Page 13 of Ruling Destiny

I remember reading how the artist made the perfume to finance the cost of building the Tarot Garden in Italy, which served as the inspiration for the sculpture garden Arthur built just a few stories below my window. Because the sheer size and scope of the original Tarot Garden sculptures made it impossible for Arthur to snatch them from Tuscany and leave counterfeits in their place, he had his on-site artisans build similar pieces on a much smaller scale, using the plans he’d commissioned from the artist herself.

According to Arthur, it was the last project Niki de Saint Phalle ever worked on before her death in 2002.

But long before the Tarot Garden was built, there was a complicated labyrinth made of hedges. I know this because on my first day here, I stood at my window, caught in the grip of an Unraveling, as I watched a small figure clad in a red velvet cape race through the maze. Once they reached the center, they touched a crystal sphere and instantly vanished into thin air. A handful of seconds later, they reappeared. Only this time, they had a small brown object clutched in their hand—one that looked a lot like the book I later saw in Song’s room.

And though I have no way to prove it, I know in my bones that none of this is a coincidence. The reveal—this perfume—they’re connected somehow. But who on earth left it and why?

My first guess is Freya, mostly because she has access to my room. But it’s not like I know her very well. Like most of the support staff, she goes out of her way to minimize our contact. And though Song was friendly with Freya, it still doesn’t explain why Freya would leave the box for me and not Oliver or Finn, who were pretty much Song’s best friends.

Also, if it was Freya, then why didn’t she mention it just now in the hall?

I twist off the cap and breathe a deep inhale. The fragrance is bold, heady, and intense—much like the artist herself. But I don’t remember ever smelling any of those notes on Song or anyone else.

My gaze darts back to the box, having no idea what any of this means, when my eye catches on a small square of paper I hadn’t noticed before.

It’s a note. A small, folded bit of cardstock bearing a wax seal of a finely detailed rose. And though I’m used to seeing the Gray Wolf wax seal, this is the first time I’ve ever seen a note marked with a rose, and that alone gives me pause.

I trace a finger along the edge, trying to recall everything I know about what a rose might symbolize.

There’s love, of course. Passion, romance, that sort of thing.

I shake my head and frown.There’s got to be something more. Something I’m missing.

I close my eyes, sifting through memories, when a series of images bursts across the screen in my brain.

I’m outside, in my backyard, helping my dad tend to the small garden he kept.

It’s spring, our rosebush is in bloom, and I watch as he clips a bud from its stem and carefully hands it to me.

“The rose is more than just a flower—it’s an important symbol,” he says. “Do you remember what I taught you about symbols?”

I brush the petals against my nose, enjoying their soft, silky feel. “To always look beyond the surface. To always go for the deeper meaning of things.”

My dad nods. “In addition to being a symbol of love, the rose is also a symbol of secrecy. The sort of secrets that must be kept under the strictest of confidence,” he says, the words rushing out of him, as though he needs to finish the lesson before my mom can come find us. “The term ‘sub rosa’ literally means under the rose, which also implies secrecy. So, if you ever find yourself in a room with a rose hanging from the ceiling, whatever you learn in that room must be kept confidential. You can tell no one what happened in there.”

I squinch my eyes, trying to imagine such a thing. “You mean like how some people hang mistletoe at Christmas?”

My dad grins, but there’s an unmistakable sadness in his gaze that even his smile can’t erase. “Yes,” he says, his voice hoarse. “Kind of like that.”

The images fade as quickly as they arrived, leaving me with a silent sob in my chest as I stare down at the folded square of paper and take a deep breath.

After breaking the seal, I begin to read.

8

Turns out, it’s not actually a note like I thought.

It’s more of a riddle. And even after reading it twice, I’m still not sure how to interpret it, so I read it once more:

O follower of fools

You stand afore the oracle

Serpent girdle at your waist

Red roses spread above and below you

It’s folly that binds you to this place

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