Roots and Oxygen

Chapter 1 - Rotting Roots

But today was one of the few days a week that Sage enjoyed; he got to help the gardener.

He hurried down the long, echoing halls of their palace. The chandeliers above twinkled in the morning sun, the guards in their golden uniforms stopped slouching as he half-jogged past. The sound of his shoes clacking against the red carpet let those who worked in the palace know that a high figure moved through its walls.

Sage stormed onto the grounds and paused to breathe in the fresh morning air. Mrs Beecham, the gardener, wasn't in her usual spot outside the shed, so Sage wandered the neat hedges until he spotted her red hair bobbing along one of the larger hedges. Sage followed her direction, jogging on the gravel to keep up.

Mrs Beecham turned left, and Sage turned right, bumping into her. Sage grinned when the gardener yelped, jumping back and defensively holding a plant to her chest. He towered over the women who had once towered over him. "You're in a hurry this morning," Sage observed. He realised that she was distressed too.

Her unnaturally light green eyes were wide, her cheeks were flushed, her breathing was hard, and her hands trembled as they cradled a rather dead plant. She cleared her throat and smoothed her red curls back. "Yes, uh, I'm a little late this morning." She composed herself well.

Sage narrowed his eyes. "Alright. I won't tell." He pointed to the plant. "What happened here?"

"Um." Mrs Beecham followed his gaze to the plant in the dark purple pot. "I found it this morning sitting by the side of the road. I picked it up and brought it here to uh, well, heal it."

Sage poked one of the snapped vines. The poor plant was rotting at the roots, deprived of soil and curled over its plant pot, not because it was ivy and did that anyway, the plant was extremely dehydrated and curled the way spiders curled up when they died, deformed and unnatural. "Let me look after it," Sage said, reaching out to take the pot, but the gardener was reluctant to let it go. Her bright green eyes stared into his hazel ones, anxious. "Oh, come on, you're always telling me that us Royals need more responsibility. What's better than trying not to kill an already dead plant?"

Mrs Beecham would usually laugh along with him. This time, her lips twitched downwards. "Sage, this plant has to be nursed back to health. You can't-"

"Let me try at least. How hard can it be? Give it more soil, give it some plant food and some direct sunlight."

"Not direct sunlight. A bright room will do."

"Okay, then it can be kept in my bedroom, on my desk where I seem to spend most of my time anyway. I'll look after it." Sage reached out and the gardener handed him the plant. Sage often wondered if people did the things he wanted them to do because they wanted to do them too, or if people obeyed him because he was Prince Sage Green, next in line to be King. "Guide me through it if you're that bothered about keeping the plant alive." Sage lifted the only remaining leaf with a gentle finger. "You once told me that Devil's Ivy is almost impossible to kill. This poor thing has seen brighter days, that's for sure."

"Prince Sage," Mrs Beecham said sternly. He stopped prodding the soil to hold her gaze. "You cannot let this plant die."

Sage's hairs stood on end. He didn't understand the urgency. She had found the plant on her way to work, how had she grown so attached? Bloody gardeners and their plant children. "Alright, I won't let it die. I'll make sure this plant is very well looked after. It'll get the full Royal treatment. Will that please you?"

Mrs Beecham nodded enthusiastically. "Very much."

"Right then, let's give it some soil." Sage marched ahead to the garden shed with the gardener on his heels. The silence in the shed was awkward as the gardener hovered near him, watching his every move. "I'm looking for a new valet," he said eventually. "Do you know of any?" His gardener had worked on the Royal gardens as soon as she was old enough. She came from a long line of those who worked among the palace walls. "I'm looking for someone younger, someone who you trust not to sell my things on the internet."

They smiled at each other. Mrs Beecham relaxed when the plant had soil and water. "Is there a requirement of experience, because I have someone in mind."

Before he could reply, the Queen's secretary, Finley Wainhouse, entered the shed with his piercing blue eyes. "Oh dear," Sage muttered under his breath. Being met by the Queen's personal secretary only ever meant bad news. "What is it?" he sighed, stopping in front of him. "Have the papers made up another huge lie about me?"

"No sir." Finley's shark eyes glanced to the gardener who busied herself at the other end of the shed.

"Then what?" Sage asked when the man stalled.

"We received the news only an hour ago." Finley cleared his throat and straightened his tie. "Your uncle Patrick is dead. He was murdered last night."