In early November, Sarah, a friend of mine, invited me to go and visit the estate of a Count * who – she said – grew wonderful roses. I joined her on an expedition to his rose garden on a Saturday morning. We drove out of town and in half an hour arrived at his estate, where a long boulevard lined with cypresses on both sides stretched to the main gate. We admired the hilly countryside in the warm light of the mellow Autumn season.
The Count * was waiting for us. To my amazement, he wore worn out jeans and a shabby white t-shirt, much like a grown-up unruly adolescent, instead of an aristocrat.
After tea in the veranda that he served himself, he welcomed us into his rose garden: a labyrinth whose paths were lined with geometrically shaped rose bushes still blooming in several colours: from white, to yellow, orange, blue, purple, black, pink, and red.
When we finally came into the centre of the maze, a dark red, luscious, sturdy, threatening, and thorny rose bush stood like a tower, in the shape of a scary angel of wrath and justice.
The Count * stopped, and offered the tale I am about to relate.

***

Once the rose garden had belonged to a prince, who hired a savvy gardener to tend the roses, especially the pink ones, which he loved most of all.
Often, he would rest next to the pink rose bush and have adventurous dreams, oblivious to the harsh life outside his rose garden.
Soon, the fame of the rose garden spread far and wide.
One day, a tired traveller came by, enticed by the delightful rose scent.
He was utterly spell-bound, and grabbed one of the roses and inhaled its scent in a rapture.
As soon as he did so, the prince was enraged, and declared that the trespasser's ransom would be his most precious thing.
Doomed by such a declaration, the traveller, who was not rich, had no choice but to give the prince his beloved daughter Linda.
Enthralled by her prospects, she accepted gladly, but nobody knew that the handsome prince turned into a monster at night.
It was then that the prince’s gardner took pity on the girl, and advised she should risk her all to turn him into a man in a permanent guise.
“And how am I to do that?” asked Linda, wringing her hands.
“Listen” – said the gardener. “Tonight, the moon will be full. You must go into the rose garden unseen, and cut the most beautiful pink rose at the centre of the garden. Then, you will put it in a glass of water, and let it bathe in the moonlight until dawn. If you manage to survive the night, you will be safe and happy, for in the morning, the pink rose will have turned deep red, and the prince will be a man for the rest of his life, without ever turning into a monster again.”
Linda prepared herself, and asked the prince permission to spend one night on her own before their wedding. The prince granted her wish and retired to his chamber at twilight.
Linda took great care to choose a pair of good, sharp scissors, and a long cloak she could hide herself in. Most of all, she waited until the last light of the day faded, and the moon was high in the sky.
Before leaving her room, she prayed, and remembered her dead mother, whose memory gave her comfort and strength. Then, she slipped outside of her room, closing the door behind her with slow deliberation, tiptoeing out of the long corridor, whose candles the butler had to blow out one by one.

***

When Linda reached the entrance to the rose garden, she could hardly breathe.
The moon looked cool and distant in the sky.
More than once, Linda got lost in the labyrinthine garden, and had to retrace her steps, until she got into the centre of the labyrinth.
There, shone a magnificent pink rose bush, crowned by the tallest and most beautiful specimen. It was in full bloom, and its pink petals looked like rich velvet in the moonlight. Its stem had the sharpest thorns, capable of tearing the flesh of any creature that fell upon them.
Linda took the scissors out of her cloak, and after a deep breath, came near the rose. She must be quick, for the gardener had said that the rose would lose its petals, and wither as soon as the moon set behind the high walls of the garden.
It took a while for her to cut the strong stem of the rose, as she was careful not to prick her fingers on its thorns.
The gardener had left a glass full of water for her, hidden in the bush. She extracted it with care, but scratched her hands, biting deep into her lip not to cry out loud.
Then, she put the rose in the glass, and hastened towards the western gate of the garden, where she put the rose on the plinth of an old Artemis statue illuminated by the moon.
There she finally sat down.
Soon, the light of the moon filtered into the core of the rose, whose petals turned darker and darker. Little by little, pink turned deep, blood red.
As soon as the rose had changed its colour, the moon beam disappeared, and the first hues of dawn started spreading out in the eastern section of the sky.
Linda fell asleep, exhausted.

***
When she woke up, Linda saw the petals of the red rose spread all around.
She was apprehensive now, lest nothing had shifted, and the prince should find out what she had done… but as she looked up, she saw the gardener accompanying the prince, who was more radiant than ever.

***

“Linda was my great-grand-mother” – said the Count* – “and I have received this tale down my mother line.”
“And what do you make of it, Count*?” I asked.
“My great-grand-mother had quite a hard time turning her husband into a man. He had been a callous gambler. However, her brave love saved him, and herself. And I am here to tell you the tale.”
At that, he offered me his arm, and invited me over to tea again and again.
The last two months have been the craziest ride of my life ever. We are engaged to marry in March.

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