Author’s Note: While the Feast of the Immaculate Heart is observed in July according to the current Catholic calendar, the people of this story keep to an older calendar, where the Feast of the Immaculate Heart falls on August 22nd.
The garden was a riot of yellow Black-eyed Susans, white cosmos, and purple zinnias. The flowers overflowed their plots, long stems leaning for the sun and blocking uneven brick paths half-covered by grass. An arching trellis of red roses was overgrown, the heavy flowers hanging low.
The humming of bees vibrated the air. Beatrice could see them flying from one plant to another.
She hesitated at the rusty, iron gate. From her arm hung a basket. In the pocket of her apron was a pair of shears. The late summer sun felt hot against her green bonnet, prickling her forehead with sweat.
She needed to hurry. Preparations for the Festival of the Immaculate Heart were already underway. They celebrated it every year in thanksgiving for the great Mother of God keeping their town of Heartdale safe. And it was Beatrice’s task, that year, to collect flowers for the statue in the town square.
She could get them from the meadow on the north side of town. There was even a Flower Master, who made kept out weeds and who harvested seeds every autumn. She could choose whatever she liked without fear. Instead, she stood by the garden of the abandoned home that sat outside of Heartdale.
The old Firestone House, which once belonged to one of the town founders, had been empty for as long as Beatrice had been alive. At two stories, it must have been grand when it was cared for. It had a wrap-around porch and large front windows on the first floor. Just last winter, part of the roof caved in from snow. The paint peeled away in long strips.
It was forbidden to be near the place. Partially because of the house’s disrepair but also because rumor had it that a monster prowled the grounds. Not even mischievous boys would dare cross the weed-wild lawn to knock on the door or throw rocks at the few intact windows.
Behind the house, though, was the garden, which grew back wilder every spring. It tantalized Beatrice ever since she first caught a glimpse of it, as if it wanted her to wander its forgotten paths. Yet, the rumored monster…
Realizing that the longer she dithered, the less time she had, Beatrice passed through the gate, hinges squeaking loudly. It was the middle of the day, after all. Surely, it was safe.
The sound of bees and the sweet scent of roses enveloped her as she stepped carefully along the uneven paths. Finding a nice patch of Black-eyed Susans, she got to cutting.
Bees investigated her bonnet or crawled across her hand, but she ignored them. She didn’t fear them. Her neighbor had an apiary and Beatrice often helped him tend to his hives. Whenever she chose a new flower, she made sure there wasn’t a little worker gathering pollen. The bees eventually left her to her task, realizing that she was leaving them to theirs.
Before long, her basket burst with blooms. She had even cut some of the longer grasses with foamy ends. As she worked, she had gone deeper into the garden. The trellis stretched overhead in a large arch. Beyond it was the garden’s center, where stood a structure overtaken by ivy.
Tilting her head back, Beatrice contemplated the roses nearest to her. Our Lady loved roses. How could Beatrice make a bouquet for the Immaculata without them?
She set the basket at her feet, chose one of the roses, and cut it free with a snip.
The bees stopped buzzing. The birds in the trees and bushes went silent. She tensed, every nerve in her body suddenly screaming.
A shadow fell over Beatrice.
Heart in her throat, fingers trembling, she turned around.
The man towered over her. He was swathed in a black cloak, hood pulled low, and cold air wafted off him, chilling the late summer sunlight. His shoulders were broad, and he stood slightly hunched. All Beatrice could make of his face were piercing eyes that caught the light. For a long moment, neither spoke.
“What are you doing?” he asked, his voice low as thunder.
She swallowed hard. “I’m-I’m cutting roses for Our Lady. Today is her Feast. The festival starts tonight.”
“Is it that time again?” The man’s voice was soft, as if he spoke to himself. He looked toward the woods that began just on the other side of the stone garden walls. The Guardian Woods that only Rangers could enter.
“Yes, it is,” she replied.
Her heart throbbed in her chest at being startled. She gripped the shears in her hand, at the ready to use them, but the man only stood there. Her shoulders relaxed slightly.
Strangers were rare as fallen stars. Even the traders who came through three times a year, escorted by Rangers, were well-known to the townsfolk.
“Who are you?” she asked. “Where did you come from?”
The man looked back down at her. “I come from here. This is my home. This is my garden.” His voice deepened. “Those are my roses.” Repressed anger shivered over the air.
Her mouth went dry. “Sir, I didn’t think anyone lived—If I had known—I’m not a thief!”
The man slowly bent down and picked up the basket full of flowers. “Are you not? Strange. How did this come to be here?”
