Sarah's Roses, Book II: Roses of White

While In Italy

When I wrote the 1st draft A White Rose, this part was not in it. As I was working on revision and editing, preparing the novel to be put up on wattpad, this little chapter came to me. I didn't want to stick into the already existing novel as it didn't really fit into the way the story had been written, but at the same time it is important to the plot. After some thought, I decided to keep it separate, but upload it sort of as a prologue to the novel. It's not actually a prologue, but well, you get the point ;) Due to the fact that I wrote it only recently it is still a little rough on the edges and I will probably do a some revising in time to come. For now it is what it is and I hope you will enjoy it :)

Dedicated to Carpathia, thank you for reading, voting and supporting A Blue Rose <3

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While In Italy

I walked through the lush garden, gazing with admiration on the host of different flowers and exotic plants. Signor Catalano, in whose house Elinor Greensten and I were staying, had been a world traveler in his day and had brought back his garden plants from around the world.

Elinor Greensten and myself were still in Europe, having prolonged out visit by a year already and Elinor was looking to staying all the way till winter. I didn’t mind, it was a nice break from the plantation and though I did miss my uncle and Elsie, I wasn’t exactly in a hurry to get back to all the problems I had left behind there.

 I had been very shy when we had first arrived to the household of Catalano. Mainly because Elinor had kindly informed me that Grigori Catalano’s son was very young, very eligible and also very unmarried. Not at all eager to be match made with the Catalano heir I tried to spend as little time in the house as possible. When I wasn’t sightseeing, I was hiding in the garden, and it was thanks to this that I had struck up a close friendship with Bernado Abbiati and his lovely wife Maria. Bernado was the Catalano’s gardener and thekindest man I had met during my travels. In so many ways he reminded me of our gardener, Kristoffs; a happy, jolly version of Kristoffs. Bernado was always smiling and his eyes twinkled with merriment.

It was in Bernado’s garden I had my first view of a rose bush covered with blue roses. The only blue rose I had ever seen had been the one my uncle gave me for my sixteenth birthday, and so to suddenly find a whole bush of them filled me with excitement. This was the rose I identified with, something I had claimed as my own. I had begged Bernado and Signora Catalano to allow me to wear the roses in my hair when attending balls and dinner parties. It was because of this Bernado gave me the nickname ‘Rosa Blu.” He never did reveal to me how he managed to grow roses that were ‘impossible’ and ‘unnatural’, said it was his secret and he would never give it away.

This particular day I was not in the mood for roses and had wandered to the forget-me-not patch. The little blue flowers drew a sigh from my lips as thoughts and memories raced through my head.

 “Ah, Signorina Rose, how wonderful to meet you in the garden” Bernado walked up to me and spoke with his thickly accented English.

“Hello Bernado, how are you this morning?” I asked.

“Couldn’t be better, Signorina, it is a beautiful morning. And what of you?”

“Oh, I’m am very good, thank you.” I walked over to a bench and sat down. “Bernado,” my voice grew very shy, “I was wondering if I could ask a favor of you.”

“My dear Signorina Rose, anything for you.” Berando, like most Italians, was very passionate.

“I have this poem,” I carefully retrieved from my pocket the old, yellow piece of paper. “And it is written in Italian, which I don’t know, but I wish to discover what the words mean. The poem is of a very delicate and private nature and though I have been in Italy for some months until now I haven’t found someone I can trust to help me translate it. But I know that I can trust you.”