Thorns Of Her Reborn

Saffron Thorne's emerald gown caught the light from the crystal chandeliers.

She stood by the marble railing above the ballroom of the Sterling Waterfront Estate. She held a glass of sparkling water, still half full. Below her, two hundred of Aethelgard Bay's richest investors drifted through the room. Their laughter mixed with the soft sound of a string quartet.

Across the floor stood Vivienne Sterling.

Vivienne wore a white silk dress. Her dark hair was pulled back tight. She smiled for a press photographer, but her eyes were cold and empty.

Saffron opened her clutch and took out a small dried flower. It was a pale blue Alpine Star. The petals were thin and faded with age. She rolled the stem between her fingers. Her hazel eyes never left Vivienne.

This woman had taken her child. This woman had killed her grandmother and burned her home.

Look at me, Vivienne, Saffron thought. Her jaw was so tight that her cheekbones showed. You think you own this city. You think the dead stay buried.

Four years ago, Saffron Thorne did not exist. Five years ago, there was only Lyra Vance, a girl who thought the world ended where the mountain woods did.

Five Years Earlier - Pine Crest.

The rain in Pine Crest never fell softly. It came down hard and sideways. It rattled the tin roof of the nursery greenhouse.

Lyra Vance stood at the wooden potting bench. Her hands were covered in wet soil. She was cutting dead leaves off a tray of winter ferns. The air smelled of damp earth, cold rain, and cedar.

Outside, something hit the wooden fence by the road. It made a heavy thud.

Lyra stopped. Her shears hovered over a pot of lavender. She wiped her forehead with her sleeve and left a smear of clay on her skin. Then she listened.

She heard a low groan under the rain. It sounded wet and rough.

She threw a wool shawl over her shoulders and took an iron lantern from the hook by the door and stepped into the muddy driveway. The wind whipped her dark curls across her face and cold rain stung her eyes.

Near the broken gate of the lavender bed, a man lay on his side in the mud.

He was broad-shouldered. His dark wool coat was soaked with rain and blood. His left arm was wrapped around his stomach. His fingers dug into his side.

Lyra knelt in the wet grass and put the lantern on a flat stone.

"Mister? Can you hear me?"

The man groaned. His head rolled back into the dirt. His face was white as chalk. A deep cut ran along his jaw. Even covered in blood and rain, his face was striking. He had a sharp jaw and long dark lashes.

Lyra pushed his coat open.

His white undershirt was soaked red. The white cotton undershirt beneath was drenched in dark, sticky crimson. A long, jagged cut ran along his right side, just below his rib cage, oozing fresh blood with every shallow breath he dragged into his lungs.

"Nana!" Lyra screamed over the wind. She pressed both hands hard against the wound. It was hot and slick. "Nana, bring hot water! There's a man bleeding in the garden!"

The man's eyes snapped open. They were storm-gray and wild. They were full of fear. His hand shot out of the mud and clamped around her wrist like iron.

"Don't," he rasped. His voice sounded like stones grinding together. "No police."

"You're bleeding to death," Lyra said. Her wrist ached under his grip.

"No police," he said again. His fingers tightened until her skin turned white. Then his eyes rolled back. His hand fell away, and he went limp in the mud.

Lyra did not wait. She grabbed him under the arms. Her boots slid in the wet clay. She dragged the heavy stranger toward the warm yellow light of the porch.

She did not know his name was Dominic Sterling. She did not know his own family had sent hitmen after him. She only knew he was bleeding on her grandmother's flowers.

She had no way of knowing that saving him would cost her everything.

The kitchen smelled of damp wood, sage, and blood.

The storm had knocked out the power. A single kerosene lamp threw long, shaky shadows across the low ceiling. Rain pushed through the gap under the back door and left a wet line on the floor.

Lyra and Nana lifted the stranger onto the long kitchen table. He was heavy. Lyra's arms shook by the time they were done. His wool coat lay on the floor in a heap. It was soaking in a puddle of pink water.

Nana filled a pot with water and set it on the stove. Her apron still had flour on it. Her hands were steady, but her eyes were wide when she looked at his torn shirt.

"Who is he, Lyra?" she asked in a low voice.

"I don't know." Lyra wiped her bloody hands on a dish towel. "He was in the mud by the lavender. He said no police."

"No police usually means trouble," Nana said. She looked at his hands. "And those aren't a farmer's hands, child."

Lyra looked. His fingers were long, and his nails were clean. A heavy silver ring sat on his right forefinger. Even unconscious, his face looked hard. His jaw was sharp as stone.

She picked up the garden shears and cut his undershirt open down the middle.

The wound was a long, deep slash across his right side, low on his ribs, just above the hip. It was about five inches long. Blood ran down his side and soaked the waistband of his trousers. The skin around the cut was red and swollen, and it was full of grit from the driveway.

