the tangle of the rose

"One of these days you are going to have to come out of this room, and join the rest of us feeble mortals. I am getting rather tired of this. It’s 1920 not 1820 you know. It’s no longer the done thing for gentlemen to shut themselves away in fuggy rooms." Fenella said, in her usual didactic manner. Tristan sighed. He was trying to examine a page of particularly fine Ecuadorian stamps that had come in the post that morning, on approval. He had been trying to examine them four times, but Fenella, his dear sister, would keep interrupting him.
"If you did condescend to come out of here, you would know that Uncle Matthew has taken on a new librarian." Fenella continued. She wondered if that would grab her brother’s attention as he had long coveted their uncle’s extensive collection. His ridiculous collection, Fenella thought. So many old, shabby tomes, collecting dust and cobwebs.
      Tristan was looking older than his years, his hair already going grey and unkempt. His clothes were shabby and crumpled. His valet was neglecting his master, which was understandable when Tristan was neglecting himself. She looked around the room: wall-to-wall bookcases, crammed with leather covered volumes, spilling onto the floor in dusty piles; their uncle’s library in miniature. The maids were not allowed in this room, and the layers of dust showed how decayed her brother’s surroundings, and his behaviour, had become. It was not right. She swallowed against a lump of sadness in her throat, remembering the gentle, lively, happy boy Tristan had been, years ago.
      "About time, that library is a dreadful mess," Tristan said as he put down the magnifying glass. From experience he knew that if he gave her all of his attention, she would end her chatter more quickly and he would be left alone in his study, with his precious stamps.
"Don’t you want to know who the new librarian is?"
Tristan sighed. "I have no idea. A beta probably, from the university. There are plenty of them."
"Oh no," Fenella said, her voice thrumming with a titbit of something she knew would interest him. "He’s got an omega, of all people. You probably won’t remember her. She must have been, oh four, that little omega girl, you remember? You do remember? Her father killed her mother then shot himself."
      Yes, he did remember. He could never forget that day. Twenty years old, and he had moved back home to lick his wounds, fresh from a devastating divorce, after a humiliatingly short mating match. Fenella had persuaded him to accompany her and their mother on one of their lady bountiful days; the great alpha ladies, visiting the sick, the poor, and the downtrodden, and distributing largess. In one particularly dilapidated shack of a house, they found a little girl alone, all of four years old, peering round the side of the living room door at the strange visitors. Her bare feet were dirty, and she wore nothing but an old pair of patched underpants and a grubby vest through which her ribs poked. Her red hair was matted, one of her deep green eyes was ringed with a dark bruise, there were bruises on her arms, and blood at the side of her mouth. Everything about her screamed hunger, neglect and suffering. She stared at Tristan for a long minute, ignoring the two women, then made up her mind. She beckoned to him and he had to kneel on the filthy floor to hear her. She leaned against him, there was the sour smell of an unwashed little body, but he was never a fastidious dandy anyway, so he slipped an arm around her.
"Mummy’s asleep," she whispered in a harsh, tiny voice, "and I can’t wake her up."
"Here’s one for you mother," he said. But the little girl put her hand in his, trustingly. She led him into the one bedroom in the cottage, where there was a young woman lying on her side in the bed. Her eyes were wide and staring, and it didn’t need a medical degree to know that she had been dead for hours. The child inside her was long dead too.
      The rest of the afternoon was taken up with informing the authorities, who were already looking for the woman. Her husband had been found dead in a barn on some nearby farm. His shattered head, and the rifle lying by his side told that tale. Mother insisted on taking the little girl to their home, with Fenella clucking over the bewildered child like a hen with one chick. Bathed, hair washed and brushed, fed, and in a clean nightgown, the little girl turned out to be remarkably pretty with delicate features, despite her bruised eye. Tristan remembered, she stared at him all the time, perhaps begging him to rescue her from this overwhelming attention. She had been put to bed in the old nursery, but sometime after midnight, he heard the pad-padding of tiny bare feet crossing his bedroom floor. She clambered into bed and snuggled up beside him. Tristan recalled that he froze. What should he do, take her back to the nursery? But he felt her trembling, against his back. He remembered that nursery well. At night, in the dark, with the big clock in the hall ticking the moments away with monotonous regularity, it could be difficult to lie alone, sleep, and not worry about the things that might live in the skirting boards, or the wind creatures that tapped on the window. So he turned over and pulled the little girl into his arms. She was so small that most of her fitted on his chest. He had stayed awake for most of the night, not daring to move in case he woke her, stroking her hair and making all sorts of plans to adopt her, or make Fenella or their mother foster her.
      But mother had cut through her son’s sentimentality and found the child a place in an orphanage for omega children, that she was interested in. The little girl was taken to the large house in the country so quickly, that she was not allowed to say goodbye to her rescuers. What was the child’s name? He searched through his memory and it came to him in a sudden flash, Briar-Rose. Evoking an image of a delicate flower surrounded by sharp, piercing thorns. A fitting name for such a sad beginning to her life.

      "So where did you see her?" Tristan said.
"I told you, she’s at Uncle Matthew’s," Fenella said, speaking of their late mother’s older brother. "She works in the library, and she lives in the house. I could not believe it. She said, ‘you won’t remember me’. But do you know, I did, even after all those years. I knew her straight away. Pretty girl, but odd. She must be, oh, 20 now. Wonder how Uncle Matthew found her."
Fenella forsook him the next moment as the tinkle of tea cups in the drawing room distracted her. He was left to study the book of Ecuadorian stamps for as long as he wanted, but he pushed it to one side and gave himself up to remembering little Briar-Rose and her deep, dark green eyes that had stared right into his soul.

