Curse of Rose de Winter

Chapter 13

We rested on the lowest branch, which I had to jump to reach, so now I was glad I wore a simple skirt like the day I entered the de Winter manor. I climbed behind him, knowing he wouldn't see under my skirt, until we reached the treehouse.

Dylan sat at the edge, and began to rest with his hand on another sturdy branch.

"Why aren't you going in?" I asked.

"No way, I made this when I was younger. It's not safe."

"Let me try." I slowly made my way past him, skirt catching itself on twigs and bark until he detangled it and sighed.

"If Blanche dies it'll be troublesome!"

"Then come and protect me," I shouted back.

This time he followed with a sigh, even pushing my heels as a footstep for me to climb to the house made of wooden planks. I quickly grasped onto the wood that was close to me like a step ladder embedded in the tree.

I made my way through small leaves that had grown and buds of what would soon be blossoms to eventually sit at the edge of his tree house and looked around. For something a child or pubescent made it was fascinating. It was large enough to fit maybe even three adults, roof securely made with something like carp hanging over, and lastly, floor rolled with a carpet. In the corners boxes sat, piling up on each other.

"What are in those boxes?" I asked. They were tin boxes that would protect against the snow or rain.

"You're really too curious. It can be bothersome," Dylan said. "And it's mostly interesting things I found."

"Like erotic art?"

"No!" His face was so flustered it was adorable. I laughed loudly, something Blanche wouldn't be allowed to do.

"I'm sorry Dylan, I was joking!"

"Geez, why are all Roses so full of themselves," he said to himself. Hearing that made my heart stop. I looked at my hands.

Vaughn's voice returned. And there was the image of Rosemarie Blackwood. I'd have to tell Dylan one day, wouldn't I?

"Say, have you ever thought we were the same Rose?" I laughed jokingly, my mind blank and hands shaking. "You said it yourself, we looked similar. Did you think maybe I was her?"

As I waited for his response I tucked my legs under my skirt, resting my hands and chin on my knees. Wind blew at us, and my black hair fell over my eyes and I didn't pull it behind my ear, wanting to hide what expression was on my face. My heart couldn't calm itself.

"No," Dylan said after a while. "Rose has died. I've never thought of you as anyone. You're you, a cocky girl, romantic at heart, good at taking care of Ruby, a strong girl who fought back that day."

I forced myself to smile so I wouldn't cry, but it was because I was so relieved and elated by what he had said.

Words that I never heard from my father who passed when I was small, my mother who always cherished my older sister, and even as a Blackwood, knowing all those words were for Rosemarie.

But now, to Dylan, I was me, a girl who had an identity more to her than a name. Blanche or Rose—he knew me.

We sat there, the spring breeze growing stronger, rustling the few sparse leaves of the tree. It was April. Nearly a month and half had passed since I came to this infamous house.

"I didn't mean to hurt Claribel," Dylan said suddenly. "I never held any enmity to her. When I was young I admit to pushing her away—she simply wasn't my mother. It was hard to accept her and my new siblings, but I did."