The next morning, Burt found his breath clouding in front of his face in the unseasonable chill. His pack was hitched to his back, his horse was hitched to the cart, and Mike was seeing him off.

“I hope you’re rested enough for your trip,” he was saying, petting the mare’s soft nose in farewell. “Do you have everything you need?”

“I’m fine,” Burt said, pausing to think. He felt he’d forgotten something, the nagging feeling of it itching at the back of his mind.

“Something wrong?” Mike asked.

“I got this feeling I’m missing something,” Burt said. Mike was guiding the horse by hand from the servant’s entrance in the back of the castle. Burt strolled beside him along the path, noting how overgrown the gardens had gotten, how high the ivy had grown on the walls of the castle. For someone who could remember visiting when the place had been tended and in its prime, it was a sad sight.

They’d reached the far back of the castle, the path they’d been on connecting with one leading around the castle, which they’d been heading for to take them to the gate, and one that ran from the rear entrance to the outer path that ran near the walls. Burt paused and stared down the latter, toward a large, lush rose bush with deep, dark red roses just starting to bloom in the early spring months.

“Damn, that’s it,” he cursed, smiling wryly at himself. Memory was becoming a funny thing lately.

“What is it?”

“Remember how I told you about that poem I bought for Finn?”

Mike laughed. “Yes. I wonder if Rachel will fall for it.”

“Probably. But Kurt asked for something too—a rose. And I forgot,” Burt said, staring at the shrub ahead. “He wants to plant one at our gate. Gods know why.”

He couldn’t look away from the dark flowers. They were still young, the buds not quite blooming yet, the leaves not grown to fullness. But it didn’t matter—they were stunning, the tight petals already velvet-smooth and seeming to suck in the early morning light. Even that couldn’t brighten their deep color. Burt was reminded forcefully of his first wife. Elizabeth had always blushed so deeply when Burt complimented her or flirted with her, especially when he first courted her. Her pale skin couldn’t hide it. He remembered one day when they had snuck away from her father’s to spend the day together. They had found a field with blackberries, and they had eaten them till they felt sick. The dark juice had stained her pretty pink lips the same red, and she’d blushed and blushed as Burt had kissed them clean. He loved Carole—of course he did—but Elizabeth had been his first love, his true love. And all the memories came back looking on those roses.

Kurt would appreciate them, both the flowers and the memories.

“We can see if there are any wild roses growing in the garden,” Mike offered from behind Burt. “I’m sure there are some on a vine near the front gate—“

“What about those?”

Burt was spurred into action by his bittersweet nostalgia. He strode forward, his eyes locked on one of the tender buds. He’d only need one—Kurt could grow a bush from one flower. He pulled his small knife from its sheath and reached out.

“Burt, no, not those!”

Mike was running up behind him, Burt could hear his steps, but he didn’t process his cries. With a quick slip of his knife, he’d cut through the stem of the rose, and held the small, delicate flower in his strong hand.

He replaced his knife in its sheath and turned, smiling down at the little rosebud. It was truly beautiful, its petals velvet smooth and even more richly colored up close. He was completely entranced by it.

Which is why he couldn’t see the dark form heading for him.

Blaine had woken early that morning, earlier than usual. It was far colder than it should be, and when he rose from bed and made his way to the window, he saw that there had been a frost overnight.

Damnit.

The roses had just started blooming, and if the frost had settled, he could lose all of them. He’d have to go out and check them, and hopefully he wouldn’t have to prune off any of the buds. He’d gotten everything perfect when he had pruned last, and he certainly didn’t want to sacrifice any of the blooms to an unexpected chill.

He dressed quickly, not bothering to wake and summon Wes or David, his grooms. He was certain they wouldn’t mind much—while they had insisted they continue their duties to him, they also had work to do to keep themselves fed. He knew for a fact that Wes had taken it upon himself to cultivate the fields with corn and wheat.

Maybe he’d give them each an office before he was usurped. They deserved it. All of his servants did, for staying loyal to him all these years despite his refusal to take on his responsibilities.

