Chapter Twenty: The Fifteenth Night - Fifteen Nights with the Beast for the Ruby Rose
By Hasnainhr
Isla carried the fourteenth rose home through a village that had forgotten how to be kind.
Briar Hollow had never been perfect. It had always been small enough for whispers to travel faster than truth, small enough for every grief to become public and every mistake to become a story. But once, even in its gossip, there had been ordinary life. Women had called across garden walls. Children had chased one another around the well. Men had argued over weather, crops, and church repairs as though all three could be solved by stubbornness. Smoke had risen from chimneys, bread had cooled on windowsills, and doors had opened when neighbours passed.
Now the doors stayed closed.
Curtains moved. Faces appeared and vanished. No one greeted Isla as she walked through the lane with the fourteenth rose hidden beneath her cloak. Near the blacksmith’s yard, Thomas Reed stood with his cap twisted in his hands. He looked as if he wanted to speak, but shame held him silent. Farther down the road, Peter Vale stood with two other men, watching her with a hard expression. He did not move toward her. He did not need to. The warning nailed near Blackwood Ridge had already spoken for him.
LEAVE THE BEAST TO US, OR SHARE HIS CURSE.
The black cross painted beneath it had still been wet when Isla passed.
She had looked at it only once. Then she had continued walking.
There were things that frightened her more now than village threats. There was the thought of her father taking the final rose and living. There was the thought of the beast standing alone after the bargain ended. There was the thought of freedom arriving not as joy, but as a door opening between two hearts that had never dared name themselves.
At home, Beatrice opened the door before Isla knocked.
Her sister looked pale, tired, and entirely awake, as if sleep had come near her in the night and wisely decided not to disturb her.
“You saw the cross,” Beatrice said.
“Yes.”
“Everyone has.”
“Of course.”
Beatrice stepped aside. Isla entered and removed her cloak. The fourteenth rose lay in her hands, strange and beautiful. Its centre remained ruby red, deep and bright as all the roses before it, but almost half its outer petals had turned white. Not faded. Not sickly. Pure white, like moonlight folded into a flower.
Beatrice stared at it. “It changed again.”
“Yes.”
“What does it mean?”
“I think the curse is changing.”
“Toward mercy or disaster?”
Isla looked down at the rose. “Perhaps both.”
“That sounds like something he would say.”
Isla glanced up sharply.
Beatrice lifted one shoulder. “I have heard you repeat enough of his gloomy wisdom to recognize the infection.”
Despite everything, Isla almost smiled. “He would dislike being called an infection.”
“I am relying on distance for my safety.”
The small humour faded quickly. The house was too tense for it to last. Somewhere upstairs, Cecily was crying softly. Lavinia’s voice rose once, then stopped. From Grover’s chamber came no sound at all, and that worried Isla more than anything.
“Father?” she asked.
“In his room,” Beatrice said. “Standing, last I saw, though he pretended not to be.”
Isla’s breath caught. “Standing?”
“Yes. With great pride and poor judgment.”
She moved toward the stairs at once.
Beatrice caught her arm. “Before you go, you should know something. The men are planning to gather again tonight.”
Isla closed her eyes. “How many?”
“Enough.”
“Peter?”
“Yes. Owen Pike too. Thomas Reed was seen near them, though I am not certain he still has courage for this. There is talk of stopping the final night before the last rose can be given.”
“The final rose must be given.”
“I know.”
“Father must drink it.”
“I know that too.”
Beatrice’s grip tightened slightly. “Then reach the manor before sunset. Whatever you hear behind you, do not stop.”
Isla opened her eyes. “You sound as if you already know I will want to.”
“I know you.”
That was all Beatrice said, but there was more in it than either sister could easily bear.
Grover was standing when Isla entered his room.
He stood near the window in his dressing gown, one hand resting on the sill, looking out over the wet garden below. Morning light touched his face. He was still thinner than he should have been, and the illness had left shadows beneath his eyes, but he was upright. Truly upright. Not leaning from desperation. Not held up by fever or anger. Standing.
For a moment, Isla could not move.
Grover turned at the sound of her entrance, and a small smile came to his face. “You look surprised.”
“I am trying not to cry.”
“That would be inconvenient. I have only just managed standing. I cannot also manage comforting you.”
She crossed the room quickly and took his arm. “You should have waited.”
“I have done a great deal of waiting lately.”
“You could have fallen.”
“I did not.”
“You might have.”
“Then scold me after the rose.”
The old dry humour in his voice nearly undid her. She helped him sit, though he needed less help than before, then turned to the table and prepared the fourteenth rose. The white-edged petals were softer than the earlier blooms. When pressed, the essence gathered slowly in the vial, ruby touched with pale gold. The room filled with a scent that was not only roses now. It smelled of rain after fire, of clean linen, of morning opening a long-closed window.
Grover drank.
The change came stronger than ever. His breathing deepened. His shoulders relaxed. Colour returned to his face with steady warmth. He closed his eyes and took one long breath, then another, each one free of the old strain that had once made every inhale sound like a battle.
Isla covered her mouth with both hands.
Grover opened his eyes. They were clearer than yesterday. Almost fully his own.
“It is nearly finished,” he said.
“Yes,” Isla whispered. “Tonight is the final night.”
“And tomorrow, the fifteenth rose.”
“Yes.”
He studied her face. “And after that, the bargain ends.”
The words should have brought relief. They did not. They settled between them like something fragile and heavy.
Grover reached for her hand. “I will not ask you to choose today.”
She looked at him.
“I want to,” he admitted. “I want to demand that when this is over, you stay here and never cross Blackwood Ridge again. I want to be selfish and call it wisdom. I want to be afraid and call it fatherly love. But I have watched you return from that place fifteen mornings almost, and I know now that fear does not tell the whole truth.”
