Chapter Eighteen: The Plan Before the Fire - Fifteen Nights with the Beast for the Ruby Rose
By Hasnainhr
Isla returned to Briar Hollow with the twelfth rose hidden beneath her cloak, but this time the village did not merely watch her. It judged her.
The morning mist still lay low over the lane, silvering the hedges and softening the roofs of the cottages, yet nothing about the road felt gentle. A woman drawing water from the well stopped when Isla passed. She did not greet her. She only stared at the shape beneath Isla’s cloak and made a quick sign over her heart, as if Isla carried illness instead of a flower. Near the blacksmith’s yard, two men fell silent. One of them turned away quickly, but the other did not. He looked at Isla with open suspicion, then spat into the mud after she passed.
Isla kept walking.
She was tired from the long night, from the smoke, from standing between armed men and the beast, from carrying courage until her hands shook after the danger had passed. But she would not lower her eyes in her own village. Not today. Not when every whisper seemed ready to grow teeth.
A child stood outside Mrs Vale’s cottage, holding a crust of bread in one hand. He was no more than seven, with fair hair sticking up from sleep and curiosity bright in his face.
“Miss Isla,” he called.
She stopped despite herself.
The boy came a little closer. “Is it true?”
His mother appeared in the doorway behind him, face tightening. “Peter, come inside.”
But the child did not move. “Is it true the beast has claws?”
Isla’s throat tightened. For a moment, she did not see the child. She saw the beast’s injured hand wrapped in cloth, blood darkening the bandage where he had paid Lavinia’s debt to the garden. She saw his fingers closing over hers for one brief moment when he gave her the rose. She saw the same hand clenched beside him while men stood outside his gate with fire.
“Yes,” she said quietly. “He has claws.”
The child’s eyes widened.
Isla stepped closer and lowered her voice. “But claws are not the only thing that matters about someone.”
The boy frowned, trying to understand.
His mother hurried down the step and pulled him back. “That is enough.”
Isla looked at Mrs Vale. “Your son was near the ridge yesterday.”
Mrs Vale’s mouth tightened. “My Peter is a good man.”
“Good men can do foolish things when they listen to frightened stories.”
“He went because people are worried for you.”
“If he returns with fire,” Isla said, “he may not come home safely next time.”
Mrs Vale paled. “Is that a threat?”
“No,” Isla replied. “It is a warning.”
She walked on before the woman could answer.
By the time she reached her own house, her hands were cold around the stem of the rose. Beatrice was waiting in the hall, as if she had spent the morning pacing from door to window and back again. Her expression changed the instant she saw Isla.
“You are alive,” Beatrice said.
“That is becoming your favourite greeting.”
“It is becoming necessary.”
Isla removed her cloak and showed the twelfth rose. The bloom was deep red, but one petal carried a pale white edge, brighter than the mark on the eleventh rose. Beatrice noticed it at once.
“That is new.”
“Yes.”
“What does it mean?”
“I do not know. Perhaps hope.”
“Hope has poor timing,” Beatrice said, but not cruelly.
“Where is Father?”
“Awake. Worried. Angry. Stronger than yesterday, which is inconvenient because now he has enough breath to argue properly.”
Despite everything, Isla almost smiled. “And Lavinia?”
“In the drawing room. Being tragic.”
“Has she spoken again?”
“To anyone who will listen.”
Isla closed her eyes briefly.
Beatrice stepped closer. “The men from last night returned before dawn. Thomas Reed said little. Owen Pike looked ill. Peter Vale spoke too much. By breakfast, half the village knew there was a gate, a garden, and a beast standing behind iron bars.”
“And me?”
Beatrice’s face tightened. “They say you stood before him.”
“That is true.”
“They say you defended him.”
“That is also true.”
“They say no ordinary girl would do such a thing unless she had been bewitched.”
Isla let out a slow breath. “And do you believe that?”
Beatrice studied her. “No. Unfortunately, I believe you are doing this with your own full, stubborn will.”
