Chapter Nineteen: The Night Before the Last Rose - Fifteen Nights with the Beast for the Ruby Rose
By Hasnainhr
Isla did not remove the warning from the tree.
She tried once more, pulling hard enough that the rough wood scraped her fingers, but the iron nails held firm. The painted words remained fixed to the oak like a judgment.
LEAVE THE BEAST TO US, OR SHARE HIS CURSE.
For a moment, she stood alone in the mist with the thirteenth rose hidden beneath her cloak and felt the full weight of how far everything had gone. The first night had been fear. The second had been a bargain. The nights after had become duty, then curiosity, then trust, and then something more dangerous than all of them. Now Briar Hollow had entered the story, and the village did not understand bargains or curses or roses that healed. It understood only fear, and fear liked simple answers.
A beast beyond the ridge. A girl who would not stay away. A dying man cured by unnatural flowers.
That was enough for a mob.
A twig snapped somewhere deeper in the trees. Isla turned sharply, but no one stepped out. The mist moved between the trunks. Somewhere far off, a crow cried once and fell silent.
“I saw your sign,” Isla called, forcing her voice to remain steady. “If you want to threaten me, have the courage to show your face.”
No one answered.
She waited a moment longer, then turned toward Briar Hollow. She did not run. Running would have pleased whoever watched. But she walked faster than usual, one hand pressed over the rose beneath her cloak, the other still stinging from the rough board.
When she reached the village, the morning had brightened, and the mist had begun to thin. People were already outside their homes. A woman stopped hanging laundry when Isla passed. Two men near the well watched her in silence. One muttered something to the other, and both looked away when she turned her head. Near the churchyard, Mrs Vale stood with a basket on her arm, speaking to the blacksmith’s wife. When she saw Isla, her lips pressed together.
Isla stopped in the road.
“Mrs Vale,” she said clearly.
The woman stiffened. “Miss Isla.”
“Tell your son that if he has something to say to me, he should not hide behind trees.”
Mrs Vale’s face went pale, then red. “I do not know what you mean.”
“Yes, you do.”
The blacksmith’s wife took a step back, pretending she was not listening while clearly listening to every word.
Isla continued, “There is a warning nailed to a tree near Blackwood Ridge. If Peter helped put it there, tell him I saw it. Tell him threats will not cure my father, and they will not make me abandon the bargain.”
Mrs Vale lifted her chin. “A decent girl should not speak of bargains with beasts in the village road.”
“A decent village should not send men with fire to a house they do not understand.”
The woman’s mouth tightened. “People are afraid for you.”
“No,” Isla said. “Some are afraid for me. Some are afraid of stories. And some are enjoying the chance to be cruel while calling it courage.”
The blacksmith’s wife crossed herself.
Mrs Vale’s eyes narrowed. “You sound changed.”
“I am,” Isla replied. “That is what happens when people keep asking you to be afraid.”
She walked on before the woman could answer.
By the time she reached home, Beatrice was waiting at the door. She took one look at Isla’s face and opened it wider.
“What happened?” she asked.
Isla stepped inside. “They left a warning.”
Beatrice shut the door. “Where?”
“On a tree near the ridge. It said to leave the beast to them or share his curse.”
Beatrice’s expression sharpened. “Did anyone see you read it?”
“I think someone was watching.”
“Did you see who?”
“No.”
“Did you answer?”
“Yes.”
Beatrice closed her eyes. “Of course you did.”
“I was polite enough.”
“That worries me more.”
Isla almost smiled, but the smile could not last. She removed her cloak and brought out the thirteenth rose. Its red heart glowed richly in the dim hall, and the white edges on three petals looked even clearer in daylight.
Beatrice stared. “More white.”
“Yes.”
“What does it mean?”
“The beast does not know.”
“And what do you think?”
Isla looked down at the flower. “I think something is changing faster now.”
Beatrice’s gaze lifted to her face. “For better or worse?”