"It's a knife cut," Nana said. She pressed gently on his stomach. It felt soft under her fingers. She checked his lips. There was no blood in his mouth. "It went across, not in. That's good. If it had gone deep into his belly, he'd be dead by now."

"Should we take him to the clinic?" Lyra whispered. She already knew the answer. The nearest one was an hour down the mountain. The road had flooded two hours ago.

"Not tonight," Nana said. "Clean it well. If dirt stays in there, a fever will take him by morning."

Nana dropped a curved needle into the boiling pot. She added a spool of black silk thread.

Lyra dipped a rag in warm water, wrung it out, and pressed it to the cut.

The man's whole body went stiff. His gray eyes flew open. He gasped. Before Lyra could move, his right hand shot out and closed around her throat.

"Let... go," Lyra choked. She grabbed at his wrist.

"Where..." His voice was dry and rough. His eyes jumped around the room. He saw the dried herbs hanging from the beams. He saw the iron stove. He saw the old woman by the table.

"Pine Crest," Lyra forced out. Her boots scraped the floor. "You're safe. Let go of my throat."

He stared at her. His eyes moved over her dark curls, the dirt on her forehead, and her wide hazel eyes. She was scared and angry at the same time.

Slowly, his fingers loosened. His arm dropped onto the table.

"Sorry," he said. His chest heaved. Sweat ran down his forehead. "Instinct."

"Bad instinct." Lyra rubbed her neck. "I'm trying to save your life. Grab me again and I'll leave you outside."

The corner of his mouth moved. It was almost a smile, and it was gone fast. "Fair."

Nana lifted the needle out of the pot with a spoon and let it cool. Then she held it out to Lyra.

"You do it," she said. "My eyes are too old for small stitches. If he fights, hold him down."

"I've never stitched a person," Lyra said.

"You've grafted rose stems for ten years. It's the same work." Nana's voice was calm. "Go slow."

"I won't fight," the man whispered. He shut his eyes. "Just finish it."

Lyra poured a little boiled water over the wound to rinse it. She picked the grit out with clean tweezers. Then she took a breath and pushed the needle through his skin.

He didn't scream. His jaw locked. A muscle jumped in his cheek. His knuckles went white on the edge of the table. He made no sound at all.

Lyra worked slowly at first. Her hands shook. Then they settled. She pulled each stitch tight and closed the cut one stitch at a time. The bleeding slowed. Then it stopped.

When she tied the last knot, the rain had softened to a steady drizzle on the glass.

The man's breathing grew deep and slow. He had passed out.

Lyra stepped back and wiped her forehead on her arm. Her hands were still shaking. She felt in his wet coat pocket for a wallet or an ID. She wanted a name.

She found none. There was no license and no phone.

She found a thick roll of hundred-dollar bills with a rubber band around it. She found a heavy brass key with a number stamped on it.

"Nothing," she said quietly. She put the money on the counter. She did not take a single bill.

Nana pulled a dry blanket up over the man's chest. "Nobody walks around with that much cash and a wound like that for honest reasons," she said. "At sunrise, we give him dry clothes and send him down the mountain."

Lyra looked at his sleeping face. In the lamplight, the hard lines of his jaw looked softer.

"He needs a few days, Nana. He can barely stand."

"Trouble doesn't wait for a man to stand, child." Nana touched her shoulder. "I had a nephew who went down the mountain. He came back with new shoes and a quiet voice. Men like that bring fire wherever they go."

Lyra looked up. "You never talk about him."

"No," Nana said. "I don't."

The third morning broke cold and bright over Pine Crest.

The rain had finally cleared. The mountain air smelled of wet pine needles and damp earth. Sunbeams cut through the greenhouse glass and warmed the soil where Lyra knelt, repotting a tray of winter seedlings.

Behind her, the floorboards of the back porch creaked.

Lyra didn't turn around, but her hands slowed over the soil. She knew his footsteps by now. They were heavy and slow, and he favored his right side.

"You shouldn't be out of bed," she said, wiping her thumb on her apron. "The stitches are only two days old."

"The air in the house is too still," Jason said.

Two days ago, she had asked his name. He had waited a long moment before he answered. Then he said, "Jason." She had the feeling he'd had to think about it.

He leaned against the doorframe. He wore an old flannel shirt that had belonged to Nana's late husband. It was tight across his shoulders. His face was still pale, but color had come back to his lips. His gray eyes moved slowly over the greenhouse.

Every morning, Lyra checked the cut. It was clean. There was no fever. Nana had stopped saying he should go at sunrise. She had started saying nothing at all.

Jason walked over slowly, holding his side. He stopped beside her potting bench. His eyes landed on a small wooden flat sitting in the sunlight-a delicate plant with star-shaped, pale blue petals.