“That is almost kind.”
“It was not meant to be.”
“It still helped.”
Beatrice looked uncomfortable, as she always did when kindness slipped too close to the surface. “Go to Father. He has asked for you six times. I told him if he tried to leave his bed again, I would personally sit on him.”
“You would not.”
“I might. I am stronger than I look when irritated.”
Isla went upstairs with the rose. Grover’s door was partly open, and she heard him coughing before she entered. The sound was not as terrible as it had been in the beginning, but it still cut through her. He was improving, yes, but he was not cured yet. That truth mattered more than every whisper in the village.
Grover was sitting up when she came in. His face brightened with relief, and then immediately tightened with worry.
“You saw them,” he said.
“The men?”
“Yes.”
“I saw them. I spoke to them.”
His hand gripped the blanket. “You what?”
“I stopped them from burning the hedge.”
Grover stared at her. “Isla.”
“I know.”
“No, I do not think you do. You stood before armed men outside a cursed manor?”
“I stood before foolish men before they became dead men.”
Grover closed his eyes as if praying for patience. “You sound proud of this.”
“I am not proud. I am tired.”
That softened him, though only a little. Isla set the rose on the table and began preparing it. Grover watched closely. She removed the petals one by one, crushed them in the clean cloth, and pressed the dark essence into the vial. The scent filled the chamber, rich and familiar. For a few moments, neither of them spoke.
When Isla brought the vial to him, Grover drank without argument. That alone told her how frightened he was. He no longer delayed the cure to question her first. He trusted the roses now, even while fearing the cost of them.
The effect came more strongly than before. His breathing eased almost at once. Colour rose in his cheeks. His shoulders straightened. After a few minutes, he pushed himself upright without needing Isla’s help.
She stared at him.
Grover noticed and gave a faint, weary smile. “Do not look so astonished. I used to stand quite often before I became an invalid.”
“You are stronger.”
“Yes.”
For a moment, joy filled her so suddenly that she almost forgot everything else. She took his hands and laughed softly, tears rising before she could stop them. “Father.”
Grover held her hands tightly. He was smiling too, but his eyes were wet. “It is working.”
“It is.”
The happiness lasted only a breath before his face changed. He looked down at their joined hands, and the sorrow returned.
“Every day I feel more alive,” he said. “And every day I fear I am getting that life by losing you.”
Isla’s smile faded.
“Do not,” she whispered.
“How can I not?”
“There are only three nights after tonight.”
“That is what frightens me most.”
She did not understand at first.
Grover looked at her with a pain so clear it left no room for anger. “When this began, I thought only of surviving long enough for the next rose. Then I thought only of surviving the fifteen days. But now I begin to ask what waits after. If I am well by the fifteenth morning, and he asks you to stay, will you choose me or him?”
The question struck so hard that Isla could not answer.
Grover saw it.
His face crumpled, not dramatically, not like Lavinia’s performance of pain, but in the quiet way of a man who had already feared the answer and now saw it confirmed in silence.
“I am sorry,” Isla said.
“That is not an answer.”
“I know.”
“Can you give me one?”
She looked toward the window. Outside, Briar Hollow lay under pale morning light. It was the village of her childhood, the place where she had run in the garden as a girl, where her mother had once sung, where her father had taught her to read accounts by the fire, where grief had settled after her mother’s death and never fully left. It was home. It should have been the easiest choice in the world.
But beyond the village stood Blackwood Ridge. Beyond the ridge stood the manor, with its watchful birds, its wounded garden, its cursed master, its rooms filled with danger and memory. There was a dead white rosebush beginning to bud. There was a beast who had laughed because Isla said she would protect him. There was a creature who might become terrible if fire came to his gate, and a man inside him who feared that truth more than anyone.
“I do not know what he will ask,” Isla said.
“I asked what you will choose.”
“I know.”
Grover waited.
“I cannot answer yet,” she whispered.
The words hurt him. They hurt her too.
