Our Dark Prince (The Scottish Play)

XCIX. A Corpse of Thorns

18
PRINCE MANOR
The Elizabethan Parlor
Robin
Vinci, LA
Catahoula County
October 31st, 2014
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    When the rose whispers to you, run.

"Robin?"

In the sleepy, tightly-knit Elizabethan Parlor, the sun was devoured from the sky, ensnared in the throes of the passion of the moon. With eyes of fiery pink, and a taste for Latin American flair, the sun washed over Robin and her four children as they ate on the veranda. White roses, frosted in a rich creaminess, kissed the neatly trimmed bushes around the Parlor. It was time for dinner in the Prince Manor, and Robinʼs children were deeply invested in conversation. But as the shimmering heat of the Louisianan sun cowered under the moonʼs shadow, she heard it again.

With a tongue of poison ivy leaves, when the rose whispers to you, run.

The garden carried a rage; as bitter as the cold. The night burned like a thousand black suns, and as Robin drank, the soreness between her thighs still there, still deliciously sweet, the garden spoke to her. The Gulf of Mexico from beyond Desdemona Princeʼs cupola howled its vengeance – the sea  seductive in her ear: never ceasing, whispering, clamoring, murmuring – with secrets of the past. The bayou hid from the dark. As the howling gales shuddered, and the nightʼs storm raged on, Robin stared with contempt at the Gulf, surrendering to the iciness as the chills traced over her spine.

With a corpse of thorns, when the rose whispers to you, run.

But what do they say?

Plucking the last rose that snared its teeth around the cupola, Robin watched as her pricked finger bled tears into the night sky, and the garden came to life. The Gentlewoman, the roses had told her, stared back at her, a rose protruding from her skull, crushing the bone and showering her in a bouquet of blood. With slit wrists, the Gentlewoman came to her, a corpse swallowed by thorns of flesh, vines of bone, and shrubbery of skin. Jaw detached, with a viperʼs bite and poison ivy tongue.

They ask about the execution on Cawdor. Has it been done?

Cawdor?

He threw his life away for that he cherished most and gave way for the Mad King to reign. Has it been done, in your world?

Robin traded in ghost stories. Sebastianʼs successes in Milan, Katarinaʼs spirit in the beating heart of Madrid, Desdemonaʼs triumphs in Chicago. The Order of the Dragon, in fighting for its survival, had paved a new path forward in blood and bone. A world where the subjects of that world needed to bend, to break, under the will of its supremacy. And yet, the name Cawdor held an old, otherworldly naming. Like a lost, forgotten memory, knitted into a pretty little snowflake, only to be swallowed by the sword of the rain. Robin stared, absentmindedly at the Gentlewoman, watching her rags be brimmed in new blood.

My worthy Cawdor, Prince of Cumberland. The Mad Queen has risen her armies in solidarity with her dearly departed husband.

I donʼt understand.

Your son is waking up, Robin DeMarcus. Your enemies rise in the East and West to take the Order of the Dragon back, in the arms of a Mad King that wishes to bring Armageddon, and his Mistress who seeks your body and soul. The first piece on the chessboard is Cawdor. Has it been done?

My target is Reina Santiago. I donʼt know this Cawdor you speak of, demon.

You are a fool.