“Yes.”
They went upstairs together. Grover was awake and waiting. He had been doing more of that lately—waiting not like a helpless sick man, but like a father measuring every sound in the house. His eyes moved to the rose before Isla could even speak.
“You are late,” he said.
“Only a little.”
“That answer has never comforted me.”
Beatrice stepped into the room behind Isla. “There was a warning nailed near Blackwood Ridge.”
Grover’s face changed at once. “What kind of warning?”
Isla set the rose on the table and began preparing it. “They told me to leave the beast to them or share his curse.”
Grover tried to sit higher and winced. “Who?”
“I do not know. Peter Vale, perhaps. Thomas Reed. Others.”
Beatrice moved to the window and looked out at the village road below. “By noon, everyone will know about the sign. The ones who made it will want credit without admitting it.”
Grover’s hands curled into the blanket. “This must stop.”
“Yes,” Isla said.
He looked at her. “You say that, yet you will still go tonight.”
“I have to.”
“Tonight will be the fourteenth night?”
“Yes.”
“And after tonight, only one remains?”
“Yes.”
The words changed the room. Only one night after this. One more rose after the fourteenth. One final return to the manor before the bargain ended. It should have felt like relief, but it felt instead like standing at the edge of a bridge without knowing whether the other side still existed.
Isla prepared the rose. Her hands had become so used to the work that they did not tremble even now. She removed the petals, crushed them gently, and pressed the essence into the vial. The liquid seemed brighter today, ruby red touched with something pale and gold. When she handed it to Grover, he drank without protest.
The change came stronger than before.
Grover closed his eyes, drew a deep breath, and this time the breath did not catch. His shoulders relaxed. His colour warmed. After a moment, he swung his legs carefully to the side of the bed.
Isla hurried forward. “Father, wait.”
“I am not made of glass.”
“No, but you were coughing blood less than two weeks ago.”
“Then let me enjoy the novelty of not doing so.”
He placed one foot on the floor, then the other. Isla and Beatrice both moved to help him, but he lifted a hand.
“Let me try.”
Slowly, carefully, Grover stood.
He swayed once, and Isla nearly caught him, but he steadied himself against the bedpost. His face went pale with effort, yet he remained standing. For the first time in many days, he was upright by his own strength.
Isla covered her mouth with both hands.
Beatrice looked away quickly, as if emotion were an indecent thing to witness.
Grover gave a shaky laugh. “Well. That is something.”
Isla could not stop herself. She rushed forward and embraced him, carefully but tightly. He held her with one arm, and for a moment, all the fear in the room gave way to simple joy.
“You are getting better,” she whispered.
“Yes,” he said. “I am.”
Then his voice changed. “And that is why I must do something while I still can.”
Isla drew back. “What does that mean?”
Grover looked at Beatrice. “Send word that I will speak in the village square this afternoon.”
“No,” Isla said at once.
“Yes.”
“You are not strong enough.”
“I stood.”
“For less than one minute.”
“Then I shall speak quickly.”
“Father.”
Grover turned to her with a firmness she had not seen since before his illness. “This began because of my life. It will not end with my daughter standing alone against the whole village.”
Beatrice was watching him thoughtfully. “If you speak publicly, people will listen.”
“For a moment,” Grover said. “Perhaps that is all we need.”
“They may ask questions you cannot answer,” Isla said.
“Then I will answer the ones I can. I will tell them the roses are saving me. I will tell them no one is to go near Blackwood Ridge. I will tell them any man who raises fire against that manor does so against my house as well.”
Beatrice nodded slowly. “That may divide them.”
“That is better than uniting them against the beast,” Grover replied.
Isla looked at her sister in surprise. Beatrice noticed.
“What?” Beatrice said. “It is a good plan. Annoyingly theatrical, but good.”
Grover’s mouth twitched. “I shall try to be dignified.”