He moved to the wall beside his bed and pressed it with a sure hand. A section swung away, a concealed door, and he walked through it into the dining hall. He kept his eyes averted from the long fireplace on the wall to his left. It didn’t matter that the painting above the mantle was covered with a sheet—he could feel the eyes boring into him from behind it, and he didn’t dare meet them, even through the layers of fabric.

He hadn’t been able to meet them in life, either.

He moved through the corridor behind the hall toward the back entrance of the castle. He strode to the large wooden door and pulled it open, shivering in the blast of cold air that hit him as he stepped out into the early morning and headed towards the gardens.

What he saw when he approached froze him, but it wasn’t more than a moment till his anger melted away his shock and propelled him forward.

Mike was calling out to someone, someone who was standing before his roses with knife in hand.

Blaine rushed forward, his head clouding with anger as he saw Mike’s merchant friend turning around, one of his roses clutched in his dirty paws.

“My Prince!” Mike called, trying to stop Blaine as he strode forward. Blaine brushed him aside and surged forward, grabbing the merchant’s wrist and twisting it, plucking the rose out of that treacherous hand as the man fell heavily to his knees in pain.

“You accept the hospitality of my servant, in my castle,” Blaine growled, glaring down and fighting the urge to kill the man right then, “and then you see fit to steal from me?”

“Steal?” Burt blurted out, grimacing. His eyes were wide, stuck on what he could see of Blaine’s face where it was hidden in a deep hood—his mouth and chin, surrounded by a thick beard, patchy and cut through with scars. “What—I—“

“My lord,” Mike said, stepping forward and trying to step between Blaine and Burt. “If you’ll let me explain—“

“Explain?” Blaine scoffed. “Explain what? That he cut a rose from my garden without my permission?”

“He did not know they were your roses, my lord,” Mike replied quickly, holding up his hands, placating. “He spoke of his son requesting a rose, and I offered any wild roses we should come across. He wasn’t to know that these aren’t wild roses, my lord. It was my fault for not explaining in time.”

“He wasn’t to know that a tended, pruned rose bush isn’t wild?”

“I will take full responsibility, my lord.” Mike took a deep breath, and Blaine recognized that he was ready to take on whatever consequence his prince should order in his anger. “He is my guest, after all.”

Was this man really worth taking on what was sure to be a severe punishment?

Blaine dropped Burt’s wrist and drew himself up, his wrath more than compensating for his average height. He turned his head to Mike, and as his mouth opened to berate his servant, Burt spoke.

“No,” he said, and Blaine snapped his head around in disbelief. The merchant’s head lowered deferentially, but his eyes cast up, without fear. “It was my knife that cut the rose. Therefore, the fault lies with me. My deepest apologies, my lord. What can I do to right my mistake?”

Blaine toyed with the rose in his hand, twirling it between his fingers. He stared at Burt from within his hood, impressed at the man’s bravery in not only admitting his wrongs, but doing so while facing down his Prince, who was supposedly cursed into being a monster and whom he had just interrupted.

Mike must have been right about Burt Hummel—an impressive man indeed.

What could he do? Blaine’s anger was draining away as quickly as it had come. He couldn’t condemn this man. Not only did he command the loyalty of Mike, who was and had always been an excellent judge of character, but he was willing to take responsibility for his actions despite having been given a clear out. And Mike was right—he had no reason to know that those roses weren’t to be touched.

But he couldn’t let it go completely. Those were his roses.

The damage had been done, though. The rose was cut. He couldn’t demand Burt return the rose—what would he do with it? They meant too much to throw away.

Mike had mentioned something about Burt taking the rose for his son. Kurt. He couldn’t deny that Mike’s description had interested him. Gods knew why the description of the merchant’s son in particular had drawn his attention. Mike described plenty of people he knew from outside Dalton. Why Kurt? Fellow-feeling, perhaps, for someone who struggled with his differences to the world around him?

He wasn’t quite ready to admit to the whole truth, even to himself. But he could act on it.

“I’m willing to allow you to compensate me for this rose,” Blaine said finally. “I’ll even allow you to take it with you. But I require payment.”

Burt’s shoulders sagged with obvious relief.

“What payment does my lord command?”

Blaine smiled.