“But-but everyone knows this house is abandoned. Part of the roof has fallen in. How can anyone live there?”
The man snorted. “Don’t let your eyes fool you, child.”
“I’m not a child.” She had turned eighteen earlier that year, in fact.
He stared at her. Embarrassed, her gaze dropped to the hand holding the basket. Her eyes widened.
Wicked black claws curved from his fingers. Coarse fur covered the back of his hand.
The man dropped the basket, hiding his hand in his cloak. The basket hit the ground and tipped. The brilliant cargo spilled across the emerald grass.
“You may take your flowers and go,” he snapped. “But you’ve already cut a rose. How will you pay for it?”
“I don’t have any money.”
“That is just as well. I have no use for money.”
Her mind cast around for something to offer him. But she could not think of anything.
“I have nothing,” she whispered.
Silence for a few beats, then the man replied, “Very well. For every rose you take, you will come back and visit me.” He shifted slightly, settling weight onto one foot. “And I swear that, during your visits, you will be safe with me. No one and nothing will harm you. Including me.”
It was asking a lot, as she did not know this man or understand his intentions. She didn’t even understand how her eyes were fooling her. And this was no ordinary man.
However, the unanswered question of who this man was beckoned her, in the same way glimpses of the garden had. And if this person really wanted to hurt her, wouldn’t he have done so by now?
“All right,” she said. “I agree to your trade.”
She tucked her shears into her apron pocket and slowly extended her hand. She’d seen her father shake on deals. This seemed no different. The man stared at her hand but made no move to take it.
“How many roses would you like?” he asked.
She dropped her hand and looked at the rose she held. It was lovely, each petal perfect. Even the leaves were without flaws, free of any black spot mold.
“Only one would not do,” he said. “More than one will make a more pleasing bouquet.”
She hesitated and then thought, I’m already in a mess. I can’t make it worse. “May I have two more? That would give you three visits.”
“Very well.”
The nonchalance tone of his voice sounded forced, even to Beatrice. Did visits matter that much to him? Why?
“Thank you,” she replied.
She chose two more roses to cut, careful of the thorns. She held them to her chest as she faced the stranger.
He said, “What is your name?”
“Beatrice O’Brien.”
He bowed slightly. “Return here in a week, Beatrice. I will meet you under the roses.” His voice took on a hard edge. “If you go against your promise, there will be consequences.”
“But what is your—”
The man vanished as quickly as he appeared. The sound of bees and birdsong washed over her in a rush, like water surging to fill an empty vessel.
Beatrice looked around, but she saw no sign of the stranger. She gathered her flowers and left, weaving through the rampant overgrowth until she was through the gate and free.
Everyone loved the flowers. They were placed in a large crystal vase that stood at the foot of the marble statue. Our Lady, holding her heart out with one hand while cradling a sleeping Christ Child in the other, smiled down at her children as they ate, drank, danced, and sang.
Mass had been held in the old stone church, the Rangers in their grey coats filling up the first three pews. After Mass, they processed out and Beatrice placed the vase of flowers to the applause of all.
“Where did you find the roses?” asked more than one person, sometimes with a tinge of jealousy.
But Beatrice only smiled and shook her head. “A secret spot.”
She didn’t want anyone to know she had broken the rules. She certainly didn’t want someone to go to the house to cut roses and be met by that tall, terrible man. Her mind flashed back on his hand, on those claws.
If he even was a man…
A Ranger in a grey coat settled in the empty chair beside her at one of the banquet tables. She’d been sitting with her friends, but several of them had gotten up to go dance. She was picking at the remains of a spice cake, thinking about the garden.
“I hope,” he said, “those roses didn’t come from the Woods.”
With a squeal, Beatrice flung her arms around the neck of the man. He hugged her back.
“Sorry it took so long to get to you,” Arthur said, releasing her. “But it seemed everyone wanted to talk to me.”
“Well, you did just make lieutenant.”
He tweaked one of her braids. “Second lieutenant. And that doesn’t make my sister any less important.”
“Have you talked to Ma and Papa?”
“Oh, yes.” He looked over to where their father was having a lively discussion with other millworkers.
The millworker wives stood off to the side, chatting. Beatrice easily spotted the bright blue flower in their mother’s hair. Their father had tucked it there before they left the house.
“So,” Beatrice said, “did they tell you?”
“That they want me to marry Priscilla?” Arthur snorted. “They told me.”
