Daughter of the Rose

People who get a thrill out of digging for a good deal in piles of other people’s discarded junk make no sense to me; but with a job interview that might change my life mere hours away and a waitress’s salary which left nothing in the budget for fashionable clothing purchases after paying the rent on my crappy shoebox apartment, I could not afford to get hung up on my proclivities. Perhaps the bargain bins at the thrift store would surprise me in yielding garments that would help me look the part without smelling like mold, moth balls, and my grandmother’s sofa, but I would not get my hopes up.

With little time to spare I settled on a pair of black slacks and navy blazer that fit alright, perhaps a bit tight in the shoulders, an ivory blouse with cropped sleeves that would ensure I did not get too hot wearing the infernal blazer, and a pair of black pumps that were a size too large and would require something stuffed in the toes to help them fit better so I did not look like a little kid playing dress up in her mother’s shoes. A snarkier part of my personality had me stewing in quiet rage over my predicament, but what choice did I have? A successful interview in someone else’s ill-fitting clothes might mean I never had to shop at the thrift store again.

Waiting in line to pay for my items, wondering why there was a line four people deep at the register of a thrift store in the first place, my eyes roamed over the odds and ends on the shelves. Water goblets, coffee mugs, and wine glasses next to time pieces, mismatched jewelry, and hair accessories — there was no organization whatsoever. Then, my eyes alighted upon an item that was different than all the rest. It was a diadem, a kind of fancy headpiece worn by female royalty. It was woven in tones of rose, goldenrod, and pale silver, and looked like something you might find on the brow of an elven princess in story like Lord of the Rings. I was sure it was just as much a hunk of junk as anything else on the shelves, but it was junk I might be able to use. Thinking of a friend’s costume party taking place Saturday evening, I picked it up and added it to my items on impulse. It was not in the budget either, same as the clothes, but as soon as I saw it I had a bone deep feeling I could not leave it behind.

“This is pretty,” said the old woman at the register. She had no such compliments for the pile of unremarkable garments I hoped would help me secure the job of a lifetime. I smiled in response, handed her my credit card in exchange for the plastic bag, and left the store hoping never to return.

***

It was the most difficult interview of my life with each question leaving me feeling more inadequate than the last; but I answered each one with poise, surprising myself with my composure, and at the end their handshakes and statements such as, “thank you for your time, you will hear from us soon,” sounded sincerer than they had at the conclusion of any previous interview. It amused me to no end that my outfit bought for less than $20.00 might have made the difference; perhaps I would not light it on fire as I wished to do when I got home after all.

As soon as I walked in the front door of my studio, the silence enveloping me with more comfort than a warm hug ever could, a profound exhaustion overtook me. I removed my outfit, set the diadem on my bedside table, and collapsed into bed for a deep sleep the likes of which I had not experienced in a long, long time.

***

The ringing of my mobile phone catapulted me into wakefulness many hours later. I was so disoriented and when I tried to open my eyes it felt like someone glued the lashes together while I was sleeping. Sitting up like a zombie in the grave, I noted that the thin, gray light coming through the nearest window seemed to suggest it was earlier than I ever rose from bed. A glance at the clock on the wall confirmed my suspicion: it was 8:05 A.M. None of my friends were awake at this hour, they all worked nights like me, and as I reached for the offending device I wondered who it could be. Hoping it was some good news regarding yesterday’s interview I tried not to sound mostly asleep when I jabbed the TALK button on the screen.

“Hello.”

“Good morning, is this Branwen Kendrick?” The person on the other end had already finished their morning coffee.

“This is she.” I stifled a yawn by biting the inside of my cheek.

“Branwen, we were so taken with you during your interview yesterday that we would like to offer you the position at our firm.”

Those words should have had me squealing with joy, but I barely heard them. As she was explaining the opportunity and the next step should I choose to accept, I realized that the knob on my front door was turning slowly back and forth. It was bolted, however, and when the person on the other side discovered this they gave the door a forceful shove.

“Branwen, are you still there? When can you come in to start the new hire paperwork?” The voice was still syrupy with false enthusiasm but it faltered a bit, too, like they could tell I was not giving them my undivided attention.

I lived in a bad part of town. Was someone trying to break in? Another forceful shove and the whole wall shuddered. When that failed to give the intruder entry, they began to kick the door. Over and over and over again; bam, bam, bam.

“This is a wonderful opportunity!” I exclaimed, my voice pitched with panic, “and I am happy to accept, but I think someone is trying to break into my home.”

“Oh, no!” Exclaimed the hiring representative.

“Can I give you a call back?” I did not wait for their response and disconnected the call.

My front door flew inward in an explosion of splintered wood, the security chain busting into tiny pieces and flying everywhere, skittering on the hard wood floor. A man dressed in dark clothing rushed in, closed the door behind him, and pressed his back against it as though he was holding it closed. In the silence that followed I heard angry voices, pounding feet, and shattering glass that sounded like it was coming from downstairs. Was this man running from something?

“Who are you and what are you doing in my apartment?” I shouted at him, my voice shaking.

He ignored me and turned his head to listen to the sounds coming from below, gauging how much time we had until they reached us since it sounded like they were coming our way.

