Chapter Sixteen: The Village Begins to Whisper - Fifteen Nights with the Beast for the Ruby Rose
By Hasnainhr
Isla returned to Briar Hollow with the tenth rose held carefully beneath her cloak, but before she reached the house, she knew the village had changed.
It was not obvious at first. The cottages still leaned close to the muddy road. Smoke still rose from chimneys in thin grey lines. The church bell still marked the hour with its usual tired sound. Yet people looked at her differently. A woman carrying bread from the baker’s stopped speaking when Isla passed. Two boys near the well stared at the shape hidden beneath her cloak, then ran when she glanced at them. Outside the blacksmith’s shop, an older man watched her until she turned onto the lane that led home.
The secret was spreading.
Isla felt it with every step.
When she reached the house, the front door opened before she knocked. Beatrice stood there. Her face was pale, and there were shadows beneath her eyes as if she had not slept well.
“You are late,” Beatrice said.
“I am not.”
“You are later than Father wanted.”
“That is different.”
Beatrice stepped aside to let her enter. “He has been asking for you since dawn.”
Isla removed her cloak and revealed the rose. The bloom was still perfect, deep ruby red and fresh with dew from the beast’s garden. Beatrice looked at it, but there was no wonder in her face now. Only worry.
“Has Lavinia spoken?” Isla asked.
Beatrice closed the door. “Enough.”
Isla’s stomach tightened. “To whom?”
“To Cecily first, which was useless because Cecily only cried again. Then to the maid who dressed her wrist. Then to Mrs Vale when she came to deliver eggs.”
“Mrs Vale talks to everyone.”
“Yes,” Beatrice said. “That is why Lavinia chose her.”
Isla shut her eyes for a moment. “She did it on purpose.”
“Of course she did. Lavinia does very little by accident.”
“Did she tell the truth?”
Beatrice gave her a dry look. “She told enough truth to make the lies convincing.”
Isla walked toward the staircase. “What does the village know?”
“That there is a house beyond Blackwood Ridge. That a beast lives there. That you go to him every night. That the roses curing Father come from his garden. And that Lavinia was nearly killed there.”
“She was saved there.”
“I know,” Beatrice said. “But that is not the part people enjoy repeating.”
Isla tightened her grip on the rose. “Where is Father?”
“In his room. He is stronger this morning, but not calm.”
“Is Lavinia with him?”
“No. Father sent everyone away after she told the story twice and changed it both times.”
That almost made Isla laugh, but the fear inside her was too heavy. She went upstairs quickly. Outside Grover’s door, she paused only long enough to steady herself. Then she entered.
Grover was sitting upright in bed. He looked better in body and worse in spirit. The roses had given colour back to his face, and his breathing was less strained, but his eyes were tired. A folded blanket lay over his knees, and one hand rested on the arm of the chair beside the bed, as if he had been trying to stand again.
“Do not get up,” Isla said at once.
“I was not going to.”
“You were thinking about it.”
“I am still allowed thoughts.”
“Not foolish ones.”
Grover’s mouth moved slightly, but he did not smile. His eyes fell to the rose in her hands. “The tenth?”
“Yes.”
She moved to the table and began preparing it. The tools were already waiting: clean bowl, pressing cloth, small knife, and vial. Beatrice must have arranged them. Isla worked quietly, removing the petals with care. The scent filled the room, sweet and strong, and for a few moments the silence between father and daughter was almost peaceful.
Grover broke it first. “People are talking.”
“I know.”
“Your sisters have seen to that.”
“Lavinia has.”
“Cecily cried enough to confirm it. Beatrice tried to correct the story, which only made people more interested.”
Isla pressed the petals. Dark ruby essence seeped into the vial. “I will speak to them.”
“To the village?”
“To anyone I must.”
Grover gave a tired breath. “You think you can reason with fear.”
“I can try.”
“Fear does not always want reason. Sometimes it wants a target.”
Isla carried the vial to him. “Drink first.”
He took it, but as usual, he did not drink immediately. His gaze stayed on her. “Did he ask you to return?”