“Father.”
“No. Listen.” His hand tightened around hers. “If the final rose cures me, then I live because you kept your word. I will not repay that by turning your life into another sickroom. If you come home, come freely. If you return to him after the bargain, return freely. Do not choose from pity, guilt, fear, or duty. Those are poor foundations for a life.”
Tears filled Isla’s eyes.
Grover smiled sadly. “Your mother would have said that better.”
“She would have said it with lavender in her hair and made both of us cry.”
“Yes,” he said, and for a moment his smile became real. “She had a gift for that.”
Isla knelt beside him and laid her head against his hand.
“I do not know what I feel,” she whispered.
“I think you do.”
She closed her eyes.
Grover touched her hair gently. “But knowing a feeling and knowing what to do with it are not the same thing.”
“No.”
“Tonight, if it is the last night you spend with him, do not waste it only being afraid.”
The words struck too deeply.
She lifted her head. “You want me to say goodbye?”
“I want you not to be haunted by what you leave unsaid.”
“I do not know how to say it.”
“Then begin with what is true.”
Before Isla could answer, voices rose downstairs. Lavinia, then Beatrice, then Cecily crying. A door opened sharply.
Grover sighed. “That is either disaster or your sisters.”
“Usually both,” Isla said.
In the hall below, Lavinia stood with mud on the hem of her dress and fear in her face. Cecily hovered near the wall, twisting a handkerchief. Beatrice held a folded note in one hand.
“They are going tonight,” Lavinia said as soon as Isla appeared.
“Who?”
“Peter Vale. Owen Pike. Men from the inn. Some from the farms. They said if you return for the last night, the beast will claim you before dawn.”
Beatrice handed Isla the note. “This was pushed beneath the back door.”
Isla opened it.
NO FINAL BARGAIN. NO FIFTEENTH ROSE. THE BEAST ENDS TONIGHT.
The words were crude, but clear.
Cecily began crying harder. “They will burn the manor.”
“They will try,” Beatrice said.
Lavinia stepped forward. “I did not tell them to do this.”
Isla looked at her.
“I know I spoke too much before,” Lavinia said quickly. “I know I made people afraid. I know I wanted them to see I had suffered. But I did not tell them to go tonight. I swear it.”
Beatrice nodded once. “She is telling the truth.”
That did not fix what Lavinia had done, but it mattered.
Grover’s voice came from the stairs. “Then we act before they do.”
Everyone turned. He stood at the top of the staircase, one hand on the rail. He was pale, but steady.
Isla rushed toward him. “You should not be standing again.”
“I have discovered people obey me less when I remain in bed.”
Beatrice muttered, “They obey you poorly standing too.”
Grover ignored her because she was correct.
He descended slowly with Isla’s help, then stood among his daughters in the hall. “Beatrice, send two servants to learn where the men are gathering. Cecily, tell Mrs Greaves to keep the servants indoors after dusk. Lavinia, you will come with me when the time comes.”
Lavinia went white. “With you?”
“Yes.”
“I cannot face them.”
“You frightened them with half-truths. Now you will steady them with the whole truth.”
Lavinia looked as if she might protest, but then her eyes moved to Isla, and something in her pride broke. “I will try.”
“No,” Beatrice said. “Do better than try.”
Despite everything, Isla nearly smiled. That was becoming the family’s sternest form of affection.
The day moved too quickly. Beatrice gathered news. Ten men, perhaps more. Peter Vale had oil. Owen had rope. Thomas Reed had been seen with them, though he looked uncertain. The men did not want only to frighten the beast tonight. They meant to stop the final rose from being given.
As sunset approached, Grover put on his old dark coat. It hung loose around him, but when he fastened it, he looked more like himself than he had in weeks. Lavinia stood near the back door, trembling. Cecily held her hand. Beatrice carried a lantern, and Isla put on her cloak.
For one moment, all five of them stood together.
A damaged family. A frightened family. But still a family.
Grover reached for Isla’s hand. “Bring the final rose.”
“I will.”
“And Isla?”
She looked at him.
“If this is goodbye for you and him, do not let silence do all the speaking.”
Her throat tightened.
They left by the back road while the sun lowered behind the fields. Grover rode in the small pony cart because walking would exhaust him, though he hated every moment of it. Beatrice walked beside him, lantern in hand. Lavinia and Cecily followed close. Isla stayed with them until they reached the fork near the mill road, where men’s voices already carried through the trees.
Torches flickered ahead.
Grover stopped the cart. “This is where you leave us.”
Isla looked toward the voices. “I can still speak to them.”
“No,” Beatrice said. “You need to reach the manor before dark.”
Lavinia stepped forward. Her face was pale, but her voice was firm for once. “I will tell them he saved me.”
Isla looked at her sister. There was no performance in Lavinia now. No desire to be admired. Only fear and the first honest attempt at courage.
“Thank you,” Isla said.
Lavinia’s eyes filled. “Do not thank me yet.”
Cecily touched Isla’s sleeve. “Go quickly.”
Beatrice held Isla’s gaze. “Do not stop if you hear shouting.”
“I will want to.”
“I know. Do not.”
Grover reached from the cart and took Isla’s hand. “Come back tomorrow.”
“I will.”
“And if you cannot come back the same as you left, come back honest.”
Isla kissed his hand, then turned and ran.
She did not try to make courage graceful. She ran through the wet orchard, past the low wall, and into the narrow path toward Blackwood Ridge. Branches caught at her cloak. Mud splashed her boots. Behind her, voices rose. Peter Vale shouted something angry, and then Lavinia’s voice cut through the evening, shaking but clear.
“He saved me!”
Isla almost stumbled.