      "So, to what do I owe this attention, my boy?" Sir Matthew Moreland said, observing his nephew over the top of his half moon spectacles. Tristan, 36 years old, but forgiving his uncle for forgetting that fact, merely smiled. Sir Matthew harrumphed something which might have been the answer to his own question. "I rarely see you from one month to the other. I invited you to live here months ago, several times in fact. But you turned me down every time. What has changed?"
Tristan nodded, absently, and Sir Matthew sighed. Still as taciturn as ever. Silently, he castigated his brother-in-law for raising his only son to be a tight-lipped reclusive. Then, as he watched his nephew searching in his brain for a good enough excuse, it occurred to him that visits from Fenella had increased lately. Ever since he had taken on Briar-Rose to sort out the library. Sir Matthew smiled. So it was like that? Of course he was aware of the omega girl’s past and her association with his sister’s family. His eyes narrowed as he looked at Tristan. Would the lad go along with the plans his loving uncle had carefully devised for him? A long talk with Fenella about her brother had given him the idea to hire Briar-Rose. Now all that was needed was for his nephew to change the habits of too many years.
      Tristan shifted in his chair. He knew Uncle Matthew was going to ask but he had no answer beyond, because I want to see Briar-Rose again. Why did he want to see her? To see the woman the neglected, forlorn child had grown into, wondering if she remembered him? He had a sudden need to be remembered. The day after they had found the little girl, was the day he had received his decree absolute, and the end of his hopes. Janetta had found another mate who suited her better than he had, but he was stuck in his parents’ house, mired in a life that had spiralled down into loneliness and solitude. Sliding into his fourth decade, he had become aware that his life was a lonely one; no mate, no children, no warmth. After nagging at him to "get back on the horse", the family had left him to himself, his books and his precious stamp collection. But from time to time, memories of Briar-Rose tugged at his psyche and tangled around his thoughts.
      "I heard you had bought that new edition of Plato’s "Republic", and I wondered if it was worth buying a copy myself," Tristan said, a little pompously.
"It is rather good," Matthew said. "You know my boy, some say that Plato was an alpha, but I have it on good authority that he was an omega."
But Tristan was not listening. He was already halfway out of his chair.
"Yes, yes," Matthew said absently, picking up the book he had been reading when Tristan arrived. "Go and look for it in the library. You’ll find it there. You’ll find everything you’re looking for in the library. If you know how to look." He added softly, as Tristan left the room.

      The library was shrouded in shadows. Piles of dark books bound in leather, in shades of deep brown, russet red, and forest green, covered most of the floor space. The only light came from a lamp on a side table, shining on a young woman, who sat in a dark brown armchair. Her dress was a fawn colour with flowers embroidered in pale brown; her dark wine red hair gleamed, her pale face and faintly pink cheeks glowed in the dimmed light. She was reading a book with intense attention. Tristan stood in the open doorway and thought that he had never seen anyone so beautiful in all of his life. She was like something out of a fairy tale, ethereal, and delicate. He had the strangest feeling that if he moved or spoke, she would disappear. It was as though time had stopped still at the moment he saw her. Motes of dust hung in the air, motionless. He could scarcely breath.
      She slowly closed the book and looked up. Seeing him watching her, she stared for a long moment. Then she smiled, and stood up.
"I wondered when you would come and visit," she said. "Sir Matthew told me you were going to live here. Come on in."
Tristan walked in and looked around, his hands virtually itching to pick up a book or two.
"It really is better than it was," Briar-Rose said. "I’ve picked out the worst ones, and they’ve gone to London to be repaired. If they can be. But if you would like to help me sort the rest out, Tristan, I’d be very grateful."
      She was standing right in front of him, only a hand’s breadth between them, and she knew him, she did remember him. Despite the closed-in, frowsty room with no windows, full of desiccating paper and dust motes, he could smell her soft, sweet rosewood scent, and it was distracting him. She stared up at him, straight to the soul, just as she had as a small child. The years had not treated him kindly, she thought. His hair was going grey. She reached up and gently stroked back a strand that had fallen into his eyes. He smelt of orris, smoky and flowery at the same time, a scent that was as familiar to her as her own. She was fighting the urge to rest her head against his chest and wrap her arms around him, and stay there forever. Why would he not say a word?

      "Excuse me miss, sir," one of the maids appeared behind Tristan. "The master says that lunch is ready if you’d both like to go to the dining room, miss, sir."
Briar-Rose smiled. "Thank you Elsie, we’ll be right there in a moment." She smiled at the girl, who nodded and disappeared again. "I do wish they wouldn’t do that," she said. "I don’t know how many times I’ve nearly jumped out of my skin. I am sure Sir Matthew trains them to float in the air."
Still no response from Tristan. Briar-Rose sighed, and acting completely on instinct and memory, she took hold of his hand. He followed her to the dining room as readily as he had followed her to her mother’s body, so many years ago.

      If Tristan and Briar-Rose were remarkably quiet over lunch, Sir Matthew chose not remark on it. Miss Culpeper, his late wife’s companion, made up for the silence, chattering about the most inane subjects. She suspected the butcher in the village of walking out with the sister of the priest of the local temple, despite the butcher having one mate to his credit, who served customers from behind the counter. Sir Matthew listened to the chatter with half an ear, watching. Tristan ate without looking up from his plate, while Briar-Rose, who sat next to him, appeared to be similarly preoccupied, but she kept stealing quick glances at him. Was Tristan unaware? Sir Matthew thought not. Tristan’ focus seemed too studied to be genuine.
"Did you find what you wanted in the library?" Sir Matthew said innocently, when dessert was served.
"Not sure, need to look a bit longer," Tristan said quietly.
"Well, just ask Briar-Rose to help," Sir Matthew said. "Since taking over my library she’s already made great inroads. Haven’t you m’dear."
Briar-Rose smiled. "It’s an Augean task," she said. "I may finish sometime by the next millennium."
"You’ll have to ask Tristan to help."
Briar-Rose swallowed and ducked her head to cover the small tears that prickled at her eyes. When Sir Matthew told her that Tristan was coming to stay for a while, she had not expected to be treated to a blank stare. Not from the man she had loved and idolised for as long as she could remember. He had the habit of coming back into her life, and then leaving again, sometimes for years at a time. Never staying long enough for her to speak to him. She had the strangest suspicion that he had been running away from her, all these many years.
"I still have a lot to do," she said quietly, "I’d better get on with it." She abruptly pushed away her half-finished bowl of apple crumble and custard, and rushed out of the room.
"Extraordinary behaviour!" Miss Culpeper bleated. "Girls these days have no manners. Sir Matthew, I am sure that dear Honoria would not have allowed an omega girl to share table with the family."
"Miss Culpeper, my dear Honoria would have welcomed that sweet girl into our home and treated her like one of the family. You know that only too well." He turned away from the old lady, who was alternatively gasping incoherent words, and dabbing her eyes with a large embroidered handkerchief.

