The Rose and the Thorn Read online

  Contents

  The Rose and Thorn:

  Part One: Winter

  Chapter One: A Rose in Winter

  Chapter Two: The Beast

  Chapter Three: Castle of Thorns

  Chapter Four: First Flakes

  Chapter Five: The Face in the Ice

  Chapter Six: Tales by Firelight

  Part Two: Spring

  Chapter Seven: Sunlight and Snowdrops

  Chapter Eight: Shapes and Shadows

  Chapter Nine: A Birthday

  Chapter Ten: Wolves

  Chapter Eleven: The Hall of Mirrors

  Chapter Twelve: Stars on the Ceiling

  Chapter Thirteen: The Beast Within

  Chapter Fourteen: Revelations

  Part Three: Summer

  Chapter Fifteen: The Rose Garden

  Chapter Sixteen: Grace and Darkness

  Chapter Seventeen: Ariel

  Chapter Eighteen: The Solstice

  Chapter Nineteen: The Choice

  Chapter Twenty: A Bitter Kiss of Home

  Chapter Twenty-One: The Lover of the Fairy Queen

  Chapter Twenty-Two: The Monster in the Mirror

  Chapter Twenty-Three: Memories of Winter

  Chapter Twenty-Four: The Shadow and the Soul

  Part Four: Autumn

  Chapter Twenty-Five: The Consequence

  Chapter Twenty-Six: The Ball

  Chapter Twenty-Seven: The Sacrifice and the Gift

  Chapter Twenty-Eight: Home is where the Heart Is

  Chapter Twenty-Nine: Letters from the Past

  Chapter Thirty: The Emptiness Inside

  Chapter Thirty-One: The Return

  Chapter Thirty-Two: Home

  Chapter Thirty-Three: The Dark Fairy

  Chapter Thirty-Four: The Transformation

  Chapter Thirty-Five: Two Hearts

  Epilogue

  The Rose and Thorn:

  A Beauty and the Beast Retelling

  Original Story by Gabrielle-Suzanne Bardot de Villenueve

  Acknowledgements:

  To Kirsty,

  This is perhaps not the first story you and I had in mind, but regardless, you will always be my first and greatest fan.

  And to Theo,

  Who taught me both the meaning of fear, and the meaning of courage. I will one day return the favour. You have been warned.

  About the Author:

  Born and raised in Redditch, Worcestershire, to a couple of kick-ass parents, Kate Macdonald often bemoaned the fact that she would never be a successful author as "the key to good writing is an unhappy childhood".

  Since her youth, Macdonald has always been a storyteller, inventing fantastically long and complicated tales to entertain her younger sister with on long drives. Some of these were written down, and others have been lost to the ethers of time somewhere along the A303.

  With a degree in creative writing and six years of teaching English under her belt, Macdonald thinks there's a slight possibility she might actually be able to write. She may be very wrong.

  She lives in Kent with her husband, baby son, and two cats: Admiral Roe and Captain Haddock.

  The Rose and the Thorn is her first novel. You can follow her at @KateMacAuthor.

  Author's note:

  The story of Beauty and the Beast has always captivated me. It's partly the fault of Disney's 1991 animated masterpiece; who could not fall in love with such witty dialogue, gorgeous animation, and brilliant score? But at its heart was a simplier story: the story of a girl who saved a beast.

  There were precious few fairytales that depicted women as the heroine, and while the original Beauty of Villenueve's tale may have had little agency in her own story, it was nevertheless unique at the time.

  There were, however, a few things I found problematic about the tale, namely that Beauty comes to love the person keeping her prisoner, and that her father traded her freedom for his own.

  I had no plans to re write the tale myself until I had a dream of a girl wandering into a meadow filled with flowers, only to find herself a few moments later in a desolate castle, inhabited only by a beast. She became trapped not by him, but the laws of the land. It was a relationship founded on far more equal footing. That image formed the opening of what became The Rose and the Thorn, that, and the horrifying nightmare element of the dream: a pale face in the mirrors.