Then she ran faster.
The forest seemed darker than it should have been. Red sunset bled between the trunks in thin dying lines. She knew the rule. Return before sunset. Remain until dawn. Leave with the rose. If she failed tonight, everything might fail with her.
The manor gates appeared just as the last red edge of sun touched the horizon.
They were open.
The beast stood between them.
For one breath, all fear fell away. There was only him: tall and dark against the dying light, hair loose in the evening wind, amber eyes fixed on her as if he had been waiting not for a guest, not for a captive, not for the keeper of a promise, but for the return of the only person whose arrival could still wound him.
Isla crossed the threshold as the sun vanished.
The gates closed behind her.
“You are late,” he said.
“I am here.”
His face changed. Relief moved through him, brief and helpless before he hid it.
“Yes,” he said quietly. “You are.”
Neither moved for a moment. The fifteenth night lay before them. Beyond it waited the final rose, Grover’s cure, and separation. Neither said that yet. The silence said it first.
From far behind them, voices rose in the woods.
The beast looked toward the trees. “They are coming.”
“My family is delaying them.”
“Your father?”
“Yes.”
“He is too weak.”
“He came anyway.”
The beast stared into the forest, and disbelief softened his anger. “For you.”
“And because he knows this is wrong.”
The white birds cried from the walls, but not with full alarm yet. They sounded restless, as if warning the night to behave.
The beast turned to Isla. “Go inside.”
“No.”
“Isla.”
“This is the final night.”
“Exactly why you should be safe.”
“I did not come for safety.”
His mouth tightened, then, unexpectedly, moved toward the faintest sad smile. “No. You never did.”
The distant shouting grew louder, then faded again, as if the men had been stopped near the fork. The beast listened. So did Isla.
“We have a little time,” he said.
“Then do not spend it waiting for fire.”
His gaze returned to her. “What would you have me do?”
“Show me the house.”
He blinked, almost startled. “The house?”
“Yes.”
“You have seen much of it.”
“I have seen the parts the bargain allowed me. The dining hall, the library, my chamber, the music room, the gardens where danger kept interrupting us.” Her voice softened. “Tonight may be the last night. Show me what you would have shown me if there had been no bargain.”
The words struck him harder than she expected.
For a moment, he looked almost afraid.
“Why?” he asked.
“Because tomorrow I must leave with the final rose.”
His face closed.
“If this is goodbye,” Isla continued, “let me remember more than fear and rules.”
“You should not ask this of me.”
“I know.”
“Isla.”
“Please.”
The manor doors opened behind him, spilling warm golden light down the steps. The beast looked toward the forest, then toward the house, then at Isla. At last, he offered his hand.
Not as command.
As invitation.
Isla placed her hand in his.
His fingers closed carefully around hers. “Then come.”
The first hidden room was behind a tapestry in the east corridor. Isla had passed it many times without knowing there was a door. The beast lifted the tapestry, pressed his hand to the carved wall behind it, and the wood opened inward.
Beyond lay a gallery filled with impossible dawn.
Night had fallen outside, yet the room glowed with soft morning light. Tall windows lined one wall, and beyond them was not darkness but a painted horizon of gold and pale blue. The ceiling was scattered with tiny golden stars. Along the opposite wall hung small portraits. Not the severe ancestors from the main halls, but intimate paintings: women reading by windows, children with dogs, a lady in white holding a rose, and a dark-haired boy standing stiffly beside a chair, one hand gripping a white flower as if he had been ordered to hold it and resented the instruction.
Isla stopped before the boy’s portrait.
“You,” she said.
The beast stood beside her. “Yes.”
“You look angry.”
“I did not want to sit still.”
“You were a child.”
“I found that a poor excuse for being commanded.”
She smiled softly. “You look lonely.”
He was quiet.
Then he said, “The painter was dismissed for making me look too solemn.”
“He painted the truth.”
“Yes,” the beast replied. “That was his mistake.”
They walked slowly through the gallery. He told her his mother had made the room because she loved morning best. She had said every old house needed a place where light was remembered properly. After she died, the room had closed itself. After the curse, it appeared only when the manor wished to remember gentler days.
“Does it hurt to come here?” Isla asked.
“Yes.”
“Then why show me?”
He looked at the painted horizon. “Because you asked to remember more than fear.”
That was all. It was enough.
The next room was the winter conservatory.
They entered through glass doors at the end of a quiet passage. The air cooled as they stepped inside, though it was not unpleasantly cold. Moonlight shone through a high glass ceiling ribbed with iron. Frost silvered the panes, but inside the conservatory everything lived. White camellias bloomed beside dark green leaves. Pale lilies opened near stone basins. Small blue flowers glowed like tiny lanterns among the vines. Shallow pools crossed the floor in narrow streams, and silver fish moved beneath the clear water.
Isla stepped onto the stone path and looked around in wonder. “It is beautiful.”
“My mother came here in winter,” the beast said. “She disliked rooms that forgot seasons.”
“You speak of her more now.”
“I think of her more now.”
“Because of the white roses?”
He looked at the flowers. “Because of you.”
The answer was quiet, but it filled the conservatory.
Isla looked at him. He did not look away, though he seemed to regret how much truth had escaped.
A silver fish lifted its head above the water and opened its mouth as if to speak.
Isla laughed softly. “It is watching me.”
“It has poor judgment,” the beast said.
“You are jealous of a fish?”
“I am suspicious of anything that admires you too quickly.”
She turned toward him. “And what about things that admire me slowly?”
The beast went still.
The blue flowers glowed a little brighter.
“Those,” he said, “are in greater danger.”
Neither moved. The words were not a confession, but they leaned dangerously close to one.
Finally Isla looked away because if she did not, she might say too much too soon. “Show me the next room.”
