Shylah Addante - Garden of Thorns and Light

Shylah Addante

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The author makes no claims to, but instead acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the word marks mentioned in this work of fiction.

Copyright 2020 by Shylah Addante

GARDEN OF THORNS AND LIGHT by Shylah Addante

All rights reserved. Published in the United States of America by Month9Books, LLC.

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Trade Paperback ISBN: 978-1-951710-36-1

ePub ISBN: 978-1-951710-43-9

Mobipocket ISBN: 978-1-951710-44-6

Published by Month9Books, Raleigh, NC 27609

Cover by Parker Book Design

For David, Hazel, and Holly who fill my world with light and magic.

My bedroom is almost completely dark, the only source of light a sliver of moonbeam shining through the small opening where the curtains meet. It casts the normally vibrant colors of the room into varying shades of gray. Its also uncharacteristically quiet for a summer night on the outskirts of Philadelphia. The absence of passing cars and distant sirens is somehow made more conspicuous by the periodic chirp of a lone cricket and the soft whisper of the ceiling fan.

Then the music box begins to play.

The song is slow and disjointed at first, rust-covered and tinny from years of disuse. As the gears within find a rhythm, a melody emerges, soft and sad against the otherwise silent night. Its a tune that is somehow both foreign and familiarsome kind of long-forgotten lullaby that evades my attempts to pin it to a specific memory. The only things that come to mind are hazy impressions: the warmth of sun on skin, the earthy scent of deep woods, the sharp sweetness of sap. And permeating all of them, the color green.

The images are so elusive, so distractingly tantalizing, that it takes a few moments for me to realize that something is very, very wrong.

The box, a birthday gift from my mom, didnt work, hadnt worked, in years. It was a family heirloom, a beautiful but broken antique that had been rendered useless when the winding key was lost years and years ago. She had made all of that clear earlier, when she placed it on my nightstand, even going so far as to show me the little octagonal hole in the side of the box where a key would have gone, if there had been one.

The box couldnt work, but that isnt stopping it from playing now.

Amethyst, a voice whispers in the dark, seeming so close that I can almost feel a breath tickle my ear.

I react as any sensible six-year-old would when faced with an inexplicable situation in the dead of night and pull the blankets up over my head. I call out for my mom, but my words come out in a hoarse croak, held hostage by the fear beginning to clutch tightly around my chest and throat. I take a breath and try again. While the new sound that comes out is little more than a squeak, it must resonate with whatever is in the room, because the music stops.

I wait, breath held, listening hard for any sign of movement, but there is nothing except for the soft swish of the fan. Even the cricket has gone silent. A lamp sits on the nightstand only a foot away from where I lie huddled underneath my Powerpuff Girls comforter. Its a risky move to reach out beyond the safety of my sheets, but if movies and TV have taught me anything, its that things that dwell in the dark lose their power when the lights come on. I take another breath to steady myself before throwing the blanket off my head and reaching for the lamp, but before I can flip the switch, the room illuminates on its own.

Dozens of little lights brighten my bedroom, floating lazily in the space above my bed. At first, I think theyre fireflies, but theyre brighter than any Ive ever seen before, tiny white lights that glow like little stars, and as far as I can tell, there are no insects attached to them. I follow one as it drifts down next to me and lands on the nightstand. It bobs its way to where the music box sits and enters the keyhole. As soon as the light disappears into the tiny cherry box, the music begins to play again.

As if cued by the song, the other lights start to dance, twirling with each other as they circle the room. This cant be real. I must have been transported into another world, my bedroom carried off like Dorothys house and dropped into some other place. Magic like this doesnt exist on Earth, and certainly not in Philadelphia. All of a sudden, its not enough for me to sit back and watch the lights. I have the urge to touch them, to dance with them, to be a part of them.

I stand on my bed, wobbling slightly as the mattress sinks beneath my feet, and reach out for the nearest floating light. But as my fingers are about to make contact, it bobs away, just far enough to be out of my reach. I take a step forward, my hand still grasping at air, but the light evades me for a second time. And then a third. Again and again, until I find myself leaning over the foot of the bed, one hand clutching a wooden post for balance while the other stretches out toward the light.

I can feel its warmth on the tips of my fingers when the music boxs song ends. Distracted by the sudden silence, I miss my chance, and the light dances away. It joins the others as they form into a soundless procession toward the open window and slide, one by one, through the space between the curtains.

Wait! Theres desperation in my voice as the last light disappears through the gap. I jump out of bed, cross the room, and stick my head out of the open window.

The backyard looks like a wonderland with the dozens of lights swirling in midair toward where our lawn meets the edge of the woods. I watch them for a moment, transfixed, before pulling one leg up onto the windowsill. But before I let myself drop onto the grass on the other side, I look back at my bedroom door and think of my parents sleeping in the room down the hall.

A heavy ball of guilt settles in my stomach, and I can feel it weighing me down, anchoring me to my bedroom floor. I swallow hard, trying to bury the feeling and turn away from the door. As soon as my eyes find the lights again, now dancing at the very edge of the tree line, the invisible chain tying me to the room breaks, and I push myself out into the cool night air.

The grass is cold and slick with dew. Halfway to the woods, I slip and fall on my backside, coloring my pajama bottoms brown and green. But theres no time to worry about what my mom might say about the grass stains in the morning. With each step I take, the lights move farther and farther beyond the trees, some fading away completely, concealed by dark branches.