The Stone of Virtue: Part 3

Fresh dew covered Rose’s skin as she woke the next morning. Through the pane-less window the first light of day crept through the trees. She sat up with a stretch of her long slender body and looked around.

The cottage was transformed by the daylight. The vault of memories she'd found in the midst of her exhaustion were replaced with a stark reminder of the decade that passed since she'd left.

The stone hearth crumbled as knotty roots snaked their way through its mortar. Dust and cobwebs covered every surface, and beneath her the mattress laid tattered and moth eaten.

The childhood home she remembered so fondly was gone, and all that remained was a broken-down shack—a fitting visual to match her life. She’d get nowhere by giving in to grief. Today she’d say goodbye to the past and decide on her future.

Perhaps a life with Fowler could be happy. Felix was young, after all, he could be taught to behave. Fletcher couldn’t be any worse than Leon and he wouldn’t live forever. Eventually he’d die, leaving Fowler half of all he owned. Fowler would be a kind husband, she was sure of it.

She slid to the edge of the bed, brushing the dust off her dress. Had her parents been in love when they married? She’d never heard how they met. Maybe their marriage was arranged. It was common, though not exactly tradition.

She fell back into the ancient mattress, letting out a groan of frustration.

“Can I marry him,” she said to no one. “Is there any other choice?”

"Rose!" A voice shouted.

She sat up straight in the bed, heart pounding.

The voice called again, distant from deep in the trees around the back of the house.

“Rose!” Leon’s voice was harsh and angry.

Her heart sank—he thought she’d run away.

"Rose, this is your father, come out now and all is forgiven. If I have to find you, girl, I swear my whip will break before I'm finished with it."

He’d never forgive this perceived insult. Though she couldn’t yet see him, she knew the whip was already tight in his fist.

Terrified she moved away from the window. Her heart thumped loudly in her head as she tried to calm herself. What could she do? If he found her, he’d kill her. If she gave herself up, he’d kill her. She was dead no matter what. Her eyes cast around the room, a leather belt hung by the door. Just as she remembered, a sheath hung from it and housed a small silver dagger. It was plain, with no gems or carvings like those carried by soldiers who sometimes visited Tenneghel. It was nicked and worn from use, but Rose could tell it was still quite sharp.

When they came, she’d fight. She’d kill Leon if she had to. Rose tried to steady her breathing as the shouts grew closer. She’d thought of killing Leon a number of times over the years, but sense always won. Rose didn’t strike out against Leon, because it would mean certain death—either by Nilah’s hand or a hangman’s noose.

But now, it was Rose’s life or his. Her hands trembled, and she clamped both around the daggers hilt to steady it. Looking at the aged blade, she wished there was another way. From the front the tree line was too far and her heart leapt. Could she make it to the thick brush before he saw her? Could she risk it?

"Rose," a second voice said. "Listen to your father. I hate to see my son's wife whipped on their wedding day, but there’s nothing I can do if you don't reveal yourself."

From his tone, she wouldn’t be surprised if he had a whip at his belt as well.

There’d be no wedding. Rose sheathed the dagger, threw the belt over her shoulder, and sprinted as fast as she could for the cover of the woods. A cacophony of sound surrounded her as she ran—the snapping of twigs, her mother’s cloak flapping in the wind and the clang of the dagger against her side. If she hoped to hide, she'd have to do it before the noise gave her away.

She ran along a narrow path towards a thick berry bush. The voices grew further away. The sweetness of the berries engulfed her. A few more feet and she’d be safe.

The world went black as something struck her in the face.