Page 45 of Bittersweet & Strange

I step into the corridor cautiously, half expecting him to appear and demand to know where I’m going, but the castle remains silent. I try to remember yesterday’s route instead of wandering aimlessly, retracing the turns in my head and stopping at each intersection long enough to make certain something looks familiar before continuing.

Every time I walk this castle, I notice things I missed previously. Thin drafts slip through cracks between some of the stones, cold enough that I can actually follow them toward narrow openings built into the outer walls, while other sections of the castle remain inexplicably warm. Small iron doors appear at intervals near the floor, and when I crouch beside one, heat radiates through the metal strongly enough that I pull my fingers away, making me wonder if some enormous network of fireplaces or heating passages runs behind the walls.

Farther along, I discover narrow grooves worn into the centers of the stone steps, shallow depressions created by generations of feet taking exactly the same path. Several doors have symbols carved discreetly into their frames instead of words, and I stop to examine one shaped like a sheaf of wheat before realizing it probably once identified a storeroom. Another bears a tiny carved horse, and when I open it, I find a narrow passage sloping downward, but I’m not brave enough to discover where it goes.

I close the door and continue.

At the next intersection, I nearly turn the wrong way before remembering the warmer air I felt yesterday. I stop trying to recognize the corridors and start following the temperature instead. The change is subtle at first, nothing more than the cold losing some of its bite, but after another flight of stone stairs, dampness begins creeping into the air.

That I remember.

I quicken my pace and round another corner. When the familiar heavy wooden door finally appears ahead of me, relief makes me smile.

I found it.

Warm, humid air rolls over me the moment I push through the door, carrying the scents of damp earth, growing herbs, and greenery. I close it behind me before standing there for a moment to simply enjoy the warmth.

Then I remember his warning.

My eyes travel toward the distant back of the greenhouse, where the roses are hidden beyond everything else. I have no intention of disobeying him, but curiosity does have me wondering why they’re so important.

I turn toward the rows of fruit and vegetables instead.

I move deeper into the greenhouse, following the narrow path between the vegetable beds. The warmth slowly chases away the cold I carried in from the castle. I stop occasionally to examine something growing beside the path, careful not to touch more than I need to. When I reach the herbs, I brush my fingers lightly across a sprig of rosemary before lifting them to my nose.

The farther I wander, the more relaxed I become. I make certain I don’t stray anywhere near the back of the greenhouse where the roses grow, keeping to the fruit trees instead and passing under branches heavy with apples and pears. It’s amazing to me how any of them can be producing fruit in the middle of winter.

I’m reaching toward an apple when I hear something scrape against wood.

My hand freezes.

The sound comes again from somewhere farther down the row, followed by the quiet snip of metal. I lower my hand and peer between the branches, expecting nothing more threatening than some strange piece of equipment tending the greenhouse by itself.

Instead, I see him.

Rhys stands several trees away with his back partially turned toward me, one hand holding a branch while the other works a small pair of pruning shears. His sleeves are pushed up to his elbows, and several clipped branches already lie at his feet. He studies the tree with the same intense concentration he seems to give everything.

I consider leaving before he notices me.

Then the shears stop.

“You may take the apple, Boone.”

I look down at my hand, still hovering guiltily under the branch.

“I wasn’t—”

“You were.”

I glance back at him, but he hasn’t even turned around. Carefully, I pluck the apple.

Rhys clips another branch before finally looking over his shoulder at me, his dark eyes moving from the fruit in my hand to my face. I immediately brace myself for anger, but none comes.

“You remembered the way.”

It isn’t a question.

“I think so.” I glance behind me at the path I followed. “I got lost twice.”