“You should sit first,” Isla said. “You can be dignified after breakfast.”
He allowed her to help him back into bed, but the decision had been made.
By noon, the village knew Grover would speak.
By two, the square had begun to fill.
Grover insisted on going down in a chair carried by two servants, which embarrassed him so greatly that Beatrice told him pride would not improve his lungs. He gave her a look, but he obeyed. Isla walked beside him. Lavinia and Cecily followed, both pale. Lavinia had spoken little since the warning was mentioned. Whether guilt or fear silenced her, Isla could not tell.
The village square was not large, but it felt crowded that afternoon. Men stood near the blacksmith’s yard. Women gathered near the well. Children were pulled close by their mothers but still craned their necks to stare. Mrs Vale stood with Peter behind her, his face tense and stubborn. Thomas Reed lingered near the inn door. Owen Pike would not meet Isla’s eyes.
Grover was placed near the church steps. He looked weaker in daylight, seated and wrapped in his coat, but when he lifted his head, the old authority returned to him. The murmurs faded.
“I know what is being said,” Grover began.
His voice was not loud at first, but the square quieted to hear him.
“I know there are rumours about my illness, about my daughter, about roses brought from beyond Blackwood Ridge, and about the house that stands there.”
A murmur moved through the crowd.
Grover continued, “Most of what you have heard is fear dressed as truth. I will tell you what matters. I was dying. The roses Isla brings are saving my life. She goes because she made a bargain to help me, and she returns each morning because the bargain has been honoured.”
Peter Vale spoke from the crowd. “With a beast?”
Grover’s eyes found him. “With the master of that house.”
“He is not a man,” Peter said.
“Perhaps not in the way you are,” Grover replied. “Though I have known men with less honour.”
A few people shifted uncomfortably. Isla saw Thomas Reed look down.
Mrs Vale stepped forward. “Your own daughter was nearly killed.”
“My daughter Lavinia stole what was not given,” Grover said.
Lavinia flinched, but he did not soften the truth.
“The garden punished theft. The master of the house saved her. These are the facts. If you repeat the story, repeat it whole.”
The crowd became uneasy.
The blacksmith asked, “And what of the girl? Is Isla free to leave?”
Isla stepped forward before Grover could answer. “I return home every morning by my own will.”
“And go back every night?” someone called.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
She looked across the crowd. She saw fear. Suspicion. Curiosity. And beneath it all, the hunger people had for a simple story.
“Because my father is not cured yet,” she said. “Because two nights remain. Because if frightened men interfere now, all of this suffering may be for nothing.”
Peter laughed sharply. “Listen to her. She speaks like him already.”
The beast would have hated that. Isla almost smiled at the thought, then stopped herself.
Grover’s voice cut through the square. “Enough. No one from this village is to go to Blackwood Ridge. No one is to threaten my daughter. No one is to raise a hand, torch, blade, or stone against that house. If you are afraid, pray. If you are curious, stay home. If you are brave, then be brave enough not to make matters worse.”
The square fell silent.
For a moment, Isla thought it had worked.
Then Peter Vale said, “And if the beast takes her on the last night?”
The question spread through the crowd like flame.
Grover’s face tightened.
Isla’s throat closed.
Peter stepped forward. “What then? Will you thank him for the roses and let him keep her? How do we know this was not his plan? Cure the father, claim the daughter, and call it honour?”
A few murmurs answered him.
Isla saw Grover’s hand grip the arm of the chair.
“That is enough,” Beatrice said sharply from beside Isla.
Peter ignored her. “Ask her. Ask if she plans to come home when the bargain ends.”
The square turned toward Isla.
Every eye.
Every whisper.
Every fear.
Isla could lie. She could say yes, of course, I will come home. She could calm them for today. But the lie would not save anyone tomorrow.
“I do not know what will happen on the fifteenth morning,” she said.
The murmurs grew louder.
Peter’s face hardened with triumph. “There. You hear it?”
