Page 45 of Where the Roses Bloom
“There it is again,” I whispered.
Rhett tilted his head. “What?”
“Roses,” I murmured, already walking toward the far corner. “You really don’t smell that?”
He sniffed the air, brow furrowed. “Not really.”
But I did. Sharp and sweet, like the first summer bloom. The scent led me to a low-beamed nook just under the angled roof, and there, tucked between an old writing desk and a stack of yellowing books, was a jagged crack in the ceiling—barely visible unless you were looking for it.
Growing through it was a cluster of roses.
Pink. Fresh. Blooming.
I stared, breath lodged somewhere in my chest. The petals weren’t dried. They weren’t silk. They werereal. Green stems, soft dewy leaves, and buds just beginning to open—like they’d pushed their way into the attic just to be found.
“Rhett,” I called, my voice small.
He was at my side in two strides. “Holy shit,” he whispered. “How the hell…”
I didn’t answer. Couldn’t. I just knelt in front of the writing desk, hand hovering under the trailing bloom. The scent was stronger here, dizzying and wild.
Rhett caught my hand before I could open the desk drawer.
“Wait,” he said. “What if it’s dangerous?”
I tilted my head at him. “What do you think is going to happen?”
“It could have thorns.”
I laughed. “Rhett…I’m not a princess. I can handle thorns.”
“But the curse?—”
“If the thorns are cursed and I fall asleep, it’s a good thing I have a prince to kiss me awake again, huh?”
Rhett rolled his eyes at me. “You think you’re so funny, don’t ya?”
I grinned. “IknowI’m funny.”
Rhett chuckled and shook his head. “Go on then, princess.”
The drawer groaned as I pulled it open, the wood sticking like it didn’t want to give up its secrets. The scent that spilled out was sharp and earthy—old cedar, mothballs, dried lavender, and the faintest trace of rosewater.
Inside, nestled like it had been waiting a hundred years, was a bundle of linen tied with a faded pink ribbon.
The cloth was soft and brittle in places, worn thin along the folds, with the dusky golden tint of something that had soaked in decades of summer heat and winter dust. The ribbon itself was frayed at the ends, silky smooth beneath my fingertips despite its age. I glanced at Rhett again.
“Go on,” he murmured. “Whatever it is, Hazel meant you to find it.”
That was all the permission I needed.
I loosened the knot and unfolded the linen with careful hands. Inside was a stack of letters—twelve, maybe more—all wrapped tight together. The top letter had Rhett’s name written across it in looping script.
For Rhett
You’ll need these when she comes.
My mouth went dry.