      Briar-Rose sat at the desk in the library. It was the first task she had completed, clearing the piles of books off and polishing the desktop. The maids had gathered in the open doorway that first day, to watch the strange omega doing their job. They were all betas, of course, and they still tended to give her a wide berth, treating her as just one step down from alpha, and yet inferior to them, the betas, at the same time. Living here was far more complicated than life in the orphanage. She pulled out a pile of foolscap sheets from the desk drawer, and a fountain pen. Why did he not remember her? Her heart felt as heavy as a stone and she was so lost in memories and misery, that she didn’t notice tears trickling down her face and splashing onto the list she had carefully made.

      In the dining room, Tristan was wishing himself a million miles away.
"Tristan," Sir Matthew snapped," for the love of everything, go out now and follow her. I don’t know what’s got into you, I really don’t. What are you doing, sitting there like a desiccated corpse? Go after her, you’re getting in the way of all my plans."
"That would hardly be dignified at my age," Tristan said, somewhat sadly. He decided not to ask about his uncle’s plans. He had an uncomfortable feeling that they involved himself and Briar-Rose.
"Dignified be damned," Sir Matthew snapped. "Sorry Miss Culpeper, but sometimes this boy is enough to make a saint swear. Tristan, if you go and find her now, I will give you the new edition of Plato’s book, giftwrapped."
"No need for that," Tristan said. He pushed away his own bowl, slowly, carefully wiped his mouth with a linen napkin, and stood up. He spent a few moments examining his pocket watch, before deliberately strolling out of the room.
Sir Matthew banged his fist on the table, making the glasses, and Miss Culpeper, jump. "That boy will be the death of me," he vowed.
"And that girl will be the death of me," Miss Culpeper said, tartly. "Moving a young girl into the house, an omega no less, without a chaperone or keeping her to the servant’s hall. I do not know what…"
"If you invoke the name of my dear wife again..." Sir Matthew said, then growled incoherently and stormed out of the dining room. Leaving Miss Culpeper to pour herself a cup of coffee to restore her nerves.

      Of course Briar-Rose was in the library, the first place Tristan looked. He was appalled to see her, sitting in the half light at the desk, silently crying. His fault. She was lost in her misery and didn’t hear him come into the room. He gently pushed a handkerchief into her hands and she mopped her face with it.
"Your sister remembered me," she said, brokenly, "so why didn’t you?"
"In my defence," he said, then stopped when he realised how pompous he sounded.
"The witness for the defence, m’lud," Briar-Rose said, with a brave, small smile.
Tristan shoved a pile of books off another chair and pulled it over to the desk, so he could sit beside her. "In my defence," he repeated, "I only saw you once, when you were so tiny one puff of wind, or a glare, would have knocked you over."
"The prosecution witness states that you saw me four times, probably more," she said. "Oh yes you did," she added, when he opened his mouth to object. "A couple of months after I’d been sent to the orphanage, you came to visit."
"Mother’s idea, and it was a waste of time as the matron would not allow me to see you."
"But you did see me. When you were leaving, you walked down the shingle path and I started to run after you, but you looked right through me and just left."
He thought back, and yes, he did remember two little girls in the orphanage uniform of brown pinafore dress and white blouse. One little girl had two enormous pink bows that fairly screamed at her red hair. Ah, dark red hair, of course.
"The defence rests, m’lud," he said, "and concedes defeat."
"The prosecution would like to remind you that you’re not telling the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. You went to the orphanage three times after that, for prize days, when the older girls were leaving. You always looked very uncomfortable, surrounded by a hundred girls, all omegas, all ages. It was cruel of Fenella to force you to go with her. And," she turned an accusing glare at him, "it was only two years ago that you saw me, at prize day. So you don’t have a leg to stand on."
He half expected her to poke him in the chest, but she picked up the pages and scribbled something angrily.
      Of course he remembered that prize day, though he had honestly tried to forget. An 18-years-old Briar-Rose, crossing the stage to receive the literature prize. Oh he knew her, from his 34 to her 18 years. She was still small, only just as high as his chest. She walked towards him, smiling, so happy to see him, not realising that her smile had nearly undone him. As he gave her the prize, a leather-bound book of Shakespeare sonnets, he touched her hand. For one wild second he fought the urge to recite a line from a poem by William Morris: Come fated hand the gift to take, And smite this sleeping world awake. But sense overcame him, thankfully, and he merely smiled in return, an impersonal cold, small smile, and watched while she walked to the other side of the stage, down the steps, and out of his life again. So the sleeping world went on sleeping, and dreaming its useless dreams.
"The prosecution rests," Briar-Rose said, wearily. "And the jury finds you guilty on all charges."
"So what is my punishment?" Tristan said.
She considered him for a moment, with her head tilted to one side. Before Tristan realised what she was doing, she moved her chair close beside him, took his face in her hands, and kissed him. To her dismay, he was shaking. Gently, she nudged his head onto her shoulder and stroked his hair.
"Shush, it’s all right, silly. Never mind all those years, you’re here now." She kissed his brow, his cheek, and wrapped her arms around him. "Why did you shut yourself away like that?"
      Tristan sat up, rubbing at his face. He couldn’t bear her being so loving and affectionate.
"I have been asking myself the same question for years." he said sadly. "You know about my short-lived match?"
Briar-Rose nodded. "Fenella told me you had got divorced barely a year after you were matched." She tucked her hand into his. "What happened Tristan?"
He sighed. "It all went wrong when I was expelled from school."
"What could you have done that was so bad?"
He could smell the clear, sweet scent of roses in the room. He took her hand and absently stroked his fingers across the knuckles of her hand.
"Being the only boy in the family," he said, "there was a lot of pressure on me to be the best. But I was just an average kid. My father let me know that it wasn’t good enough. I was caught using cribs in a couple of my classes."
"But lots of kids do that. It’s a bit harsh to expel you. Did they send you to another school?"
"Oh no," Tristan said bitterly. "I had smashed up my one and only chance. I was sent to live with Uncle Matthew for a while, and he gave me the run of his library."
Briar-Rose smiled, and her nose wrinkled adorably, Tristan noticed. "Well that was hardly a punishment."
"Uncle Matthew left me alone. As long I turned up to mealtimes, I could do what I wanted. Aunt Honoria fussed a little, but she was trying to mother me. I miss her." Briar-Rose was sad to see that he hunched his shoulders, folding in on himself. "And I was punished, years later," he added. "I didn’t tell you, I saw you nearly every day, when you lived with Mrs Halston."
"I was her companion."
"You lived in the village, just half a mile down the road. I saw you every week in the temple of the triad. Uncle Matthew made me go. He said it was penance for the years I had wasted."
"Oh, it must have been a terrible punishment to see me every week."
Tristan smiled sadly. "No, that wasn’t the punishment. The real punishment was that I couldn’t talk to you."
"Uncle Matthew wouldn’t let you?"
"No," Tristan said sadly, "I wouldn’t let me. I’ve been punishing myself ever since I was expelled from school. I had agreed to the match with Janetta, that father wanted, because I thought I didn’t deserve any better. Good family y’know. An alpha, with prospects. Lots of money, lots of influence. Father let me know that I was a failure and a waste and should be grateful. Janetta hated me, of course, and the whole thing was a disaster."
"Then she was a fool." Briar-Rose said. "And so was your father. Why couldn’t he have found you a silly little omega, with no family, no prospects, no money, and absolutely no influence. And who would love you forever."
"Do you know anyone like that?" he said, smiling.
"I might do," she muttered, kissing his face over and over again. "I might know one omega who might be persuaded to stay with you forever. If you ask her nicely."

