The Rise of Women

It Has Begun

While I felt a pang of regret at leaving Michaelangelo so suddenly, without any explanation, the need to find my mother was more important. I could explain to Michael later, but this, this could not wait.

At a very fast pace I traveled down the corridors to my mother's room, where two guard were waiting outside her door, standing at attention. I did not slow my pace, and yelled from the end of the hall.

"It is Princess Benevi, and I must speak to my mother at once!"

The guards gave each other a look, and spoke to me slowly, as if I was an imbecile.

"The Queen has already retired, My Lady, but you may visit again in the morning, when she will be able to talk to you," one said.

I growled, like a rabid dog. It was not my finest moment, but I needed to get through the thick skulls that stood in my way.

"Oh, yes? Well, why don't you go tell her that I found Mr. Dublant's blood staining one dozen roses, and see if she still wants to wait until morning!"

They stood, shocked, and I began to open my mouth again to drive my point home, but as I did, they scrambled over each other, trying to get into my mother's room.

I heard her shriek before the door opened once again, and I was allowed to enter.

My mother, laying in the middle of her outrageously large bed, was paper white, both hands held to her cheeks as if trying to keep herself together.

"Well?"

"Mr. Dublant is dead. The murderer sent me the package, but it could not have been more than a couple hours old. The blood was still dripping off the roses, not yet dried."

My mother sighed. Mr. Dublant was one of her friends, as they grew up together. His age was another reason I didn't want to marry or conceive with him. While my mother was shaking, I felt a sense of relief. Maybe now she would give Michael and I more time, as she grieved.

"Who would do such a thing?" She asked.

"Why someone did it, is the question I would like answered," I responded. She just shook her head. Despite my hatred toward Dublant, he was a fairly nice man. He reminded me of the Urban Legend of a man called "Santa Claus". He was rather happy, almost absurdly so, and did nothing wrong to me. I could see no reason why anyone would want to harm him.

"And you are sure there was a dozen roses, twelve exact?"  She asked.

I dipped my head low, and looked up at her. Nodding, apparently, was unladylike. Signaling my certainty, she leaned back onto her pillows.

Once upon a time, twelve roses were romantic, and signaled love or affection. Now, they represent death, a rose for each day the body was prepared for burial. Even the men living on the streets, who died from hunger or thirst, are prepared for twelve days and are given twelve roses when they are placed in their caskets.

As tears started streaming down my mother's face, I took my leave. I bowed, before hurrying away, back to my own quarters.

I could only hope that Michael would still be there when I entered.