Miranda automatically turned right at the end of the hallway, ignoring the maid’s distressed cooing and fluttering hands. The table and decoration had changed, but she knew exactly where to turn.
Nothing would replace the chip she’d taken out of the red stone block just at child-height, courtesy of an illicit practice session in human form. Her partner’s suit of armor had been packed away after all the dents it had received.
She eyed Greystone. “You told me everything would be fine. No one would know.”
He sighed and sat back on his haunches. “I didn’t think you’d shatter an historic sword. No one told you to go after the wall.”
“We were practicing invaders!” She choked an instant later, wishing she could claw back her words. If only Father had practiced with us.
“Perhaps you should focus on the maidservant,” Greystone whispered gently. His sharp eyes softened, and he let out a soft mrrp as he nudged her toward the woman. She ran a light claw over his ears and turned around to find the woman still babbling and waving her arms.
She raised an arm, and the woman – girl? – cut off midstream with an odd gulping noise. “My room has always been this way.” Miranda gestured toward the direction she’d automatically turned. “Third down on the right.”
“Security reasons, mum. I mean, your highness. Everyone knew where you used to be. And your old room wasn’t impressive. Good for a child, mum, but not the heir.” The girl clutched her apron with hands already work-roughened and tilted her chin up in defiance. “Wouldn’t be proper, mum.”
Miranda could tell she wouldn’t sway the girl. “Carry on, then. I’d like to stop by and see it sometime, though.”
“Diplomat from K’farr is staying there right now, mum.” She turned around with a swish of skirts and headed in what would forever be the wrong direction, toward where Miranda’s father and brother’s quarters had been.
She followed the bobbing brown braid with reluctance. Greystone glanced at her and smoothly moved past to carry on a murmured conversation she ignored, lost in the memories of carved stone and twisted hallways.
“Here we are, mum.” The girl stopped in front of her brother’s quarters.
The heir’s suite. The words burned through her brain, leaving only ash behind. She could taste it, dry and bitter on her tongue, as unlike the brilliant bite of dragon fire as the sun and moons were apart.
It took a nudge from Greystone to return to her senses. “Thank you, my dear. I’m sure this will be lovely.”
A sniff. “Much more suitable, mum. Since you didn’t bring luggage, we’ll be doing for you shortly. In the meantime, just ring for me if you need anything. I’m Anslee.”
“Thank you.” But the girl was off in a whirl already.
Miranda turned and stared into the room, once familiar. She knew it in her brother’s colors. Now it was crimson and grey, the familial blaze prominent. There had been enough time to prep for her arrival, although she had no doubt the servants would have managed some form of redecoration no matter the time allotted. Even if they had to delay her by taking the long way through the castle.
She’d have to have some words with her brother about his priorities.
There was even a bed for Greystone, big enough to fit his snow leopard form and sumptuous enough to leave a paw print behind as he bounced off it into the other rooms.
She stared at the nightstand by the bed, where a single flower rested in a cut-crystal vase, gleaming with every flicker of the nearby lantern.
No, Miranda thought, and her feet drew nearer involuntarily. It’s the flower itself. The golden interior of the red rose glowed and scintillated, and the sight of it had her reaching for the bedpost’s stability.
The sweet, floral scent grew overwhelming, and she had no idea how she’d missed it until now. Her stomach turned, to the point where she wished she were in human form to get rid of the nausea in the fastest elimination method possible.
“Clear,” Greystone reported back. He skidded on enormous, spotted paws and flicked his ears back in alarm. “What’s wrong?”
She pointed to the rose. The rose that only belonged to the royal family, that bloomed year round, from a single enclave cared for by a hereditary clan of gardeners.
The rose didn’t care what Miranda had been or done in the past. It only glowed golden in the center for the legitimate successor to the throne.
Nothing could have made her feel more alone in the world.
“I never wanted to be the heir,” she whispered.
***
This week’s prompt came from Cedar Sanderson: “The golden interior of the red rose glowed and scintillated.”
I had several ideas for this one, including a Professor Porter story, but it didn’t feel right. That world is grittier, and tends not to have roses. Maybe someday. The other idea was about a magical artifact that is a rose, and wound up making its way into the above in a different format.
My prompt went to nother Mike, who wrote about the headbanging accordion player. Check it – and the weekly challenge – out at Odd Prompts!