      "When you’ve finished getting reacquainted," Sir Matthew said tartly, from the doorway. "there’s something we need to talk about, my lad." As he walked away, Briar-Rose frowned.
"Well that’s strange," she said, "I would have thought he would have been laughing at us." She planted one more kiss on Tristan’s face.
"I’d better see what he wants," Tristan said. He kissed Briar-Rose, meaning just one kiss and then go. But he got as far as the door, and had to come back for another two. As he finally left the library, he heard her laughing all the way down the corridor to his uncle’s study.
      Sir William was waiting.
"Come in quick and close the door," he said sharply. He sat behind his desk with a stern and forbidding expression on his face. Tristan was puzzled.
"Uncle Matthew," he said, "you don’t mind about me and Briar-Rose, do you?" Tristan sat in a large armchair. As a child he had always been afraid that the chair would eat him alive. Sitting in it now was a small act of defiance for that boy from long ago.
"Mind?" Sir Matthew said, "Poppycock! I told you I’d been making plans, and if anything, as things are, it would be better for her to have two of us to protect the lass."
"Protect her? What does she need protecting from?"
Sir Matthew sighed. "I did hope it would not come to this," he said. "But with our dear Mr. and Mrs. Saxe-Coburg-Windsor preoccupied with their brood — are they omega one wonders, treasonously — certain laws have been debated in the House without them knowing about it, or being told. Even their closest advisors are hiding it from them."
"What laws?" Tristan asked,
Sir Matthew sighed again. "Certain people are concerned, or so they delude themselves, into worrying about the omegas, especially as they seem to have declined in number. Have you noticed? Probably not after doing your ostrich and head in the sand impression. Sorry lad," he said, noticing Tristan’s expression. "But you have to admit, you’ve not been taking notice either. There’s talk in the House of segregating all omegas, male and female, and keeping them behind high walls. I have a friend, a good chap though he is a Whig. He wrote to me and warned me. I have the letter here." Sir William passed a sheet of paper to Tristan, who read it carefully.
"He says here that the segregated omegas will be placed at the disposal of certain influential alpha families." Tristan said. "What does he mean by that?"
"Anyone with money and influence will be able to buy omega mates for their youngsters. They’ll be no better than slaves, bought and sold in the marketplace like so many boxes of tea. We abolished slavery and all its horrors in 1833, and here we are, restoring it by the back door. But you see what that means for Briar-Rose."
"If she isn’t bonded, she’ll be taken away and put in one of these enclaves."
"She’d be sold to some alpha family, and you’ll never see her again, my boy. Why did you take you own damn blasted time about it? She would have willingly dropped into your lap any time in the past two years if you just climbed out of your damn blasted pit."
Tristan had the grace to look ashamed, but only a little, as he knew why he had hidden himself away. At least now he had told Briar-Rose, and as long as she understood, Uncle William could bluster away as much as he liked.
"So what are we going to do about it?" he said.
"All right, now that’s the right attitude," Sir William said, and slapped his thigh. "First thing is to get hold of the priest at the Temple of the Triad, and get you two bonded tout d’suite. That is, I take it you do want to be bonded to the lassie?"
Tristan smiled, a slow happy smile. "Of course I do," he said. "I’ve always wanted her."
"Ye-es, and she got her omega hooks into you at a ridiculously young age, the little hussy." Sir William laughed. "Even if she didn’t know what she was about, she claimed you, put her mark right on your soul. Why do you think your mother put her in an orphanage so close by? She could have sent her far away, if she didn’t intend the lassie to be yours one day. And then she died, my darling sister, before her time, and your rotten excuse of an idiot father managed to crush you utterly. You know why he did it, don’t you?"
Tristan looked glum. "Because I cheated at school."
Sir William snorted. "Rubbish, boy! Lot of poppycock. It was jealousy, nothing short of the green-eyed monster. Your mother, bless her, my little Irene, she doted on you when you were born. And he hated that you took all her attention away from him. Nasty, selfish, rotten bastard. I told her, I told her not to bond with him. But she wouldn’t listen." He stopped his rant and mumbled helplessly into his beard.
Tristan stood up, recognising one of his uncle’s fits of spiralling into his memories. "I’ll just go and let Briar-Rose know what we’ve been talking about," he said, heading for the door.
"Yes, tell her my boy. Tell her. Have to look after her. It’s what Irene wanted."

