Free Goddess of the Rose by P. C. Cast

Mikki sidled off, ignoring the director when he called insincere thanks and reminded her that she could pick up her tickets opening night at the Garden Center.

CHAPTER SEVEN
    I T took several minutes for Mikki’s cheeks to cool down. She could easily imagine the blazing red of her blush. Jeesh, what a humiliating experience! She left the sidewalk and retreated up the side of the gently sloping hill that would lead her to the uppermost entrance to the rose gardens. Shuffling her feet through the dry leaves that browned the soft grass of the park, Mikki tried to make sense of what had just happened. Everything had seemed fine—even fun—when she’d gone up onstage. Then she’d started reading her lines and . . . she looked down at the script that she had forgotten to leave behind. The light was too dim, and she couldn’t make out the words, but she didn’t have to read them to know that what had come out of her mouth had definitely not been what had been written on the script. She remembered all too well seeing the lines glow and then hearing them ring in her mind. She ran a shaky hand through her hair.
    What was happening to her? She should go home. Maybe she should call Nelly. If having a totally embarrassing hallucination in front of multiple people didn’t constitute an emergency of enormous girlfriend proportions, she didn’t know what did.
    Just then Mikki topped the little rise and came to a halt. The Tulsa Municipal Rose Gardens stretched before her like a familiar dream, comforting her frayed nerves. Just what exactly was so terrible about what she’d just done? What had really happened had probably more to do with three glasses of wine and being freaked out by suddenly being thrust onstage than with psychosis. She shoved the script into her purse. When she got home she’d reread Medea’s words. What she had said was probably close to the original text. She needed to quit being so hard on herself. It was ridiculous to focus on every little mistake she made and every little daydream she allowed herself. She grinned suddenly. She’d even pick up the free tickets and consider heckling diva Catie on opening night.
    Mikki felt the pull of her beloved gardens dissipate the last of her nervous stress as she gazed out across the expanse of roses. The gardens had been built in the shape of a gigantic tiered rectangle that always reminded Mikki of a huge, Italian wedding cake. There were five sections of terraced gardens, which climbed almost 900 feet from street level. Each tier was filled with row after row of meticulously tended roses. The gardens were styled after the gardens made popular during the Italian Renaissance, and amidst the more than 9,000 roses and imported statuary were Italian junipers, sheared by hand into formal, conical shapes, southern Magnolias, as well as deciduous holly and mugo pines.
    Each level also held its own distinctive water element. The gardens boasted everything from peaceful, deep reflective pools and ancient-looking spouting wall fixtures to the graceful, cascading fountain situated as the garden’s water showpiece in the magnificent center of the third and largest level.
    It was fully dark, and, unlike Woodward Park, the rose gardens didn’t have freestanding lights. Instead, each water feature was lit from underneath. The effect was spectacular. The gardens seemed to glow, suspended in the flickering illumination of rose-scented water. A whimsical breeze lifted Mikki’s thick hair, pulling her forward. Eagerly, she crossed the boundary between the two parks and drew in a deep breath. Roses filled her senses.
    â€œHeaven couldn’t smell any better,” she whispered.
    As if her feet made the choice for her, Mikki started down her favorite walkway, working her way slowly toward the center most garden area. Some nights the grounds remained filled with people almost until closing. They brought chairs and picnic baskets,