The next morning, Roseluck didn’t wake up. Usually she rises a couple hours before me, but that morning I woke to see her still in bed beside me. I smiled, at first, blinking away the sleep in my eyes. Then the memory of the previous night came back—and with it, the taste of bile. I called her name softly, but she did not stir. I felt my heartbeat quicken again, and I reached out a hoof to shake her awake. She didn’t respond. I began to panic, but she was still warm. Her barrel still rose and fell with steady breaths. If anything, she looked peaceful.
I leapt from the bed and called over to the hospital, and they sent the new doctor out to our home. I went back to our bedroom and sat, watching Roseluck. She seemed smaller than I remembered, but fear has a way of clouding your vision and making you see things that aren’t there. The doctor arrived after about five minutes, blowing as if he’d galloped the whole way from his office. A little surge of relief shot through me to see him like that. It made me feel like I was right to worry, like that moment of panic was justified. I’m not the kind of stallion who panics easily—though I suppose that may be hard to believe, after everything that happened.
I don’t remember a whole lot of what followed. The doctor poked and prodded at her, like doctors always do. He said a few things I didn’t really understand, with words like tachycardia and syncope. And then a pair of burly stallions in white smocks arrived with a stretcher slung between them. The doctor and the stallions maneuvered Roseluck onto the stretcher and carried her away. I told them I wanted to come with them, but one of the stallions frowned at me and shook his head. They left me alone, in a home that felt more empty than one mare’s absence could explain.
Still I sat, on the bedroom floor. Minutes passed. An hour. The phone rang, but I didn’t answer it.
I should have gone in to work. I know that. The restaurant opens at half past eleven and it always draws a good crowd for lunch. Soup Spoon would be there to look after things, of course, but it was my restaurant. My job. And yet I couldn’t bring myself to do it—to rise and leave, to trot halfway across town, to face the vacant stares of hungry ponies, ignorant of any problems but their own. What right did they have to demand my time? Roseluck was… I didn’t even know. Sick? Dying?
I wanted to yell. I wanted to throw things. The phone rang again and I felt the overwhelming urge to smash it, to rip it from the wall and try to crush it beneath my hooves. The urge was wrong, I knew. Civilized ponies don’t lash out in anger. Civilized ponies control their tempers. Thoughts stampeded through my mind—dark thoughts. What was wrong with Rose? Why didn’t she want me to know? Was she… would she be okay? What had happened between her and Lily, the night before?
Why was—I felt a hitch in my throat. I tried to swallow it down, but found only a raw pain. Why was she lying to me?
The word stuck in my mind. Lying. Ugly, sharp, and barbed. Lying. Why was she lying?
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. I looked for calmness, for emptiness. Gradually, I found it. It came in a rhythm with the tick of the old cabinet clock Rose kept by the door. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Lying.
The phone rang again, and I rose at last. My withers were stiff, and I had to roll my neck before I could get comfortable. I walked to the kitchen and picked up the phone.
“Ember Stock?”
“Yes?”
“This is the Ponyville Hospital.”
I took another breath, but said nothing.
“Sir? Are you—”
“Yes. How is she?”
“Your wife is… She’s fine, sir. She’s sleeping now, but we had her awake for about half an hour. She’ll have to be careful in the future, but Doctor Hauptner doesn’t think there will be any lasting damage.”
I glanced up, and my eyes settled on the rose. Bruised purple, the same as last night. Rose had said it was special, magical, but she hadn’t said how.
“Sir?”
I stared at it, and felt a sudden wash of fear. Hadn’t it begun changing color the evening I’d heard that awful cough from Rose? I was sure it had been red, a beautiful crimson, when she first gave it to me. And it had darkened again last night, after… after whatever had made Lily panic and call the restaurant. I probably should have talked to her, tried harder to find out what she knew.
“Mister Stock, maybe it would be best if you stopped by the hospital in person. You could see your wife and talk with Doctor Hauptner yourself.”
“She’s fine? You’re sure of that?” My eyes narrowed.
A pause. “You should talk to Doctor Hauptner. But yes, your wife is fine.”
I stared at the rose and felt my barrel tighten. Again, the sound of the cabinet clock sounded in my ears. Tick. Tick. Lying. Tick. Tick. Lying.
“I’ll come by in a little while. When I get off work. Will the doctor still be there tonight?”
“I… I think so, sir. If you’ll give me a minute to check—”
I turned away from the rose to replace the phone on its cradle. When I looked back, the rose was black as midnight.
So I went to the restaurant, same as any other day. Soup Spoon was relieved to see me, even though the midday rush had passed. He asked me whether there had been some sort of problem, and I told him no, everything was fine, though I’d probably leave a little early that evening. He took it in stride.
We cooked, we cleaned, we waited tables. It’s a small restaurant, and two stallions are plenty for the work that needs doing. It was a slow day, a Sunday, when most ponies were out enjoying the early autumn air and watching the leaves creep from green to gold to red. For a while, I was able to lose myself in the steady rhythms of the job. But the image of the black rose was burned into my mind, and no amount of chopping carrots could make it go away.
Black. When had a rose ever been black? They were white, or pink, or yellow. Red or purple. Roseluck had told me about a green rose, once, that grew far away in the Griffon kingdoms. But black? Never black.
