time. Wind blew outside, and down the other end of the corridor a door opened and closed.

"The head cook reported some spoiled food this morning," he finally spoke, weighing each word carefully. "A batch of meat suddenly went bad—they thought it was a supplier issue."

Enough.

I went to see Mother first, staying with her for an hour. Her complexion was far more truthful than Aldren's reports—and far worse—but she was still awake, and when she saw me enter, she gave that smile that belonged only to her, very weak, but warmer than sunlight.

All my herbs went into her mouth. I tasted them first before giving them to Mother. But judging from her condition, I would need to work even harder.

"You went to the market," she said. Her nose had always been sensitive. "You still smell of rain."

"Yesterday morning."

"Did you find anything useful?"

I sat down on the edge of the bed, wanting to hold her hand but remembering those blackened flowers, and stopped. "I got the Moonpetal. Silverthread is still out of stock."

"How long until it comes in?"

"Two weeks, maybe three."

"They always say maybe three weeks." She said softly, her gaze turning toward the window. After a moment, "Mia, come closer."

I leaned in.

She extended two fingers and pressed them against my wrist, as if taking my pulse. I hesitated for a second but didn't pull away. She had spent too much time with doctors—it had taught her things.

"You haven't been sleeping well," she made her diagnosis with conviction.

"Not at all, I sleep like a baby."

"You haven't been sleeping well."

I didn't answer.

Outside the window, a bird landed on that patch of blackened flowers, then immediately flew away.