      Tristan left the room and raced down the corridor. But the library was empty. No lovely girl, sitting in the armchair, absorbed in an old book. The air moved the dust motes as though nothing magical had ever inhabited the dusty, fuggy room. Tristan spied a maid at the other end of the corridor, near the drawing room. He walked as fast he could to her, without scaring her. His uncle’s maids were rather young betas, being trained by the housekeeper.
"Have you seen Briar-Rose?" he said.
"No Mr Tristan, I haven’t seen hide nor hair of the girl. Not since you all had your lunch." She spoke from the superior position of a beta over an omega, but then stopped and rummaged in the pocket of her apron. "I tells a lie," she said sheepishly. "I did see her but I forgot. Not more than ten minutes ago. Mrs Lancaster wanted me to go to kitchen and it went clear out of my head. But she left a note."
"Mrs Lancaster left you a note?" Tristan said, not quite sure where this was going.
The girl laughed. "No Mr Tristan, Briar-Rose left me a note. Said to give it to you." She handed him a, by now, rather grubby piece of paper. Greasy fingermarks concealed most of Briar-Rose’s neat and tidy handwriting.
"What did the note say?"
"What did the note say?" the girl repeated. She screwed her face up in an effort to remember. If he had had the time and patience, he would have found it amusing. As it was, he wanted to grab her by the shoulders and shake it out of her.
"Oh I know," she said eventually. "It were about a chap what come to the kitchen door and said he wanted her, as Mrs Halston what lives in the village is not well and wanted to see Briar-Rose."
"Who was he?" Tristan said slowly and carefully. "What chap do you mean?"
"What chap does I mean?" the maid said, agonisingly slowly. "I know I’ve seen him before somewhere." Once again she pantomimed thinking especially hard for the answer before almost jumping into the air. "I’ve got it, it were that Mr Kendal. The young one not the old one." She beamed at Tristan, so proud of herself.
      Mr Kendal, the young one. Tristan knew him well. Mr Anthony Kendal, his co-conspirator at the same school. He, who had also used cribs, and committed more egregious crimes besides, but who never faced the consequences. Was never made to face the consequences. A smarmy, louche, despoiler of women, picker-up of whatever was not locked away, a byword for everything that was despicable and dishonest. What was he doing, carrying messages from a frail widow who lived in the cottages in the village?
      The coat cupboard was right beside him. Tristan pulled out his greatcoat and put it on.
"Tell Sir William" he began, then stopped. The young maid would probably forget or get around to delivering the message sometime in the evening. Thankfully he spotted Grimes, his uncle’s butler, lurking near the front door.
"Grimes," he called. The man visibly jumped, then quickly gathered himself. Tristan ran to him. "Can you tell my uncle that I’ve gone to the Kendals and I think they’ve got Briar-Rose. Tell him, it’s started. Just that. He’ll know what you mean."
"Oh Mr Tristan," the beta maid called, running after him. "I nearly forgot. Briar-Rose said as how she ran out of scent stoppers, so she was going to buy some more in the village shop."
But if Anthony Kendal had got a hold of her, he would prevent her from going into the village. Sir William lumbered into the hallway.
"Uncle, think!" Tristan said. "When is Briar-Rose’s next heat meant to arrive?"
Grimes turned away, an agonised expression on his face. The maid giggled into her apron.
"It’s important uncle. Tony Kendal has her."
Sir William gasped. "Then go on my boy, go and fetch her back. There isn’t very much time."

      Briar-Rose sat on a cold wooden bench in a cold, comfortless room, in company with a dozen other young girls and women, all omegas. Some of them were crying helplessly, alone, or holding on to another girl for comfort. She recognised three of them from the orphanage, still wearing the regulation uniform of brown dress and white blouse. The matron of the orphanage would have been horrified to see her girls, their blouses torn and dirty, and their faces streaked with tears. Anthony Kendal had ran with her down to the village, but instead of escorting her to Mrs Halston's cottage, he had shoved her, head-first, into a cramped old-fashioned carriage. Another young man was in the carriage, and he grabbed her, swiftly tied her hands and shoved a none too clean rag into her mouth, while Kendal tied her feet. The other man sniffed the air, like a bloodhound.
"Hey Tony," he said, gleefully, "this one’s close to ripening. You grabbed her just in time." He gripped her chin and turned her face towards him. "Pretty too. Bags I catch this one. Mind now Tony, if you see me chasing her, stay clear or I swear I’ll knock your block off."
Kendal grinned. "All right Ed, you can have her, I bequeath her to you" he said. "Plenty more to chose from anyway."
      Chasing, catch — Briar-Rose’s heart sank. Of course she had read the newspapers and was aware of the sudden attention being taken to omega "interests". There had been a report of the old omega hunts being resurrected, despite being illegal. And now here she was, in the company of other omegas, waiting to be released into the woods, and then hunted down like so many animals. She kept the useless tears away by thinking of Tristan and his gentle dark eyes. By now he would know she was missing, and she had no doubt that he would be searching through heaven and Earth for her. But would he find her in time? After all those years, now that he was almost hers again, she couldn’t bear to think that she might still lose him.

