Free Beauty by Robin McKinley

through the tall leaded windows and splashed on the floor. His clothes had been cleaned, and were folded neatly over the back of the red velvet chair; and for his coarse shirt, a fine linen one had been substituted. His boots and breeches looked new, and his cloak was mysteriously healed of its travel tears and stains. There were tea and toast and an elegantly poached egg on the little table, and a rust-coloured chrysanthemum floating in a crystal bowl.
    There was still no sign of his host, and he grew anxious. He wanted to be on his way, but he did not wish to leave without expressing his gratitude to someone—and furthermore he still had no idea where he
    was, and would have liked to ask directions. He went outside, and then into the stable, where he found his horse relaxed and comfortable, pulling at wisps of hay. The tack outside the stall had been cleaned and mended, and the bits and buckles were polished till they sparkled. He went outside again, and looked around; went round the corner of the castle and stared across more gardens, and grassy fields beyond. The snow had disappeared entirely, and the green was the green of early summer. Far across the fields he saw the black border of the wood, and as he strained his eyes something shiny winked at him, something that might be another gate. “Very well,” he said aloud. “I will go that way.”
    He went back into the stable, and saddled the horse, who looked at him reproachfully. He took a last look around the courtyard before riding out, and in a moment of whimsy stood up in his stirrups and bowed to the great front doors. “Thank you very much,” he said. “After a night’s rest here —at least I’m assuming it was only a night—I feel better than I have in years. Thank you.” There was no answer.
    He jogged slowly through the gardens. The horse was as fresh and frisky as a youngster, and suited his own light-hearted mood. The thought of the forest held no terror for him; he was certain he would easily find a way out of it; and perhaps tonight he would be with his family again. He was distracted from
    his pleasant musings by a walled garden opening off the path to his right; the wall was waist-high, and covered with the largest and most beautiful climbing roses that he had ever seen. The garden was full of them; inside the rose-covered wall were rows of bushes: white roses, red roses, yellow, pink, flame-colour, maroon; and a red so dark it was almost black.
    This arbour of roses seemed somehow different from
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    the great gardens that lay all around the castle, but different in some fashion he could not define. The castle and its gardens were everywhere silent and beautifully kept; but there was a self-containment, even
    almost a self-awareness here, that was reflected in the petals of each and every rose, and drew his eyes from the path.
    He dismounted, and walked in through a gap in the wall, the reins in his hand; the smell of these flowers was wilder and sweeter than that of poppies. The ground was carpeted with petals, and yet none
    of the flowers were dead or dying; they ranged from buds to the fullest bloom, but all were fresh and lovely. The petals he and the horse trampled underfoot took no bruise.
    “I hadn’t managed to get you any rose seeds in the city, Beauty,” Father continued. “I bought peonies, marigolds, tulips; but the only roses to be had were cuttings or bushes. I even thought of bringing
    a bush in a saddlebag, like a kidnapped baby.”
    “It doesn’t matter, Father,” I said.
    His failure to find rose seeds for his youngest daughter was recalled to his mind as he gazed at the gorgeous riot before him, and he thought: I must be within a day’s journey of home. Surely I could pick a bud—just one flower—and if I carried it very carefully, it would survive a few hours’ journey. These are so beautiful: They’re finer than any we had in our city garden—finer than any I’ve ever seen. So he stooped and plucked a bud of a