Amber Mitchell [Mitchell - Garden of Thorns

Table of Contents

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Copyright 2017 by Amber Mitchell. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.

Entangled Publishing, LLC

2614 South Timberline Road

Suite 109

Fort Collins, CO 80525

Visit our website at www.entangledpublishing.com .

Entangled Teen is an imprint of Entangled Publishing, LLC.

Edited by Lydia Sharp

Cover design by Erin Dameron-Hill

Cover art from iStock

ISBN 978-1-63375-848-3

Manufactured in the United States of America

First Edition March 2017

To Brian

For always being my light in the dark.

Chapter One

Needle-thin spikes line the shackles that bite into my wrists and ankles. Blood crusts between my fingers and toes, but my chapped skin stopped throbbing sometime last night. Ive learned that the less I move, the less they dig. Stiffness creeps up my back, growing out from my bones like branches.

Were almost there now, Fern whispers next to me, her voice my only comfort in the never-ending darkness.

I wish we werent. Fear slips into my stomach like a stone, remembering where were heading.

I lean my head back against Ferns, her long black hair tickling my bare arms. Maybe some of her courage will soak into me as she peers out of the tiny peephole we widened on our cart to sneak a view of her old home.

For as long as weve been paired in the Garden, shes told me stories of Imperial Citys grandeur, of the cobblestoned streets that shine like honey during midday, of the four multiroofed temples that shoot up so high they look like pillars supporting the bright blue sky, and hidden gardens tucked between buildings, where you can duck under a blossoming dogwood tree to escape the heat.

Most nights, after I stumbled on stage and she bore the bruises or broken bones caused by my clumsy feet, we would lie head to head on top of the dirty straw lining our cage, and shed spin golden webs from her memories of the Imperial City to get us by. Her whispers allowed me to forget, until I turned to look at her smiling face and watched a trail of fresh blood drip down her cracked lip. As a Flower, its my job to dance. As a Wilted, hers is to keep me in line by paying for my mistakes with her skin. In the Garden, Flowers are low, but Wilteds are the dirt beneath our petals, silently keeping our roots alive.

Do you want to look? she asks, pulling me back to the present.

A beam of light spills into the cart, its weak ray like gentle fingers on my face. It gives the illusion of hope. I turn away before that seed can root into my chest.

Sure, I say, and the spikes of my shackles bite as I move toward the hole.

My eyes fight to adjust to the glaring brightness, but once they do, I gasp in awe.

A white wooden building lined in red trim appears in my line of vision, shooting up farther than I can see through our peephole, and I can just make out the edge of its slanted red roof. Everywhere I look, I catch colora blue stream slicing through the city, green bamboo shoots groomed artfully next to an arched golden bridge. I drink it all in, letting the scenery fill my soul after the endless stream of bland grays and browns of the small towns we usually visit.

Beautiful, isnt it? Fern says, her voice tinged with longing.

She hasnt seen her home in nearly ten years. We were stolen into this horror show within a month of each other. When the Gardener stuck us in the same cage, I assumed it was an act of kindness, so we wouldnt wither under the weight of our capture. I didnt know until later that allowing us to bond the first four years would be his cruelest trick. That he would twist that bond to keep both of us in line or else we would both end up hurther flesh a physical manifestation of the mental scars I bear.

I pull my face away from the slit in the wood, ready to comfort Fern, but I dont see a trace of the sorrow on her face I thought I heard in her voice. She motions for me to return my gaze outside.

During our parade through town, weve attracted quite a crowd. The people in their plain linen clothes gawk at our processional, shock straining their pale faces as they witness the first public entertainment to enter Imperial City in over ten years. As our caravan bumps through the streets, women grab their husbands hands tighter, guards in their shiny metal uniforms pretend not to stare as they herd people off the streets, and children weave in between the carts, playing a game of chicken with the horses hooves.

At a glance, the bright colors painted on our carriages make it seem like the show is meant for children. When I first saw them, I was reminded of the grandiose red and golden tops of the Wonder Emporium from my homeland. Behind those walls lie men who could swallow whole swords and women who rode elephants.

But our carts depict what the Gardener sells: his thirteen Dancing Flowers. And we arent meant for childrens eyes. The paintings on the sides of our carts tantalize. Each dress brighter than the last, accentuating the curves of our forms as we dance, forced to lose one petal at a time, exposing our souls.

I twist my body so I can peek ahead. The ornate blue gate has been swung wide to let us pass unencumbered, and about ten men flank it, their woven chain armor as silver as the walls they guard. My heart squeezes, and panic swells my veins.

Can you see the palace? Fern asks, the familiar weight of her hand on my shoulder.

Before I can answer, our cage jolts to a stop and we fly off the bench, crashing in a pile of limbs. The splintered floor underneath the straw stings my knees. As I look up at Fern, I catch the thick scar twisting down her shoulder bladea reminder of the first time I talked back to the Gardenerand keep my discomfort silent. She catches me staring and playfully sticks her tongue out at me.

I meet her gesture with a smile, like always. The word sorry hangs unspoken around us in the air. We both know that no matter how many times I say it and no matter how many times she whispers that it isnt my fault, it wont change the fact that she suffers every time I make a wrong move. All the scars and bumps and cuts littering her body are because of me. Though I didnt wield the weapon or the fist, they always fall on her because of my imperfections.

And yet, she still tries to make me smile.

We remain motionless until sounds spill from the crack in our wooden cage: men shouting orders, wood banging against the ground as cart doors are thrown open, and the shrill sound of giggling. All the noises feel so familiar I can almost trick myself into forgetting that tonight well be performing at the first Spring Ceremony in ten years since the border to the neighboring kingdom was shut down. My gut twists thinking about what that day meant for me, and I push it from my mind.

Ferns fingers pick through my hair, yanking out pieces of straw, while I crawl back toward the peephole. Every bit she drops to the floor will be one less shell have to pluck later when helping me dress.