      It was getting dark, and colder. The girls huddled closer together for warmth. They could hear footsteps all around the building, heavy boots, men hooting and hollering at each other. She recognised the building now; the old shooting box on the Kendal estate. At the orphanage, they had watched the carriages full of men and women going by on their way to the estate during the season. Her sympathies had always been with the pheasants and deer that were about to have their lives ended in the name of "sport". And now the younger ones were going to have their own sport, and hunt for terrified girls. Just as cruel and senseless.
      The door was flung open, and light streamed in from a blazing fire. Kendal stood in the doorway, drunk and exulting over the captured girls. His friends crowded in behind him, hooting at them.
"Should we make ‘em strip?" one voice shouted. Briar-Rose shuddered at the sound of the laughter that accompanied the horrible suggestion.
"Nah," Kendal said, "it’s more fun to rip their duds off yourself."
Someone giggled. "If anyone knows, Tony knows," the giggler said.
"Shoes off girls," Kendal barked. The girls looked at each other, then slowly removed their shoes. That was a cruel twist. None of the girls would be able to run as fast, barefoot in the stones, twigs and brambles.

      Tristan ran to the garages. Thankfully Peterson, Sir Matthew’s chauffeur, was in there, working on the model H touring car. Tristan mentally rejected it as being too large and cumbersome, when he needed speed. Sir Matthew’s collection was composed of equally large cars, or single seaters. But near the back, there was his blue Saxon sports. Peterson saw where Tristan was headed.
"I just filled ‘er up," he said laconically. "She be ready to go."
Tristan swung the starting handle twice; he was such a hurry that he muffed the first attempt. But the little car roared into action and Tristan jumped in. Peterson was waving a hat and goggles at him, but Tristan motioned him away. He drove down the gritted path to the gate, which was flung open by Peterson, who had run beside him. As he went off down the road in the direction of the Kendals, he thought he heard Peterson shout "good luck" after him.
"I think I’m going to need more than luck," he muttered.

      "Get up you pathetic bunch of omegas," Tony Kendal said, waving his tankard full of ale around and splashing one or two of his friends. The girls all rose to their bare feet, some holding hands. Briar-Rose was sorry to see that. She realised that some of the girls would be too busy clinging to each other to run very far or very fast. She had a great deal of fellow feeling for all of them, especially the orphanage girls, but she was not going to make their mistake. She planned to strike out on her own and head towards the back of the estate. The boundary fence there marked the edge of Kendal lands and the beginning of Wayland lands. If she could just make it that far, she would be safe.
      The men started herding the girls out of the shooting box, nudging them and pushing. One girl fell over and scraped her knees.
"First blood to me!" the man who had pushed her yelled. Briar-Rose helped the girl up.
"Scatter," she said quietly to the girls. "If you run in lots of different directions, it’ll be harder for them to catch you." But by the terrified expressions on the girls’ faces, she knew they would disregard her advice, believing in the old adage of safety being in numbers. Well, she had tried, it was up to them now.
      The men continued to nudge the girls forward, further into the woods. Briar-Rose realised she was going to have to scrap her plan, as they were led away from the lodge. She couldn’t waste time doubling back.
"Here are the rules," Ed said. "We’ll give you girls a five minutes head start. I think that’s uncommonly generous of us. After that, if you’re caught, well, heaven help you. Lads, you have the choice of dragging your omega back here, have at her in the woods, or take her back to your house. Winner’s choice. All right girls, on your marks, run!"
      Some of the girls did run immediately, racing into the woods and ignoring the pain in their feet. Some of them clung to each other, weeping and screaming for help. But the Kendal shooting box had been well-chosen as being far from other buildings and out of earshot. While the men whooped and yelled, Briar-Rose crept as quickly as she could to the right. The other girls were running forwards, or backwards towards the lodge, and she had noticed the occasional flash of lights coming from the right. There must be a road at that side of the estate and she was aiming for that. Five minutes was not yet up when she heard the men start to run after the girls. Briar-Rose ran.

      Tristan swung the little car back onto the road. Going to Kendal House had been a waste of time. The elder Kendals denied all knowledge of where their son was or what he was doing. But Tony Kendal’s sister looked guilty. She knew, but was staying loyal to her brother. Tristan had warned them that if Tony was doing what he thought he was doing, he would be liable for prosecution. Kendal senior just looked away and fiddled with his pipe and Mrs Kendal sobbed into a lace handkerchief. Tristan further warned them that his uncle would have set the police onto them by now. But when none of the Kendal family replied, Tristan realised that he was on his own. Even over the noise of the car, he could hear noises coming from the back of the estate, near the woods. Lights from electric torches were flashing on and off. And over all, there was the heart-breaking sounds of young women crying and screaming. At least that was an indication of where to look for Briar-Rose.