"Alpine Star," Jason murmured, his voice low. "I haven't seen one of those since I was a boy in the north."

Lyra looked up, surprised. "They only grow near the frost line. Nana brought the seeds down from the high ridge thirty years ago. Most people think they're just weeds."

"They're not weeds," he said softly, his thumb gently touching the edge of a blue petal without bruising it. "They survive where nothing else grows."

He looked at her then. He really looked at her. His eyes were dark and hard to read. For two days he had said almost nothing about where he came from or why he had a knife wound in his side. But whenever Lyra walked into a room, his eyes followed her.

"You saved my life, Lyra," he said.

"Anyone would have." She kept her voice light and pressed fresh soil around a seedling.

"No." He stepped closer. She could smell cedar soap and the sharp smell of the ointment on his skin. "Not where I come from. Where I come from, people step over a bleeding man to get to the curb."

Lyra's breath caught. His face was only inches from hers. Something in him frightened her. It was something heavy and dangerous. But under it she felt something broken. It made her want to touch his cheek.

"Then I'm glad you ended up in my garden," she whispered.

He reached out and wiped a smear of soil from her cheekbone. His fingers were warm and rough, and his touch was very gentle. Her heart pounded. He leaned down until his forehead rested against hers. They stayed like that for one long breath.

"You shouldn't be kind to me," he murmured into her hair. "It's dangerous."

He kissed her then, slowly, as if he expected her to stop him. She didn't.

That night, she did not send him back to the cot by the stove.

In the morning, the kitchen was empty.

Lyra opened the door at dawn. The stove was cold. The blanket on the cot was folded neatly. His heavy coat was gone. The brass key was gone from the counter.

Two things sat on the kitchen table.

The thick roll of hundred-dollar bills lay untouched under a glass mug.

Beside it, freshly cut from the greenhouse bed, lay a single pale blue Alpine Star, its stem resting against a small piece of torn paper.

Lyra picked up the paper with shaking fingers. Three words were written in a sharp, dark scrawl:

Forget me, Lyra.

She pressed the blue flower to her lips. Tears filled her eyes. She looked out at the foggy, empty driveway.

He had left with the stitches still in. They needed another week at least. She stood there and thought about the cut, and whether it was already hurting him.

Nana came in behind her. She looked at the table, then at Lyra's face. She said nothing. She put the kettle on and set a cup in front of Lyra.

Nana looked at the roll of money under the mug. "Put that somewhere dry," she said. "Money like that has a way of coming back for its owner."

Lyra put it in a biscuit tin at the back of the pantry. She did not want to touch it again.

Four weeks passed.

The mountain autumn turned cold. The birch leaves fell in rust-colored heaps. Jason did not come back. But every morning, Lyra woke up sick. The nausea sat heavy in her chest, and her knees shook over the washbasin.

On a gray Tuesday afternoon, she sat on the bench behind the greenhouse. A pregnancy test lay beside her. She had bought it at the pharmacy in the valley and had not told anyone. Two pink lines showed on it.

Pregnant.

Fear hit her first. Then something fierce and warm came behind it. She put her hand over her stomach.

"Jason," she whispered into the cold wind.

That evening, Nana switched on the small old television in the living room for the six o'clock regional news.

Lyra sat at the table folding dish towels. The anchor's voice cut through the quiet:

"...authorities in Aethelgard Bay have called off the search after last Thursday's explosion near the south piers. Dominic Sterling, age twenty-eight, heir to Sterling Logistics, is now presumed dead..."

Lyra dropped the towel.

She turned slowly to the screen. A photograph of a man filled it. He wore a sharp dark suit. His hair was brushed back. His eyes looked straight into the camera.

It was Jason.

"...Police say shots were fired during a meeting on Mr. Sterling's yacht before the vessel caught fire. His wife, Vivienne Sterling, has asked for privacy for the family..."

The room seemed to tilt. Lyra could not breathe. The screen showed a woman in a black veil outside a cathedral. Her face was white and still, like marble.

His wife.

Lyra gripped the edge of the table. Her knuckles went white. Her hands shook so hard that the saucer rattled.

Behind her, Nana had gone very still. "That's him," Nana said. Her voice was thin. "That's the man from our kitchen."

Lyra could not answer. She pressed her hand flat against her stomach. The two pink lines burned in her mind. She stared at the face of the dead billionaire. He was the man who had held her in the sunlight, left a wildflower on her table, and walked back into his world of blood and money.

Lyra took the first bus down the mountain. She had told Nana she was going to the clinic in the valley. It was the first lie she had told her grandmother in years. Nana had looked at her for a long moment over the rim of her teacup. Then she had said, "Wear your scarf," and nothing more. Lyra found two dry crackers in her coat pocket on the way out. She did not ask why they were there.

