Wrede, Patricia C - SSC (4 page)

"I don't understand."

"You will." Her mother
looked at her watch. "It's five minutes to
midnight
.
I must go in. You will stay?"

"Yes."

"Good. Good night, dear. I'll
see you in the morning."

Adrian
watched her mother walk up the drive to the house. /
wish I knew what that
was all about. Well, at least now I have a good excuse to avoid the party.
She
flicked her cigarette and watched the live sparks scatter on the summer breeze.
The band stopped. A moment later, a breathless, overamplified voice said
something about the end of the set; in another few seconds, Sam and her friends
would be piling out onto the patio.
Adrian
flicked her cigarette again, for the pleasure of watching the sparks, then
dropped it, stepped on the tip to put it out, and walked toward the back of the
Lexus. No sense in making it easy for them to spot her. Suddenly, she stopped.

Behind the car stood a woman. She
looked very little older than
Adrian
and she was tall and slim as a model. Her hair was dark—chestnut, probably,
though in the moonlight it looked black—unfashion-ably long and straight, with
a silver sheen of moonlight across it like a veil. Her face and features were
almost classic, saved from a boring perfection by a chin that was a trifle too
pointed and dark eyes a hair too widely set. She wore a silk dress whose
flowing and deceptively simple lines proclaimed it the work of an expensive designer.

"You are Adrian, the eldest
daughter of this house." The woman's voice was quiet and full of music,
and
Adrian
was instantly certain
that she was not one of Sam's crowd. In thirty years, one or two of them might
learn such self-possession, but none of them had it now.

Adrian
felt a stab of envy. Quashing it firmly, she answered, "Yes. You must be
Mother's friend."

"Your mother spoke of
me?"

"She only said that she hoped
you'd come tonight and that she wanted me to meet you."
Adrian
hesitated, but something made her add, "And that I should be careful."

"Ah." The woman smiled.
"Good advice in many circumstances." She studied
Adrian
briefly, then nodded. "Her blood runs true in you."

"Most people say I look like
my father."

"I was not speaking of your
looks. Come; walk with me. I would learn more of you."

Laughter drifted down from the
house as they started down the drive.
Adrian
glanced back and grimaced in spite of herself.

"Your sister's guests give you
no pleasure," the woman said. "Do you dislike them? Or is it her involvement
that disturbs you?"

"No, it's not like that at
all,"
Adrian
said.
"Samantha is—Sam, that's all. She doesn't think how things are for other
people. She just does what she wants, and it always works. She's . . . she's
like the youngest child in a fairy tale, the one who goes off on a quest riding
a goat and carrying ten copper pennies, and comes back with the steed of the
North Wind, the apples of the sun, and the keys to six kingdoms."

"And you?"

"Oh, I'm the envious older
sister, who gets pushed down a well at the end of the story.'' She had meant
for it to sound lighthearted; it came out harsh, almost bitter. Hastily, she
added, "Sam's my sister; I'm glad things go so well for her, I really am.
I just wish, sometimes ..." She couldn't bring herself to finish the
sentence.
And why am I telling her all this, anyway?

"I see. But you are too wise
to take her walking on the cold sea strand."

"Sam's hair is too short to
string a harp. Anyway, the way her life goes, the harper would pull her out
long before she drowned."
Adrian
shrugged. "I've always known that Sam got the looks and luck in this
family; I just have to make do with the brains."

The woman turned to look at
Adrian
and after a moment said, "You do yourself injustice as to beauty. As for
fortune, that may change, if it has not already."

"You sound like my mother. Not
that I don't appreciate the kind words."

The woman laughed, a silvery,
musical sound. "You are courteous indeed. It has been long and long since
any named me kind." She studied
Adrian
again, then half nodded to herself. "Such courtesy deserves reward. Come
walk with me among the roses, and let what may be, be."

"Roses?"
Adrian
stopped. "I'm afraid there aren't any. Mother says they're too much trouble."

"Does she."