      So far, she was doing well. No one had run in her direction, they were all chasing the other girls further into the woods. It was just beginning to rain. The lights from the torches the men held was reflected in the rain drops, bouncing around in the darkness, turning the chase into a scene from a gothic horror novel. Briar-Rose stopped running and slumped against a tree. She was exhausted, panting just to breathe, a sharp pain was digging into her right side, and her feet were cut and bleeding. So far, she had managed to not react to the stones and brambles. So far.
      Someone had caught up; Ed ran straight past her. It was all right for him, he didn’t need to avoid stepping on sticks. He stopped near to her, sniffing the air. Too late, Briar-Rose realised that her scent was broadcasting far and wide, even though it had soured through fear and exhaustion, and Ed could smell her. She clapped her hand to her neck; no scent suppressor. Just putting a hand over the scent glands was not going to work. She needed the complex cocktail of chemicals that were put into the suppressors. Worse, the scent was beginning to affect her. She shook her head to clear it of the spellbinding scent that was muddling her mind. Think of Tristan, she told herself, but that only made it worse. All the longing she had felt the moment he walked back into her life threatened to overwhelm her. She wanted to sink to the ground and weep, helplessly. But in her heart, she knew that being helpless and afraid was not going to help her to get out of this mess.
      A car raced by, it’s headlights shining in the pouring rain. She must have run nearer to the road than she realised. A sudden blast of lightening lit up the trees and she could now see how close the road was. The thunder was almost deafening. The lightening would help her to steer, but it could also show Ed where she was.
      She raced out from under the trees, heading for the road, despite the danger of slipping in the mud. Ed saw her. With a whoop, he ran after her. But luck and Nemetoma were with her, and he fell his own length, slipping in the thick mud.
"You better be worth it bitch!" he screamed after her.
Not quite there yet, but Ed had pulled himself up and his longer, stronger legs would soon catch up. She slid behind a boulder, hoping he hadn’t seen her do so. Only a yard from the road now. If her luck held, she could stay hidden until another car was passing, and jump out to flag it down. Someone had to help. Her faith in Nemetoma had never been as strong as it was now, frantically sending prayers to the Lady of the omegas and hoping that the alpha God Loucetis was not inclined to favour Ed.
      A car was coming, it’s headlights illuminating everything in front of it. At the last moment she jumped out from her hiding place, waving her arms above her head. The car skidded to a halt, but in the heavy rain it couldn’t quite stop spinning round in a circle. Behind her, she heard Ed laughing as he splashed through the mud. The car came to a stop, and the driver leaned out.
"Come on, jump in," the driver called. Was it Tristan? Could it be him? She could barely hear him over the thunder crashing overhead. Lightening lit up the Wayland shooting box just a field away. She was so close to freedom. Discarding the chance that this was one of Ed’s friends, she ran to the side of the car. Tristan smiled at her.
"Get in," he said. She dragged the door opened and scrambled into the car. Leaving Ed far behind, and the sound of him howling in defeat.
      The little Saxon car shuddered and bounced as they drove over the muddy field, narrowly avoiding tree stumps and brambles.
"Where’re we going," Briar-Rose said, holding on to the sides of the seat as the car bumped around. Tristan nodded in the direction of the Wayland shooting-box.
"It’s locked up, but I’ve got the key," he shouted over the crashes of thunder. At that moment, the little car spluttered and choked, and slid to a halt. Tristan ran out and frantically swung the starter handle several times.
"It’s no good," he yelled, "I think the engine’s flooded with all the water." Then he noticed a line of broken glass spread out across the road, and he swore violently and loudly. He ran back to the car and grabbed Briar-Rose’s hand. "Come on," he said, "we’ve left those morons behind but if we don’t get a move on they’ll catch up with us."
      As Briar-Rose scrambled out of the car, Tristan grabbed a large picnic basket from the boot, and a pile of rugs and a small first aid box. Briar-Rose took the smaller box and some of the rugs from him.
"Don’t be silly, you can’t carry everything," she said. Far away down the road they could see dark figures lurching along, hollering as they went. The mob were on the move. Tristan grabbed her free hand and they ran. It was easier running on the road, even in her bare feet, and it wasn’t far to the edge of the high beech edge around the Wayland’s hunting lodge.

      The lodge not as square and plain as the Kendal shooting box. An elegant double-fronted grey brick building that had been built more for entertaining than for resting between bouts of shooting and killing. Tristan and Briar-Rose ran up the drive, not daring to stop for a moment. Although no one had used the lodge in a long while, it was kept clean, and the key easily unlocked the front door. Inside, though it was cold with the curious thin smell of neglect, and the furniture was covered in dust sheets, it was in a better state than the Kendal’s lodge. When they heard the sounds of the mob on the road, Tristan quickly locked the front door behind them and slammed down the thick wooden bar.
"We’ll go upstairs," he said, though he didn’t say why he thought that would be safer than staying in the living room. But Briar-Rose could guess why. They ran up the carpeted stairs and into a room towards the back of the house.
      It was a pleasant room, despite not having been used for years. Someone had swept the floor and not long ago; there were no tell-tale spider webs hanging from the ceiling. The fireplace had been cleaned and laid ready to light. There was a bed, not made up, with two pillows without covers being the only bedding. Tristan fished for a box of matches in the picnic basket that he carried, found them, and struck a match. The fire flared up immediately when lit, and already the room felt warmer and cosier.
"You’re soaked," Tristan said, "and so am I. Here, catch." He threw a blanket to her. She wrapped it around herself and stripped under it, down to her skin. Tristan did the same. They sat down in front of the fire, so gloriously warm and comforting after the terrifying race in the pouring rain. He had found a couple of towels and wrapping the blanket around himself, toga-fashion, he rubbed her hair dry.
"My hair’s in a bit of a tangle," she said, trying to smooth it out with her fingers.
"So am I," Tristan said. He was back to staring at her again, as he gently ran his fingers through her hair. Briar-Rose was rather taken aback when he pressed his face to her hair and sniffed. Then she smelt it herself; her scent had sweetened and softened, now that she was safe with Tristan. His scent of orris was warm and gentle.
"So are you what?" she said.
"In a tangle." He kissed her cheek and lips and then sat back, as if wondering what her reaction would be. She wondered herself. She laid her head on his shoulder and sighed.
"The fateful slumber floats and flows, About the tangle of the rose; But lo! the fated hand and heart To rend the slumberous curse apart," she said quietly.
"You know the poem?" Tristan said.
"Of course. I saw you at the orphanage, in Matron’s study. You were reading a book. You put it down quickly when you heard Matron coming in. I sneaked in later, when you’d gone and found out which poem it was. You’d left the book open."
"It’s by William Morris," Tristan said. "It’s about you." He picked up her hand and kissed it. "Here lies the hoarded love, the key, To all the treasure that shall be; Come fated hand the gift to take, And smite this sleeping world awake. So will you? Smite this sleeping world awake?"
"Didn’t the Prince kiss the Sleeping Beauty awake? Then I won’t smite it, or you, but I will kiss you." She considered his face. "Now where did I leave you last? Where’s my bookmark?" she said, laughing. "Ah yes, here it is," and once again, she kissed his face randomly, over and over. Her blanket slipped and Tristan wrapped his arms around her.
"I think I’ve caught you," he said, between kisses. "So you’re mine now, forever."
"I always was," she said, switching her attention to his neck, "and you were always mine."