  I hope you enjoy reading it, as much as I enjoyed writing it.

  Part One: Winter

  In the bleak midwinter, frosty wind made moan,

  Earth stood hard as iron, water like a stone;

  Snow had fallen, snow on snow, snow on snow,

  In the bleak midwinter, long ago.

  -Christina Rossetti

  Chapter One: A Rose in Winter

  Winter has haunted me since the year I turned nine, the year my mother died. The memories I have of that night are suspended in snow globe of emotion, sharp and tangible as glass.

  I was watching the snow fall thicker and thicker outside the window, falling so quickly and viciously it slid like volleys of arrows. My younger sister Hope had fallen asleep in my older sister's arms, and Honour, despite her best attempts, had drifted off too. Firelight flickered against their sleeping faces, two primrose cheeks pressed against each other, still, calm, immobile. Only Freedom and I were still awake, our ears pricked for the next of our mother's moans, Papa's reassuring words, Nanny's soft voice.

  There were no reassuring words now, no soft, soothing voice of Nanny's. No moans, and no crying. An awful, penetrating silence, as sharp and hard as the cold north wind that kicked and screamed against every crevice.

  The memory of that bitter, dark hour is so etched into my mind that I can swear I can remember each knot in the floorboards beneath Freedom's pacing feet, each flake as it seared against the glass. I can count each time the fire dared to crackle.

  Even now, as my breath ekes out in misty spurts, I see it hit that window pane, obscuring the icy tundra outside the window of the little house, and the little girl, who would be irrevocably altered before the night was over.

  Since that day, Winter has been my enemy. I have never been able to enjoy the first flakes of the season, build men out of snow with my younger siblings. For years, I refused to even open the curtains on snowy days, would kick and scream whenever Nanny suggested a walk. I wanted to shut it out, forget it existed, forget the empty chair beside the fireplace, the hollow dip in the other side of Papa's bed. If I shut my eyes tight enough, buried my face deep into my pillow, I could hear Mama singing in the kitchen, see the autumn wreath glowing in her golden hair. Winter had never come, never claimed her.

  Eight years later, the screaming has turned to grumbling, perhaps more today because Freedom is bossing me about and I shouldn't even be here. It was Honour's turn to gather with the hunting party, but she wasn't feeling well and so I took her place. “Call it an early wedding present,” I snipped, a little harder than I meant to. Honour looked up at me gratefully nonetheless, and then preceded to start retching again. Nanny wandered passed our door and muttered something about “wedding nerves” rather gleefully.

  I know Honour can't help being ill, but that doesn't lift my mood. The cold claws at every naked inch of me as I ferret about the bushes, searching for the few pickings we haven't managed to scavenge. It is a bleak midwinter, the woods lie almost barren, and our stores do not fair much better.

  Poor Honour, who had dreamt so long of a spring wedding. It would be a meagre affair at this rate, all nuts and sour, salted meat. Freedom said she brought in on herself, “Who gets married in winter?” But she and Charles had said they simply could not wait any longer.

  “Deer, deer!”

  Something
leaps out of the bushes; a dark, impish shape. I throw myself backwards, upsetting my basket, as a doe comes springing through the mist. There is a sudden streak of silver and short, sharp whistle.

  The doe slumps to the ground, a bolt straight through its neck.

  The rest of the party arrive moments later, with a bout of boyish cheer.

  “Brilliant shot, Freed!” says Charles LePrince, stooping to admire his handiwork.

  “Thanks. Fancy a pelt as a wedding present?”

  “I should be the one to be presenting you with gifts,” Charles gushes, breaking into a grin, “for allowing me to marry your beautiful sister-”

  Charles is one of perhaps a handful of people outside of my family that I actually like, as well as James Saintclair, another member of our party. Charles is one of those people it's very difficult not to like. He is effortlessly cheerful and kind and always looking for ways to make people happy. His affable nature is matched only by Honour's.