The next place was the ballroom.
They entered from an upper balcony first. Below them stretched a vast chamber Isla had never seen. Its polished floor reflected hundreds of candles that lit themselves as the doors opened. Chandeliers hung like frozen rain. The walls were painted with roses and white birds in faded gold. At the far end, tall glass doors opened onto a moonlit terrace.
“This room was closed,” Isla said.
“For years.”
“Why?”
“No one danced.”
The answer was simple, and therefore devastating.
Music began before she could speak. A slow melody, soft strings and piano, drifting from nowhere and everywhere.
Isla looked at him. “Did you dance here?”
“When I was expected to.”
“Did you enjoy it?”
“No.”
“Did you ever dance because you wanted to?”
He looked at her, and the music seemed to wait with them.
“No,” he said.
She held out her hand. “Then perhaps you should.”
His expression changed at once. “Absolutely not.”
“Why?”
“I am not made for dancing.”
“You were a prince.”
“I was a reluctant one.”
“You have feet.”
“Large ones.”
“They may help with balance.”
“They may endanger yours.”
She smiled. “You are afraid.”
“I am many things. Afraid of dancing is not among them.”
“Then prove it.”
“That is a childish argument.”
“And yet effective.”
He looked down at the ballroom floor, then at her offered hand. “You will regret this.”
“I have regretted many things. One more will not ruin me.”
They descended to the ballroom. The music softened into a slower rhythm, as if the house had decided to be kind to them. Isla stood in the centre of the floor. The beast faced her as if approaching a battlefield.
“You look as if you expect the floor to attack,” she said.
“In this house, that is not impossible.”
“Then I shall protect you.”
His mouth moved. “You are too pleased by that promise.”
“Because you laughed at it once.”
“I have learned caution since then.”
He took her hand. His other hand settled at her waist with such care that Isla almost smiled. She placed her hand on his shoulder. He was tense beneath her touch.
“Relax,” she said.
“I am relaxed.”
“You are standing like a statue accused of murder.”
“That is a very specific statue.”
“You resemble it closely.”
A sound escaped him, low and almost unwilling. A laugh.
They began badly. He moved too carefully. She stepped on the edge of his boot. He immediately apologized.
“I stepped on you,” she said.
“I was in the way.”
“You are large. That will happen.”
“I warned you.”
“And yet I live.”
The next turn was better. Then the next. Slowly, the beast remembered what his body had once known. He was not graceful in a light, courtly way. He was too powerful for that. But there was a dark elegance in him, a control that made Isla feel strangely safe even as the music drew them closer.
They danced in silence for a while.
The candles burned. The empty ballroom held them. Outside, the final night waited with torches and thorns and unanswered choices, but for a few minutes there was only the music, his hand at her waist, her hand on his shoulder, and the careful space between what they felt and what they dared say.
Isla looked up at him. “You lied.”
“About what?”
“You can dance.”
“I said I was not made for it. I did not say I was incapable.”
“That is a beastly distinction.”
“Beastly?”
“Proud. Difficult. Technically correct only because it avoids the heart of the matter.”
“Then very accurate.”
She laughed softly. His hand tightened at her waist for one brief moment before he loosened it again.
The small movement said too much.
When the music ended, neither stepped away immediately. Isla could see the gold in his amber eyes. His breath changed as he realized how close they stood.
“Isla,” he said.
Her name sounded almost like surrender.
“Yes?”
For one suspended moment, she thought he might say it. The truth they had both circled for nights. The words that could not be spoken while the final rose still waited. His mouth parted.
Then, far beyond the walls, the birds cried once.
A reminder.
Time was passing.
He closed his eyes briefly and stepped back. “There is more to show you.”
She nodded, though something in her heart had not moved with him.
He took her to the moon terrace next.
It opened above the south wing, wide to the night, bordered by carved stone railings and climbing roses. From there Isla could see the entire garden below: ruby paths, pale statues, the fountain, the orchard, the western wall blackened by fire, the hidden turn toward the white rosebush, and beyond all of it, Blackwood Ridge standing dark beneath the moon.
The beast stood beside her, close but not touching.
“When I first came here,” Isla said, “I thought the manor was waiting to devour me.”
“It may have been.”
“That is still not comforting.”
“It has improved its manners.”
“Because of me?”
“Because it fears your criticism.”
She smiled. “As it should.”
The wind moved gently through her hair. Below, the white birds shifted along the walls.
“You watched me from here once,” Isla said.
“The first day.”
“When I entered the garden?”
“Yes.”
“When I tried to take the rose?”
“You were choosing the finest bloom. Even terrified, you were careful.”
“I was trying to save Father.”
“I know.”
“I hated you that night.”
“I know that too.”
She looked at him. “Did it hurt?”
He kept his gaze on the garden. “Yes.”
“I am sorry.”
“Do not apologize for fear. It is more honest than false comfort.”
“I am not afraid of you the same way now.”
“No,” he said quietly. “That is what frightens me.”
She felt those words more than heard them.
A shout rose faintly from the direction of the forest. Both turned. Torches flickered far away through the trees, but they were not close yet. Her family was still delaying them. The beast watched the lights for a moment, then turned back to Isla.
“I should prepare the gates,” he said.
“Yes.”
But neither moved.
“Isla,” he said after a while, “when morning comes, you take the rose and go.”
“I know.”
“Your father will be healed.”
“I hope so.”
“He will be.”
She looked at him. “You sound certain.”
“I must be certain of something tonight.”
The sadness in his voice made her turn fully toward him.
“And you?” she asked.
He gave the faintest smile, but it carried no humour. “I remain what I am.”
“That is not an answer.”
“It is the safest one.”
