Page 65 of When Hearts Awaken

If Maxwell, the artist in our group, saw me now, crouching over a board, painting trees and grasses for teenagers, he’d never let me live it down.

Maddy sighs, chiming in as she works on her set piece. “It’s a trainee showcase—the least of the priorities for the company. It doesn’t generate ticket sales and usually the folks who attend are our families or important people who want photo ops. So, they don’t give resources to it.”

“That’s just the way things are. But it’s also an opportunity for new scholarships from the wealthy patrons who show up—we need sponsors each year for scholarships. We have pledge forms there,” Ainsley adds, her voice forlorn, reminding me what Taylor said about the wealthy before and how no one truly cared about those on the other end of the wage gap.

“That’s rough,” I murmur, my face heating as shame creeps inside me. I grew up in a gilded cage, surrounded by privilege. I never had to worry about the necessities. I should do more, much more.

I sneak a glance at the girls, both can’t be older than sixteen, and take in the determined glint in their eyes, their paint-splattered hands, the faded clothes they’re wearing. There’s a thread of world-weary grit laced with innocence. Was Taylor like this at their age before her trauma?

Out of the corner of my eye, a beautiful backdrop catches my attention. Carefully, I set down my paintbrush and walk toward it. It’s a floral scene—pastel flowers dusted with glitter in front of what appears to be a confectionery castle. But what catches my eye are the clusters of roses spaced throughout the backdrop.

Dark red petals, sharp thorns dusted with gold glitter.

Interesting that the glitter is on the thorns and not the petals.

“Taylor made that. Burgundy roses are her favorite flowers,” Ainsley says. “This is a scene to be used in the waltz of the flowers.”

My finger grazes the glittered thorns, so lifelike and realistic, I can almost feel its sharp edge cutting into my skin.

Something about the thorns beckons me to stare at them. They are so beautiful—the sharpness a perfect balance for the soft petals. Beauty with edge and character.

They elevate the flowers.

I think about the roses I left for her this morning, the ones with the thorns cut off, the way most florists prepare them. I wanted to give her a spot of brightness when she woke up. Perhaps as she was reading her books and trying to heal her broken soul, she’d know she wasn’t alone.

Then I remember the way she scowled at the roses at Grace and Steven’s wedding, followed by a haunting sadness when she touched the stems of the flowers, which, I’d bet had their thorns all shorn off because they were professional arrangements by florists.

Was she feeling this way, then? Sad? Unseen? Thinking the world only appreciated beauty when it was perfect, not when it was marred with something rough and gritty…something like thorns?

Roses are more beautiful with thorns.

“Really, now,” I murmur as I examine the flowers in a different light, my heart clenching.

“I know she probably seems like a tough cookie on the outside, but Tay is really sweet. She’s the only one who really cares about us. Everyone treats us like annoying wannabes, outcasts wearing hand-me-downs and here because management wants to look good for politics and do performative community outreach,” Ainsley says.

“She teaches us on the side when she doesn’t have to. She even sponsored a scholarship last year, and she told us she would’ve done more if her money wasn’t locked down by trust fund rules. We owe so much to her,” Maddy adds. “Hopefully, someday, we can pay her back.”

“Not with money though, since she’s an Anderson and everything,” Ainsley says. “But maybe we can fulfill a dream or something.”

“What do you think she’d want?” I ask, a sizzling energy pulsing inside me. What would make my minx happy?

Your minx? What are you talking about?

I shove the thought to the side.

The girls talk among themselves, arguing about what they think would make Taylor happy. She doesn’t seem to need much and isn’t one for fancy clothes or materialistic items.

“Oh! Tickets to seeSwan Lakeat the Bolshoi Theatre!” Ainsley’s eyes glitter with excitement.

“Yes, you’re right! Isn’t that her dream? To go to Moscow and see the performance in the homeland of Tchaikovsky?” Maddy nods, then frowns. “There’s no way we can afford that. Those tickets cost an arm and a leg, not to mention the flights and hotel costs.”

The girls deflate.

“Never say never. I have a feeling you guys will go far.” I make a note to gift anonymous scholarships earmarked with their names when I get back to the office.

Maddy smiles sadly. “I hope so. Then everything will be worth it.” She swallows and whispers, “Everything we put up with.” For a minute, the same haunted look I see in Taylor’s eyes shows up in hers.

My brows pinch, a curl of unease unraveling in my gut, and she quickly adds, “You know—the usual bullying and stuff. It’ll be nice to do something for Taylor later. She’s really special.”

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