Mccormick Templeman - The Glass Casket

“No!” he howled. “You can’t leave me. Please, no!”

But she only held a finger to her lips. “Shhh,” she whispered, and then she closed her eyes.

Rowan watched as Fiona faded before her, shriveling, twisting as if burning from within, and then an awful cloud of smoke rose from the ground, and Rowan had to turn away and cover her mouth to keep from choking on the fumes. When she looked again, Fiona Eira was gone, now nothing more than a mound of white ash piled atop the snow.

Reaching into the ash with his good arm, gasping at the pain, Tom swept his hand through it, looking for something, anything. And then, collapsing completely, he curled into a ball. Hands to his face, he wailed, a cry that would ring in Rowan’s ears for years to come.

AFTER PLACING THEIRcinnamon at the Mouth of the Goddess, Rowan and Jude made their way down Cairn Hill to Seelie Lake. It had been three months since Rowan had laid her father to rest, and still she experienced the pain of his loss as if each day he were torn from her anew.

They were leaving Nag’s End, invited by the queen herself to the palace city. Rowan, hesitant to leave her village, had promised her brethren that they’d return shortly, but Jude had a sense that the journey that lay ahead of them would bring a grander adventure than either could anticipate. He, like Rowan, was hungry to see the world, and so certain was he that her destiny was larger than the limits of Nag’s End that he was simply happy to go where the winds might take them.

Hand in hand, they made their way along the banks of the crystalline lake, their boots slipping through the fresh green shoots of grass. Above them, the trees were waking, stretching out beneath the warmth of the vernal sun.

Tom was healing well, and walked now with the help of a staff, but still Jude worried for his brother. The villagers, sympathetic to the plight of the broken boy, had helped him build his own small cottage at the base of Lover’s Leap. He was intent on the spot, for it was atop that fated slate rock, where nothing ought to grow, that there had come to sprout a bright green sapling. It grew fast and it grew wild, and already rich red roses blossomed upon it.

As soon as Tom’s cottage came into Rowan’s view, Pema burst out of the front door. Eyes glittering, tongue wagging, and bounding across the fertile banks of the lakeshore, she threw herself at Rowan and licked her face.

A moment later, Tom appeared, shuffling toward them with his walking stick, and Rowan couldn’t help but feel he’d aged a lifetime since Fiona’s death. It wasn’t just his injury. The eyes that looked out from that now-wizened face were those of a man who already knew things about the world that most people never learn.

“Heading off now?” Tom called.

“We are,” Rowan said, rubbing the dog’s head. “You and Pema getting along well, then?”

“Aye,” said Tom, turning back toward his cottage. “Birds of a feather.”

Pema, spotting a large crow, set off after it, and Jude and Rowan followed Tom to his cottage. Inside it was pleasant and warm. On the small wooden table, Tom set out tea and lemon cake, and together the three ate and enjoyed one another’s company.

When they’d had their fill, they said their farewells.

“Take care of each other,” Tom said.

Rowan felt a stab to her chest, and she couldn’t help but wonder who would take care of Tom. And then something caught her eye.

“There’s a white one,” she said, pointing up to the rose tree.

“What?” Jude asked, trying to see what she meant.

“On the rose tree,” she said. “Among the red blossoms, there’s a single white rose.” And as soon as the words graced her lips, she understood.

“You’d better be off now,” Tom said, looking at Rowan with the smile of a man who has had his fill of adventure and is now eager for his friend to have hers.

She hugged him close, her heart breaking for the boy he’d once been. And then, letting go, she took Jude by the hand. Together, the pair set off through the trees.

From the front of his cottage, Tom watched the lovers go, his spirit filled with joy. He looked up at the young rose tree that arched over the edge of the cliff, and he closed his eyes. There are some men who love only once, and Tom Parstle was such a man.

A turn in the weather caused Tom to open his eyes just in time to see the solitary white rose among its red sisters drop a single petal. Caught on a breeze, it flitted through the air, dancing in the morning light before landing in the palm of his hand. Tom smiled to himself, and gently folded his fingers around the petal. Then, slowly, with the solitude of a man whose tale was never told, he went inside, closing the door behind him.

Enormous thanks to:

Krista Marino, the most astoundingly brilliant editor a girl could dream of having. This book is every bit as much her doing as it is mine. To Beverly Horowitz, Angela Carlino, and the rest of the amazing Delacorte Press team. To Kate Garrick, Brian DeFiore, Madelyn Mahon, and everyone else at DeFiore and Company.

Thanks to all the writers, teachers, and friends who helped with the book: Keith Abbott, Duncan Barlow, Jocelyn Camp, Julie Caplan, Camille DeAngelis, Sam Hansen, Patricia Hernandez, Kristen Kittscher, Jay Kristoff, Jennifer Laughran, Alex Raben, Isak Sjursen, Teddy Templeman, and Andrew Wille.