You've already killed Mother, and now you’re going to take Father away, too?

Nobody actually says it out loud, but I can hear those phantom words. I see it in the accusing eyes of my siblings. Even my father is avoiding my gaze.

We're sitting at our dining table, but the mood is somber. Normally, on the rare occasion when Father’s home, the atmosphere would feel more festive, more celebratory.

But there's nothing to celebrate today.

Father is home—which is exactly what I've been hoping for. It should be cause enough for a celebration. But he brings bad news with him.

Father has just told us what had happened to him while he was away.

It's all because of my rose. All due to a stupid flower that was going to wilt in a few days anyway.

And now he’ll have to go back to the man who has threatened him. He’ll have to risk his safety. All for a dumb flower.

Father won't tell us who the man is, but he’s probably someone powerful. I mean, if picking plant matter at his residence is a crime, then he must have some kind of a title.

He's probably someone like a Baron or a Viscount. Maybe even an Earl.

“Do you really have to go back, Father?” Irina asks.

“Yes, I promised the man,” Father says.

The dining table goes quiet as all of us think about what that means. It’s only a flower—surely the punishment won’t be too harsh?

“Did you get to buy my bag in the city, Father?” Clara breaks the silence.

“Sorry, honey. I did buy them, but I had to leave everything in the truck because the storm was so bad. I’ll have to go back another day to check if it’s still there.”

Both my sisters turn their heads to stare at the long stem of rose in my hands.

“So only Rosemary got what she wanted,” Clara says, giving me the side-eye.

I drop my gaze to look at my pricey flower that Father will have to pay for with his freedom.

It still has all its little leaves and thorns because Father didn't have time to remove them before the man chanced upon him. But the lone red rose is stunningly beautiful.

Most of the petals are still tightly wrapped around the center, except for a couple that are starting to peel away from the rest. It's like the petals are huddling close for safety, knowing how dark and dangerous it is out here.

“Father, if you're away, then how are we going to survive?”

Father glances at me, but quickly averts his gaze. I understand he doesn't want to put all the financial burden on me, but there's no other way.

“I don't know how long I’ll be gone, but I’ll try to talk to the thrift-store owner and ask him to come over. There might be some things we can sell,” Father says.

“Oh my god,” Irina says, covering her face with both hands in dramatic fashion. “What are the neighbors going to say?”

“I’ll ask for more shifts at the flower shop,” I say. “Mrs. Greene has been asking me to start working full time anyway.”

“You mean you could've been making more money, this whole time?” Clara asks, her jaw dropping.

“Yes,” I admit, resisting the urge to snap at her.

It’s never a good idea to bring up the fact that neither one of my sisters work. It always ends with them sobbing hysterically, and me feeling like I’m the bad guy.

Besides, I deserve their anger this time, for putting Father in danger.

I press my thumb against a thorn on the long stem of the rose, pushing through that initial reflex to cringe away from the pain. I have to welcome the pain. Pain is strength.

“So we could’ve gotten new dresses for summer?” Irina asks, just as incredulously.

“Do you know how important it is that we look good, Rosemary? We can't get the rich guys unless we look like the kind of girls who belong beside them,” Clara adds.

“Yeah, we’re applying for the positions of their wives, so we have to look the part. As they say, dress for the job you want and not for the job you have.”

I’m tempted to ask her what she really knows about getting any kind of a job, but I bite my tongue and force myself to smile.

“You're making it hard for us to earn some money for the family, Rosemary. Do you care at all about us?”

Glancing down, I see red blood pooling where the thorn pricks me.

It feels good.

It distracts me from my thoughts, keeping the hot anger within me at a gentle simmer. This is not the time to make waves.

This is my fault. I have to face the consequences.

“But how about your apprenticeship with Mr. Taggins, dear?” Father asks me.

My heart clenches. He's still thinking something so trivial at a time like this. I keep failing him, and he keeps heaping kindness on top of me.

“Don't worry about it, Father.” I give him what I hope is a reassuring smile. “I don't know what I was thinking, applying for the apprenticeship. Our town already has one botanist and doesn't need any more. I’m happy with my job at the flower shop.”

“Father, can't Rosemary go instead of you?” Irina asks.

“Yes, the flower was for her after all,” Clara says.

He widens his eyes like a deer in headlights.

Really, my sisters shouldn't put our father in a spot like that. Father has already gotten himself in trouble for me. My sisters won't be happy if he sides with me now.

So instead of going against them, I ask, “Yes, Father, is there no other way?”

We all want the same thing. There's no reason why we can't find a solution together.

If I can go in Father’s place, I would. That would be better for everyone.

Despite my good intentions, I always end up screwing things up for everyone. I guess it’s true what everyone’s been saying about me. I really do bring bad luck to my family.

“Don't worry,” Father says. “I’ll think of something.”

I know what that means.

That means he has no idea what to do. He's reached a dead end. He just doesn't want to admit it in front of us.

* * *

I sit bolt upright and stare at my phone screen.

What is this?

A chill runs down my arms.

I twist to look around me. I’m alone in my room, right?

The window is open.

That's it. Someone from outside can see into my bedroom.

I run to the window and pull the curtains closed.

I read the short email again.

There's no clue as to the sender’s identity. It's one of those free email accounts with a random jumble of letters as the address.

I sit back down on the side of bed by the window, clutching my phone. My legs feel like noodles.

The email app refreshes. There's a new message.

My heart races as my shaking finger tap the screen.

No, I tell myself. I’m being silly. Maybe this is not another strange email. It's probably just another newsletter from some romance author. I like those novels, but I feel like I’ve been getting too many emails from the authors lately.

Then, the new email loads.

Like the previous one, it comes from the same sender and it has a blank subject line.

My heart pounds in my chest. Someone's watching me! And he knows I’ve just closed the curtains.

I re-read the email. At least it doesn't sound like that person can see me anymore.

My finger hovers over the reply button.

Am I really going to respond to this person? He sounds dangerous.

But if it means saving my father…

I can't not reply, right?

If something bad happens to my father, which seems likely, I’ll always wonder if there's anything I could've done.

I hit the reply button and start to type with my thumbs.

I send the email, then raise my fingers to my mouth, biting my nails. It's a bad habit for which I’m always derided by my sisters. They like to grow their nails long and paint them with colorful polish. I don’t love the way my nails look but I don’t care because they're always destroyed at work anyway.

New email.

Without hesitation, I open the email.

I frown. That's not very helpful.

I type a short reply and send it.

The answer comes swiftly.