“Yes.”
“Did he command it?”
“No.”
That surprised Grover. “No?”
“He asked.”
Grover’s fingers tightened around the glass. “And you promised.”
“Yes.”
He looked away.
“Father.”
“I am not angry that you keep promises,” he said. “I am angry that this promise asks so much of you.”
“It asks five more nights.”
“Five more nights can change a life.”
“They can also save one.”
Grover drank the rose essence before she could say more. Isla watched the cure take hold. His shoulders relaxed. His breathing deepened. Some of the strain left his face. Every time she saw it happen, she felt relief and fear together. The roses were still working. That meant she could not stop.
When Grover opened his eyes again, they were wet.
“When the fifteen nights are over,” he asked, “will you truly come home?”
Isla had expected anger. She had expected another command. She had even expected tears. She had not expected that question, asked so softly.
She wanted to answer immediately.
Yes, Father. Of course. I will come home and stay.
But the words did not come.
Grover saw the delay. His face changed.
Isla sat beside him. “I want to.”
“That is not yes.”
“No,” she whispered.
He closed his eyes as if the answer had hurt him physically.
“I do not know what will happen on the fifteenth morning,” she said. “I do not know what the beast will ask. I do not know what the curse will do. I do not know what I will feel.”
“What you will feel,” Grover repeated quietly.
Isla looked down.
He understood too much.
After a moment, he said, “I asked the roses to give me life, but I fear they are taking you from me.”
“No,” Isla said quickly. “They are giving us time.”
“Time for what?”
She had no answer.
Grover leaned back against the pillows. “That is what frightens me.”
Isla took his hand. “I am still your daughter.”
“Yes,” he said. “But you are no longer only mine to protect.”
The words were gentle, and that made them harder to bear.
Downstairs, a door closed sharply. Lavinia’s voice rose in complaint, then Beatrice’s answered with something too low for Isla to hear. The house was still full of tension. The village was beginning to whisper. The day ahead felt too short and too dangerous.
Grover looked toward the window. “If men go to that manor, what will he do?”
Isla did not lie. “He will defend himself.”
“Will he kill them?”
“I do not know.”
“Could he?”
“Yes.”
Grover nodded slowly. “Then the danger is no longer only yours.”
“No.”
“And still you will return tonight?”
“Yes.”
He looked at her with a sadness so deep that Isla almost begged him to be angry again. Anger was easier to stand against.
“Then promise me something,” he said.
“Anything I can.”
“Do not stand between villagers and the beast if doing so will get you killed.”
Isla said nothing.
Grover gave a broken laugh. “You cannot even promise that.”
“I will try to be wise.”
“That is the sort of promise people make when they plan to be brave instead.”
She smiled faintly, though tears blurred her eyes. “Perhaps.”
He squeezed her hand. “Come back to me tomorrow.”
“I will.”
“And if you cannot say yet whether you will come home after the fifteenth night, then at least come back tomorrow.”
“I promise.”
The day passed uneasily. Isla did not leave the house, but the village came to them in pieces. Mrs Vale sent a basket of eggs and stayed at the kitchen door too long, asking whether Grover’s recovery was truly because of foreign medicine or something stranger. The blacksmith’s wife came to return a borrowed pan and asked whether Isla had been walking near Blackwood Ridge. A boy from the village brought a message for the stableman and stared openly at Isla’s hands, as if expecting to see blood or magic on them.
Lavinia made everything worse. She stayed in the drawing room with her wrist bandaged and spoke to anyone who came near. She did not tell the same story twice. Sometimes the beast had almost torn her apart. Sometimes the vines had obeyed him. Sometimes Isla had stood beside him as if she belonged to him. Each version was more dramatic than the last.
At last Isla entered the drawing room and shut the door behind her.
Lavinia looked up from the sofa. Cecily sat beside her, pale and silent. Beatrice stood by the window with her arms folded.
“You need to stop,” Isla said.
Lavinia raised her eyebrows. “Stop what?”
“Speaking about the manor.”
“I am allowed to tell people I was nearly killed.”