He looked away. “Then the roses have already taken more than I understood.”
Isla knelt beside his bed. “No. Please do not say that. They are saving you.”
“They are dividing you.”
“Perhaps I was already divided,” she said softly. “I only did not know it.”
Grover turned back to her then, and for the first time that day, there was no anger in him. Only sadness. “My poor child.”
“I am not poor.”
“You are. Not because you care for him. Because you care for us both, and soon you may be asked to wound one heart to spare another.”
She could not deny it.
Downstairs, the sound of voices rose again. Lavinia, sharp and upset. Beatrice, colder. Cecily, pleading. The house was still breaking in small places.
Grover touched Isla’s hair gently, as he had when she was little. “I will not ask again today.”
“Thank you.”
“But I will ask again.”
“I know.”
“And when the time comes, I pray you are stronger than I am. Because if I had to choose between you and life, I would choose you every time.”
Isla pressed her forehead to his hand and closed her eyes.
The day grew worse before it grew late.
By noon, a stone struck the kitchen window.
It did not break the glass, but the sound cracked through the house like a gunshot. Cecily screamed. A maid dropped a tray. Beatrice rushed outside, but whoever had thrown it was already gone. Wrapped around the stone was a scrap of cloth with one word written in thick black ink.
CURSED.
Lavinia went pale when Beatrice read it aloud. “That was not meant for us,” she said.
“No,” Beatrice replied. “It was meant for Isla.”
Cecily began to cry again. “This is because of what we said.”
“This is because people are cruel when they are afraid,” Beatrice said. Then she turned to Lavinia. “And because some people enjoy being believed more than they care whether they are understood.”
Lavinia’s eyes filled with tears. “I never told anyone to throw stones.”
“No. You only gave them a story.”
Isla took the cloth from Beatrice and stared at the word. Cursed. She wondered who had written it. A man from the inn? A frightened woman? A boy trying to feel brave? It hardly mattered. The village had moved from whispers to marks, from marks to stones, and by nightfall it might move again.
She found Lavinia alone in the drawing room later, standing by the window with her bandaged wrist against her chest.
“Are you satisfied?” Isla asked.
Lavinia turned. “Do not blame me for everything.”
“I blame you for what is yours.”
“I was hurt.”
“Yes.”
“I was frightened.”
“Yes.”
“I wanted someone to care.”
That stopped Isla.
Lavinia’s face twisted, not with pride now, but with something smaller and uglier because it was honest. “You come home every morning with roses and secrets. Father looks at you as if you are both miracle and martyr. Beatrice respects you. Even Cecily follows you with those wide frightened eyes. And I am only foolish Lavinia, vain Lavinia, selfish Lavinia.”
Isla’s anger softened, but not enough to vanish. “You nearly caused men to burn his garden.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
Lavinia looked away.
Isla stepped closer. “The beast could have let you die.”
“I know.”
“He could have killed the men last night.”
Lavinia’s mouth trembled. “I know.”
“Then stop making yourself the only wounded person in the story.”
Lavinia looked back at her, eyes wet. “You love him.”
The words were quiet. Not cruel this time. Afraid.
Isla did not answer.
Lavinia laughed once, bitterly. “You do. God help us, you do.”
“I do not know what I feel.”
“That means yes.”
“No,” Isla said. “It means I am trying to be honest before I am certain.”
Lavinia shook her head. “If he keeps you, Father will break.”
“And if I abandon the bargain, Father may die.”
“What do you want me to do?” Lavinia asked suddenly. “Say nothing? Smile while you walk to a monster every night and return looking less like ours?”
Isla’s voice softened. “I want you to stop feeding fear.”
For a moment, Lavinia looked as if she might agree. Then pride closed over her face again.
“I cannot stop what has already begun,” she said.
That was when Isla knew.
“What did you do?”
Lavinia’s eyes shifted.
Isla’s heart turned cold. “Lavinia.”
“I only told Peter Vale that you still meant to return tonight.”