"Well, they have to be sprayed
all the time or they get black spot or mildew or something. And they need a lot
of pruning, and it's a nuisance. So Mother won't have any in the gardens."

"Your mother has more humor in
her than I thought. Yet follow me, and you shall see my meaning."

Without waiting to see whether
Adrian
would comply, the woman moved on ahead. Automatically,
Adrian
started after her, then stopped.
If she wants to go on a wild goose chase
over half the grounds
—

The distant thump of the drums
began again.
The set break is over already? Sam must have really charmed the
band.
Adrian
looked at the
rapidly moving figure ahead, then plunged after her strange companion.
Anything
was better than another two hours of sitting on the Lexus and listening to
Sam's friends enjoying Sam's kind of music.

The woman moved rapidly, but with
deceptive smoothness.
Adrian
found
herself moving in an awkward compromise between running and walking, always a
stumbling step or two behind.
She acts as if she knows where she's going,
but how can she? She hasn't been here before, or she'd know that there aren't
any roses.

At a clumping birch on the south
side of the house, the woman turned. With a sigh,
Adrian
followed her into the overgrown tangle of honeysuckle behind the tree. The
drums were almost inaudible here; the bushes must be dense enough to absorb
most of the sound. They were tall enough to cut off most of the moonlight, too.
Adrian could barely see. Fortunately, her companion had slowed down a
little—well, even
she
must have some trouble with the branches.

The bushes seemed to go on for much
too long. The clump in back of the birch was only about ten feet across;
surely, they should have come out onto the lawn by now . . .

And then the woman stopped and held
the last honeysuckle branch aside so Adrian could step clear. As the branch
swung back behind her, Adrian halted, staring.

In front of her was a rose garden,
washed with moonlight and heavy with the mingled perfume of many flowers. Hedge
roses, laden with blossoms, formed a thick wall around the garden. At the
single gap in the wall, just in front of Adrian, two climbing roses wove their
way up the sides of an arched white support to meet in a tangled spray of
flower-heavy branches at the top. Through the arch, curving pebble paths
gleamed between drifts of rosebushes—tree roses, floribunda roses, miniature
roses, tea roses, wild roses, every kind of rose she had ever seen or heard of,
all blooming madly, impossibly, in the impossible garden.

Adrian turned. "How . . . ?
Where did this come from? Who are you?"

"Ask rather of my roses,"
the woman said. "But know that I am not required to answer."

"This is impossible."

"So have others said before
you. And you are wrong. My garden contains all possibilities, however
strange."

"I don't understand."

"I think that soon you will,
if you look closely."

The woman's smile made Adrian
uncomfortable. She turned away, back to the roses. The flowers drew her. Adrian
took a step forward, toward the arching entrance of the garden. Overhead, the
full moon shone clear and bright, drenching the scene with enough light to make
the colors of the roses dimly visible. Adrian reached out to touch one of the
blossoms on the archway, a full-blown white rose nodding just beside her head.
The woman's voice stopped her.

"You may take one rose from my
garden, and one only. Take care that you do not break a stem by accident and
find your choice made for you. Some flowers are more fragile than they first appear."

Adrian swallowed an irritated
response. "I'll be careful," she said, and put both hands
ostentatiously behind her back. Leaning forward, she breathed the rose's scent.

She sat in a small, cluttered room
in an apartment high above a noisy city street—cluttered because Samantha kept
her house bare and Spartan, in the city because Samantha preferred open
country. She combed the gray hair she refused to color because Samantha kept
hers a rich brown, and listened to the classical music Samantha hated, and
wondered bitterly whether she had ever done anything in all her long life
simply because she wanted to and not because Samantha would have done something
else . . .

Adrian stiffened and pulled back.
As she stared at the rose, the woman behind her said, "I did not think you
would want that one."

Unable to think of a response,
Adrian turned to the other side of the archway. The roses there were dark under
the moonlight. In the day they would be a rich, deep crimson, assuming day ever
came to this strange place. Adrian eyed a rose doubtfully for a moment, then
bent forward and sniffed.

