Page 48 of Never the Roses

As you’re reading this note, I assume you took the coward’s way out and I’m sleeping, unable to enjoy your company and conversation. So, I must make do with this.

Did you like the novel? I read it some time ago and don’t recall the details—and, of course, was unable to reread—but I remember being vaguely dissatisfied with the ending. Thoughts? If I could hear them, I’d offer a recommendation for your next read. As it is, I must guess. I suggestWhen the Sea Shall Give Up Her Dead. You’ll find it on the bookshelf on epic love affairs. It would please me for you toborrowit—I must be specific that I won’t consider this a theft—and would delight me even more if you would trust me enough to keep me awake so we can talk about it. What harm, Dreamthief? What risk?

Wake me up now. I promise only conversation, if that’s all you want of me.

Your Em

Oneira growled to herself in annoyance, glaring over at the sleeping Stearanos, master manipulator and tempter, dangerous even when completely under her power. Pocketing the note, with no intention of either replying or waking him up to be even more distracting—nor of borrowing any more books—she went to replace the rare book on rose cultivation. This time she wasn’t at all surprised to see something in its spot. Another folded note,on top of a long, thin box. Unable to resist her curiosity, though she knew he was using that weakness against her, she pulled out both. She read the note first, this one much shorter.

You better have made a copy. If you let those roses die or return them to the ancient gardener, I will haunt you the rest of your days. Meanwhile, until yours bloom, this one reminded me of you and your extraordinary hair. You, minus the thorns, that is. (Which is hardly you at all, come to think of it.)

“You can try to haunt me,” she informed the sleeping sorcerer, though she couldn’t help smiling. How well he’d guessed how she’d handled the problem, and the options she’d considered. Pocketing that note, too, she opened the box, and released another sigh. This one not of exasperation and weariness, but from some place deep inside that hadn’t yet withered away from enduring too much of the horrors of the world.

It was a rose. Not a Veredian one, of course, but unlike any rose she’d ever seen. Mostly a golden ivory, its petals were shot through with pale pink streaks from the base that coalesced to gather into full, bright crimson at the tips, as if it had been dipped in fresh blood that had wicked its way up to concentrate there. And yet, while the echo of blood should have bothered her, in this context it didn’t. Perhaps because it seemed to be about life, not death. The scent, spicy and sweet at once, intoxicated her with its loveliness. The entire rose seemed only about beauty, nothing harsh or hurtful to it. Examining it closely, she saw that Stearanos had indeed clipped off all the thorns, leaving them scattered in the bottom of the silk-lined box.

“Ha ha, very funny,” she muttered at him, bemused and amused. He wouldn’t clip her own thorns so easily. Though she’d intended to step back into the Dream immediately aftershe returned the book to its rightful place, she succumbed to the very minor temptation of drawing closer to Stearanos, dropping the clipped thorns into a pile on his documents. In doing so, she caught the hurried scrawl, the message he’d left, naming her a coward, scowling at it.

As if a childish taunt would erode her resolve. She’d seen enough of war to know that the brave died far more often than anyone else. Bravery was an overrated quality that best served the nobles and generals who stayed well back from the front lines. Exercising justifiable caution was something else entirely.

Averting her gaze from the additional temptation to peek at his plans for conquest, she turned away and opened a door into the Dream. Then hesitated.

What harm? What risk?

She’d restored the balance between them. They’d become something of friends.

She was weary of Tristan’s inane company.

A small bit of conversation couldn’t hurt, could it?

What harm? What risk?

Feeling as if she stepped off her own cliff with the drop to a raging sea below, Oneira took a breath, and allowed Stearanos to wake.

26

Stearanos swam up from the deep sleep, from indigo dreams of calming rest, his mind clearing as the enchantment released him. One thing he had to give Oneira—her spell gave true sleep, replenishing and delicious. Likely she could make it otherwise, pitching her victims into nightmares and soul-terrors, ripping their unconscious apart so they awoke exhausted and harried. Even though she hadn’t exempted him from her enchantment, at least she’d been kind about it.

Then, as he became fully aware, he sensed her presence, instinctively bracing to shield himself from attack. He opened his eyes. Slowly, he lifted his head, seeing the pile of clipped thorns atop his scrawled challenge to her. He smiled, having predicted she would do that, thus greeting her frown with his pleased expression.

“You ruined your document,” she informed him crisply from the other side of his desk. “A waste of high-quality paper.”

“Absolutely worth the expense,” he replied, taking her in. She could be a dream herself, impossibly lovely and magical, a creature from fantasy. Remaining poised there, she looked as if she might disappear at any moment, a faint numinous glow surrounding her, blurring the edges.

It was the Dream, he realized. She stood on the threshold of it, ready to step back and disappear. If he focused his sorcerous senses on it, he could make out the faintly iridescent outline of a portal and swirls of movement within it. The more he looked, themore colors he saw beyond that doorway, the echoes of creatures so fantastically alluring that he longed to chase after them. He didn’t realize he’d half risen to do so until Oneira spoke, interrupting his rapt fascination.

“It’s not wise to look too closely at the Dream while awake,” she warned him. “It’s not meant for our waking selves. To observe the Dream from a conscious state invites dreams into your waking reality, and there lies madness.”

With effort, he focused on her instead, on her clear, silver gaze, that hair spilling around her in crimson glory, the exact shade of the petal tips of the rose she held. “Then how do you move about in it and exert conscious control over the Dream?”

Her lips quirked in a secretive smile. “Sorcery.”

“Why leave the door open then, if it’s so dangerous for me?” he asked.

“I…” She actually looked somewhat abashed.

“Wanted an easy escape route?”

“There is rarely anything easy about escaping,” she retorted, almost primly, her eyes glittering with some emotion he couldn’t quantify.

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