When Rose Wakes by Christopher Golden Read Free Book Online Page B

meet them.
    Rose smiled in disbelief and shook her head. “I love you both very much,” she said, “but that was incredibly weird.”
    Aunt Suzette took her hand and helped her the rest of the way down the steps, where Aunt Fay met them.
    “Darling Rose,” Aunt Suzette replied sweetly, “we never said we weren’t weird.”

L
ate at night, it is cold in the corridors of the castle. The chill seems to seep up through the stone floor and to slither through the halls and coil in the corners. It never really troubled Rose before. In cold weather there would be roaring fires, and on long nights there would be the smiles of her teachers and her father’s servants, warm furs, and visits from her closest friend, Rielle, to take her mind off the cold.
    Tonight, though, the atmosphere within these walls is grim and heavy, and despite the thick cloak she wears over her shoulders, ice has begun to form inside of her. This is not winter, she knows. It is fear. All of her life she has looked upon her father as a hero, as a great king, like those found in ancient myths. He is a good and decent man and a just ruler, who provides for all of those beneath him, and cares for each of them, from the wealthiest patron to the lowliest orphan.
    Even now, as she becomes a young woman, she finds it almost impossible to believe that her father will not find some way to triumph over his enemies. But those enemies arepersistent and plentiful. Their armies camp not far from the castle and village. Every day she sees the vigor and hope and determination fade from her father’s eyes.
    It is crushing her, this revelation of her father’s humanity. His ordinariness.
    He is still decent and just and loving, but he is only a man.
    Rose has found it more and more difficult to sleep of late. Tonight, as many nights, she prowls the halls of the castle. She wants to see him, but does not know what she will say. He has always looked after her, and it is strange to think that the time may have come when she must look after him.
    At the base of the stairs that lead into his private chambers, she pauses. An icy ripple of dread races up her spine and she feels as though she is being observed. She turns, holding her breath, and stares at the shadows in the recessed doorways that lead away from this anteroom. The shadows seem darker here than elsewhere in the castle. She cannot help thinking that there are whispers strung through them like spiderwebs, a low susurrus of voices she cannot really hear—but would hear, if she dared get any closer.
    A soft laugh drifts around her, caressing the stone walls and gliding across the floor. Rose twists around, fearful and angry and frustrated. She looks up through the long throat of the hollow tower above her, but sees only more shadows. Something is here with her—she can feel the ominous weight of its presence—but she cannot see it.
    “Show yourself!” she demands.
    For a minute or two she stands and listens, waiting for any further sign that she is not alone.
    A loud creak startles her and she spins, heart fluttering like a frightened bird. Breathless, she stares at the heavy door swinging inward, and for a moment she fights the urge to flee or scream. A pale face looms in the shadows, and then emerges.
    Rose can only stare and then chuckle softly at herself. “Miranda,” she says. For that is the name of the serving girl who stands staring at her.
    “Milady,” Miranda replies, managing to bow her head without tipping the heavy tray out of her hands. Upon it is a jug of wine and a goblet, as well as a plate of bread and cheese. “You startled me.”
    Rose laughs out loud. The sinister weight of the shadows has not vanished, but it has lessened.
    “And you, me,” she replies. “Is that tray for my father?”
    “It is,” Miranda says. “He couldn’t sleep, and…”
    The girl—only a little older than Rose—says nothing more, but it is evident that she wishes that the king could have slept so that she