She stood on a porch, smiling as
she watched her grandchildren play in the small front yard. The littlest one
reminded her of her sister, Samantha, with her dark hair and eyes and her
quicksilver grace. It was a pity Sam had died so young—

Adrian recoiled. Why was her mind
playing such nasty tricks on her? Did these unexpected and astonishing flowers
induce hallucinations, or was she imagining it all—the woman, the garden, and
everything? She reached among the leaves to touch the thick, thorn-encrusted
stem, then jerked her hand back with an exclamation of pain. Ruefully, she
looked at the bead of blood forming on her fingertip. Not imagination, then.

"Higher up, you will find
fewer thorns," the woman said.

Slowly, Adrian nodded. Reaching up,
she found another of the crimson flowers and tugged the stem gently, gently, to
be certain not to break it free unintentionally. On tiptoe, she breathed a
whiff of the thick, sweet scent.

With a spray of snow crystals, she
swung around the last pole and shot through the finishing gate. As she coasted
to a stop, breathing hard, she heard the announcer giving her time. Not bad, she
thought, not bad at all. I might win the whole Seniors Division, and not just
the Over-70. Her family was coming forward to congratulate her in a small,
happy mob. She blinked suddenly and wondered why, after all these years, she
should suddenly think of her dead sister at a moment of triumph . . .

As carefully as she had pulled it
toward her, Adrian released the flower. She settled back on her heels and
realized she was holding her breath. It took an effort of will to begin
breathing again.
Hallucinations,
she told herself, but she did not
believe it. Whatever they were—false memories, mental pictures-—they had too
sharp an edge to be hallucinations. After a moment, she looked over at the
dark-haired woman.

"What is the point of all
this?" she demanded in a voice that started out fierce with anger and
ended on an uncertain note. "Are you trying to tell me that the only way
I'll be happy is if my sister dies? What have you got against Sam?"

"I care but little if she
lives or dies," the woman replied calmly. "And hardly more than that
for you, if truth be told. Yet I have not spoken of her."

"But the roses—"

"The possibilities my roses
show are yours to see, and yours alone. What I know of them is what you tell
me, no more. If they show you your sister, it is because she is in your
thoughts tonight. Another time, they might show you other things."

"Oh." It sounded as
impossible as everything else in this garden, which meant it was probably true.
If any of it was. "I'm sorry. I didn't understand." /
still don't,
not really, but I bet you won't explain even if I ask. And damn if I'm going to
give you the satisfaction of asking.

The woman inclined her head in
acceptance of the apology and smiled slightly as if she knew the thought that
had followed it. "Will you choose your flower?"

Possibilities . . .
"I—I
think I'd like to look at some of the ones farther in,"
Adrian
said. "Before I make up my mind."

The woman smiled. "You are
wise for one so young. Look all you wish, but remember: one rose, and one only,
may you take with you when you leave. Some find the choice a hard one."

"No kidding,"
Adrian
muttered as she turned away. She stepped under the arching roses and stopped at
a waist-high bush covered with knots of pale flowers.
Not white,
she
thought, glancing back at the archway to compare.
Really pale pink, maybe.
Or yellow. I wish the moon were just a little brighter.
She eyed the bush a
moment longer, then bent and inhaled.

Her footsteps echoed down the
marble hall as she headed for Courtroom Five. This one was an open-and-shut
case. She had two eyewitnesses to the assault, and there were no questions of
admissibility of evidence. Samantha wasn't going to get her client off on a
technicality this time.
Adrian
smiled as she pushed open the courtroom door.

Stepping back,
Adrian
stared at the rose. She could still feel the echo of the bitter rivalry between
. . . herself? . . . and Sam. /
don't hate Sam,
she told herself. /
don't!
And her own treacherous mind whispered,
But you could.
Abruptly, she
swung toward the next bush. Without pausing to look at the flower, she buried
her nose in its petals.