“I am tired of safe answers.”
“So am I.”
The admission came with such quiet pain that she had no reply.
The chapel lay hidden behind a carved wooden screen near the east wing. Dust rested on the pews, but candles burned before the small altar. The stained-glass windows were narrow and blue, showing saints whose faces had worn soft with age.
“I have not entered here in years,” the beast said.
“Why tonight?”
He looked at the candles. “Because I no longer know how to pray, but perhaps standing near the place may count.”
Isla’s heart softened.
“What would you pray for?” she asked.
He did not answer at once.
Then he said, “That tomorrow does not punish you for my wanting.”
She had to turn away because tears came too quickly.
“Then I will pray your wanting is not punished either.”
“That is not how curses work.”
“Perhaps curses, like you, need correcting.”
A small, sad laugh escaped him. “You would scold heaven if it behaved badly.”
“I would begin politely.”
“I doubt that.”
They sat in the chapel side by side. Their hands rested on the wooden pew between them, not touching, but close. The candles burned steadily. Outside, distant voices rose and faded. Inside, the silence became gentle.
If love had a shape then, it was not a kiss or a confession. It was two hands resting a breath apart, both wanting to close the distance and both afraid that doing so would make morning impossible.
After the chapel, the manor opened one final room.
The corridor changed as they walked. A wall became double doors carved with roses and birds. The beast stopped so suddenly that Isla nearly stepped into him.
“What is it?”
“My mother’s sitting room.”
“Do you want to enter?”
“No.”
The doors opened by themselves.
The room beyond was warm and soft. Not grand like the ballroom or strange like the conservatory. It was a room meant for living: pale rugs, low tables, books stacked in untidy piles, a basket of embroidery beside a chair, a fireplace burning with quiet golden flames. A vase of white roses stood on the mantel. The air smelled faintly of lavender and old paper.
The beast stood in the doorway, unable to move.
“We do not have to,” Isla said.
“Yes,” he replied, though his voice was tight. “We do.”
They entered.
On a table lay a child’s wooden horse with a broken leg. Beside it was a book opened to a picture of a prince facing a dragon.
Isla smiled faintly. “Did you like dragons?”
“I liked the idea of defeating them.”
“And now?”
“Now I suspect most dragons were badly described.”
Despite the ache in the room, they both nearly smiled.
Then he saw a shawl folded over the back of a chair. He went to it slowly and touched the fabric with one hand.
“My mother wore this,” he said.
Isla stayed quiet.
“She would sit here in the evenings. I would lie on the floor pretending to read because I thought I was too old to sit near her. But if she left the room, I became irritated.”
“That sounds like a boy who loved his mother.”
“It sounds like a boy too proud to admit it.”
“Those are often the same boy.”
His mouth moved faintly. Then the faintness vanished.
“When she died, I thought grief should be managed neatly. Privately. Without inconvenience. I did not cry where anyone could see.” He looked at the shawl. “I became cruel in small ways first. Dismissed servants for mistakes. Mocked courtiers because they bored me. Refused kindness because accepting it felt like needing someone. By the time the curse came, it did not create a beast from nothing. It gave my worst self a body.”
Isla stepped closer. “That is not all you were.”
“No,” he said quietly. “But it was enough.”
“And now?”
He looked at her.
The firelight softened the amber in his eyes.
“Now I do not know what I am.”
“Then let tomorrow answer what tonight cannot.”
“Tomorrow may answer cruelly.”
“Then we will answer back.”
He looked at her with such startled longing that she nearly regretted the word we.
“Will we?” he asked.
She wanted to say yes. She wanted to make it simple. But Grover waited beyond dawn. The final rose waited. Freedom waited. She could not give him an answer wrapped in guilt and grief.
“If I can,” she whispered.
He accepted that with a slow nod, as if it hurt and still mattered.
Near midnight, after the manor had shown its gentlest rooms, the beast led her outside again. They passed through the main rose garden, then beyond the orchard, farther than Isla had ever gone. The path narrowed between tall hedges and opened at last into a hidden place unlike any she had seen.
It was a natural pond enclosed by trees and moon-white flowers. The water lay still and clear beneath the open sky, holding the full moon so perfectly that it seemed another moon had fallen into the earth and chosen to remain there. Willow branches trailed over the edges. Pale blossoms floated on the surface. Fireflies moved among the reeds like tiny lanterns. Smooth stones formed a path around the pool, and beyond it, a small waterfall spilled silently from a mossy ledge into the far end of the water.
Isla stopped in wonder.
“It looks heavenly,” she whispered.
The beast stood beside her. “My mother called it the Moonmere.”
“It is real?”
“Usually.”
She looked at him.
“The house hides it when it wishes,” he said.
“Why show me this?”
“Because you asked to see what was beautiful.”
The simple answer nearly broke her.
They walked to the edge of the pond. The moon reflected between them. The water was so clear Isla could see silver stones beneath the surface.
“Did you come here often?” she asked.
“As a child. Later, rarely.”
“Why rarely?”
“I became too important for places that did not care I was important.”
She smiled sadly. “That sounds like something a very foolish prince would think.”
“It was.”
“And the beast?”
“The beast came here sometimes,” he said. “When the house was too quiet. When the mirrors were unkind. When I wanted to remember that not all reflections needed to be feared.”
Isla looked at the moon in the water. “And tonight?”
“Tonight I wanted you to see it.”
The words were almost too much.
A soft wind moved over the pond. Isla crouched near the edge and touched the surface with her fingers. The water was cool, but not cold. Ripples moved through the moon’s reflection.
“It is warm enough,” she said.
The beast looked wary. “For what?”
“For stepping in.”
“Absolutely not.”
She glanced back, amused despite the ache in her heart. “You said that about dancing.”
