Page 13 of Never the Roses

She checked her spell yet again—now who is paranoid?she chided herself—and verified that the sleepers indeed slept on, captive to her enchantment. Going to his desk, she found that Stearanos had left a sheet of paper and a quill in the center of it. Both completely mundane, nothing magical about them. A trap, baited as an invitation, as seemed to be his method.

Well then. She could evade this snare, also. She wrote her reply.

Dear Eminence,

What a dreadful title you bear. The official one is even worse than “Stormbreaker.” So many syllables; such a dull word. I shall call you Em, for short.

I had already brought a better gift, in payment for your book, which I have an exceedingly pertinent need to retain. I can apply practically what you can only contemplate in theory. I’m keeping your book, which—if I’m not mistaken—makes me the victor.

Vengeance will not be yours this day, Em. Alas for you.

However, you may sleep easy. I’m very busy and have no need to trouble you again.

She hesitated over how to sign it. Naturally she couldn’t affix her own name, or any of the equally cumbersome titles that had been laid upon her over the years. She also refused to call herself Dreamthief. It might be accurate, but she’d never cared for the implicit insult. In the end, she left it unsigned, figuring that would bother him more than anything else. Folding the note, she set it inside the pages ofThe Adventures of the Beastly Bunny, whimsically putting it at the same page number as he’d done in the dragon anatomy book.

There—that should appeal to and offend his compulsive and eclectic orderliness. She felt almost a sense of affection for her obsessive enemy.

On impulse, she plucked a leaf from one rosebush, setting it inside the folded note so as not to stain the pages, before replacing it on the shelf where his book on Veredian roses had been. Then she took a bit more time, which she really shouldn’t do, but she was engaging in defying all sorts of rules of rationality, and looked for where Stearanos might have shelvedhercopy ofDragon Anatomy: From Tooth to Talon.

It required a bit of searching, but she finally spotted a familiar set of books that was theBasilisk Cycle, a month-long performance of a Tsarkarian myth. Never mind that a theatrical script in twelve volumes would not be, in any sane universe, shelved with a textbook on dragon anatomy. Stearanos and sanity clearly lacked even a nodding acquaintance, because all the books on that set of shelves had to do in some way with… she finally identified the theme as scales and fire.

Shaking her head, Oneira climbed the ladder to the shelf,found her copy, and replaced it with his. Upside down, just to tweak his nose a bit more out of joint. She’d never laid eyes on the Stormbreaker, but she imagined him with a long, hooked nose that just begged to be tweaked. Beyond the pleasure it gave her, the positioning would serve to inform him that she possessed the basic wit to differentiate her book from his, alike as they might be. Of course, she possessed a great deal more wit than that, but he didn’t need to know.

By the time she descended the ladder, the sun had risen, spilling golden light into the library and illuminating all the glorious colors of the thousands of books. The furniture and plush throw rugs scattered around on the polished wood floor were also surprisingly colorful. Ironic that the grim and mathematical Stearanos lived in such flamboyant environs while Oneira’s chosen home lacked most color and all frivolity. She preferred the clean simplicity of her white walls.

Didn’t she?Of course she did.

Whistling for Adsila, who immediately winged back to her shoulder, she gathered her things and took one step into the rapidly contracting Dream. Too many people were awake now for it to be as robust as it had been, but thank the stars for late sleepers.

Quickly, she severed the thread to the enchantment, allowing her own restless sleepers to awake. Somewhere in the far reaches of the castle, a man bellowed in startled rage, nearly a howl of frustration. “Good morning, Stormbreaker,” she whispered, and was gone.

She would not return.

9

Stearanos nearly threw the book across the room. His own copy ofFrom Tooth to Talon, that was—not the slim, worn volume of a children’s tale his intruder had left. All of it designed to taunt and enrage him. Whoever this magic-worker was, they’d kept him asleep despite the measures he’d taken. The window had been such a simple trap, he hadn’t truly expected it to work, but the invader had nimbly avoided every other trap he’d set, too.

Not only that, but they’d stayed even longer this time, clearly unafraid of him, thumbing their nose by switching back the dragon texts and demonstrating their knowledge of him by returning his copy to its usual place, impudently upside down. And, a deeply concerning development: an avatar of some deity had accompanied them, leaving a whiff of the numinous behind.

It was intolerable.

Forcing himself to relax, he laid out the clues on his desk. The children’s book, the insolent note with no signature, and the rose leaf. Picking up the leaf, he sniffed it, but it only smelled green. He knew it for a rose leaf by the pinnately compound oval shape and fine, sharp tooths at the edges. These tooths were longer than on any rose he knew, almost spikes, with a distinctive curve to them. He suspected, deep in his bitterly jealous heart, that the leaf belonged to a Veredian rose.

“I would look it up,” he snarled under his breath, holding the taunting leaf up to the light, “but I no longer havemy fucking book!”

He turned his attention to the battered volume.The Adventures of the Beastly Bunnyseemed to be an extended poem about a rabbit stealing carrots from a garden.I had already brought a better gift, in payment for your book, the intruder had written. He muttered a vile imprecation.Thiswas what they considered a better book? Granted, almost anything was more interesting than the dragon anatomy textbook—unless one needed to reference dragon anatomy, naturally—but in what universe would anyone think this volume of nonsensical, puerile babbling wasbetter? He suspected an insult, another layer of sneering meant to get under his skin, this thief implying that childish rhymes better suited his intelligence than the challenge of cultivating the rarest species of rose.

A rose that this person apparently had in their possession, the leaf left as evidence of their greater claim to the information inhisbook. Perhaps that had been their simple goal all along—to steal that book—and it was sheer coincidence that he’d been reading it. Not that it rankled any less, especially since he regarded coincidences with deep suspicion.

The little Beastly Bunny book was definitely old and quite likely rare. To be sure, he’d have to consult some of his catalogs, perhaps take it to one of the rare book dealers he frequented. He unquestionably didn’t already own a copy, which at least conferred a tiny bit of value. Not really enough to believe the thief was sincere about trading value for value. Of course, he had to read through the thing, partly to determine the theme, so it could be properly shelved, and partly to hunt for clues as to his intruder’s identity.

The bit in the note about sleeping easily seemed like a broad hint, though Stearanos had enough intelligence to have already recognized that bit of sorcery, which was hardly unique or exceptionally difficult. Most sorcerers powerful enough to evade wardslike his had a sleeping spell or two up their sleeves. Although keeping all eighty humans in the castle asleep required enough power and skill to narrow the field of possibilities. He scrutinized the sappy rhymes ofThe Adventures of the Beastly Bunnyto determine if any of it held more significance than a quick scan had indicated. Perhaps theft was an appropriate theme. Had that been an additional joke intended to—

“Eminence Stearanos?” His secretary, James, knocked on the library door, popping his head in as he spoke. “My deepest apologies for disturbing you, but I have a missive from His Majesty.”

“I’m on sabbatical,” Stearanos replied, attempting to subtract the growl from his voice. Everyone in the castle knew he’d been in a foul temper since—finally—awakening, and had given him a sympathetic and respectfully wide berth. James wouldn’t interrupt him if the missive wasn’t urgent. Still.

“I’m sorry, Eminence,” James said in all sincerity, “but it’s marked urgent.”

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