Elm's knock on my door at daybreak still reveals stars in the heavens. He hands me a gardener's apron, his worn-out face grim. "The prince calls from the middle garden. Speak only when asked; challenge his instructions; whatever you do—don't mention the past gardeners."
I knot the apron strings with fingers shaking and swallow hard. Sleep had escaped me all night in this strange house at the garden's edge, my mind running with memories of home and reports of missing gardeners. "What happened to them?" I am brave enough to ask. "What others before me?"
Elm's eyes flicker nervously to the window. "Gone," he says in a whisper. "That's all you need to know."
Morning mist clings to the ground as we stroll through what must have once been wonderful gardens. I can sense the traces of strong magic flowing under the ground even in their breakdown. The roads are pure white stone, winding between beds of dying plants I've only seen in rare botanical manuscripts.
"The gardens are divided into sections," Elm adds, his voice quiet. "Each relates to a cardinal direction and a particular protective ward. Learn them quickly—the prince has little patience for ignorance."
My heart hammers against my ribs as we reach the middle garden—a circular clearing with a big stone fountain at its center. The fountain isn't flowing, its basin dry and shattered. Standing near it, a tall person observes our approach.
Crown Prince Thorne doesn't look like the monster from local stories. He's younger than I imagined, possibly only a few years older than my twenty summers. His sharp features would perhaps be lovely if not set in such a harsh face. His eyes, though—they're exactly as described: silver as polished coins, icy as midwinter frost.
"Your Highness," Elm bows profoundly. "The new gardener, as requested."
Those silver eyes assess me, and I fight the instinct to shrink back. Everything about him emits chilly authority, from his pristine dark blue clothes to the silver crown that lies upon his raven hair—a delicate circlet fashioned to imitate twisted thorns.
"This is what you found?" The prince's voice is surprisingly deep, with an edge like frost crackling on glass. "Another village witch?"
I bridle at his dismissive tone despite my apprehension. I may be common-born, but my relationship to plants is no mere village witchery.
"Show me what you can do." He motions angrily to a neighboring bed of withering roses. Their stems are brown, and leaves are twisted and darkened as if struck by frost.
I approach slowly, kneeling by the flowerbed. These are no ordinary roses—their thorns glitter with metallic luster, and behind the decay, I sense strong magic.
"These are thornwall roses," I say, shocked. "I've only read about them."
"I don't need a botany lesson," the prince snaps. "I need them revived."
I bite my tongue and focus on the plants. Gently, I place my hands on the soil, closing my eyes to listen. The soil talks differently here—whispers of old power, but also of wrongness, of imbalance. The roses aren't simply fading; they're being drained somehow.
"Your Highness," I begin, ignoring Elm's warning in my alarm, "these plants aren't just dying—they're being drained of their magic. Something is taking it away from them."
A spark of something—surprise perhaps—crosses his face before the mask of cool indifference returns. "Can you fix them or not?"
I stand slowly, brushing soil from my hands. "I need to comprehend what's going on first. These gardens aren't only pretty, are they? The magic here is related to something larger."
The prince observes me with new intensity. "You're more perceptive than the others," he says finally. "The gardens power the kingdom's protective wards. Without them, we are vulnerable."
"To what?"
His jaw tightens. "That's not your concern. Your job is to revitalize the gardens before the winter solstice—six weeks from now."
I glance around at the wide gardens. "That's impossible. The harm is too extensive."
"Then you'll fail like the others." His voice is emotionless.
Something in me rebels against his coldness. "Did you kill them?" The question slips out before I can stop it.
The garden seems to hold its breath. Elm makes a choked sound near me. The prince's countenance doesn't change, but the temperature surrounding us noticeably reduces.
"I sent them away when they failed," he says after a tense time. "The reports of their deaths fulfill my goal. Fear can be advantageous when time is short."
"And what happens if I fail?" I ask, refusing to look away from those silver eyes.
The tiniest smile brushes his lips, devoid of feeling. "Then you'll join the rest in exile. Succeed, however, and you'll be rewarded beyond your dreams."
"I don't want rewards," I respond honestly. "I just want to go home."
"Then fix my gardens." He turns away but pauses. "One more thing. The gardens are off-limits to everyone but you, Elm, and myself. No one else is permitted entry—especially not members of the court. Do you understand?"
I nod, intrigued at the precise warning.
"Good. Elm will show you what you need." The prince rushes away, his movements beautiful despite his tight posture.
As he walks, I observe something extraordinary—frost spreads from his footsteps, crystallizing briefly on the stone walkway before melting away. My breath catches. The prince himself possesses magic—winter magic.
"You shouldn't have questioned him," Elm hisses after the prince is out of earshot. "The last gardener who spoke back was gone the next day."
I scarcely hear him, my mind racing with ramifications. "Elm, did you see it? The frost from his steps? The prince has winter magic."
Elm's face pales. "Don't speak of it. Ever. The prince's... condition... is not discussed."
"But it could be related to what's happening in the gardens," I insist. "If his magic is somehow connected to the—"
"Enough!" Elm's yell startles surrounding birds into flight. He looks around cautiously before dropping his voice. "The walls have ears. If you want to thrive here, you'll learn to keep certain observations to yourself."
I fall silent, yet my head is churning. The frigid prince with winter magic, the fading plants, and the exhausted protecting wards—they're all connected somehow.
"Come," Elm says gruffly. "I'll show you the gardeners' archives. If you're to have any hope of success, you need to grasp what you're working with."
As we move away, I glance back. Prince Thorne stands at the edge of the garden, watching me. For a minute, I think I sense something other than coldness in his gaze—something like desperation.
What type of prince rules with fear while his kingdom's protections fall around him? And what happens to those who fail him?
I straighten my shoulders and follow Elm. Whatever mysteries lie in these gardens, I aim to find them—both for my own survival and because the soil itself appears to be crying out for aid. Something is badly wrong in Thornwall, and somehow, I've been picked to cure it.
Whether Prince Thorne becomes my ally or my executioner remains to be seen.