“And I was correct to fear both.”
“You survived dancing.”
“Barely.”
“This may go better. Water cannot judge your feet.”
“The fish might.”
“Are there fish?”
“Probably.”
“Then I will protect you from their criticism.”
He gave her a look. “You are impossible.”
“So you keep saying.”
Isla removed her shoes and stockings, then lifted the hem of her gown just enough to step onto the first shallow stone beneath the water. The pond was cool around her ankles. She smiled at the sensation.
The beast stood on the bank, horrified. “You will ruin the gown.”
“The house gave it to me.”
“The house has feelings.”
“Then it can forgive me.”
“The house is less forgiving than I am.”
“That is difficult to believe.”
He stared at her, then made a sound that was almost a laugh.
“Come,” she said.
“No.”
“You danced.”
“That was on dry land.”
“You faced villagers with oil.”
“That was less alarming.”
She laughed. “Coward.”
His eyes narrowed. “Take care.”
“Or what? You will stand there looking noble and miserable?”
“That has worked well for years.”
“Not tonight.”
For a long moment he only watched her. Then, with a long-suffering expression, he removed his boots and stepped into the shallow water.
The sight was so unexpected that Isla laughed again.
He looked down at the water around his feet. “This is absurd.”
“Yes.”
“I am the master of a cursed manor.”
“Yes.”
“I should not be standing barefoot in a pond because a village girl mocked me.”
“Yet here you are.”
His mouth curved unwillingly. “Here I am.”
They walked slowly through the shallow edge. The moon broke around their steps. Tiny silver fish moved away from them and then returned, curious. Isla lifted her gown higher to keep it from soaking, though the hem soon brushed the water anyway. The beast moved carefully, as if uncertain whether dignity could survive wet feet.
“You look very serious,” she said.
“I am maintaining balance.”
“You are thinking too much.”
“That is how balance works.”
“No. Sometimes balance comes from trusting the ground.”
“We are in water.”
“You are impossible.”
“I learned from difficult company.”
They reached a flat stone near the centre where the water came only to Isla’s calves. The moon’s reflection lay wide around them. The trees enclosed the pond, hiding the manor, the village, and all danger beyond it. For a little while, the world became only water, moonlight, and the two of them.
Isla looked up at him. “This is the most peaceful place in the manor.”
“Yes.”
“Why did you not show me before?”
“Because peace is harder to share than fear.”
She thought about that. “Why?”
“Fear asks for reaction. Peace asks for trust.”
“And you did not trust me?”
“I did not trust peace.”
The answer was honest.
She looked down at the water. “I wish we had found this place earlier.”
“So do I.”
The words came too quickly, too softly.
They stood in silence.
Then Isla said, “If this is the last night, I am glad you showed it to me.”
His face tightened. “Do not speak as if the night is already gone.”
“It is going.”
“I know.”
The waterfall whispered at the far end of the pond. The fireflies moved over the reeds.
Isla stepped from the stone into deeper water. It rose to her knees, then above. She laughed softly as the coolness surprised her.
The beast moved at once. “Careful.”
“I can swim.”
“In a gown?”
“Not well.”
“That is not reassuring.”
She held out her hand. “Then help me.”
He looked at her hand.
“Isla.”
“It is only water.”
“It is never only anything with you.”
“Then come.”
He took her hand and stepped down from the stone. The water rose around them, dark and silver. It reached Isla’s waist, then higher as they moved toward the deeper centre, but the beast’s height made him steady. He kept her hand in his and guided her carefully.
The moment became less playful. The night pressed close, quiet and intimate. Isla’s gown floated around her like pale cloth beneath the surface. The beast’s dark sleeves brushed the water. His hair fell loose around his face, damp at the ends where the mist from the waterfall touched it.
They stopped where the moon reflected between them.
“You are trembling,” he said.
“The water is cold.”
“No,” he said. “It is not.”
She looked at him.
He was right.
She was trembling for another reason.
“I do not want morning to come,” she whispered.
The beast closed his eyes.
The honesty had finally found them.
“Do not say that.”
“Why not?”
“Because I have no answer that will not hurt us both.”
She drew a breath. “Then let it hurt.”
His eyes opened.
“Isla.”
“I am tired of saying almost everything.”
“So am I.”
“Then say one true thing.”
He looked at her as if she had asked him to step from a cliff.
“One true thing,” she repeated.
The water moved softly around them.
At last he said, “When you leave tomorrow, this house will become unbearable again.”
Her chest tightened.
“That is not true.”
“It is.”
“No. The birds are singing. The roses are changing. The white rose has bloomed.”
“And you will be gone.”
She looked away because tears came too quickly.
His hand tightened around hers beneath the water.
“One true thing,” he said quietly. “Now you.”
She looked back at him.
“I thought saving my father would be the hardest thing I ever did,” she said. “But leaving you may be harder.”
The beast’s face changed.
For one moment, all the restraint broke open in his eyes. Love, fear, grief, wanting—all of it was there, unguarded.
He took one step closer through the water.
Then stopped.
Always stopping.
“Why do you always stop?” she whispered.
“Because I do not trust myself not to ask for more.”
“What if I wanted you to?”
His breath caught.
The pond seemed to still.
“Do you?” he asked.
She could not answer fully. Not yet. Not while the final rose had not been given. Not while Grover’s life still waited. Not while guilt and love were tangled so tightly she could not pull one thread free without tightening another.
The beast saw the struggle in her face.
Pain crossed his own.
“That is why I stop,” he said.
Tears slipped down her cheeks.
He lifted his free hand slowly, then paused before touching her face. This time, Isla closed the distance. She leaned her cheek into his palm.
His hand was warm despite the water. Strong. Careful. Trembling.
