Do I?
I shake my head, mind buzzing uncomfortably.
Here, the garden is a jungle of jewels. Plants carved from vibrant stones grow from shiny onyx soil. Clusters of ruby berries hang from twisted obsidian vines, their surfaces catching the strange light so they gleam like drops of blood. Jagged amethyst petals twine with emerald leaves. A cluster of diamond thorns rises nearby, and I fight the urge to test the sharpness of a prickle on my thumb.
There is no scent here. No perfume of daisies or lilacs, only the cold, metallic tang of mineral and stone.
Heidigog stares up at me expectantly.
Right. She asked me a question.
Flowers.
I remember flowers.
I remember a rose the same color as a blushing cherry blossom, one like the sea encapsulated, a rose the orange of a maple forest, and one as sapphire as a frozen lake. I remember golden roses blooming all around me, over my skin, along my heart?—
I squeeze my eyes shut. My brain feels itchy.
“Yes, we grew flowers,” I mumble.
Heidigog shuffles back and forth on her wide duck feet, scratching at her dress with long fingernails. “I used to live in the Briar before scuttling down here. Have I told you that before, hmm-hmm?”
Maybe she did. Heidigog tells me many things. I’m not a very good listener. But I’m listening now.
“Me and Brother Bugu lived out on Spring’s edges, we did. Used to creep-creep close, just to look at all the bloomies. Crows, they were pretty! And the petals—soft, so soft! Like clouds on my fingers! Never gonna forget them, never ever-ever.”
My face feels funny. Oh, I’m smiling. That’s nice. I don’t smile much, not unless the Prince of Thorns is around.
This must be a good story.
Heidigog must be a good friend.
She tells me more, about the great planters filled with blooms of red and purple and yellow flowers that sit on the windowsills of the pink houses in the Big City. I tell her of a path of cherry blossoms leading to the keep. Oh, maybe I made that up, but it sounds nice.
We walk farther into the garden. Ahead of us, at the center, a tree stands, its trunk carved from moonstone. Its branches hang heavy with dangling chains of opals and pearls.
“Pretty,” I say.
I reach forward, running my fingers over one of the glistening branches. It hums beneath my touch, lifeless and living all at once.
“This is a good tree,” I say quietly.
Heidigog comes up and takes my hand. “I’m as happy as a grinjaw dog with a whole hind to hear you say that. I’ve been thinking you don’t like nothing at all. Nothing at all but His Highness!”
Oh, my brain is itchy again. Heidigog is wrong. I don’t like anything else. Nothing else matters but the Prince of Thorns.
I let Heidigog lead me out of the garden but turn back once to stare at the moonstone tree. I suppose I was right before. It is a good tree.
And I know good trees.
5
Rosalina
We have nicknames for each other, Heidigog and me.
I call her “Heidi.”
