Of Snow and Roses Read online

  Copyright © T.M. Franklin, 2020

  The right of T.M. Franklin to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her under the Copyright Amendment (Moral Rights) Act 2000

  This work is copyrighted. All rights are reserved. Apart from any use as permitted under the Copyright Act 1968, no part may be reproduced, copied, scanned, stored in a retrieval system, recorded or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Cover images by:

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  ©Alex

  Fantasybackgroundstore.com

  ©

  Cover design by: T.M. Franklin

  Visit the Author’s web site at

  www.TMFranklin.com

  Title

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Epilogue

  Also by T.M. Franklin

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  The first thing she noticed wasn’t a sight or a sound, but a smell: the pungent scent of disinfectant, used in an attempt to cover up something not nearly as pleasant. Not that disinfectant in and of itself was particularly pleasant in the first place. It stung her nose, coated her tongue, and made her sick to her stomach.

  Then came a whispered murmur of voices.

  “—think she’s coming around. Be ready.”

  Darkness. And . . . and she couldn’t move. Was she paralyzed?

  Her heartbeat, a dull thud at first, picked up the pace as a trickle of panic ran down her spine. Where was she? Why couldn’t she see anything?

  Why couldn’t she move?

  “Can you hear me?” a man’s voice asked.

  She opened her mouth to respond but couldn’t get any words to come out, so she nodded once instead. At least she could move her head.

  “Good. Can you try and open your eyes?”

  Ah, so that accounted for the darkness. It took tremendous effort, far more than it should, but she finally lifted her heavy lids, only to squeeze them tightly shut against the glare of light overhead.

  “It’s okay. Take your time,” the man said, his voice gentle, soothing. “We’re all here to help you. You’re going to be all right.”

  After a few moments, her eyes fluttered open and slowly her surroundings came into focus. A sterile, white room with flickering fluorescent fixtures. A large window to her right, barred on the outside. She was lying on a bed and she tried to move again, eliciting a slight rattling sound. Her arms and legs were restrained by thick, padded cuffs attached to the bed. That was why she couldn’t move.

  A hospital? Why was she in the hospital? Why was she tied down?

  Fear grabbed hold of her, stealing her breath, her chest tight as she gulped for oxygen and yanked against the restraints. Three people stood at the foot of the bed, watching her. Two men and a woman.

  “Who are you?” Her voice was strange, raspy, as though unused for a long time, or perhaps strained by screams. The thought chilled her blood. “Where am I?”

  “It’s all right.” The man in the center of the little group took a step forward, hands held up. “We’re here to help you. Do you know who I am?”

  She had no idea, but he wore a white coat over his black button-down shirt and crisp black slacks. His hair was long and wavy, black with a streak of white, and brushed back from his face. His eyes were dark behind a pair of wire-rimmed glasses and he held a clipboard in one hand.

  “A doctor?” she asked, muscles still straining as she tried to break free.

  He smiled. “Yes, that’s right. Do you know my name?”

  “Why would I know your name? I’ve never seen you before,” she managed to get out behind short, choppy breaths. Darkness edged in at the corners of her vision, the room growing blurry again, and her fingers tingling as she clenched and straightened them, twisting to try and escape.

  “It’s all right,” the doctor said. “Please, try to calm down. You’re hyperventilating and you’re going to pass out. Inhale slowly, now, one . . . two . . .”

  She tried to match his count, and gradually her heartbeat slowed though her hands remained in tight fists, her body tense and rigid.

  “Where am I?” she finally asked. “What’s happening?”

  The doctor set his clipboard down on the narrow side table and sat on a metal chair next to her bed. “What do you remember?”

  She closed her eyes for a moment, searching for anything. “Nothing,” she replied. “I don’t remember—wait.” Her eyes flew open. “Neve. My name is Neve.”

  The corners of the doctor’s eyes twitched ever-so-slightly. “That’s right. You’re Neve. Anything else?”

  She could feel the panic returning. “No. No—nothing. Why don’t I remember anything?”

  He reached out and touched her arm. “It’s all right, Neve. Please try to stay calm and I’ll explain everything, all right?” He glanced toward the other man still standing at the foot of the bed. He was tall and thin with stringy brown hair tied back with a bandanna. Like the woman, he wore blue surgical scrubs.

  “I don’t think we need the restraints, Calum,” the doctor said.

  The skinny man hesitated, casting Neve a nervous glance. “Are you sure, Doctor? She—”

  “I’m sure,” he replied quickly. “Neve’s not going to cause any trouble. Are you, Neve? You understand that we’re all here to help you.”

  Neve didn’t understand anything, but she definitely wanted those restraints removed, so she nodded quickly. “I won’t cause trouble. I promise.”

  “Good, that’s good.” The doctor patted her shoulder as Calum and the woman finally moved to unbuckle the cuffs. The relief at finally being able to move made Neve let out a little sigh as she rubbed at her wrists. The woman—short, stocky with red hair pulled into a tight bun at the base of her neck—adjusted the bed so Neve was sitting up.

  “Now, first things first,” the doctor said. “I’m Doctor Alberich and this is the Blackbriar Institute. This is Calum.” He gestured toward the skinny man who’d moved to stand near the window, then to the woman, who smiled stiffly. “And this is Angelica. They’re both nurses here.”

