The Castle Behind Thorns by Merrie Haskell Page B

Sand felt heat rise in his cheeks.
    â€œI’m strong enough,” he said. “And Grandpère always says blacksmithing takes strength of eyes and mind more than strength of arm. I’m plenty strong enough in arm. You are strong enough.”
    She looked dubious. “Still,” she said. “It is hard to see Gilles as a blacksmith, let alone an old man with a boy my own age.”
    â€œThen maybe what you lack to be a smith is not strength of arm but strength of vision,” Sand snapped.
    â€œI have terrific vision!” she announced. “I can see eight stars among the Pleaides.”
    Whatever that meant.
    â€œNot vision of the eyes. Vision like imagination,” he said. “You—” He stopped himself from saying something mean.
    Fortunately for both of them, Perrotte changed the subject. Patting her hair, she asked, almost off-handedly, “So, the Countess. She knows I’m alive?”
    Sand straightened his sleeves. “That would be impossible,” he said. “No one knows you’re alive. At the moment, no one knows I am alive. We’re trapped in this castle. There’s an impenetrable wall of thorns surrounding this place.”
    If he had expected her to have a horrified reaction to this news, he was sorely disappointed. She just made a sideways grimace with half her mouth, and said, “Impenetrable? I doubt that very much, Alexandre.”
    â€œCall me Sand,” he said, as was his habit when addressed by his full name. He almost swallowed his tongue in an effort not to stick it out at her.
    â€œAnd you must remember to address me as ‘my lady.’”
    He just bared his teeth in response, a fake smile. He would not stick his tongue out at her. But no way in Heaven was he doing anything she told him.

9
    Hook
    E VEN THOUGH S AND WAS SURE THAT P ERROTTE WAS his age, he found himself trailing after her like she was one of his littlest sisters and he’d been set to child-minding duty. Certainly she was taller than a toddler, though no less obstinate, and honestly, she walked about as well. She had not regained her full strength, and she stumbled at times, weaving back and forth as she made her way through the castle.
    He refused to offer her his arm at first. She would not take his advice to stay in bed, to trust him that nothing she would see today could not be seen tomorrow—just unpeopled rooms full of dryness, stillness, and broken things. But she trudged on, stubbornly clinging to walls to rebalance herself on the way, peering into rooms as if hoping each time to see someone, something. . . .
    Finally, he couldn’t stand the situation anymore, and offered her his arm for support—but she refused him. She just marched on, all the way from inner courtyard to middle to outer, down to the castle’s gates.
    At the end of the passageway to the outermost gate, Perrotte flung open the night portal and stared silently at the wall of thorns. When she reached for them, Sand swatted her hand away. “Don’t touch!”
    Exactly like minding a toddler.
    She jerked her hand back and glared at him. “You. Do not. Touch me.”
    â€œIt’s just—” He pulled up his sleeve and showed her the purple-red scar on his arm. It was hard to make out in the dim light of the tunnel, but the scar appeared puffier than usual. It also itched horribly just then. He scratched it. “One of the thorns got me, and I almost died from it.” He didn’t know how to explain any better.
    Perrotte looked dubious, but kept her hands folded as she bent forward to examine the thorns. One branch of the brake lifted slightly—it could have been the wind, but it could just as easily have been some malevolence—and snagged at her head, catching her small cloth cap and a few trailing tendrils of her hair.
    â€œOw!” Perrotte said, and lifted her hand to her head to disentangle herself.
    â€œNo,