Beatrice glared at Rosa. How dare she presume to understand anything at all about a woman she had never even met?

‘Y-You c-cannot sp-speak for her—’

‘But I can, because she was a mother who loved you, and that’s all I need to know about her to tell you this one thing: that she wouldn’t want you to do this. So if you go ahead anyway, don’t delude yourself into thinking that you’re doing it for me, or for her. You’d be doing it for yourself.’

Beatrice’s head ached more than ever and she longed to clench her fists, but dreaded splitting her burned skin. She could feel the weight of the plum stone in her pocket, and the mistake engraved upon it: You will regret not listening to Rosa when you know her words are true.

‘I am s-so angry,’ she whispered. ‘All the t-time.’ The words were inadequate. She pressed a palm to her chest and she could feel the anger pulsing and throbbing in there, yearning to get out and destroy everything in sight. She could give the word to the black apple trees and they would tear the carousel apart. She didn’t know why they should obey her commands – perhaps they remembered her from the previous garden – at any rate she could feel that she had only to give the order and they would break apart everything in sight. Yet suddenly she felt exhausted with anger, exhausted with her own bitterness and self-loathing. Perhaps Rosa was right. Perhaps her mother would not have wanted such a sacrifice from her. The other life she had glimpsed in the plum rain had already proved to Beatrice that she was not cut out to be a mother herself, nor had she ever experienced any desire to be one. She felt, deep down, that Rosa spoke the truth and she could not deny the words written upon her own plum stone. She walked over to the carousel steps and sat down in sudden defeat.

‘You w-won the c-competition,’ she said, staring at the snow rather than at Rosa. ‘You w-won the w-wish. And you have t-taken. Everything. From me.’

‘But what has she taken?’ a new voice asked.

It was a voice Beatrice recognised, and she looked up to see the Spider Queen emerging from the trees and walking towards them in her cobwebbed gown.

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

Beatrice rose slowly to her feet. The queen looked just the same as she remembered her. She clicked her long fingers and the black apple trees released the horses and climbed down from the carousel, shuffling away with a sheepish sort of air as they disappeared back into the forest.

‘Rosa has not taken anything from you,’ the Spider Queen said. ‘The garden is yours. It has been from the start.’

‘M-Mine?’