  Neve swallowed. “Can I please have some water?”

  “Of course!” Doctor Alberich waved toward the woman—Angelica—who poured a glass from the pitcher on the side table and handed it to Neve.

  She drank deeply, the water cool on her parched throat and tongue. When it was gone, she held on to the cup, turning it between her hands.

  “Why am I here?” Neve asked. “Am I sick?”

  Doctor Alberich frowned slightly. “Not physically, no,” he replied. “But you’ve been here for years, Neve. And the amnesia is not unusual with your condition.”

  “Condition?” The word felt thick on her tongue. “What’s wrong with me?”

  The doctor hesitated, shooting a quick glance toward the nurses. “It’s complicated, I’m afraid. You suffer from a multitude of issues that we’ve been treating since you were a young girl. This is not the first time you’ve lost your memories.”

  Neve’s stomach fluttered with nerves, anxiety making her cold and clammy all over. She struggled to breathe deeply. Maintain control.

  “Will I g
et them back?” she asked.

  “Honestly, we don’t know,” Doctor Alberich replied with a sympathetic shake of his head. “It’s possible, but－”

  Neve swallowed. “But?” When he hesitated, she leaned forward and added quickly, “Please tell me everything. I can handle it.”

  He nodded and reached for the clipboard. “You never have before,” he said. “You make new memories, but then another bout of amnesia occurs, and you lose those as well.” He flipped through the pages of her chart. “You also suffer from hallucinations on occasion. Both auditory and visual. Delusions. Paranoia.”

  Blood rushed in Neve’s ears as she slumped back against the pillows. “You’re saying I’m crazy?”

  “No,” Doctor Alberich said firmly, his dark, fathomless eyes focused on her. “I’m saying you’re ill. But we’re all here to help you. You can trust us.”

  She looked around the little group, trying to read their expressions, searching their faces in the blackness of her memories. They all watched her patiently, waiting for her to absorb what she’d been told. To accept it.

  Neve’s initial instinct was to fight back. To shout that she wasn’t crazy. Didn’t have hallucinations and delusions and whatever else he said was wrong with her. She wanted to get up and walk out of that room, out of the hospital－what was it he called it? Blackbriar?－and keep walking until everything made sense. Run and run and run like she could somehow find her memories and snatch them back into her brain.

  But where could she go? Who would help her?

  Still, she couldn’t simply accept what they said without at least asking for proof, right?

  “How－” She cleared her throat nervously. “How do I know you’re telling me the truth?”

  Doctor Alberich let out a little laugh, and she noticed the nurses smiling as well. Neve stiffened, her hands tightening into fists.

  “Sorry, Neve,” the doctor said, noticing her reaction. “We’re not laughing at you. I promise. It’s just that you ask us that every time.”

  “Every time?” she repeated, stunned. “How many times has this happened?”

  In response, he flipped back through her chart, then turned it toward her. Clipped to the top right corner was a picture of a little girl, perhaps five or six years old, wearing a flowy white dress. She was pale everywhere, as if all the color had been washed out of her—white-blonde hair in two braids hanging over her shoulders, creamy skin with a hint of freckles across her nose, and blue eyes so light they almost glowed. Doctor Alberich turned a few pages and she saw another photograph—the same girl but older, perhaps ten or eleven. Another few pages and there was the girl again, awkward and gangly with adolescence. Finally, on the most current page, a picture of the girl grown to womanhood, her pale eyes tired and worn, purple bruising the delicate skin beneath them. Her hair had darkened, but only slightly, gathered into a low ponytail drifting forward over her left shoulder, and she wore drab, colorless clothes, ill-fitting and unremarkable.

  “That’s . . . me?” Neve asked, reaching out a tentative hand to touch the picture.

  “Yes,” the doctor replied. “You’ve been here since you were a little girl. We’ve had this conversation six times so far.”

  Neve closed her eyes tightly, as if she could shut out the information. It was easier when she didn’t know any of this, wasn’t it? But the images of the girl burned behind her lids, and she knew there was no going back. After a long moment, she opened her eyes, a trickle of tears falling unnoticed down her cheeks.

  “Can I get better?” she asked, feeling suddenly like that five-year-old girl, lost and alone.

  Doctor Alberich patted her arm where it lay limp on the bed covers. “We’ll do all we can, Neve. I promise.” He gave her a quick smile. “Don’t worry. You’re not alone.”

  She nodded, unable to speak with the clog of tears in her throat.

  The doctor seemed to understand. “Now, I’m guessing you must be hungry. You missed lunch because of . . . well.” He tipped his head with a sympathetic look.

  Neve swallowed, putting on a brave face. These people had been trying to help her for years. The least she could do was try to be compliant.

  “I am, actually,” she replied.

  He glanced at his watch. “Well, you’re just in time for dinner,” he said. “Calum will show you the way. We’ll talk more later, all right?”