Isla stared at her.
“I did not tell him to follow you,” Lavinia said quickly. “I only said if people were so concerned, they should see for themselves that you go willingly. I thought perhaps if others saw—”
“If others saw what? The gates? The beast? Me entering?”
“I thought they might bring you back.”
Isla could hardly breathe. “You told them when I would leave.”
Lavinia’s face crumpled. “I did not mean harm.”
“No one ever does until harm is done.”
Isla turned and left before she said something she could not take back.
She found Beatrice in the hall and told her. Beatrice did not look surprised. That somehow made it worse.
“Will they be waiting?” Isla asked.
“Probably.”
“Can we stop them?”
“Not all of them.”
“Father cannot know.”
“He will know something is wrong the moment he sees your face.”
“Then keep him from seeing it.”
Beatrice’s mouth tightened. “I am becoming very tired of being useful.”
“And yet you are so good at it.”
“This is not the time for flattery.”
“It was gratitude.”
“That is worse.”
But Beatrice helped.
When sunset approached, she sent Cecily to sit with Grover and read to him. She told the servants that Isla needed quiet and that no one was to open the front door to visitors. She found an older cloak for Isla, one less recognizable, and led her through the kitchen passage instead of the main hall.
At the back door, Beatrice stopped her. “Take the stream path again, then cut through the old orchard. If men are waiting on the road, they may miss you.”
“Thank you.”
“If they follow, do not let them see you afraid.”
“I will try.”
“No,” Beatrice said. “Do better than try.”
Isla almost smiled. “That sounds like you.”
“It should. It is good advice.”
Before Isla stepped out, Beatrice caught her wrist. Her grip was firm.
“If you must choose soon,” Beatrice said quietly, “do not choose from guilt. Guilt makes terrible promises.”
Isla looked at her sister in surprise.
Beatrice released her. “Go.”
The evening was cold and damp. Isla moved quickly behind the house, crossed the yard, and reached the stream path before anyone saw her. At least, she hoped no one had. The world seemed full of eyes now. Every bush, every wall, every cottage window felt as if it might hide someone waiting to report her.
She followed the stream until the village sounds faded. Then she cut through the old orchard, where wet grass soaked the hem of her dress. The sky darkened faster under the trees. Once, she heard men’s voices far off near the main road. Another time, a dog barked and then stopped suddenly.
She did not run.
Running made noise. Running made fear visible.
But she walked fast.
By the time she reached Blackwood Ridge, the first stars had appeared. The forest was quiet, but not empty. Isla could feel it. Somewhere behind her, people were moving.
The manor gates opened before she touched them.
The beast stood waiting on the other side.
One look at his face told her he knew.
“You were followed,” he said.
“Yes.”
“How many?”
“I do not know.”
“More than last night.”
“Perhaps.”
His eyes sharpened. “Who told them?”
Isla did not want to answer.
“Isla.”
“Lavinia told Peter Vale when I would leave.”
The beast’s expression went still in a way that frightened her more than anger.
“Your sister has a talent for surviving mercy,” he said.
“She did not understand what she was doing.”
“She understood enough to aim fear in my direction.”
Isla could not deny it.
The gates closed behind her.
Inside the garden, everything felt alert. The white birds lined the walls. The roses seemed turned toward the forest. Even the fountain sounded quieter, as if the water feared making too much noise.
“We need a plan,” Isla said.
“Yes.”
The quick agreement surprised her.
The beast turned toward the manor. “My plan is simple. The gates remain sealed. The paths close. If villagers enter the old boundary, the garden stops them.”
“Stops them how?”
He did not answer.
“No,” Isla said.
He turned back. “You asked for a plan.”
“I asked for a plan, not a slaughter.”
“If they come armed, they choose the risk.”
“They are frightened.”
“They are dangerous.”
“Yes,” she said. “That is why we cannot become worse.”
His eyes flashed. “We?”
“Yes, we.”
“You want me harmless enough for them to forgive.”
