The Rose Master Read Online Free PDF Page A

clamshell. Let him keep quiet if he pleased; I’d soon have other things with which to concern myself. It was cooler than the previous morning, enough for me to shut the window in an attempt to keep my blood from growing icy spikes.
    I chafed against the boredom of the ride (made terrible without the pleasure of the scenery), so I rummaged through my bag and brought out my Bible—small and scuffed, but bearing my initials in crimson thread on the cover. It had been a present from my father years before, and I’d learned to thumb through it at odd moments. My father always felt closer when I held it, regardless of where in the world he might be roaming. All the things I missed after so many months of barely any contact would come into my head—his thin smile, his sure hands, the way he’d nod as I recounted my daily life at Caldwell House. I didn’t even have an address to be able to write to him. And for his part, although he knew of my new position, he would not have time in the midst of the whirlwind that was Lord Exter’s life to send me even the simplest of notes.
    I sighed, flipped at random through the onionskin pages, and read the f irst passage my eyes landed on.
    I nodded at the words and sighed at their musical syllables. Quite pretty. I wondered why my parents hadn’t insisted on my Christian upbringing, as I hadn’t ever laid a finger on a Bible until my mother passed away. She hadn’t been opposed, exactly, but she’d never given it the importance my father thought it deserved. Or, at least, that’s what I’d heard from Mary. My father, on the other hand, was the most devout man I’d ever met. He could recite entire passages from memory without a single stumble. He’d tried, in his way, to teach me about faith, but it was still confusing to me, all the different stories with all their different versions, all the hidden meanings tucked like seeds in the folds of the sentences. Church hadn’t helped much either. Lady Caldwell had had a strict rule about her employees attending Sunday services, so I’d been taken every week for the past ten years. Still, the sermons were convoluted; sounds that enticed murmurs from the congregation, but that had nothing to say to my thirsty mind. I was indifferent to religion, and I didn’t want to be.
    Perhaps I would have the opportunity to ask my questions at whichever church I’d be attending at my new home. Maybe a country church would provide the relaxed atmosphere I needed to embrace the meaning of the book I held in my hands.
    I kissed it, as I’d been taught to do, and tucked it back into my travel bag. I settled back in the seat, untying my bonnet, and allowed my thoughts to spread.

    The first sign that we were nearing our destination came in through the small slit of window I’d left open—the scent of roses. I couldn’t believe it at first. It trickled in and filled the coach with its thick odor. I flung the rest of the window open and was grasped by the full madness of the flowers. I inhaled and laughed as the perfume filled my lungs, my chest cavity, my stomach.
    I yelled up at Mr. Keery: “We are getting close, right, sir?”
    “Yes, miss, we are almost there.”
    I took out my small mirror and inspected my hair, pulling and tucking as needed until I could easily fit its brown mass under the bonnet. I caught my reflection, smiling, wide eyes glittering in the perfumed air.
    “We’re almost there,” I told the girl in the mirror. As I peered into my face (one that didn’t brim over with beauty, but which was pretty enough), a vague hope filled my head. Perhaps there might even be someone interesting at Rosewood, someone with whom I could settle down into a quiet life. I had turned seventeen, after all.
    There was a sudden jolt as the coach came to an abrupt stop. I reached out my hands to steady myself and looked out. Mr. Keery was swinging the reins and urging the halted horses to continue, but they whinnied and pulled their ears