  “Oh, hush,” Freedom scoffs, “she’s not all that-”

  While the rest of the boys launch into an overly-detailed description of why my sister is, in fact, “all that”, James Saintclair stops to help me up. My eyes are still rooted on the doe. I am no stranger to dead creatures, but there is something haunting about the splash of colour in this forest of black and white, the steaming spread of blood in the snow.

  “Are you all right?” James asks. He picks up my empty basket, then frets with the berries awkwardly, picking them up one by one.

  “Quite fine,” I reply. I brush the snow off my shoulders, more from habit than vanity, then help him with the berries, scooping up big handfuls of snow in the process.

  “Rose?”

  Freedom notices me standing under the tree, and suddenly he is scowling. “Were you there the whole time?”

  “Um, I suppose so, yes?”

  “You should have stayed on the path! I could have shot you-”

  It had not occurred to me until that moment how close the deer had been to me; a few feet between us was all. Another hunter might have missed.

  Another hunter.

  “What are you talking about, Freed? You, miss? In what world?” Charles claps his shoulder, but his gaze on me doesn’t waver.

  “Stay on the path, Rose!”

  I glare back at him, and stop narrowly short of stamping my foot. “Shoot forward, Freedom!”

  His scowl darkens, as it always does when people use his full name, but he turns nonetheless and heads back onto the path, the rest of the party following suit. Even James Saintclair leaves my side to lift the deer. He is a big, strong fellow, but almost as gentlemanly as Charles. Impossibly polite and indelibly kind. We grew up together, and many like to imagine us more than friends. They are not without reason, yet despite what happened between us at the Mayor's Winter Party a few days ago, I have never really thought much about it, or James' feelings on the subject.

  Is that wrong of me? I wonder, picking up my basket. Do I owe him an explanation? Does he want one? Do I want one? I am not like Honour, dreaming of love and marriage. I find myself torn between longing for a life of peace and solitude or questing for adventure, but I do not know what James wants. I am too afraid to ask, and he is too polite to.

  I sigh, push the thought away, and take two steps forward.

  That's when I see it.

  A glimmer of stark whiteness amidst the muddy grey, shining like a drop of starlight, at the foot of a tree just a little further from the path. A snowdrop.

  It ought to be impossible; we are in the middle of winter. Spring is months away. It cannot be and yet... here it is. I have to pluck it. I have to take it back to show Beau and my sisters. Or perhaps I can press it, make it part of a wedding present for Honour. I feel a tiny, pin-prickle of excitement rustle through me as I bend down to take it, stowing it safely in my basket.

  Then I notice something else, something much more miraculous and completely impossible. Through the gap in the trees is glorious colour, a myriad of pink and yellow and orange, a sunset pressing through the gloom in the middle of the day.

  I am too afraid to scrub my eyes, to fearful it might vanish. Instead, I push forwards, climbing though the branches, until my feet crunch against the floor of the field my mother used to take us to in summertime, to play in the stream that divided the land.

  The field beyond the stream -which but yesterday had been a dark, grey slab in the landscape- has been transformed into a blossoming meadow.

  I have to be dreaming, or it is some kind of mirage. It is so clear, so perfect. Soundlessly, I move through the snow-covered field and down towards the stream, expecting it to shimmer away any second, but the meadow just grows closer. There are daisies, buttercups, cowslips… long poppy stems, brushing blue skies. Blue skies overhead!

  “It’s not possible,” I murmur, but move on still to the water’s edge.

  There was a saying, in our village. “Do not cross the stream by the meadow’s edge.” There were multiple stories for why this was the case. Some said that fairies would come and snatch you away. Others said that something bad had happened to a child who strayed beyond the borders. Most people agreed it was probably a warning from the last war. There had been a battle, not far from here, and enemy soldiers had once camped beyond the stream in the woodland that used to live there. Or so the people said.