“You were nearly killed because you stole from a cursed garden.”
Cecily flinched.
Lavinia’s mouth tightened. “I wanted to help Father.”
“No,” Isla said. “You wanted to prove you could do what I do.”
“That is not true.”
“It is. And because of your pride, people in the village may go to the manor.”
“Good,” Lavinia said.
The room went still.
Beatrice turned from the window. “Do not be stupid.”
Lavinia stood. “Why should he be protected? He is dangerous. He is not human.”
“He saved you,” Isla said.
“He frightened me first.”
“You stole from him first.”
Lavinia’s face flushed. “You care more about him than you do about your own family.”
“That is not true.”
“Then why defend him?”
“Because the truth matters.”
“The truth?” Lavinia laughed sharply. “The truth is that he is a beast and you are too bewitched to see it.”
Isla stepped closer. “Do not use that word.”
“Beast?”
“Bewitched.”
Lavinia’s eyes flashed with satisfaction. “Why? Does it come too close?”
Beatrice moved between them before Isla could answer. “Enough.”
Lavinia looked furious. “You are both against me.”
“No,” Beatrice said. “You are against sense.”
Cecily began to cry softly. “Please stop. I hate this. I hate all of it.”
Isla looked at her third sister. Cecily’s fear was real. She had seen the garden move. She had seen Lavinia trapped. She had seen the beast bleed and nearly turn on them. It was easy to be angry with Lavinia, but Cecily was frightened in a simpler way.
Isla sat beside her. “I know you are afraid.”
Cecily wiped her face. “I hear the birds when I close my eyes.”
“I know.”
“And the roses moved. They moved like fingers.”
“Yes.”
Cecily looked at her. “How do you go back?”
Isla did not answer at once. Then she said, “Because Father needs the rose.”
“That is not the only reason anymore,” Lavinia said.
Isla stood. “Perhaps not. But it is still reason enough.”
Beatrice watched Isla carefully but said nothing.
When evening came, no one tried to hide her cloak this time. Grover remained in his room. Lavinia locked herself away, though Isla suspected she was still speaking to a maid through the door. Cecily avoided her entirely. Only Beatrice came to the front hall as Isla prepared to leave.
“There were two men near the lane this afternoon,” Beatrice said.
Isla paused. “What men?”
“Mr Vale’s eldest son and Thomas Reed. They pretended to be fixing a cart wheel, but they were watching the old road.”
“Did they say anything?”
“Not to me.”
Isla put on her gloves. “Do you think they will follow?”
“Not tonight, perhaps. Soon.”
Isla’s chest tightened. “Tell Father nothing until morning.”
“He will ask.”
“Then tell him I left safely.”
“That will not answer his question.”
“It will answer the one that matters tonight.”
Beatrice looked at her for a long moment. “You know this is becoming larger than us.”
“Yes.”
“Then do not be foolishly brave.”
Isla smiled faintly. “Father said something similar.”
“Then perhaps illness has improved his judgement.”
Despite everything, Isla laughed.
Beatrice opened the door. The evening air came in cold and damp.
Before Isla stepped out, Beatrice said, “If the beast asks whether the village knows, tell him the truth.”
“I will.”
“And if he becomes angry?”
“I will tell him the truth again.”
Beatrice’s mouth curved slightly. “That may work better on him than on us.”
“It has so far.”
The road to Blackwood Ridge was quiet, but not empty in feeling. Isla noticed curtains move as she passed. A man chopping wood stopped mid-swing to watch her. Somewhere behind her, a dog barked and then fell silent. By the time she reached the old road, she felt as if the whole village had watched her leave.
The forest received her with mist and wet leaves. No one followed that she could see, but she looked back more than once. The path seemed darker than before. It was as if the woods themselves knew they were being discussed by people who should have left them alone.
When the manor gates opened, Isla felt relief.
Then she felt guilty for feeling it.
The beast was waiting in the garden, not the hall. He stood near the fountain, dressed in black, his bandaged hand at his side. The white birds lined the walls behind him. None of them cried out, but all of them watched the trees.
“You are early,” he said.