“No,” Isla said. “I want you strong enough not to become what they fear.”
The words struck him.
For a long moment, the only sound was the fountain and the faint rustle of roses in the cold air.
Then he looked away. “You ask restraint from the wrong creature.”
“No. I ask it because you have already shown it.”
“Once.”
“Twice.”
“That is not a habit.”
“It can become one.”
He gave a low, humourless laugh. “You believe people can become better because you need it to be true.”
“I believe choices become easier when someone sees you make them.”
He looked back at her. “And you will watch me into virtue?”
“If necessary.”
“That sounds exhausting.”
“It is.”
Despite himself, his mouth moved faintly. Then the humour faded.
“Very well,” he said. “Your plan.”
“If they come, you do not leave the gate.”
His jaw tightened.
“You do not leave the gate,” Isla repeated.
“And if they throw fire again?”
“The garden defends the walls. Not their throats.”
“The garden may disagree.”
“Then you command what still obeys you.”
His eyes narrowed. “You remember too much.”
“I listen when frightened.”
“That explains your education here.”
She ignored that. “The birds warn us. The gates stay closed. I speak first if speaking is possible. If they attack, we defend enough to stop them, not punish them.”
“And if enough is not enough?”
She paused. “Then we survive without becoming cruel.”
The beast looked at her for a long time. “You make impossible things sound like household duties.”
“Someone must.”
He turned and began walking through the garden. “Come.”
“Where?”
“The white rose.”
They went through the stone arch into the small enclosed garden. The air felt colder there than it had the previous night. The dead white rosebush stood beside the dry fountain, black branches twisted against the pale wall. But the green bud had grown. It was still closed, but larger now, and a second tiny leaf had appeared beside it.
Isla crouched near it. “It grew again.”
“Yes.”
“Even with all this fear outside.”
“Perhaps fear is good soil.”
“No,” Isla said. “Hope is.”
The beast stood behind her. “Hope is cruel when it arrives too late.”
“Then we must make sure it is not too late.”
“For your father?” he asked.
Isla looked back at him. “For both of you.”
He went very still.
The garden seemed to hold its breath.
“You should not say that,” he said.
“You say that whenever something matters.”
“Because things that matter can be used.”
“By the curse?”
“By the curse. By fear. By me.”
“Then do not use them badly.”
His expression shifted, caught between frustration and something softer. “You reduce darkness to manners.”
“Sometimes darkness is only poor behaviour left uncorrected too long.”
The beast stared at her.
Then, unexpectedly, he laughed. A real laugh, quiet but warm enough to fill the dead garden.
“You are absurd.”
“You are welcome.”
“I did not thank you.”
“You were about to.”
“I was not.”
“You looked grateful.”
“I looked pained.”
“That is very similar on your face.”
He laughed again, and the white bud seemed almost brighter in the dimness.
The moment did not last.
A voice called from beyond the dry fountain.
“Isla.”
She froze.
The beast’s laughter ended.
The voice came again, weak and breathless.
“Isla, come home.”
It was Grover.
No. Not Grover. Grover was in Briar Hollow. Grover was safe in bed. But the voice was perfect. Not a memory. Not a rough imitation. It was her father’s voice, full of pain.
“Please,” it called. “I cannot breathe.”
Isla stood too quickly. “Father?”
The beast caught her arm. “No.”
She tried to pull free. “That is him.”
“It is not.”
“You do not know.”
“I do.”
The voice came from the far side of the little garden now, behind a narrow black door Isla had never seen before. It was set into the wall where there had been only stone moments ago.
“Isla,” Grover gasped. “The rose failed. Come home.”
Terror ripped through her.
The beast held her firmly. “Listen to me. It is not your father.”
“How do you know?”
“Because the door was not there before.”
“Maybe the house—”
“The house lies.”
Her father’s voice coughed behind the door. A wet, terrible cough. The same sound from the worst nights of his illness.
Isla’s knees nearly weakened.