  Even Papa heeded the warnings. He used to scold Mama for taking us there, but she promised to keep us away from the stream. We were allowed to play in it, but not over it. Of course, the minute her back was turned, Freedom and I both rushed up the side and down again, giggling. Honour gasped and fretted for days, but she did not tell Mama. Perhaps she was afraid we would not be allowed there again.

  The first day of spring after Mama died, I hopped over the stream again. That time, I wanted it to snatch me away. I wanted it to take me to a faraway place, a place where Mama was still alive, or, if it couldn’t do that, to take me to a place where it didn’t hurt any more to miss her.

  The pursuit of something equally impossible is why I am crossing it this day.

  I gather up my skirts, tucking them into my belt, and swing my cloak over my shoulder. Securing my basket in the crook of my arm, I hop onto one of the large, flat stones in the riverbed. I move quickly, wishing my clothes weren't so heavy.

  I haul myself up on the other side.

  A part of me expects to find the mirage over, but it is still there, the tall, glistening meadow, the flowers swaying in the breeze. I laugh, overcome with giddiness, and run. My skirts and cape come loose and flare out behind me. Petals dance in the breeze, warm sun kisses my skin, and a soft spring wind plays with my hair. The sweet scent of-

  I stop immediately. The flowers don't smell. All around me is pristine beauty, but all I inhale is cold, colourless, wintry air. Tentatively, I reach out, inching my fingers towards towards the petals of a poppy.

  Mist rolls in. The sun vanishes. A cold chill sweeps across the meadow. The grass around me turns yellow and brittle, and the flowers crumble like ashes. If a scream escapes me, it is lost under the roar of the wind. My basket is pulled from my grasp. I start to run, back towards the stream, but I can barely see two feet in front of me. The fog grows thicker and denser, and fastens around my throat like a rope.

  Where is the stream?

  It was here moments ago. It was right here. I... I must have been turned around. I've lost my bearings in the fog. I stop, trying to slow my breathing, when my eyes fix on something in the distance. Dark, arrow-like tips slice through the cold haze. A building? There is nothing in the woods, nothing for miles. It must be a tree, I decide, although I can't remember one being there before. But what else could it be?

  I creep closer, and the dark, looming shape rises far above the mist. Not a tree. Not a tree at all.

  It is a castle, but not like any I have ever seen before. It is carved out of something much smoother than stone, barely visible behind the black tangles of brambles. It should be a
shell, but as the fog dissipates, I can see windows, doors, tall, solid walls. No ruin, although I have never seen anything in such a fixed state of complete disregard. The garden is an graveyard, both overgrown and utterly lifeless. It is a mass of thorns. Nothing green. All is black and grey. Once powerful fists of ivy cling to cold lumps of colourless stone. Statues. Of what, it is impossible to tell.

  What on earth is a castle doing here?

  The wind howls, and thunder claps across the sky. Rain slams against on the stones. There is nothing for it; I race up the steps to the front of the castle, pausing only for a second at the door. It should be rotten or covered with barren ivy like the rest of the building, but although it is old and weathered, the ivy has snapped off around the frame, as if it has been opened recently.

  The thunder claps again, and I wrench open the door and slip inside.

  Light protrudes into this dark and dismal place through the remains of the shattered windows. Shards of coloured glass are scattered over the marble floor, tiny fragments of amber and blue amongst the swathes of leaves. I have never seen coloured glass like this before. When I lean down a take a piece in my hand, It is surprisingly sturdy despite how thin and fine it is, and almost seems to shimmer, more like crystal than glass.

  Screens of deserted spiders' webs coat the rest of the room, shielding a great deal of it from view. I can make out faint tapestries, pieces of furniture, but little else. Great pillars rise out of the of their trappings. They seem to me too narrow to hold the weight of this ceiling, and are carved with impossible precision, as if plucked from the mind of a painter. Ivy tumbles into the room, making it seem more tomb than palace.