Bury Our Bones in the Midnight Soil

by V.E. Schwab

Bury my bones in the midnight soil, plant them shallow and water them deep, and in my place will grow a feral rose, soft red petals hiding sharp white teeth.

She wishes she could trade herself for the girl in the glass. This other Alice, who doesn’t care, who takes up space, who has no growing left to do.

It’s because there’s a moment, pressed beneath the weighted blanket of the storm, when her body stops fighting, when all the voices inside her finally go quiet, and her shoulders loosen and her lungs unclench and her skin goes numb and the line between girl and world gets smudged, and she is washed away. Made new.

“Bury my bones in the midnight soil,” he begins, infusing the words with the air of theater. “Plant them shallow and water them deep. And in my place will grow a feral rose.” He leans down to Renata and cups her face, running a thumb across her bottom lip. “Soft red petals hiding sharp white teeth.”

After all, what grows in the midnight soil is not a different flower, only a bolder bloom.

You are the kind of bloom that thrives in any soil.

“Because you are the kind of bloom that thrives in any soil. And who knows, perhaps you will meet a worthy gardener.”

“What am I?” she muses, almost to herself. “A widow.” She tugs Charlotte forward, turns her in her arms as if they’re dancing. “A feral rose.”

“I am free.”