      Sometime in the early hours, with the dawn still a dream to come, Tristan woke up. The fire had died down. He was lying on one blanket with the other draped over him. He remembered holding Briar-Rose in his arms, he remembered soft moans whispered into skin, and there was a small circle on his chest, gently bitten. At the moment when he struggled from sleep into panic, the bedroom door opened, and Briar-Rose came into the room, dressed in her short silk petticoat and his socks on her feet. She was carrying a bag.
"I’ve been foraging," she said, "look what I’ve found." She opened the bag and took out a box of biscuits and a bottle of sherry. "Are you hungry? I think these are still fresh and crispy. Well, the one I tried was," she added, grinning. She sat down on the floor beside Tristan and took out two small glasses from the bag. "If you don’t fancy the sherry, I’ve got a bottle of water in here as well."
"How deep is that bag?" Tristan laughed, sitting up and taking a few biscuits from the box. "I don’t suppose you’ve got two complete sets of clothes in there."
"No," she said, "but I have got this." This was a book, a slim, old book that Tristan remembered his mother reading to him. He took it from Briar-Rose’s hands reverently; it was a version of The Sleeping Beauty from Charles Perrault’s original.
"It always was my favourite story," he said, wonderingly. "I didn’t notice that I became the sleeper waiting for you to chop away the ivy."
Briar-Rose took off her petticoat and lay down beside him under the blanket. "It doesn’t matter," she said. "I got there in the end, and now you’ve woken up, you won’t sleep for so long again. I won’t let you." She traced the bite mark on his chest. "I have one like that," she said, showing a deeper ring of teethmarks, just above the left of her breastbone. "And no dearest, you didn’t hurt me," she added, handing him a glass of sherry.
      Two more glasses of sherry each, with biscuits, and Briar-Rose was drowsy.
"I’m not used to that stuff," she said, rather indistinctly. Tristan pulled her into his arms.
"Go to sleep," he said, kissing her forehead. The storm was over, but it was still raining and the steady tapping on the windows was oddly soothing. Her head was cradled on Tristan’ chest, and he held her hand.
"Here lies the hoarded love, the key to all the treasure that shall be," he said softly, and kissed the palm of her hand. She smiled, and then fell asleep, while he stayed awake for a while longer, listening to the rain.

      Wearing rough dried clothes was not pleasant. Briar-Rose held up her ruined, torn stockings.
"I’ll never darn these," she said. One stocking was completely missing a foot, and the other was torn almost in two.
"Leave my socks on," Tristan said. "You can’t walk barefoot." But he grimaced as he put on his still damp shoes.
"Mr Anthony Kendal owes me a pair of shoes," she said, smiling. Then sobered, remembering the other girls who were victims of the "hunt". Tristan guessed what she was thinking. He caught her hand.
"With all the fuss around protecting omegas lately, there will be a pack of lawyers willing to speak up for them."
"Yes," Briar-Rose said, "but if any of them are pregnant now, no one will want them as mates. And most of them didn’t have parents or family to protect them. Kendal and his friends chose well. They didn’t dare pick anyone who could fight back."
Tristan had nothing to say. All he could do was hug her close and hope that one day she would be able to exorcise that horrible night.

      Tristan looked at Briar-Rose, wearing his black socks and wondered how they were going to walk home, with the Saxon still out of commission. Before he could suggest that he try carrying her, he heard the whirr of wheels and the unmistakable sound of horses’ hooves on the road.
"Uncle Matthew!" they said together.
Sir Matthew looked at them both. Creased and crumpled, mud spattered clothes, Briar-Rose in black socks, Tristan’ hair standing on end, and he laughed and laughed.
"My word," he said, "I hope Grimes has got the water heater on. I think we’ll need a fleet of baths for the both of you. Never seen such a disreputable pair."
"Or one bath between us," Briar-Rose whispered.
      As they left the little lodge, Tristan looked back. Sir Matthew patted him on the back.
"I’ll send a few people over to clean it up again," he said. But Tristan couldn’t tell him that he was looking back and remembering the night he spent under a blanket on the floor, with the girl he had loved for as long as either of them could remember.
      Tristan and Briar-Rose sat close together on one side of the carriage, sharing his greatcoat.
"Here," Sir Matthew said, opening a small picnic basket. "I asked Miss Culpeper to put a few things in for you. Let’s see, a flask of tea. Good and hot, that’s the thing." He poured out two cups of the steaming tea for them, then rummaged in the box. "What’s this? Cold buttered toast? Is the woman mad?"
Briar-Rose laughed. "I’d eat it without butter, I’m that hungry," she said.
"Biscuits and sherry aren’t very filling," Tristan agreed, and took a couple of slices of toast.
      Sir Matthew harrumphed. "About last night," he said warily.
"It’s all right," Briar-Rose said. "I’m not going to mop and mow, I’m too angry to cry. And too happy as well," she added, with a kiss on Tristan’ nose.
More harrumphing. "They’ve all been rounded up m’dears and they won’t get away with it. The county is outraged by their cowardly behaviour. They’re going to have the law books thrown at them and it’s going to be a very long time before they’re free again, if ever."
"What about the girls?" Tristan said.
"Well, it is a great pity that you didn’t wait for a moment, m’boy. The army was called out and most of the police in three counties. They swarmed the woods beside the Kendal box like a heap of angry hornets, and stung just as much. All the girls were rescued before any harm came to them. They were a bit battered and bruised here and there, but the Matron at the orphanage took them all in, bless her good heart. And everyone’s rallied round to help her. Their families are being tracked down, but I gather that most of them had no families anyway. One girl has actually agreed to be bonded to her pursuer. It seems she already knew him and they wanted to be bonded, but his parents were not keen. Joining the hunt was the only way he could claim her. Bit of a drastic solution, but needs must I suppose." He leaned forward and patted Briar-Rose’s hand. "Don’t you fret m’girl," he said kindly, "no one’s going to be left destitute and alone. Bonded or not, they’ll be cared for and protected. It’s the law you know. Ah me," he sighed.
      Sir Matthew smiled into his beard, watching his nephew and Briar-Rose, so absorbed in the wonder of each other that they were barely listening to him. Perhaps his plans were going to work out after all. He wondered what Tristan’ rotten bully of a father would have to say. He chuckled; who cared what that waste of life and breath wanted. He had better organise a bonding at the temple tout d’suite, if not sooner.
      "Come on," he said, "let’s go home, before Miss Culpeper has conniptions."