Page 20 of House of Roots and Ruin
I wasn’t going to do it. I wasn’t going to grow old and die here, letting my life wither away on the vine.
I would go to Bloem. I would get to the mainland.
Tonight.
I didn’t care if I had to row myself all the way to the coast. I couldn’t spend another moment in this house, held back not only by my sister but also by the past itself.
I was getting out.
Now.
The carriage rumbled down the winding road, rambling through a line of steady trees.
Everywhere I looked, trees.
Tall, spindly bullies, with jagged branches elbowing for more than their share of sunlight. Plush firs, squat ferns. Ivy and brambles. It was a verdant haze of botanical splendor and I felt somewhat sick encountering its depths. Did mainlanders experience this when first encountering Salann?
The light was different here too. The sun shone brightly on our islands, reflecting off the endless waves with an unchecked brashness. Here, the world seemed washed in lilac and mauve, periwinkle and jade. The air shimmered soft like a dream, like aperpetual twilight. How had Mercy described it?
I took out her letter, pulling it free from the little sketchbook I’d kept at my side since docking on the mainland. I’d reread it so often on my journey that it was nearly in tatters now.
Wistful,she’d written.
Yes. That described this new world perfectly.
“We’ll be approaching the Menagerie soon now,” the coachmancalled out to me, rapping his knuckles on the roof of the carriage. “Just around the bend.”
I pressed my cheek to the window, wanting to see the exact moment the forest gave way to civilization. I’d heard so many stories of this fabled province, had spent the past week daydreaming of its splendors.
The first glimpse did not disappoint.
The statues formed a wall that encircled the city like a wedding band. Cool gray quartz and white marble were carved into enormous fantastical creatures, all tangled together in an impenetrable ring of protection. Peacocks the size of dragons lit the wall’s summit, showering their bejeweled plumage down to the emerald grass. Swans and nightingales vied for space between chiseled roses and stony peonies. Dahlias burst into full blooms taller than me. Intricate snowbells climbed and entwined around heavily antlered deer and winged horses alike. A unicorn bowed its horned head low, forming the massive archway we now passed under.
My fingers itched to draw it all but I’d spent my last charcoal pencil that morning, wearing it down to a tiny, useless stub.
I pushed open the half pane of glass, leaning as far out the window as I dared, wanting to drink in every detail.
“Is this your first time in Bloem, miss?” the driver asked, his voice colored with amusement.
“It is.”
He chuckled. “Then I shall be sure to take the long way.”
Riding into the heart of Bloem was like entering another world.
Alabaster white buildings, mottled with delicate friezes andplaques of rose gold, lined wide cobblestoned streets. Most of the shops had closed for the day, their wares lit through windows by globed gas lamps. They cast the stone streets with a strange lavender hue.
Every storefront boasted boxes of well-kept flowers. Their blooms ranged from pinks so soft they seemed to whisper, to magentas, deep and dark as a forbidden tryst. Ropes of greenery, studded with swirls of ranunculus and carnations, formed bowers spanning between the shops.
Their scents mingled together, creating a perfume persistent and exhilarating. My spirits felt buoyed after only a taste. I couldn’t imagine what it would be like to walk down the promenade, bathed in such heady bliss. The People of the Petals must always be smiling.
I studied their faces with interest as we rolled along, these people who revered beauty and art and love above all else.
They did look happy, from what I could tell.
The women wore impossibly chic veiled hats with brims so wide I couldn’t see how they’d make it through a standard doorway. Their sleeves were puffed like dueling hot-air balloons, their waists cinched tight, and their skirts so tailored that walking seemed an almost unimaginable task. Many of them were assisted by men bedecked in beautifully cut brocaded suits and jewel-topped walking sticks.
I ran trembling fingers over my own traveling clothes, smoothing out a skirt of practical blue gabardine and a blouse I’d always thought pretty, edged in lace and artful tucks. But compared to these embellished beauties, I felt like a drab little field wren, staring down an ostentation of peacocks.