The bus rattled through the pine forest and out onto the coast road. Lyra sat by the window with her hands in her lap. She had not slept. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the face on the television.

She had not planned to go to the funeral. For three days she had told herself to forget it. He had asked her to, in his own handwriting. But she could not do it. She needed to see for herself that he was really gone. She did not know why that mattered so much. She only knew that it did.

Halfway there, the nausea came back. She ate one of the crackers and watched the road.

It took three hours to reach Aethelgard Bay. She had been to the city only twice in her life. Tall glass towers stood along the harbor. The air smelled of salt and diesel. Gulls cried over the water. Everything was loud and fast, and no one looked at her.

The cathedral stood at the top of a wide set of stone steps. Two news vans were parked outside. A police barrier held back a small crowd. The funeral would be held the next day, but the doors were open for a private viewing. A man in a dark suit stood at the entrance. He looked at her coat, then at her face. Her eyes were red and swollen from the bus ride and the crying she had done on the way.

"Here to pay respects?" he asked.

"Yes."

He nodded toward a table inside the door. A guest book lay open there with a pen beside it. Lyra picked up the pen. She held it over the page. She could not make herself write her name. She put it down and walked on.

The cathedral in Aethelgard Bay was cool and dim. It smelled of candle wax and white lilies. Staff in dark suits stood along the walls. Cameras sat above every door.

The smell of the lilies hit her hard. Her stomach rolled. She grabbed the end of a pew and breathed slowly through her mouth until it passed.

A closed casket stood at the front. It was covered in white flowers. A photograph of Dominic Sterling rested on an easel beside it.

Lyra walked up the aisle slowly. Her coat was old and the sleeves were too short. Her boots left damp marks on the stone. The people around her wore black silk and good wool. No one spoke to her.

Two women stood near the front, talking in low voices.

"They say there was nothing left to bury," one of them whispered.

"Then what's in the box?"

"Whatever makes the cameras happy."

Lyra kept walking. She had not thought of that. The man she had stitched up in her kitchen was not in there. No one was. It was only a box, for show.

She stopped at the casket. She looked at the photograph. It was the same face. The man in the picture looked cold and proud. The man in her kitchen had looked tired and hurt.

She took a small Alpine Star from her pocket, picked that morning from the edge of the high frost line. She laid it on the lid, among the lilies. It looked tiny and out of place.

"I don't know who you were," she whispered. "But I'm sorry."

She put one hand flat on her stomach and cried quietly. She wanted to say more. She wanted to tell him what she had learned on the bench behind the greenhouse. But there was no one to say it to. She stayed there for a long minute. Then she turned and walked toward the doors.

Near the exit, she glanced up at the camera above the frame. For one second, her whole face was clear in the lens.

Then she was outside in the cold air, and the doors closed behind her.

Upstairs, in the cathedral's security room, Vivienne Sterling watched the screen without blinking.

She wore black. Her hair was pulled back tight. A heavy diamond ring caught the light from the monitors every time she moved her hand. She had been standing there for ten minutes while a nervous technician ran the footage back and forth.

"Stop," she said.

The picture froze. It showed a young woman at the casket, seen from above. She had dark curls and a worn brown coat. In her hand was a pale blue Alpine Star.

"Who is she?" Vivienne asked.

"A mourner, I think, ma'am," the technician said. "She signed no name in the book."

"Mourners wear black." Vivienne leaned closer. "She's wearing a farm coat. And look at her hand."

The technician looked. The girl's palm rested low on her belly.

"Some women hold their stomach when they cry," Vivienne said. "Some do it for another reason." She turned to the technician. "Leave us."

The man hurried out. The door clicked shut.

Behind Vivienne stood her head of security, Ronan Vance. He was a tall, quiet man in a gray suit. He had worked for the Sterlings for eleven years. He had been looking at the screen a moment longer than he needed to.

"Do you know her?" Vivienne asked, without turning.

"No, ma'am," Ronan said.

Vivienne watched him in the black glass of the monitor. She noticed everything. She noticed his jaw tighten and relax again.

"Find out who she is," she said. "Before the funeral. Before anyone else does."

"Yes, ma'am."

"And Ronan." She turned at last. Her voice was soft, and that made it worse. "My husband had many secrets. I want to know every one of them before they are buried with him."

Ronan nodded once and left the room.

In the empty corridor, he stopped. He took out his phone. While Vivienne had been talking to the technician, he had taken a photo of the monitor. He looked at it now.

The face on the screen was young and tired. She had Margaret Vance's chin. He had last seen it ten years ago, at his uncle's funeral, on a thin girl in a borrowed dress.

He had not been to Pine Crest since that day. He remembered the smell of the greenhouse. He remembered an old woman who had once slipped bus money into his hand without saying a word. He also remembered what happened to people who kept things from Vivienne Sterling.

He put the phone in his pocket and walked on.