“I thought that would please you.”
“Tonight, little would.”
She walked toward him. “You already know.”
“I know the village has begun to speak.”
“How?”
“The birds hear more than people think.”
“That is unsettling.”
“Yes.”
“My family is frightened,” Isla said. “Lavinia has spoken too much. The village has heard pieces. Not everything, but enough.”
The beast looked toward the forest beyond the walls. “Pieces are enough. Fear completes what ignorance begins.”
“I tried to stop it.”
“I believe you.”
She looked at him in surprise.
He turned back to her. “Do not look so astonished. I am capable of learning.”
“That is almost comforting.”
“Almost?”
“Let us not be too generous too quickly.”
His mouth moved faintly, but the trace of humour did not last. “Will they come?”
“I do not know.”
“That answer again.”
“It is the true one.”
He began walking along the path, and Isla followed. The garden was quieter than usual. The roses were open, but their scent was softer tonight. The fountain moved gently. The whole place seemed to be listening, not threatening.
The beast said, “Rumours are only torches before they are lit.”
“Then we still have time to stop the fire.”
“You cannot stop every hand that reaches for flame.”
“No. But I can speak before it spreads.”
“Humans rarely abandon fear because a young woman asks politely.”
“Then I will not ask politely.”
He glanced at her. “That I believe.”
She smiled a little. “Good.”
They walked past the fountain and into a part of the garden Isla had only seen from a distance. Here the roses grew less neatly. The paths were narrower. Old statues stood among the hedges, their faces worn smooth by rain and time. At the end of one path was a stone arch almost hidden beneath ivy.
The beast stopped before it.
“Where are we going?” Isla asked.
“To show you something.”
“Is it forbidden?”
“No.”
“You hesitated.”
“I dislike how well you notice things.”
“That is not an answer.”
“It is not forbidden,” he said. “Only unpleasant.”
He moved through the arch. Isla followed.
Beyond it lay a small enclosed garden she had never seen before. It was round and quiet, with high stone walls and a dry fountain at its centre. Unlike the rest of the grounds, this place was almost bare. No thick ruby roses climbed the walls. No birds perched on the stone. No sweet scent filled the air. The soil looked dark and cold.
Near the dry fountain stood a rosebush.
It looked dead.
Its branches were thin, black, and twisted. Not a single flower grew on it. Not even leaves. It stood alone in the centre of the little garden, ugly and stubborn, like a memory no one had removed because doing so would hurt too much.
Isla stepped closer. “Why is this here?”
“It was the first rosebush in the garden.”
“It is dead.”
“Yes.”
“Then why keep it?”
The beast looked at the rosebush. “Because it never allowed itself to be removed.”
Isla glanced at him. “Allowed?”
“This garden has opinions.”
“I have noticed.”
He gave her a dry look, then turned back to the bush. “When the curse settled over the house, every rose changed. They bloomed redder than before. Stronger. Stranger. They became part of the bargain, part of the magic. But this one died the same night.”
“Why?”
“It belonged to my mother.”
Isla’s expression softened.
The beast kept his gaze on the dead branches. “She planted it when I was a child. It bloomed white then.”
“White?”
“Yes. Not ruby. Not red. White.”
Isla looked at the black, lifeless stems. It was difficult to imagine any bloom there, let alone a white one.
“I used to hate it,” he said.
“Why?”
“It was plain. Every other rose in the garden was brighter. Red, gold, pink, violet. This one looked dull to me. My mother told me I was wrong. She said white flowers were not empty; they carried every colour quietly.”
Isla smiled faintly. “She sounds wise.”
“She was.”
“And you were not?”
“I was young and very impressed with myself.”
“That sounds believable.”
He looked at her.
She smiled.
After a moment, despite himself, he gave a low laugh. “You grow bolder each night.”
“You make it easy.”
“I doubt that.”
“You make it necessary, then.”
The humour faded gently. Isla stepped nearer to the rosebush. “Why show me this tonight?”
The beast did not answer with words. He pointed to the lowest branch.
At first Isla saw nothing.
Then she noticed it.