Neither spoke.
No confession passed between them. But in that moment, with the moon broken around them and the world hidden by trees, both knew.
He loved her.
She loved him.
And neither could say it in a way that would not become a plea.
The beast lowered his forehead until it nearly touched hers, but not quite. Their breath mingled in the cold night air. His eyes closed.
“If I were better,” he whispered, “I would ask.”
“If I were braver,” she whispered back, “I would answer.”
“You are the bravest person I know.”
“Not in this.”
“Nor am I.”
They remained like that for a long moment, close enough to break, not close enough to claim. Then Isla let out a shaky laugh through her tears.
“We are both very foolish.”
“Yes,” he said, and his voice was rough. “But with some dignity.”
She laughed again, softer this time. “You are still worried about dignity in a pond?”
“It is all I have left.”
“That is not true.”
His eyes opened.
She did not finish the thought.
He knew anyway.
They spent the last hours of night at the Moonmere.
Sometimes they spoke. Sometimes they stood in silence. They returned to the shallower water and sat on a smooth stone near the edge, feet still in the pond. The beast told her about falling into the water as a boy and pretending he had meant to. Isla told him about falling into the stream near Briar Hollow when she was eight and blaming a frog. He laughed at that, a true laugh, quiet but warm.
“You blamed a frog?”
“It looked suspicious.”
“A known criminal.”
“Exactly.”
“And did your father believe you?”
“Not for a moment. But he carried me home and told Mother the frog had been very rude.”
The beast smiled, then looked toward the moonlit water. “Your father loves you well.”
“Yes.”
“That makes this harder.”
“Yes.”
He looked at her. “I am glad he will live.”
The simple kindness hurt.
“Thank you,” Isla whispered.
“Do not thank me yet. I am trying not to resent him.”
She laughed softly. “That was honest.”
“You asked for truth.”
“I did.”
“I resent that he gets morning with you.”
Her heart twisted.
Then he added, “And I am grateful he exists, because without him you would never have come.”
The words settled gently and painfully between them.
As the sky began to pale, the pond changed. The moon faded from the water, and a faint silver light spread beneath the surface. The fireflies disappeared into the reeds. Birds began to stir in the trees.
“Dawn,” Isla whispered.
The beast stood first, then offered his hand to help her rise from the stone. They stepped out of the pond together. The house, impossibly attentive, had left warm towels and dry cloaks folded on a bench beneath the willows. Isla laughed softly when she saw them.
“The house is scandalized by wet hems,” the beast said.
“The house is thoughtful.”
“The house is nosy.”
“It learned from you.”
He looked offended. “I am not nosy.”
“You watch everything.”
“I am vigilant.”
“That is what nosy people say when cursed.”
He laughed, and for one final moment, dawn did not hurt.
They dried as best they could. The beast turned away with stiff courtesy while Isla arranged her damp gown beneath the warm cloak. She smiled at his formality even now.
“You may look,” she said.
“I am being respectful.”
“You are being dramatic.”
“I can be both.”
When they returned to the manor, morning light had begun to fill the corridors. The hidden rooms they had visited were gone again. The gallery door was only a wall. The conservatory passage had become shadow. The ballroom doors were closed, silent. The chapel screen stood still. His mother’s sitting room had vanished entirely.
Only the memory remained.
Breakfast waited in a small room overlooking the garden. Not a feast. Bread, honey, fruit, tea, and warm cakes. The simple meal felt more intimate than any grand banquet could have been. Isla sat across from the beast, wrapped in the dry cloak, her hair still damp at the ends. He looked at her once and then looked away with such effort that she almost smiled.
“What?” she asked.
“You look cold.”
“I am not.”
“You look tired.”
“I am.”
“You should eat.”
“You sound like Father.”
His face changed. “That is unfortunate for both of us.”
She smiled. “He would like that.”
“Your father would not like anything about me.”
“He bowed to you.”
“He was weakened by illness.”
“He was strengthened by truth.”
The beast looked down at his untouched tea. “He asked me to keep you safe.”
“Yes.”
“I nearly failed.”
“No. You did not.”
“If Peter’s bottle had struck you—”
“It did not.”
“Because I crossed the gate.”
“To save me.”
“To save what I could not bear to lose.”
The words landed between them.
He looked as though he regretted them and yet could not take them back.
Isla’s hand tightened around her cup. “One true thing?”
His mouth moved faintly. “Perhaps.”
“Then I will give one too.”
His eyes lifted.
“I am afraid to go home,” she said.
“Because of the village?”
“No. Because Father may be healed, and then nothing will keep me from knowing what I truly want.”
The beast went utterly still.
Before he could answer, the white birds began to sing outside.
Dawn had fully come.
The song spread across the garden. One bird, then another, then many. The sound was soft at first, then fuller, rising around the manor like a memory returning to life.
The beast stood slowly.
“It is time.”
Isla stood too.
They went to the hidden garden where the white rosebush had bloomed. The old branch now held one open white-and-ruby flower and, beside it, one final rose ready to be cut. The fifteenth rose.
It was unlike all the others. Its heart was ruby red, rich and alive with the cure that would save Grover. Its outer petals were pure white, luminous in the dawn. It looked like two stories joined into one bloom: the bargain and the heart beneath it.
The beast cut the stem with careful hands.
For a moment, he held the rose and looked at it as though it were both gift and sentence.
Then he turned to Isla.
He held it out.
“Day fifteen is complete,” he said.
The words moved through the garden like the closing of a long-open door.
Isla reached for the rose.
He did not release it at once.
Their fingers met around the stem. His hand was warm. Hers trembled.
“The bargain is complete,” he said.
“Yes.”
“Fifteen nights have been completed. No nights remain.”
