The shadowy outline of a wooden sign with a book at its center came into view. Without thinking, she’d run to the library even though it was closed. Rose leaned against the closed door and slumped down to the ground. Sobs wracked her body, tears spilling out as she cried. “What am I going to do? I don’t know how to ride a horse. I’ve never even lived on my own. How am I supposed to do this without him?”
She’d hoped that Gabriel would stay with her, that he’d help her, but now she felt lost. Part of her wanted to give up, but the back of her mind chastised her. Pull yourself together. How can you help anyone else if you can’t even help yourself? “Compose yourself.” She smacked her forehead with her open palm.
Hawthorn’s term for her came to mind. Nymph child. Maybe she could show Gabriel that they could do this together, that she could become strong enough for the both of them. She’d show him her magic, but first she’d have to learn how to access it.
Determined, she crossed her legs and closed her eyes, counting backward to calm her mind like she did when panic took control of her. “I’m only giving myself until then to cry; after that I need to pull it together. I must learn to do this myself. I have to be strong enough to protect us both,” she repeated to herself.
Ten, nine… As she counted, her breathing became less ragged and the shaking in her hands subsided. The ghost of Belladonna’s voice whispered, You can do this, my child.
She thought back to the weapons Belladonna and Nightshade had used. She pictured it in her mind and closed her eyes.
Energy coursed through her, raising the hairs on her arms. But when she looked at her palm, there was no weapon. She sighed and tried again. This time she focused on her hand. She pictured grey purple flowers of a Belladonna and the green stems they sprouted from.
When she opened her eyes, her nails were green. Not quite what she’d been hoping for, but it was a start.
She imagined the small hairs on a Belladonna flower and a tingling sensation shot through her fingers.
With her other hand, she stroked the top of her hand, now silky like the flower’s petals. Closer.
Each attempt made her breaths more labored, but she was no closer to using her magic. What am I doing wrong? It should be Belladonna magic, right?
A whispering voice rang through her mind. We are alike, but you aren’t me, little Rose Bud.
Her head whipped around searching for the source of the noise, but no one else was there. You’re probably just imagining her voice, she thought, but the strange whispers had made a valid point.
Maybe she needed rose magic. This time, instead of imagining herself like Belladonna or Nightshade, she thought about her namesake, the rose.
She imagined a short rose staff covered in thorns. Something thin but strong enough to be used as a weapon. Something bloomed, growing in her palm. When pain pricked her skin, she looked down and saw a small, thin whip about half a foot long and covered in thorns.
Red blood dripped from her palm, and she dropped the whip to the ground, but it didn’t dissipate. Instead of gripping it with her entire hand, she reached down and grabbed one of the few spots that held no thorns, but the weapon swung back and forth and scraped her skirt.
Rose smiled. Even if it wasn’t as easy to handle as Belladonna’s or Nightshade’s weapons, she’d been able to create a nymph weapon. She really did have nymph magic flowing through her veins.