A small green bud.
It was tiny, barely larger than a bead, but it was there. Bright green against the black branch. New life on a dead bush.
Isla drew in a soft breath. “When did that appear?”
“This morning.”
“And it has not bloomed since the curse began?”
“No.”
She looked from the bud to him. “What does it mean?”
“I do not know.”
“You have a guess.”
“I have hopes,” he said. “They are more dangerous than guesses.”
The answer quieted her.
She crouched near the bush but did not touch it. “It is still alive.”
The beast stood behind her. “Some things are alive only because they have not yet been brave enough to die.”
Isla looked back at him. “Or because they were waiting for a reason to bloom.”
His face changed.
Only slightly, but she saw it. The words had reached him.
“You should not give hope to cursed things,” he said.
“Then cursed things should stop looking so hopeless.”
For a moment, he stared at her. Then he laughed.
It was not loud, but it was real. The small enclosed garden seemed warmer for it.
“You argue with everything,” he said.
“Only when everything is wrong.”
“And am I wrong?”
“Often.”
“That was not a thoughtful answer.”
“It was a true one.”
His laugh came again, softer this time. Isla smiled and stood. The little green bud remained between them, small but impossible to ignore.
“Does the house know?” she asked.
“The house always knows.”
“Is that good?”
“Not always.”
“Will the curse try to stop it?”
“Yes.”
The answer came too quickly.
Isla’s smile faded. “How?”
“I do not know.”
“Then we watch it.”
“We?”
“Yes.”
The beast studied her. “You speak as if you will be here long enough.”
“I will be here tomorrow.”
“And after that?”
“The next night too.”
“And after the fifteenth?”
The question came quietly, but it changed the air.
Isla looked back at the bud.
“I do not know,” she said.
The beast was silent.
“I will not lie to you,” she added.
“No,” he said. “You save that cruelty for neither of us.”
They returned to the main garden slowly. The manor lights glowed through the windows. Dinner waited inside, but neither hurried toward it. The night had softened around them, though the danger beyond the walls remained.
In the dining room, the meal was simple compared with other nights: soup, bread, roasted vegetables, baked apples, and tea. Isla suspected the house had learned that neither of them cared for feasts when fear sat at the table. The beast sat across from her, quieter than before but not distant.
“My father asked whether I would come home after the fifteenth night,” Isla said.
The beast’s hand stilled on his cup.
“What did you say?”
“That I wanted to.”
He looked at her carefully. “And was that true?”
“Yes.”
“But not complete.”
“No.”
He looked down at the table. “You should go home when this ends.”
The words hurt because he sounded as if he had rehearsed them.
“Is that what you want?” Isla asked.
“It is what should happen.”
“That is not what I asked.”
His jaw tightened. “What I want has rarely improved anything.”
“That is a poor excuse.”
“It is experience.”
“It is fear.”
He looked up. “Yes.”
The honesty stopped her.
He looked toward the window, where the garden lay dark beyond the glass. “If the bargain ends and you return home, your father lives. Your family has you back. The village calms. Perhaps they forget me again. Perhaps the roses sleep. Perhaps the house returns to silence, which is what it knows best.”
“And you?”
“I remain.”
The answer was plain.
Too plain.
Isla felt a tightness in her chest. “Alone?”
“I was alone before you.”
“That does not mean you should be after.”
He did not answer.
After dinner, they walked through the gallery and then to the music room. The beast did not play. His hand still pained him. Isla tried to play the song he had taught her, and he corrected her from beside the piano.
“Too fast,” he said.
“I am improving.”
“You are rushing improvement.”
“That sounds like something very old people say.”
“I am cursed, not ancient.”
“You brood like someone ancient.”
“I have reason.”
“You always have reason. That is what makes your brooding so difficult to argue with.”
He looked down at her, and the faintest smile touched his mouth. “And yet you manage.”
“I am gifted.”
“At arrogance?”
“At persistence.”
“Those are related.”
She laughed, and he allowed himself to smile properly this time. It still surprised her how different he looked when he smiled. Not less beast, exactly, but less imprisoned by the beast.
