Page 93 of The Hopeless Romantic’s Guide to Enchantment

“I am not being kind,” Simon told her quietly. He took her hands in his, looking down at her in the darkness. An odd light had come into his eyes. “I… would have you, Em. But you must know first that you have only ever seen me at my best; there are other sides of me which I have kept from you. I do not know if you will want me, once you see the rest of who I am.”

A giddy, incredulous laugh bubbled its way up Emma’s throat. “Oh, Simon,” she gasped. “You forget: I have already seen the way you write the letter ‘u’.”

Simon winced. “I am being quite serious,” he told her.

Emma twined her hands in his, and leaned against his chest. “If you are willing to remain engaged,” she promised him softly, “then I swear to you, Simon, that you will have every chance to show me your worst qualities before we marry.”

Simon’s lips brushed over her hair, both fond and infinitely careful. Emma closed her eyes and smiled, as a pleasant, tingling warmth suffused her body in reply.

“Then let it stand,” he murmured. “I made you a promise, after all.”

The very next day, Emma sent her brother a telegram from Scotland. It said:

Prof procured. Waiting at Oakley station. Still engaged.

ROSE BLOOM,

ROSE BUD, ROSE BLOOD

By

L. R. LAM

The quill is cut. Here is the parchment, the ink, and the blotting sand. The door is locked, the curtains drawn, and the sole candle burns bright. Are you ready to begin? Write down every word I say, no matter what. Do you promise? I can read and write, but my palm is burned, and I want my words clear as a bell.

Yes, I will tell you all as it happened. I know it by heart, after all.

Hurry, now, before the Black Moon rises.

Let’s begin.

My love bloomed too early.

She wasn’t even one and twenty summers. I thought we would have more time.

Wait, I’m not starting at the beginning.

She was the baker’s daughter, and I was the daughter of a bookkeeper for the merchants at the dock of the nearby town. We met on the rubble of the beach by the harbour, not long after my father had moved us from the capital.

My father had told me the fresh air would do us good, and my mother had scoffed. The air by the pebbly beach was brackish with the smell of seaweed, so I agreed more with her, until I saw my love, bending down to look for sea glass.

I was fifteen, all awkward elbows and sharp edges. My dark hair would never stay tidy. She was sunshine – golden hair, rosy cheeks, and a wide smile. I was mesmerized and surprised that she seemed to find me just as interesting as I found her.

“I heard your mother is a hedge witch,” she said to me once we’d realized we both lived in the same village. “Is it true that she has blood magic?”

“She’s a talent for herbs, is all,” I demurred, knowing better than to admit any differently to someone I’d just met.

We lived on opposite sides of the meadow. I was in a grander house of stone, whereas hers was a ramshackle cottage with old, moss-choked thatching.

I’d fallen for her within months, of course, but I think it took her a little longer to even realize that a girl could love another girl. Over the next five years, we often walked through the woods, fingers entangled, telling ourselves that was just what friends did. We found excuses to brush shoulders. I’d tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, even if a tendril hadn’t truly escaped.

“If you could wish for anything,” she’d ask me. “What would you wish for now?” She trailed her fingers in the stream, the hem of her skirt wet.

A kiss, I’d want to say, but I’d give her some other answer, time and time again.

We spoke of everything. I lent her books from my father’s library, and some times we’d argue about what we read. She could be a little stubborn, though I was more so. While I might lash out in frustration, she clammed up and might not come to the meadow for days until my love finally arrived, I grovelled, and she forgave me and apologized, too.

She taught me the magic of turning yeast, flour, water, and heat into something more. I’d burned my first few loaves terribly, but when I finally managed a fluffy one, I tucked it beneath my arm and took a knife and a little ramekin of butter out to the meadow. We ate the whole thing, hot and steaming, until not even crumbs were left.