Breadcrumbs - Anne Ursu [64]
She remembered her real parents, now. They’d died when she was three, but she had them again, and even though she was a flower she knew what it was like to have them shining with pride when she danced. She held on to them, and the memory of them kept her, and tended to them all.
Hazel remembered, too. She remembered her mother—not her before-mother, but the one she had always known. Hazel was in bed pretending not to cry, and her mother was stroking her forehead, whispering to her gently. She told Hazel that everything was going to be okay. She told her that she would just work twice as hard for Hazel. She told her that they were going to take care of each other. It was just the two of them now, but they had each other. It was going to be okay.
And then she told Hazel that it was time to wake up. That she needed to wake up. Hazel, baby, you must wake up now.
Hazel woke up. The flowers watched her with open faces. She sat up and looked at them. They seemed to expect something of her. She could feel the weight of her mother’s hand on her forehead, the caress of her whisper in her ear.
Her hand flew to the backpack where the whistle was. She needed help now. And then her hand retracted. Flashes of conversation played in her head. Ben said:
This couple found us and they brought us to their cottage and they took care of us.
They were like real parents, you know?
They wanted to keep her, I guess.
There was a reason the birdsong was the same. Lucas and Nina must have moved on to flowers, to things that couldn’t fly away.
Hazel could have stayed. She could have taken root. She wanted to be a Rose, somebody’s Rose, their Rose—and she would have been company for the flowers. She had new memories to give them, new people to tell them of, people who would help tend to them and keep them. But they warned her. They saved her.
Hazel was nobody’s Rose. For better or for worse.
You have to go, the flowers told her.
She took the canteen out of her backpack and drizzled them with the water Ben had given her the day before. It was all she had to give them.
And then a light turned on in the house behind her. Hazel dropped the canteen, slung her backpack over her shoulders, and rushed to the gate.
She was not fast enough. The back door creaked open. Hazel whirled around. Nina appeared on the step in a bathrobe.
“Rose, what are you doing?” Nina said, coming toward her. “You should be in bed.”
“My name isn’t Rose. It’s Hazel. And I’m leaving.” There, that sounded brave. Hazel took a step toward the gate.
“What? Why?” Hazel could not see Nina’s face in the dark, but her voice was full of concern.
“Why?” Hazel motioned around at all the flowers. It was the only answer she could give.
“Oh.” Nina came toward Hazel, her hands out. “I know. It’s hard to understand. But they needed us. These girls came into the woods because they were lost. We took them in. We take care of them. We tend to them. We give them what they need.”
“You turn them into flowers!” Hazel took a step back.
“That’s the only way,” Nina said. “It’s the only way we can make sure they don’t suffer anymore.”
“But . . . you didn’t ask them. You just kept them.”
“Young people don’t always know what’s best. Especially the ones that come in here. They’re lost. They need us.” She looked at the ground and added, “It’s too hard to be human.”
Hazel could only shake her head.
Nina tilted her head and her voice softened. “We could keep you. We would take care of you. You wouldn’t have to worry about anything anymore. This would be home.”
She was looking at Hazel lovingly, pleadingly, as if it mattered to her whether or not Hazel stayed.
Hazel stared at Nina. The wizard had made