Grover stood.
The effort shocked everyone. Isla moved to help him, but he raised one hand. He stood unsteadily beside the chair, pale but upright.
“You will not use my daughter’s honesty against her,” Grover said.
The square went quiet again.
“She has carried more courage in these days than most of us carry in a lifetime. If she does not yet know the end, it is because the end has not come. Until it does, you will not harm her, follow her, or threaten the house beyond the ridge.”
His strength failed slightly, and Isla caught his arm. This time he let her.
Beatrice looked over the crowd with cold warning. “You heard him.”
No one cheered. No one promised. But the crowd began to break apart, slowly and uneasily.
Peter Vale did not move until his mother pulled at his sleeve.
As Isla helped Grover home, she felt no victory. They had slowed the fire, perhaps. They had not put it out.
That evening, Beatrice walked with Isla to the back door again.
“The square helped,” Beatrice said.
“Did it?”
“It made some people ashamed. That is useful. Unfortunately, it made others angry. That is also useful, but not to us.”
“Will they come tonight?”
“Not all of them.”
Isla looked at her. “That was not comforting.”
“I know. I am being accurate.”
From the stairs, Grover called her name. Isla turned and saw him standing at the top, one hand on the banister. He looked exhausted from the square, but stronger than he had in weeks.
“Come back tomorrow,” he said.
“I will.”
“And if you cannot come back alone, then send word somehow.”
“I will come back.”
His eyes searched her face. “Do not give your life to protect everyone else from their own fear.”
She could not promise that.
He saw it and closed his eyes briefly.
“Go then,” he said. “Before I become selfish enough to stop you.”
Isla left through the kitchen passage.
The village was quieter tonight. Too quiet. The speech in the square had sent people indoors earlier than usual, but Isla could feel watching from behind shutters and curtains. She took the stream path, then the orchard, then the darker route into Blackwood Ridge. She expected to be followed, but the woods remained still.
That worried her more.
The manor gates opened as soon as she reached them.
The beast stood waiting just inside, but tonight he did not ask if she had been followed. His gaze moved over her face and stopped there.
“What happened?” he asked.
“My father spoke in the village square.”
The beast went still. “He did what?”
“He told them the roses were saving him. He told them you saved Lavinia. He told them not to come here.”
“Is he strong enough for that?”
“No.”
“Then why did he?”
“Because he is my father.”
The beast looked toward the dark line of trees beyond the gate. “And did they listen?”
“Some did.”
“And the rest?”
“Became angrier.”
He nodded, as if that was exactly what he had expected. “Then tonight is not safe.”
“Was it ever?”
“No. But I have begun to dislike how often you prove that point.”
She almost smiled.
He turned and led her through the garden. The white birds were restless on the walls, but they did not scream. The roses were open, red and watchful. Isla noticed that more blooms than before carried pale marks along their petals. The white was spreading.
The beast noticed her looking.
“It began this morning,” he said.
“All of them?”
“Not all. Enough.”
“Is the curse weakening?”
“Or changing.”
“That is not the answer I wanted.”
“It is the only honest one.”
They went not to the dining hall, but to the hidden white rose garden. The bud on his mother’s old rosebush had grown again. It was still closed, but the white petals were visible now, folded tightly beneath a thin green cover.
“It may open tomorrow,” Isla said.
“Or the next day.”
“The last day.”
The words made them both quiet.
The beast stood beside the dry fountain. “If it opens on the fifteenth morning, the curse may demand something.”
“What?”
“I do not know.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because it remains true.”
Isla looked at the nearly opened bud. “Perhaps it will not demand. Perhaps it will reveal.”
The beast’s mouth tightened. “Revelations demand more than they offer.”
“You are cheerful tonight.”
“I am preparing for disaster.”
“You do that every night.”
“And yet disaster remains reliable.”
She gave him a look. “Do you ever grow tired of being grim?”