“We need to leave.”

He stomped across the small space and threw the window open nearest my bed. A cold, snowy breeze blew the curtains into the room. I threw my fuzzy pink bathrobe on over my sleep shorts and tank top and shoved my bare feet into hiking boots with no regard for the undone laces.

“Not that way,” he barked as I moved towards the front door.

“How else are we going to get out?” I yelled back, my thin patience at war with my mounting terror as the loud, angry voices drew closer and closer.

He gestured at the open window. “We jump.”

I gaped at him in horror. “No way! This is a second story apartment.”

“You have a better chance of surviving a thirty-foot drop than you do an encounter with the beings on the other side of that door.”

We could hear heavy footsteps and ragged breathing just the other side and then something heavy connected with it, rattling it in its frame.

“Let’s go right now!” He shouted at me, advancing across the room and wrapping a firm hand around my wrist, “grab that and put it in the pocket of your robe.” He gestured at the diadem on my bedside table.

Then my front door exploded inward for the second time and as he ran, my arm gripped in his hand, the diadem bouncing against my leg in the deep pocket of my robe, I followed him without question. We sailed through the open window as my tiny apartment filled with what seemed like a legion of hostile people and then our bodies crashed to the ground thirty feet below. Pain radiated throughout my entire body from the soles of my feet to the top of my head but there was no time to wallow as bullets began to thud into the ground all around us. He grabbed my arm again, dragged me to my feet, and took off up the alley.

“Run!” He shouted at me, my stunned feet refusing to cooperate.

We came up on a black vehicle parked around the corner, already running, and with a driver at the wheel. He yanked the rear passenger side door open and shoved me inside.

“Drive, drive!” He yelled to the man at the wheel as he pulled his door open and jumped inside amidst the screech of spinning tires and flying gravel.

More angry faces came around the corner of the building, running in our direction wielding firearms. Bullets pinged off the back of the vehicle as we sped away.

***

First, I cried. Then, I shook. At last, when I had done a lot more of both, I got myself under control and started to feel really, really mad.

“Why were they shooting at us?” I shrieked at the men in the front seat, men who were essentially my captors, their eyes flicking nervously to the rearview and side mirrors over and over.

After failing to receive a response, I shook the backs of their seats, my body suffuse with an unshakable rage.

“Answer me!” I yelled at them again, and the driver’s arm came over the center consul and pushed me roughly back into the seat.

A beat of silence passed and then the man who showed up in my apartment answered in a gentler voice. “They are trying to kill you, Branwen.”

That was a sobering bit of information and I felt my whole body go cold as ice in a way that had nothing to do with wearing pajamas, a thin robe, and no socks in the dead of winter after jumping out the window of my second story apartment.

“I am a nobody,” I said, my voice incredulous and trembling, “why would anyone want to kill me?”

“That crown in your pocket says otherwise.” The driver of our getaway car responded this time, his voice low, gravelly, and strangely accented.

Rage and disbelief won out over terror and sadness once again in the emotional tug of war raging in my heart and I pulled the object in question out of my pocket and waved it at them.

“This dusty piece of junk? I got it at a thrift store for ninety-nine cents! Who would kill another person over something like this?” I was yelling so loud I was hurting my own ears.

“It is not a dusty piece of junk!” Our driver yelled back at me, turning his body a full 180 degrees around in the seat to stare me down which was alarming since he was piloting a car careening over busy city streets at more than seventy miles an hour.

The other man, the one who removed me from my apartment, placed a quieting hand on the driver’s shoulder and got him to turn back around. Then, he turned towards me and pinned me to the spot with penetrating eyes.

“That diadem belongs to the once and future queen, the Daughter of the Rose, a woman prophesied to rise up and free our people.” His voice was solemn and although he sounded like a crazy person it was clear he believed every word he spoke.

“It is said that the diadem would find its way into the hands of the Daughter of the Rose and when it did it would signify the dawning of a new age, one of hope and light.”

I tried not to laugh since it seemed it would be in bad taste, like giggling at a funeral, but I could not believe a word he said.

“You’ve got the wrong woman,” I told him, extending the diadem for him to take, “I am nobody, and I am certainly not the Daughter of the Rose.”

He did not remove it from my hands.

“That may be,” he replied, and the guy in the driver’s seat made a derisive noise, “but the important thing right now is that they believe you are, and that places you in significant danger.”

I considered the angry men who had burst into my apartment, the ones who had forced us out the open window and then shot at us, and my fear turned me cold once more.

“So, what do we do now?” I asked them, my voice sounding as small as a child’s.

“We need to get to someone who can guide us, hide us, and help us figure out what to do next.”

“And what about our angry friends?”

His eyebrow tilted up and he almost smiled. “They will stop at nothing to kill the one who has the diadem because they do not want to see the prophecy fulfilled.”

An uncomfortable silence descended upon the vehicle as we all digested the fact we were now being hunted and that at any moment I could very well end up dead.

“Don’t worry,” he said next, his voice adopting a confident if not arrogant tone, “it is my job to keep you alive, and I am very, very good at my job.