“Please,” the voice whispered. “My child.”
She pulled against the beast’s grip. “Let me go.”
“No.”
“He needs me.”
“He needs the rose in the morning. He does not need you dead behind a cursed door.”
The words cut through the panic, but not enough. Tears blurred her vision. “What if it is real?”
The beast moved in front of her, forcing her to look at him. “Then I will tear the wall down myself after dawn. But you will not open that door tonight.”
Grover’s voice sobbed behind the black wood. “Isla, are you leaving me?”
She covered her ears.
The beast’s face changed. His anger vanished beneath understanding.
“It has learned who you love most,” he said.
The words struck her like cold water.
The voice behind the door changed.
For one moment, it was Grover. Then Lavinia crying. Then Beatrice saying, “Do not be foolish.” Then Cecily screaming. Then Grover again.
“Choose us,” the voice begged.
Isla shook violently.
The beast did not let go.
“Look at me,” he said.
She could barely hear him over the voices.
“Isla.”
She looked.
His amber eyes held hers, fierce and steady.
“You told me tonight we need a plan. This is the curse’s plan. It wants you afraid. It wants you to open what should remain closed. It wants your love to become a key.”
The voices behind the door rose together.
“Choose us. Come home. Leave him. Save us.”
Isla closed her eyes. Tears slipped down her face. “I cannot.”
“You can.”
“What if choosing not to open it means choosing wrong?”
“Then choose to live long enough to correct it.”
The answer was so practical, so unlike his usual dark warnings, that a broken laugh escaped her through the tears.
The beast’s mouth tightened. “That was not meant to be amusing.”
“No,” she whispered. “But it helped.”
She stepped back from the door.
The voices stopped.
The black door shuddered once, then folded inward into the stone as if it had never existed.
The garden was silent.
Isla sagged, and the beast caught her before she could fall. His arms closed around her, careful but strong. For a moment she let herself lean against him. She felt the steady force of him, the warmth beneath the curse, the living body that had frightened her once and now held her upright.
“I am sorry,” she whispered.
“For what?”
“For nearly opening it.”
“You did not.”
“I wanted to.”
“So did I,” he said.
She looked up in surprise.
His face was close now, shadowed and serious. “When the curse speaks with what you love, wanting is not failure.”
“What is failure?”
“Obeying it.”
She let out a shaky breath.
He released her slowly, as if every inch of distance required decision.
“We should leave this garden,” he said.
“Yes.”
“Immediately.”
“Yes.”
Neither moved for one moment.
Then a bird screamed from the outer wall.
The spell of closeness broke.
The beast turned sharply. “They are near.”
They ran from the enclosed garden back to the main paths. The night outside had grown darker. Far beyond the wall, Isla saw moving lights among the trees.
Torches.
More than before.
Not at the gate yet, but close enough.
The beast stood beside her, very still.
“How many?” Isla asked.
“Six. Perhaps eight.”
Her stomach tightened.
“They will not enter tonight,” he said.
“How do you know?”
“They are testing courage, not using it.”
The torches moved in the distance, then stopped. Men’s voices carried faintly through the trees, too far to understand. After a while, one torch lifted high, as if in warning. Then the lights began to retreat.
Isla watched until they vanished.
“They are not finished,” she said.
“No.”
“Tomorrow may be worse.”
“Yes.”
The beast turned toward her. “You should not return tomorrow.”
“You asked me this morning if I would.”
“I was selfish this morning.”
“And now?”
“Now I am trying not to be.”
She looked toward the forest where the lights had disappeared. “If I stay away, they win.”
“If you return, they may follow.”
“Then we plan better.”
He studied her. “You are afraid.”
“Yes.”
“And still you will come.”
“Yes.”
His voice softened. “For your father?”
“For my father,” she said. Then, after a pause, “And because I said I would.”
He heard what she did not say.
Perhaps because he felt it too.