“Yes.”
That surprised her.
He looked at the white bud. “Very tired.”
The honesty softened everything. Isla moved closer, but not too close.
“Then do not be grim for one moment,” she said.
His eyes shifted to her. “What should I be instead?”
“Difficult, but less tragic.”
“That is a narrow target.”
“I believe in you.”
He gave her a dry look, then, after a moment, said, “Your father stood in a village square to defend a beast he has never met.”
“Yes.”
“That is foolish.”
“It was brave.”
“Those are often twins.”
“He did it for me.”
The beast looked away. “Yes.”
“And perhaps a little because of you.”
“No.”
“You cannot know that.”
“I can.”
“You dislike being defended.”
“I dislike debts.”
“Then stop collecting them.”
His mouth moved despite himself. “That makes no sense.”
“It sounded confident.”
“It did.”
They shared a small smile, and for a moment the garden felt less like a place waiting for judgment.
Dinner was quieter than usual. The house seemed tense, as if it too waited for footsteps beyond the wall. Isla and the beast ate in the library, where the fire was low and the curtains open enough for them to see the garden. They spoke of practical things first: if villagers came tonight, the gates would remain shut; the beast would not step outside unless Isla was in immediate danger; the garden would defend the walls only if fire touched them.
“And if they bring more than torches?” Isla asked.
“Then we decide quickly.”
“That is not a plan.”
“It is often what plans become.”
Before Isla could answer, the birds screamed.
The beast was on his feet instantly. Isla rose with him.
This time the sound came from the northern wall.
They ran.
The garden was dark and cold. The birds circled overhead, white wings flashing in the moonlight. At the northern wall, no fire burned. No men stood at the gate. Instead, a bundle had been thrown over the wall and lay in the rose bed.
The beast stopped Isla before she touched it.
“Stay back.”
He approached carefully. The bundle was wrapped in rough cloth and tied with rope. Something inside it moved.
Isla’s stomach tightened.
The beast cut the rope with one claw and pulled the cloth aside.
A white bird tumbled out.
One of the manor birds.
Its wing was bent badly, and dark blood stained its pale feathers. Around its neck was a strip of paper.
Isla covered her mouth. “No.”
The beast went utterly still.
The bird shivered but did not cry. The beast knelt and lifted it with surprising care. The injured creature lay in his large hands, its black eyes half closed.
Isla removed the paper from its neck. Her hands shook as she unfolded it.
Three words were written there.
LAST WARNING, BEAST.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Then the garden changed.
The roses turned outward. Thorns lengthened along the walls. The air grew sharp. The beast’s face emptied in a way Isla had learned to fear.
“They harmed one of yours,” she said quietly.
“Yes.”
His voice was too calm.
“Can it live?”
“Yes.”
“Then save it.”
His eyes moved to her.
“Now,” she said.
The command surprised him enough to break the first edge of his rage.
He looked down at the bird. Its tiny body trembled in his hands.
“Inside,” Isla said. “We save what is hurt before we answer whoever caused it.”
For one second, he only stared at her. Then he nodded once.
They carried the bird to the manor. A servant brought a small wooden box lined with cloth. Another brought water and thin splints. The beast worked with careful fingers, holding the bird while Isla helped bind the wing. The work took longer than expected. The bird struggled once, then settled when the beast lowered his voice and spoke to it in words Isla did not understand.
When it was done, the bird lay still in the box, alive.
The beast sat back, breathing hard.
Isla watched him. “You did not go after them.”
“No.”
“You wanted to.”
“Yes.”
“You chose the bird.”
His gaze stayed on the small white creature. “You told me to.”
“No. I reminded you.”
He looked at her then, and something in his expression was almost painful.
“Is that what you do?” he asked.
“What?”
“Remind me.”
“Perhaps.”
“Of what?”
She looked at the injured bird, then back at him. “That you are not only the thing they fear.”
The beast closed his eyes briefly.