For a little while, the music room felt almost normal. Isla played badly, then better. The beast corrected her, then grew quieter. Once, when she struck the right passage, he said, “Good,” and the simple praise warmed her more than it should have.
Later, at her chamber door, he became serious again.
“If anything speaks tonight, do not answer.”
“I know.”
“If anything shows you the bud—”
“I will not touch it.”
“If anything uses your father’s voice—”
Isla went still.
He noticed.
“That is possible?” she asked.
“Yes.”
She swallowed. “Then I will not trust it.”
“Good.”
He paused, then added, “If you hear villagers in the house, call for me before opening any door.”
“You think the curse might use them too?”
“It will use whatever you fear.”
Isla nodded slowly. “Then it has many choices.”
His expression softened. “Yes.”
She opened her chamber door, then looked back. “Will you stay nearby?”
“Yes.”
“You always say that as if it is nothing.”
“It is safer than saying what it is.”
“And what is it?”
He looked at her for a long moment.
“Necessary,” he said.
That was not the full truth, but it was enough for tonight.
Isla slept uneasily. Once, she dreamed of the dead rosebush. In the dream, the green bud opened, but inside the white petals was a tiny red eye watching her. She woke before she could scream. The room was dark. No mirror stood at the foot of her bed. No voice called her name. Outside the door, she heard a faint movement and knew the beast was still there.
She slept again.
At dawn, the sky was pale and clear. The storm had passed completely, leaving the garden bright with rain. Isla dressed quickly and went down to breakfast. The beast was already there, as always. He looked tired, but calm. The white birds lined the wall outside the window. One bird sang a single note, and then another answered from the pear tree.
The beast turned sharply toward the sound.
Isla smiled. “Two of them now.”
“So it seems.”
“That must mean something.”
“It means they are becoming noisy.”
“That is not what it means.”
“No?”
“No. It means the house is less sad.”
He looked at her. “You assign feelings to everything.”
“Only when they are obvious.”
“Birds. Houses. Roses. Beasts.”
“Especially beasts.”
He looked away, but not before she saw the smile he tried to hide.
At ten, he brought the eleventh rose himself. It was deep ruby red, fresh and perfect, with a small white streak on one outer petal. Isla noticed it immediately.
“Has that happened before?” she asked.
The beast looked at the pale mark. “No.”
“Like your mother’s rose.”
“Perhaps.”
He held it out to her. His expression was guarded, but his eyes were not cold.
“Day eleven is complete,” he said.
The words settled clearly between them. Isla had survived the eleventh night at the manor. Eleven nights had now been completed, and four nights remained before the bargain would end.
She took the rose carefully. Their fingers touched, briefly but warmly.
“Tomorrow?” he asked.
“Tomorrow,” she said.
He nodded once. “Be careful on the road.”
“I always am.”
“No,” he said. “You often are not.”
“That is unfair.”
“That is accurate.”
She gave him a look, but there was no anger in it. Then she turned and left the breakfast room, the eleventh rose held close.
The garden seemed calm as she crossed it. The gates opened for her. The morning mist lay low across Blackwood Ridge, and the forest beyond looked silver and quiet. Isla stepped through the gate and started down the path.
Then the white birds screamed.
All of them at once.
Isla turned.
At the edge of the trees, three men stood partly hidden in the mist.
One held a lantern, though morning had already come. Another carried a heavy stick. The third had a hunting knife at his belt.
For one moment, no one moved.
Then the tallest man saw that Isla had noticed them. He grabbed the arm of the man beside him, and all three disappeared into the trees.
Isla stood frozen with the eleventh rose in her hands.
The village had not only begun to whisper.
It had begun to watch.
Behind her, beyond the gates, the beast appeared on the manor steps. He had heard the birds. Even from a distance, Isla could see that he understood.
She looked back toward the trees where the men had vanished, then down at the rose in her hands.
The eleventh night at the manor was over. Eleven nights had now been completed, and four nights remained before the bargain would end, but Briar Hollow had already begun to turn its eyes toward the beast.