A Reign of Roses

The First Thorn

"I can't believe I'm stuck with you," she muttered under her breath, her tone tinged with annoyance as she turned to her cousin, Lord Olivier Beldane, who was struggling to gather the flowers at a pace much slower than her own.

Olivier flashed a grin, clearly unbothered by her disdain. "You've said that at least three times already. Surely, you could be a little more gracious."

Anastasia shot him a pointed look, but her annoyance quickly turned to mild amusement. Olivier, for all his charm and confidence, could hardly be taken seriously in this situation. He was, as always, more interested in making light of everything—roses, war, and even her most serious thoughts.

The young noblewoman continued picking roses, each carefully chosen for their perfect form, ignoring the thorns that pricked her skin. Yet with every thorn, she felt something akin to frustration grow within her. How could she, a lady of such grace and privilege, be forced into the garden to pick flowers when there were far more important matters to attend to? A glance across the manicured grounds to the distant stables reminded her of the horses and carriage waiting to carry her away to a world much more exciting than this—one filled with political intrigue and royal gatherings.

And yet here she was, tethered to her family's estate, while her thoughts swirled around the growing tension in France. The Napoleonic wars, which she had carefully ignored for so long, were beginning to bleed into her own life, and she couldn't pretend that the world wasn't changing.

Anastasia's fingers brushed against another stem, the sharp pricks of the thorns pulling her back to the present. She clenched her jaw, determined to ignore the irritation creeping up her spine. The sound of Olivier's carefree humming only deepened her frustration. Of course, he would be content to stay here, picking roses like a child, while she had more pressing matters on her mind.

"Really, Olivier," she muttered, under her breath again. "You've no sense of urgency."

He flashed a grin, this time with a mock pout. "You're always so serious, cousin. Life's too short to waste on worries. If the roses are to be picked, let them be picked at leisure."

She glared at him but said nothing more. Despite his charm and ease, Olivier often annoyed her to no end. How could he be so cavalier, so uninterested in the future that seemed to loom on the horizon, darker with each passing day? The rumblings of war between France and other nations were not news to anyone of their rank. How long before it reached her doorstep, bringing with it more than just political upheaval and hurried marriages?

Anastasia's eyes narrowed as she glanced toward the horizon. The gentle rustling of the leaves in the trees seemed a mockery to her thoughts. Everything here was so calm, so perfect. It was the kind of perfection that made her want to scream. In this moment, as she stood in her family's expansive garden, everything felt so trivial. The roses, the peaceful estate, her cousin's carefree nature—none of it mattered. The world beyond these gates was rapidly changing, and soon, she knew, nothing would ever be the same.

The soft fragrance of the roses lingered in the air, but even the scent felt wrong to her, tainted by her unease. It had once been a comforting presence, something she associated with warmth, with safety. Now, the roses only seemed to mock her, their delicate petals hiding the thorns she could never avoid.

She continued picking, her movements slower now, as her thoughts wandered further from the present. How many others were in the same position as her—noblewomen caught between duty and desire, between the old world they had known and the one that was crashing in around them? The war in Europe was no distant threat—it was already beginning to shape the future of the people she knew.

Anastasia had never been one to ignore the signs of a changing world, but it was harder to face when it came so close to home. Her thoughts were interrupted by Olivier's voice once more.

"You're quiet today," he remarked, eyeing her with curiosity. "Too quiet. Did something happen?"

She stiffened at the question. There was nothing she wanted less than to speak of the weight she felt pressing on her chest. So many things had changed, yet nothing about her had, or at least, nothing she was willing to share with anyone, even Olivier.

"No, nothing at all," she replied, her tone light, though her fingers tightened around the next rose she picked, the thorns digging deeper into her skin. "Perhaps I'm just tired of the garden."

Olivier arched an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced, but he said nothing more. His attention drifted back to the task at hand—picking roses, though with far less focus than Anastasia. His fingers were clumsy, as usual, fumbling through the stems, too distracted by the beauty of the garden to notice anything beyond it.

As she watched him, Anastasia allowed herself a small sigh. There were so many things she wished she could change. So many things she couldn't speak aloud. She glanced once more toward the distant horizon, her heart heavy with a future she couldn't escape.

A carriage, perhaps, could take her away—out of this place and into the unknown. Away from Olivier's carefree demeanor and the questions that lingered in her mind.

But would the outside world be any better? Would it be less complicated, less full of things that she wasn't prepared for?

Her thoughts turned dark, and for a moment, she was sure that the answer was no. No matter how far she went, she could never outrun what was coming.

She glanced at the roses once more, her fingers trembling slightly as she touched the petals. The flowers, once so simple, had come to represent more than just beauty. They had become a symbol for everything in her life that she couldn't control.

"Perhaps," she whispered to herself, "the only thing left to do is bloom through the thorns."