The rest of the night passed without sleep for either of them. They remained in the library, speaking quietly, planning what could be planned. The birds would watch the ridge. The gates would remain closed to all but Isla. The garden would not strike unless fire touched the walls. If villagers came in daylight, Isla would speak from outside the gate if the beast allowed it. If they came armed at night, the beast would not leave the manor grounds unless Isla was in danger.
That last part became an argument.
“If they touch you,” he said, “I will not stand behind iron.”
“If you rush out, someone dies.”
“If they touch you, someone may deserve to.”
“No,” Isla said. “That is exactly what cannot happen.”
“I am not a saint.”
“I did not ask you to be one.”
“You ask me to stand still while men threaten what is mine.”
The words fell between them.
What is mine.
The beast seemed to hear them after he said them.
Isla looked at him. “Am I?”
His face closed at once. “That is not what I meant.”
“What did you mean?”
“That you are under my protection.”
“That is not the same.”
“No,” he said quietly. “It is not.”
They did not speak for a while after that.
Near dawn, the white birds began to settle. No more torches appeared. The manor seemed to exhale with the coming light.
At breakfast, neither of them ate much. Isla was too tired, and the beast too watchful. Outside, the burned hedge from the previous night looked darker in morning light, but new vines had already begun curling over the blackened places.
At ten, the beast brought the thirteenth rose.
This rose was different.
It was still ruby red at the heart, but three of its outer petals were edged in white. The colour was not faded. It was clear and bright, like the first sign of snow on a dark branch.
Isla stared at it.
“The white is spreading,” she said.
“Yes.”
“Is that good?”
The beast looked at the rose as if he feared answering. “I do not know.”
“But you hope.”
His mouth tightened. “Yes.”
He held it out.
“Day thirteen is complete,” he said.
The words settled heavily between them. Isla had survived the thirteenth night at the manor. Thirteen nights had now been completed, and two nights remained before the bargain would end.
She took the rose. Their fingers touched, but this time the moment was quieter. They were both too tired for smiles, too aware of the danger waiting beyond the walls.
“Tomorrow,” he said.
It was not a question this time.
It was not a command either.
It was something between hope and fear.
“Tomorrow,” Isla answered.
The beast nodded once, then stepped back. “Be careful near the ridge.”
“I will.”
“No. Be more careful than you think necessary.”
“That sounds like Beatrice.”
“Then she has one virtue.”
Isla almost smiled. “I will tell her you said so.”
“Do not.”
She left with the thirteenth rose beneath her cloak. The gates opened for her, and the white birds watched silently from the walls. The path through Blackwood Ridge was pale with morning mist, but the woods did not feel peaceful. They felt watched.
Halfway down the ridge, Isla saw something nailed to an old oak tree beside the path.
She stopped.
It was a board, roughly cut, hammered into the trunk with three iron nails. The words had been painted in black.
LEAVE THE BEAST TO US, OR SHARE HIS CURSE.
For a moment, Isla could only stare.
Then she heard movement somewhere deeper in the trees. A twig snapped. A shadow shifted. Whoever had placed the warning might still be nearby, watching to see if she found it.
Isla did not run.
She reached up, gripped the edge of the board, and tried to pull it free. It did not move. The nails held firm. Her fingers hurt from the effort, but she tried again. The board loosened slightly, scraping against the bark, but would not come away.
A man’s voice called from somewhere in the mist.
“Best leave it there, Miss Isla.”
She turned sharply.
No one stepped out.
Another voice, farther off, said, “For your own good.”
Isla held the thirteenth rose tighter beneath her cloak.
“My good does not belong to cowards hiding behind trees,” she called.
Silence answered.
Then footsteps retreated through the wood.
Isla looked once more at the warning. The black letters seemed ugly against the living tree. She could not remove the board, not yet, but she would not let it remain unanswered forever.
She turned toward Briar Hollow and continued walking.
The thirteenth night at the manor was over. Thirteen nights had now been completed, and two nights remained before the bargain would end, but Briar Hollow had stopped whispering. Now it was making threats.