  Neve nodded and got up from bed, slipping her feet into a pair of plain white sneakers she found tucked under the bedside table. She stood, giving Calum a tentative smile, but he turned without returning the gesture and led her from the room. She watched him walk, his thin frame angular and jerky, his own sneakers squeaking on the linoleum as they headed down a wide hallway with doors open on either side. Neve peeked into one as she passed. It looked exactly like hers—white walls, narrow bed, barred windows overlooking a grassy garden area, the light indicating early evening. Looked like summer, maybe? The grass was a little parched, the flower blooms a bit wilted.

  She had no time to ponder the garden further as they turned a corner and entered a large common room with a scattering of a half-dozen round tables in the center. To the right, she could see a pass-through window to an institutional kitchen. To the left, french doors led out to the garden, and a battered upright piano crouched in the corner. A couple mismatched bookcases on the opposite wall housed some tattered volumes, and boxes of puzzles and games.

  There were about twenty residents—patients, she reminded herself—sitting at the tables and eating, the sound of plastic utensils scraping against plastic trays a gentle murmur in the room. They all wore variations of what Neve assumed was the Blackbriar uniform: gray sweatpants, white T-shirts, gray hoodies and the same white slip-on shoes Neve wore. No color. No variation. No one spoke.

  “Get your food over there.” Calum motioned to the pass-through. “Sit anywhere but avoid Lily. The one in the middle with the weird hair.” He smirked. “She bites,” he said. Then he turned and left the room, hitching up his ill-fitting scrub pants.

  Neve’s stomach gave a nervous twist, and she avoided the curious glances of the rest of the patients, though she could feel their eyes on her as she walked toward the kitchen. An older woman with a white ponytail and piercing blue eyes popped her gum when Neve approached. She wore an apron with a smear of something across the stomach, and a name tag that read Shelley in fading black marker.

  “Chicken or beef?” she asked, a large spoon poised over a pan of meat patties swimming in congealing gravy.

  “Uh,” Neve scanned the choices before her. “I’m not that hungry, actually. Could I have some of the potatoes and a little of the salad?”

  The older woman grunted, although whether in affirmation or irritation, Neve wasn’t sure. Shelley plopped a spoonful of mashed potatoes onto the largest section of the plastic tray and added a bit of iceberg lettuce mixed with shredded carrots in the corner. “Dressing’s over there,” she said, gesturing to a small table set up off to the right.

  Neve added some ranch dressing and grabbed a roll and butter off the condiment table then, with a heavy breath, looked up to find a place to sit. The girl at the middle table with spiky pink hair, shaved close on the sides—Lily, the biter—smiled widely and waved at her. Neve knew she should find another place. She really had no desire to be bitten, after all. But the girl looked so friendly and eager, she couldn’t ignore her. Hesitantly, she set her tray across from Lily and sat down, her hands in her lap and well out of biting range.

  “Hi,” she said.

  The girl ripped off a piece of her roll and popped it into her mouth, her teeth glinting as she chewed. “Hi, Neve,” she said through a mouthful of food.

  Neve blinked. “You know me?”

  “Oh shoot!” Lily’s nose wrinkled and she gave her head a little shake. “Doctor Alberich said you wouldn’t remember. I forgot.” She shrugged, like it was no big deal. “People around here forget stuff all the time.”

  Neve looked around the room
at the others—a blonde woman in her mid-thirties crouched over her own meal, a short man with brown skin and a mustache talking with a slightly taller man who looked like he could be his brother. They were all ages—a gray-haired man was probably the oldest in the group, ranging down to a girl with short, black hair who didn’t look more than twelve or thirteen. It was strange, wasn’t it? To have children and adults in the same hospital?

  What Lily said finally hit home. “Does everyone here have amnesia?” Neve asked.

  Lily shrugged, and Neve finally noticed the rows of earrings curling up and around each of her ears, the colorful tattoos peeking out from the sleeves and neckline of her T-shirt.

  “Sometimes,” she replied before stuffing a huge chunk of meat into her mouth. Like that explained anything at all.

  “You should eat,” Lily said, eyeing Neve’s potatoes. “You won’t get anything else until breakfast, and that’s a long time.”

  Neve nodded and took a bite of the mash, subtly glancing around the room again. For the most part, everyone seemed to be ignoring her now, focused on their own food. She noticed a couple at the far table, talking quietly. It would have been impossible not to notice the woman, actually, a stunning beauty with russet skin, and thick, dark hair twisted in a braid that hung to her waist. She wore the same uniform as the rest of the patients but had thick leather bracelets around both wrists. Her face was heart-shaped, with sharp angled cheekbones and wide-set, dark eyes focused on the man to her right.

  He sat curled over two trays, as if protecting them from anyone who might want to sneak a taste. He was huge, larger than Neve had first realized since he was hunched over, with thick arms and wide shoulders, meaty hands that looked almost comical trying to hold a plastic spork. His hair was brown and wavy, his face—what little she could see of it from this angle—covered with a heavy scruff, and he listened to whatever the woman said with an occasional nod.

  Then, he stiffened, his hand curling into a fist and snapping the spork. The woman reached out and touched his hand, speaking to him in low tones, but he shook his head as if disagreeing with whatever she said. To Neve’s surprise, the woman looked directly at her, then away just as quickly, leaning closer to talk to the man.