Beatrice’s gaze roved the crowd. It took a moment, but she spotted Priscilla with two other girls, admiring strings of beads at a merchant’s stall.
“She’s nice,” Beatrice ventured, unsure of how her brother felt about the arrangement.
“She is. And a good cook, an excellent seamstress, devout, and all the things an up-and-coming officer in the Rangers could possibly want.”
Even a deaf person would have heard the bitterness in his voice.
“Do you have your eye on someone else?” she asked.
“No. But a man should be able to choose his own wife.”
Silence on the heels of that. Marriages were typically arranged in Heartdale. Sometimes, there was love beforehand, but not always. It wasn’t so with their parents. That seemed to have worked out well.
He nudged her with his elbow. “You didn’t answer me about those roses.”
“Are they that strange?”
“Bea, they are perfect. No one in town has roses like that.”
“You’ve been in the Woods too long. You see witchery everywhere.”
“Bea.” He frowned at her. He had their father’s dark brown, almost black, eyes. With his small mustache and close-cut hair, he looked every inch a military man.
She sighed. No one sat close to them, and the music was loud, but she lowered her voice anyway. “I cut them from a trellis at the old Firestone House.”
His eyes widened. “You did what?”
“The garden was so beautiful and I’ve always wanted visit it and…”
Arthur groaned, rubbing his face with one hand. “Bea, no one is supposed to approach that house. You know this.”
“I thought that was only because the house is close to falling in on itself. The garden is outside of the house, anyway.” Suddenly eager, she leaned closer to him. “What do you know about the house?”
“That it’s cursed. Did anything happen to you there?”
Beatrice thought about the man, and her promise to return. She looked over at the statue, at the crystal vase. The three roses were like three large drops of blood against the yellow, purple, and pink of the other flowers.
Arthur gasped her hand. “This is serious. What happened when you cut the flowers?”
She hesitated and thought about the man. He could have demanded anything. Instead, he asked for her presence. Something in her heart softened.
“Nothing.” Beatrice pulled her hand free. “Nothing happened.”
He stared down at her. She boldly met his eyes.
With a sigh, he shook his head. “Just don’t go back there.”
“Why is it cursed?”
“Well, you know one of the town’s founding families used to live there, right?”
She nodded. Over a hundred years ago, their forebears were on a wagon train bound for the coast, but they lost their way. The leading family, the Firestones, had bravely led them through the woods. It had been a harrowing journey, complete with monsters, demons, and angelic apparitions. It culminated with the Virgin Mary, Immaculate Heart ablaze, showing them the location of their new home. It wasn’t the coast, but the ground was fertile and the travelers weary.
“They say,” Arthur said, “that Emmerich Firestone angered the dark forces in the Woods, who cursed not only him but his whole family. They are monsters, now, lurking the grounds at night. That’s the story, anyway. All we know is that one day, the family was there and the next day, they weren’t. People who went to investigate, who went into the house, did not return.”
Beatrice’s stomach knotted. Had that been Emmerich Firestone she had spoken to? No, that was impossible.
“Well,” she said, fiddling with her fork, “it’s a good thing I went in the middle of the day and didn’t go inside.”
“Maybe so. But don’t go back. Promise me.”
She tried not to squirm. She loved her older brother. He was brave, strong, and good. Her gaze flicked back to the roses.
“Bea?” He shook her arm. “I mean it.”
She licked her lips, avoiding his gaze. “I understand.”
He smiled. Someone called his name. They both looked over. Their parents stood by the dance floor, Priscilla at their side.
Arthur sighed.
Beatrice nudged him. “Go on. Maybe you’ll like her, after all.”
“Maybe.” He smiled at her and tweaked another braid.
She laughed, smacking his hand. He laughed as well and got up. His coat rippled behind him as he strode over to the dance floor.
Beatrice couldn’t help feeling a little sorry for him. It would be nice to marry solely for love. She looked back at the roses, her gaze traveling up to the tender gazes of the Holy Mother.
Am I doing the wrong thing? she prayed.
The statue made no answer.
Yay, it's up! I'm so excited for this serial. The lore with the Woods and the Rangers is intriguing (how rare is it to see rangers used right!) and I'm very interested to see the full story behind the curse.
I love so many things about this opening chapter! Your descriptions of the garden were beautiful, but you did a fantastic job of making it ominous right from the start. I’m very intrigued by the woods, the rangers, and the story of the town (it reminds me a little bit of Encanto, which is a favorite in our house these days 😊). And I’m so happy (and intrigued) that her visits are by her own consent. I can’t wait for the next installment!