The next morning, I work tirelessly in the eastern gardens. After Thorne's midnight confession, I understand the desperation behind every wilting leaf and failing ward. The moon orchids respond to my touch, unfurling silver petals that had been securely closed for months. I sense the eastern barrier strengthening as each bloom opens.
"Remarkable progress," Elm adds, offering me a water flask. The head gardener has been studying me with increasing curiosity. "The prince was right about you."
"What do you mean?" I ask, removing soil from my hands.
Elm's wrinkled face crinkles. "Six gardeners before you have tried. None could make the orchids bloom."
I want to inquire more, but a shadow comes across us. Prince Thorne stands at the garden gate, once again the ideal image of royal authority—no hint of last night's vulnerability in his stance or demeanor.
"Leave us," he instructs Elm, who bows and retreats.
As soon as we're alone, Thorne evaluates my work with genuine attention. "You've made them bloom. How?"
"They were afraid," I say, gently caressing a silver flower. "Plants respond to emotions as much as talent. They were sealing themselves against the blight, seeking to protect their power."
"And they trust you?" His silver eyes scrutinize me with new intensity.
"I listen to them." It sounds silly uttered aloud, but Thorne doesn't sneer.
"It's time," he says calmly. "Come with me."
He walks me through secured passageways and up a twisting staircase to the royal wing. Guards tighten at our approach but say nothing as Thorne walks me past beautiful doors to a chamber at the end of the hall.
Court Mage Balthren waits outside gigantic double doors studded with silver thornwall roses. His aged eyes light up when he sees us.
"The eastern orchids are responding," he adds to Thorne. "I felt the wards strengthening this morning."
"Her work," Thorne acknowledges, nodding at me.
Balthren studies me with new interest. "Perhaps you were right, Your Highness."
Before I can ask what he means, Thorne pushes open the massive doors. "Prepare yourself," he cautions me. "What you're about to see must remain secret."
We enter a big circular space bathed with light from tall windows. At the center stands an immense four-poster bed encircled by a circle of small, gleaming pools—miniature copies of the Heart Garden's reflecting pool.
And on the bed sleeps King Aldric.
I have to stifle my gasp. The king's torso is poised slightly above the mattress, wrapped in a thin layer of sparkling frost. His eyes are closed, his silver-streaked beard and hair immaculately preserved, as though he's been frozen in time.
"Is he..." I can't finish the question.
"Not dead," Thorne answers grimly. "But not completely alive either. A magical coma that defies all Balthren's efforts to shatter it."
I approach slowly, sensing the same magical drain affecting the king as I feel in the fading gardens. The relationship is clear.
"The gardens and the king are linked," I reply, comprehension dawning. "That's why restoring the gardens is so crucial."
"Yes," Balthren agrees, joining us. "The royal family's magic has always been related to Thornwall's protective wards. When the blight began harming the gardens, the king slipped into this state."
I glance at Thorne, seeing him with fresh eyes—not just a prince but a son witnessing his father slowly decline while shouldering the weight of a kingdom.
"May I?" I ask, indicating toward the king.
Thorne hesitates, then nods.
I step forward, cautiously placing my palm near the king's forehead, not quite touching the frost encasing him. The magnetic pull of magic is powerful here, a vortex sucking energy away. Something about it feels familiar—like the purposeful drain I noticed in the western garden yesterday.
"This isn't just magical imbalance," I mutter, appalled by my revelation. "This is intentional."
Thorne is beside me instantly. "What do you mean?"
"The identical pattern I found in the western beds yesterday. Someone is actively diverting the magic away." I turn to face him. "Your father didn't just fall ill, Prince Thorne. Someone did this to him."
Balthren joins us, his expression grim. "A severe accusation. You're certain?"
I nod, resting my hands over the nearest tiny pool. The water ripples at my touch, revealing broken images of gardens I haven't yet seen. "These pools connect to different sections of the royal gardens, don't they? They're focusing points for the wards."
"Yes," Thorne confirms. "My ancestors designed the system ages ago. The king acts as the prime conduit for Thornwall's magic."
I analyze the pattern of magical flow, noticing how the king's life force intertwines with the kingdom's defenses. "There's an interruption in the cycle. Someone has installed a magical siphon—subtle but obvious."
"Can you trace it?" Balthren asks, his eyes suddenly sharp with interest.
Before I can answer, a strand of the king's magic reaches toward me like a curious tendril. When it touches my skin, a thrill runs through me—recognition. For an instant, I see through the king's frozen consciousness: gardens in full bloom, silver-white roses climbing palace walls, and a woman with eyes like mine tending them with loving care.
I stagger backward. Thorne catches me before I collapse.
"What happened?" he says, his arm steady around my waist.
"He... recognized something in me," I murmur, my voice wavering. "A magical signature similar to someone he once knew."
Balthren's aged face flashes immediate awareness. "Balance," he murmurs. "Of course. The winter requires the spring."
Thorne stares between us, bewilderment clear. "Speak plainly, Balthren."
The ancient magician steps closer, inspecting me with new intensity. "Your family has always held winter magic, Your Highness—the power of preservation, endurance, and protection. But winter alone promotes stagnation. The kingdom likewise needs spring—growth, rebirth, transformation."
"You think she carries spring magic?" Thorne asks, suspicion obvious in his voice.
"I believe she may be descended from those who once balanced your family's power," Balthren remarks. "Look how the gardens respond to her. How your father's magic identified her."
Thorne observes me, silver eyes calculating. "If that's true, she could be the key to breaking this curse and saving my father."
"And saving your kingdom," Balthren says quietly.
I drop into a neighboring chair, overwhelmed. "I'm just a village gardener."
"No," Thorne responds firmly. "You're much more than that. And someone in this palace knows it—the same person who poisoned my father and is ruining the gardens."
As if summoned by his words, a chill breeze sweeps through the chamber. The broken reflections in the pools shimmer, briefly exposing a woman's face—beautiful, calculating, with eyes like frozen amber.
"Lady Revira," Thorne hisses, recognizing the vision before it fades.
Balthren works rapidly to reinforce the magical wards around the king's bed. "We should not linger. If your suspicions are right, Your Highness, your cousin will soon understand we've found her interference."
Thorne nods grimly, bringing me to my feet. "We'll continue this discussion elsewhere."
As we go, I cast one last glance at the frozen king. For an instant, I swear I see his eyelids flutter—a spark of consciousness striving to return.
Outside in the corridor, Thorne's façade of frigid authority reappears swiftly as guards bow to us. "Return to the gardens," he directs me formally. "Speak of this to no one—not even Elm."
I curtsy as expected. "As you command, Your Highness."
Only when he leans closer, ostensibly to adjust my gardening shawl, does he whisper, "Be careful. My cousin has eyes everywhere."
I nod almost slightly before moving back toward the safety of my cherished plants, my mind racing with implications. If I genuinely carry spring magic, if I'm somehow tied to the royal family's past... no wonder someone wants me gone.