A part of me knew what it must mean. Roseluck wasn’t getting better. She was getting worse, much worse. The hospital was wrong, or—tick, tick, lying. I turned away from the stove, looking for the clock, but there was no clock in the restaurant kitchen. My hoof brushed against the stove top. Pain. I pulled back with a hiss. Looking down, I saw a black scar across the hoof. Some of the hairs in my fetlock charred and curled. Burnt. I roared, and kicked the hoof into a stock pot, and for a moment the pain seemed to vanish. The pot crashed against the wall behind the stove, and a viscous orange sludge spilled out from the top.
Soup Spoon poked his head into the kitchen, wide-eyed. “Ember? Are you sure you’re all right?”
I reached down and turned off the stove, ignoring the pain in my hoof. “I’m fine, Soup. Just a bit of a burn. Nothing to worry about.” Tick, tick, lying. My ear twitched.
He glanced at the stock pot. His lips tightened, but he said nothing. I walked to the sink, plugged it, and started to run a bath of cold water. I set my hoof in it, and after another brief shock of pain, the sensation began to ease. I felt the blood vessels near my hoof begin to throb, in another steady rhythm.
“Y’know, Ember, we’ve only got three customers out there. If you want to get going, I think I can manage.”
“Nonsense,” I said. “What about the dinner rush?”
Soup frowned at me. “It’s eight o’clock. This is the dinner rush.”
I stared at the water for a while, silent, letting the pulse of blood rumble in my ears.
“Go home, Ember.”
I nodded.
The sky outside was a dark, rich blue—the color you get about an hour past sunset. It’s a pretty color, made beautiful by the stars, like little flecks of silver and gold floating through the water. I didn’t go home, of course. I went to the hospital.
There was a nurse at the receiving desk when I arrived. She told me where to find my wife, and she said she’d let the doctor know I’d arrived. There was a vase full of roses on the corner of the desk: pink, and red, and peach. I thanked her and headed up the stairs.
Roseluck’s room was on the second floor, near the end of the hall. I could see light spilling from the doorframe. Most of the rooms were dark and vacant. I found her asleep on one of the room’s two beds. The other one was empty. Something felt wrong about making her sleep with the light on, so I flipped a switch on the wall and her room grew dark as well. There was a stool beside the bed, and I took a seat there, watching her in the moonlight.
She stirred after a minute, and smiled when she saw me. “Ember!” Her voice was weak.
“Hi, Rose.” I smiled back at her.
“They told me I’m in the hospital. I’m sorry. About this morning.”
“It’s fine,” I said. “No need to worry.”
A clock ticked away on the table beside her bed. I tried to ignore it.
“Listen, honey, there’s something I want to talk to you about.”
I shook my head. “It’s okay. I know already.”
She blinked. “You do?”
I tried to keep the smile on my face. “I figured it out.”
A fit of coughing came over her, and she turned her head into her pillow. I pinched my eyes shut, but in the darkness, all I could see was the black-petaled rose.
“The doctor says you’re going to be fine,” I continued, rising to my hooves. There was still a bit of pain, from where I’d burned myself an hour before.
The smile on her face widened. “Well, that’s great, isn’t it!”
I felt the corners of my mouth begin to slip. “Of course, he hasn’t seen the rose.”
Roseluck looked at me in confusion. “What do you mean, Ember?”
“The rose. The one you gave me, for our anniversary.”
She shook her head a little. “The one Zecora showed me, from the Everfree Forest?” She coughed again, and I felt a stab of pain at the sound. “I don’t understand.”
“You told me it was magical.”
“Yes,” she rasped. “It’s tied to its owner. When I gave it to you—”
“It turned black this morning.” I sighed, turning away and reaching for the pillow on the empty bed beside her. The bedside clock ticked incessantly.
Roseluck let out a small whimper. “No. It can’t be black. You can’t—”
I shoved the pillow down over her face. She struggled a little, but she was still too weak. I felt bile welling up in my throat once again, and a sudden rush of anger. Why had she lied to me? Did she really expect me to sit there, day after day, watching as sickness took her? This was a mercy, I knew. She’d suffer less. I’d suffer less. Everyone would be happier this way. I could hear her trying to cry out beneath the pillow. Listening to that voice was too painful. I focused on the sound of the clock, and closed my eyes. It still sounded wrong in my ears.
Tick. Tick. Lying.
Tick. Tick. Lying.
Tick. Tick.
Tick.
The doctor found me there, standing over her corpse in the darkness, the pillow clutched between my hooves. He yelled something at me, but all I could hear was the gentle rhythm of the clock. Then two burly stallions, maybe the same two who brought Rose to the hospital, hauled me away from the bed. I didn’t resist. I’d done what I had to do. I’d put a stop to the suffering, for both of us.
They wanted to throw me in jail, but Ponyville doesn’t have a jail. I tried to explain to them what happened, that I’d only done it because I loved her, but no one listened to me. Eventually, they decided to ship me off to Canterlot and let the princesses take care of me themselves. The castle has a dungeon, after all—you can hardly have a castle without a dungeon. At one point, Daisy and Lily came by to stare at me. None of us said anything. Then Daisy started crying, and they had to leave. That was a long time ago.
The only pony I ever see now is the princess, the pink one. She comes by once a month and we talk—mostly about cooking, but sometimes about Roseluck. She seems so sad, whenever she talks to me.
I told her about the rose, once. She said she recognized it. Rosa vulneris, she called it. She said it was tied to the love in a pony’s heart, and that’s why she knew it. But she was lying, of course.
Everypony lies.