Dawn breaks with golden light spilling through my cottage window. I dress quickly, eager to return to the thornwall roses where that small miracle bud appeared last night. Will it still be there, or did I hallucinate it in the moonlight?
The morning dew glistens on wilted leaves as I dash across the gardens. Court servants bow respectfully as I pass—word of my position has spread swiftly. I'm no longer merely a local herb-witch but the royal gardener upon whom the kingdom's hopes lie.
The weight of that obligation should terrify me, but this morning I feel only determination. Something happened last night between my magic, the prince's winter might, and the fading roses. Something vital.
I approach the northern garden portion where the thornwall roses thrive. My breath catches. The lone blossom I brought to life last night has not only survived but thrived. Its deep crimson petals have unfolded slightly, and—most astonishing—a tiny shimmer of magic pulses within it. Around this lone blossom, the other vines look less withering, as though collecting strength from their rejuvenated buddy.
"It worked," I say, dropping to my knees by the plant. The dirt feels different too—more alive, responding to my touch as I softly run my fingers across it.
"You did this?" Prince Thorne's voice startles me. I hadn't heard him approach.
I stand swiftly, brushing dirt from my hands. "Yes, Your Highness. Last night, after you went, I tried something... new."
His glittering eyes narrow as he studies the flower. "Different how?"
"I typically speak to plants, but last night I sang to them. An old song my granny taught me. Something about it resonated with the roses". I don't say that I felt his residual winter magic combining with mine—I'm not ready to offer that theory yet.
The prince circles the thornwall rose, scrutinizing it from all aspects. "One bloom won't save the northern barrier," he adds, but there's less cold in his voice than yesterday.
"It's just the beginning," I promise. "The flowers respond to me. Give me time, and I can recreate this entire area."
He looks squarely at me, and for a second, his mask slips. Behind the ice, I see wonder—and hope. "Show me," he commands, yet it sounds almost like a request.
I kneel by the thorn wall again, feeling the prince's eyes on me as I cup my hands around the soil. The song rises readily to my lips, an ancient melody with verses about spring returning after the darkest winter. As I sing, I channel my magic into the earth, envisioning vitality streaming through withered roots.
The air around us shifts. The thornwall roses seem to lean toward me, their withered branches cracking as they bow. Another bud develops, then another. The prince makes a slight sound of astonishment.
"This is..." he begins, but doesn't continue.
I continue singing, entranced in the magic flowing between my hands and the landscape. When I finally rest, tired, seven fresh buds have developed down the length of thornwall roses, each throbbing with that same wonderful sheen.
"The northern barrier," Prince Thorne adds quietly, "Feel it."
I expand my magical senses outward, something I've never tried before. Beyond the palace grounds, I detect a diminishing wall of magic—the kingdom's protective barrier—and when these roses connect to it, the barrier strengthens, small cracks healing themselves.
"It's working," I whisper, unbelieving my own achievement.
The prince stares at me with new eyes. "You've accomplished more in two days than the previous gardeners did in months."
"The plants trust me," I explain, though I feel there's more to it. "They know I'm not forcing them but helping them remember what they're meant to be."
Something passes across his face—a shadow of emotion rapidly mastered. "Can you do the same for the other sections?"
"Yes, but it will take time. Each plant talks differently, responding to different charms."
He nods, choice made. "You'll have whatever resources you need. Additional staff, uncommon soils, everything."
"Thank you, Your Highness."
For a heartbeat, I see warmth in his eyes—genuine warmth that transforms his face totally. He appears younger suddenly, attractive in a way that steals my breath. Then, as soon as it appeared, the moment vanishes. His features reset into their normal frigid mask.
"You will report your progress daily," he says. "I expect the entire northern section restored within a fortnight."
"I'll do my best," I swear, refusing to be frightened by his quick shift back to formality.
As he turns to depart, his sleeve brushes mine. That peculiar magical resonance flashes between us again, briefer this time but unmistakable. His steps falter momentarily, but he doesn't look back.
I return to work, placing myself among the thornwall roses. By midday, I've coaxed two dozen blossoms to life. The gardeners' trainees listen in astonishment as I display my ways, teaching them the songs and procedures. Though none have my special ability, they learn to promote the plants' healing.
By sundown, news of my success has gone through the castle. Servants bring me special meals "by royal decree," and Court Mage Balthren himself visits to inspect my job.
"Remarkable," he says, surveying the resurrected thornwall part. "The prince was right to bring you here."
"He seems to think I'll fail eventually," I reply, unable to hide my displeasure at the prince's hot-and-cold manner.
Balthren's eyes crinkle. "Prince Thorne has witnessed five gardeners come and go. His skepticism is protective—of both the kingdom and himself."
"What happened to the other gardeners?" I finally dare to inquire.
"They left when they couldn't make progress," Balthren explains gently. "The prince never hurt them, despite the claims. He permitted those rumors to persist since fear is sometimes a valuable tool when controlling."
I examine this as I assemble my equipment for the night. The truth of the prince is definitely more complicated than court gossip portrays.
Walking back to my cottage, I sense eyes on me. Looking up, I spy Prince Thorne observing from a high tower window. Our gazes connect across the distance. He doesn't wave or nod, but he doesn't turn away either.
That night, I dream of silver eyes warming like spring thaw and thornwall roses blooming in unimaginable colors.