Page 1 of Beyond the Faerie Gate

Rhoswyn

Ialways expected to feel deeply at my father’s funeral. I just never expected the primary emotion to be relief. Yet, as they lower the large, plain wooden coffin into the ground beside my mother’s headstone in the small, empty churchyard, that’s all I can summon.

It’s over.

The years of caring for him while enduring his bitter comments are done. The days of waking up, dealing with his moods as I washed, dressed, and fed him, and then going out and trying to run my herb stall with the whole village shooting me pitying looks are over.

Before his accident, my father was a good—if rough—man. He struggled when Mother died, but he let me take over her herb garden, even when everyone else said I couldn’t do it.

Afterwards, he was never the same. Being trapped inside a body that no longer worked was a special kind of hell for such a strong, proud man. It warped him into someone I barely recognised. A monster with a familiar face who would lash out over the slightest thing.

Perhaps I don’t look sad enough, because Reverend Michael shoots me a glare. The holy man seems to find my mere presence offensive on a good day, but today he seems even more aggravated than usual.

I’m sure if he could blame me for my father’s death, he would.

At least I don’t have to deal with him alone.

As if my thoughts have summoned him, Tom comes up behind me and puts a hand on my shoulder. My brother is a big man with a wide, friendly face, just like our father, though his hair is a few shades lighter. In contrast, I’m small and wan. I like to think I have a nice smile, but I rarely have the energy to waste on making myself look pretty.

“Let’s get you home,” he mumbles, his eyes darting to the walking stick I’m forced to take everywhere with me, just in case I get dizzy. “You shouldn’t spend so much time out in the cold.”

But I feel worse when I’m indoors.

I don’t say the words aloud, because I know it will lead to the same old argument, which I always lose. Tom will fall back on the advice of every single expert who’s ever seen me—I should rest and try not to aggravate my condition with too much exercise. I may be sickly, but at least in the fresh air I can breathe. Being cooped up doesn’t stop the fainting or the random spells of dizziness, so why should I confine myself?

A small, resentful part of me sometimes wonders if Tom prefers me housebound because it makes my illness easier to deal with. He doesn’t have to worry about leaving his forge to rush out and help me home if I have an episode in the middle of the market. Even the stick with its heavy iron handle, wrought in the shape of my namesake flower, was a gift from him meant to minimise the amount of time he has to waste on escorting me everywhere.

Sometimes, when I’m feeling rebellious, I leave the stupid thing inside while I tend my garden.

My sister-in-law, Clair, gives me a sympathetic look.

“I know it won’t be the same,” she says. “But soon you’ll be the mistress of your own home.”

“I won’t marry,” I retort, for the hundredth time. “Especially not Colbert. I refuse.”

I’ve never been interested in men the way Clair and the other women were. Never fawned over the pretty ones, nor snuck away to hold hands and steal kisses at the village dances like so many of the other girls did.

Not that that stopped Colbert, the village miller, who started petitioning my father for my hand in marriage the instant I came of age. Everyone in the village felt I should’ve been grateful that someone was willing to take me, since I’m such a burden, but I begged my father to refuse. Thankfully, he did.

Still, the miller is disturbingly persistent.

I understand Tom’s position. He and Clair have seven mouths to feed. They can’t afford to keep me too.

“We have to sell the forge,” Tom mutters. “We don’t have a choice, Rose.”

“I know, but I can find lodgings…”

“I won’t hear of it. A woman, living alone? You’d be ruined.”

“As I won’t be marrying, that won’t matter.” I know it’s churlish, but I can’t help the retort from slipping free.

“It will for our girls!” Tom argues. “You may not wish to be wed, but if their aunt has a reputation, who will take them?” Clair clutches at his arm and he sighs, visibly working to calm himself before he gives me a sympathetic glance. “You’ve had a good run of it, Rose, but it’s time to grow up. Colbert will be a fair husband. He’s not a bad man.”

But he is. I know he is. Which makes his obsession with me all the worse.

But I can’t prove it, so no one believes me.

“Tell your brother you’ll consider it,” Mab advises in her language, popping into being in mid-air just above a headstone. “It’ll buy you some time.”

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