She nodded, tears already blurring her sight.
“You are free.”
The word hurt.
“Free to take the rose to your father,” he said. “Free to remain home. Free to forget this place if forgetting brings peace.”
“I will not forget.”
“You should try.”
“I will not.”
His face tightened. “Do not come back for me.”
“Do not ask that.”
“I must.”
“No.”
“If you come because I am alone, loneliness becomes my chain around you. If you come because you pity me, pity becomes another curse. If you come because your father is healed and you think you owe me more, then I become worse than I was on the first night.”
“That is not why—”
He stopped her gently. “Do not say it now. Not before your father drinks. Not while grief and gratitude stand between us. Come only if you know. Come only when nothing binds you.”
Tears slipped down her cheeks. “What if knowing comes too late?”
His own eyes shone, though no tears fell. “Then let too late be kinder than a false yes.”
She hated the nobility of that. She loved him more for it.
He released the rose.
It lay fully in her hands now.
For a moment, neither moved.
Then Isla stepped closer and took his bandaged hand. He froze. She held it between both of hers.
“I do not know what tomorrow asks,” she said. “I do not know how to divide duty from love when both have become part of me. But I know what I have seen. You are not only the beast at the gate. You are not only the prince in the dream. You are the one who waited, warned, bled, laughed, danced badly, envied fish, showed me moonlight, and let me go when every lonely part of you wanted to ask me to stay.”
A broken breath left him.
He bowed his head and touched his brow to her hands.
It was not a kiss.
It was not a confession.
It was something quieter and more devoted than both.
Then he let her go.
“Go,” he whispered.
“Please do not say it like that.”
“If I say anything else, I may not let you.”
“You would.”
“Yes,” he said. “I would. That is why you must go now.”
She turned toward the gate. Every step hurt. The birds sang above her. The roses bowed softly in the morning wind. At the gate, Isla looked back.
The beast stood beside the white rosebush, tall and dark among the red-and-white blooms, his face calm only because he had forced it to be.
“I will take it to him,” Isla called.
“I know.”
“And after that—”
Her voice failed.
He waited, but he did not help her finish. He would not turn hope into a demand.
So she said only, “Remember the Moonmere.”
His answer came low and clear.
“I will remember every moment.”
The gates opened.
Isla left.
The walk back through Blackwood Ridge felt longer than all the journeys before it. The warning board still hung from the tree, but she barely saw it. The village watched her pass, but no one spoke. Perhaps they had heard what happened at the gate. Perhaps they were ashamed. Perhaps they were only waiting to see whether the final rose would truly end the story.
At home, Beatrice opened the door.
One look at Isla’s face, and her sister did not ask whether the night had been dangerous. She understood the danger had been of another kind.
“You have it,” Beatrice said softly.
Isla nodded.
“Father is waiting.”
Grover sat upright in bed when Isla entered. Lavinia and Cecily stood near the window, silent and pale. Beatrice remained by the door. When Isla revealed the fifteenth rose, everyone went still.
The flower filled the room with a scent unlike any before it. Sweet, clean, and deep. Rain after fire. Morning after grief. A goodbye folded into a miracle.
Grover looked at it for a long time.
“So this is the last,” he said.
“Yes.”
Isla prepared it with trembling hands. The petals were soft, red and white together. When pressed, the essence that gathered in the vial was pale ruby with a golden shimmer. She brought it to her father.
Grover took the glass, but before drinking, he looked at her.
“Did he let you go?”
The question pierced her.
“Yes,” Isla whispered.
“Did he ask you to return?”
“No.”
Grover’s expression changed.
“He told me to come only if I came freely.”
No one spoke. Lavinia lowered her eyes. Cecily began to cry quietly. Beatrice looked toward the window, her jaw tight.
Grover drank the final rose.
For one terrible moment, nothing happened.
Then he breathed.
A full breath.
No rattle. No pain. No struggle.
Colour returned to his face, stronger and steadier than before. The grey shadows beneath his eyes faded. His shoulders relaxed. His hands grew still. When he opened his eyes, they were clear.
Truly clear.
“Father?” Isla whispered.
Grover looked at her.
Then he smiled.
Not the tired smile of a sick man trying to comfort his daughter. Not the faint smile the earlier roses had briefly restored. This was his own smile, warm and living and full.
“The pain is gone,” he said.
Cecily sobbed aloud. Lavinia covered her mouth. Beatrice closed her eyes.
Isla stood frozen.
Grover swung his legs carefully over the side of the bed. Isla moved to help him, but he raised one hand.
“Let me try.”
He stood.
This time, he did not sway.
He stood straight in the morning light, breathing freely.
The cure was complete.
Isla should have felt only joy. She did feel joy. It flooded her so strongly that she began to cry. She embraced her father, and he held her with strength she had feared she would never feel again. Cecily threw her arms around them both. Lavinia joined after a moment, crying without trying to make herself beautiful. Even Beatrice came close, though she pretended she was only steadying Cecily.
For a while, the room was full of relief.
Grover lived.
The fifteen roses had saved him.
The bargain was finished.
But when the first rush of joy faded, Grover held Isla by the shoulders and looked into her face.
“You are here,” he said softly.
“Yes.”
“And part of you is still at the manor.”
She could not deny it.
The final rose lay crushed on the table. The vial was empty. The cure had done its work. Her father stood alive before her, and somewhere beyond Blackwood Ridge, the beast stood alone beside a moonlit pond that would remember them both.
Grover touched her cheek.
“My dear girl,” he said.
Isla closed her eyes.
The fifteenth night was over. Fifteen nights had been completed, and no nights remained. Her father was healed, the bargain was finished, and the beast had set her free. But freedom had not ended her choice. It had only made the choice truly hers.