ALICE
The air smells like the rose water Grandmother kept in a cut crystal bottle on her dressing table when I was young. And yet, it’s not quite the same. This fragrance is sharper, fresher, more…pink.
It isn’t the deep crimson scent of bouquets brought by suitors, nor is it the sunny yellow smell of the lollipop-shaped rose tree topiaries beyond the library’s glass doors.
This is sweeter, with hints of apples and clover. It’s a gentle floral, pleasing without being cloying.
But there is something about it that concerns my sleep-hazed mind. I dance on the edge of consciousness, in those precious moments before dreams give way to reality.
Cold air caresses my bare arms and neck, making my skin prickle with goosebumps. Even once I’m awake, with sleep and dreams fading, it takes me several moments to remember where I am.
Wild roses, scented like cool summer mornings before the sun chases away the dew.
Rose Briar Woods.
My eyes fly open with a start. A velvet curtain pillows my cheek, and my shoulder presses into the sidewall of Gustin’s carriage—a carriage that should be moving.
Gustin.
My brother’s name stirs up both anger and anguish, and I sit up as the strong emotions clear my head. Why have we stopped?
I push aside the scarlet curtain and peer into the growing darkness beyond the window, hoping to find we’ve arrived at Lord Ambrose’s estate. Perhaps his staff took pity on me when they found me asleep and left me at peace for a few minutes.
But my chest tightens when I see nothing but dense, dusk-cloaked trees. The undergrowth is thick with raspberry bushes. The berries are small and not yet ripe. They fight for territory under and around the evergreens, their adversaries the wild roses that grow only in this spring wood.
The leggy, heavily thorned rosebushes bloom in froths of blush. Like holiday garlands, their long canes venture up the dusty fir trees, wrapping around the trunks and heavy boughs like true vines.
Roses don’t behave like that outside the wood. Even to grace an arbor, they must be trained and tied, pruned and coaxed.
But things don’t follow the natural rules here, because here is there. A Faerie wood—beautiful, wild.
And dangerous.
An arched bridge marks the border between our land and the Fae’s. It’s a grand example of ancient architecture, built of gleaming white stone, spanning a river that protects the West Faerie border like a moat of old—keeping humans out, keeping the creatures of Faerie in.
Not that our people don’t mingle. We do. The high Fae come into Kellington, the westernmost city in the kingdom of Valsta, to visit our shops and sell their strange, magical wares in our market. Some brave humans even venture into their nearby village of Corrinmead.
But only the very bold, or the very foolish, enter into a contract or agreement with their kind. And no one, foolish nor bold, ventures past the boundary after nightfall.
Yet, here I am, on the wrong side of the bridge well after the sun-kissed afternoon hours, serenaded by the persistent warning of a raven. The bird’s repetitive, throaty cries do nothing to allay my growing fears.
“Mr. Anthony?” I call tentatively from the false safety of the carriage, my voice sharp.
The coachman doesn’t answer.
My pulse quickens, and my palms grow clammy.
Knowing I have no choice but to venture outside, my hand settles on the handle. It takes several moments to work up the courage to shove the door open, and I stop short when the smell of the rosy forest greets me at full force.
The gentle fragrance twines around my senses, soothing like a lullaby, promising I am safe and welcome.
It lies.
“Mr. Anthony?” I call again at a whisper, desperately hoping the coachman only excused himself to tend to personal needs.
Fallen evergreen needles rustle under my feet, too loud in this familiar but foreign world. My gown brushes the ground, a smidgen too long for the slippers I chose this morning. A week ago, my maid would have chided me for sullying the skirt, but I have no one to chastise me for dirty lace now—nor do I have anyone to wash it.
The raven continues to crow, agitated on her perch high in a weeping spruce, and the noise further frays my nerves. But it’s not until I round the carriage that genuine fear lodges itself in my throat.