The rest of the night passed in a tense quiet. The birds did not settle for hours. The beast walked the garden walls twice, but he did not leave them. Isla stayed with the injured bird in the library until it slept. Once, the beast returned and found her dozing in the chair beside the box. He placed a blanket around her shoulders without waking her, but she woke anyway.
“Thank you,” she murmured.
“You should sleep properly.”
“So should you.”
“We have had this argument before.”
“And no one wins.”
“No,” he said. “But you repeat yourself with admirable dedication.”
She smiled faintly. “That was almost kind.”
“It was almost an insult.”
“You missed.”
“Exhaustion weakens me.”
He sat across from her, and for a while they watched the fire.
Near dawn, Isla woke again and found the beast standing at the window. The sky beyond the garden was grey. The injured bird slept in its box. The manor was quiet.
“Is it morning?” she asked.
“Nearly.”
“Did they come back?”
“No.”
“Will they?”
“Yes.”
She stood and joined him at the window. “Tomorrow is the last night before the fifteenth rose.”
“Yes.”
“What happens then?”
The beast did not look at her. “The bargain ends.”
“That is not what I asked.”
“I know.”
She waited, but he said nothing more.
At breakfast, the mood remained heavy, though the injured bird had survived the night. One of the servants carried it away to a warmer room, and the beast watched until it was gone.
“You care for them,” Isla said.
“They are part of the house.”
“That is not what I said.”
“No.”
“Do they have names?”
He looked almost offended. “Of course not.”
“You are lying.”
“I am not.”
“You absolutely are.”
He looked away. “That one is called Pear.”
Isla stared. “Pear?”
“It fell asleep in the pear tree often.”
“That is a terrible name.”
“It is a bird. It has made no complaint.”
Isla laughed, and despite everything, the beast smiled. The smile did not last long, but it was real.
At ten, he brought the fourteenth rose.
This rose was the strangest yet. Its heart remained ruby red, rich and deep, but half of its outer petals were white. Not faded. Not sickly. Pure white, as if the old rosebush and the ruby garden had met within a single bloom.
Isla took a slow breath. “It is changing more.”
“Yes.”
“Tomorrow’s rose—”
“May be different.”
“May be the last.”
“It will be the fifteenth.”
He held it out to her, but his hand tightened slightly around the stem before he released it.
“Day fourteen is complete,” he said.
The words felt like a door closing behind them. Isla had survived the fourteenth night at the manor. Fourteen nights had now been completed, and only one night remained before the bargain would end.
She took the rose. Their fingers touched, and this time there was no pretending the touch meant nothing. Neither smiled. Neither looked away.
“Tomorrow,” he said.
“Yes,” Isla replied. “Tomorrow.”
His eyes searched hers. “If the village comes before sunset, do not cross the ridge.”
“I will.”
“That was not what I told you.”
“I know.”
“Isla.”
“I will come tomorrow,” she said. “For the last night. For the last rose. For the promise.”
His expression tightened, as if every part of him wished to argue and every part already knew he would fail.
“Then come before dark,” he said.
“I will try.”
“No. Do better than try.”
She smiled faintly despite the fear. “That sounds like Beatrice.”
“Then for once, Beatrice is right.”
Isla left the manor with the fourteenth rose held close. The white birds watched from the walls, silent and restless. As she passed through the gates, she looked back and saw the beast standing on the steps, dark against the pale morning. For the first time, he did not look like a creature waiting for her return.
He looked like someone afraid of the last goodbye.
The road through Blackwood Ridge was quiet, but the warning board still hung from the tree. This time, however, someone had added a new mark beneath the words: a black cross, painted thickly and still wet.
Isla stared at it for a moment, then continued toward Briar Hollow.
The fourteenth night at the manor was over. Fourteen nights had now been completed, and only one night remained before the bargain would end. But before the final rose could bloom, Isla knew the village would make one last move.