And the weeds in the ground have grown up through my skin
It's taking a lonesome girl's heart
I will go where the stolen roses grow
To forget that I have fell apart
Karen Elson, "Stolen Roses"
–
The township of Warminster, Wiltshire, England, 1884
"A little to the left."
Hefting with both hands, the tall man moved the wooden crate further down the shelf.
"Knock it right."
He slid it back the other way.
"Perfect!"
Coming down from the step ladder, Kristoff turned to give the man who had been instructing him a look of annoyance, as he brushed the grain dust from his hands on the front of his canvas clerk's smock.
"Now, Sven," the blond man started, crossing his arms. "What was the point of all that if it's just back where it started?"
Sven scoffed and gestured towards the shelf behind his brother with an open palm. "What are you on about, Kristoff? Just look at how much more space there is now!"
Kristoff twisted his head to glance back at the shelf from over his shoulder and shrugged, arms still crossed.
"I don't see much of a difference."
"Are you still cross with me for stealing the Smith girl away from you?" Sven put both hands on his hips. "Is that what this is about?"
It was times like these that Kristoff vaguely wondered whether or not it was even possible that himself and Sven could be related by blood. They had been together for as long as Kristoff could remember, ever since they were two foundling lads scrapping and struggling to survive on the streets, but where Sven was lean with chestnut curls and a sharp bone structure, Kristoff was burly and muscular without too much definition, and his thick, golden-wheat hair was held in place away from his face by the woollen pageboy cap he wore. The only similarity between them was that they happened to share the same honey-brown eye color, which very well may have been an coincidence. They weren't sure of their relation to one another and, unless their birth parents magically appeared someday, they'd never know for sure.
Kristoff laughed– a hearty, booming laugh– and shook his head. "No, no, no. Absolutely not. Besides, I never had any interest in the Smith girl to begin with."
The blond man tapped the forehead of the shorter brunette with his fingertip. "That was all in your head."
Sven harrumphed and shot his older brother a sly smile, the corners of his mouth curving up mischievously. "Good, because she told me that she never had any interest in you, either."
Kristoff rolled his eyes and spun on his heel, towards the front of the shop, but was stopped by the bulky figure of his father standing in the doorway.
Cliff Bjorgman was a rotund man– and shorter than Kristoff by at least a head– who wore crisp, tailored suits and spoke with a hint of a Scandinavian accent, his only remnant of the old country. His hair had started to gray with age but he slicked it back with dark pomade, and in all the years that Kristoff had known his adoptive father, he had never seen him without a freshly shaven face.
"Boys, I want less talking and more stocking," he scolded as he entered the room. "We've got a load of hay and feed that's gonna be here first thing on the morrow, and we need to be sure we have enough room in here to store it before it arrives."
"Yes, sir," the pair of younger men answered in unison.
It was then that Kristoff noticed the concentrated bundle of red roses in his father's arms– their bright, blood-pigmented petals contrasting starkly against Cliff's white silk cravat– at the precise moment that their potent fragrance hit Kristoff's nose, making his skin tingle. He tipped his chin towards the arrangement.
"What are those for?"
Cliff glanced down, as though he had forgotten what he was carrying. "Oh, these? Old Miss Brigham dropped them off for your mother. Clipped them from her own garden, she did."
A vision of a beautiful estate flashed across Kristoff's mind, and a garden full of fragrant flowers sprawling towards the stormy horizon, but he couldn't be sure if he had ever visited such a place or if he was just imagining things.
He could recall a garden full of flowers… and a girl amongst the blooms, painting them.
"Never seen roses before, boy?" Cliff admonished. "What's the matter with you?"
His voice cut through the fog of the blonde man's reverie as he lost himself in the vision and tried to process it; he could see a young girl in his mind's eye, with red-gold hair, dressed in yellow, bouncing amongst the rose bushes. But the closer he tried to peer at the memory, the more it slipped from his grasp, like trying to hold water.
Kristoff squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head to clear it; the flowers behind his eyelids gradually faded into blackness, along with the head of coppery hair. As quickly as the vision had come, it vanished.
"N-nothing's the matter," he stammered. "I'm fine."
Sven snorted from beside him. "You sure? You look as though you've seen a ghost."
It was true; when Kristoff uncrossed his arms at last and glanced at his hands, the skin had paled and his fingers shook. The memory was gone, but the feeling– a strange feeling, like the tips of phantom feathers tickling the hairs on the back of his neck– remained. It had shaken him more than he thought; if he admitted it to himself, he did feel a touch faint.
He stuck his hands in his apron pockets to hide them.
Cliff narrowed his eyes at his son in concern. "Why don't you go head home early and help your mother with supper?"
After a moment, Kristoff nodded his obligation; he was swaying on his feet a bit, and he wouldn't be of much help around the store in such a condition. It was nearly the end of the work day, anyway.
"Yes, sir."
"Sven," Cliff started, suddenly remembering his reason for entering the stockroom as he turned his attention to the smaller man and ticked his head in the direction of the shop floor. "Order's in."
Order's in.
Kristoff knew what that meant: every week, a mysterious benefactor who only went by the initial "E" would send in a note, along with a handsome amount of cash, to Bjorgman's Store. It was always a grocery list, with no instructions or pleasantries; simply a list of items, simply signed "E."
Every week was the same list, with minor variations: one loaf of French bread, one half wheel of Cheddar cheese, four cuts of bacon, six eggs, eight potatoes, one large carrot, two small turnips, one pound of beef, one pound of mutton, one bushel of apples, two pints of milk, twelve ounces each of oatmeal and rice, ten ounces each of sugar, loose tea, and jam.
Occasionally the list would include requests for bits of chocolate, spices, or foreign delicacies, but those requests were few and far in between. More often than not, the special requests would come in the form of non-food items, such as bolts of fabric or sewing needles.
Every week, upon receipt of the note, Sven would package up the order and take off to deliver the goods to their destination while Kristoff watched the store; wherever the destination, however, Kristoff hadn't the slightest idea. Neither Sven nor Cliff ever discussed it at length in his presence, relying only on the briefest of acknowledging statements to indicate that it was time again: "Order's in."
Kristoff didn't know any more than that, and he didn't bother enough to ask. Routine deliveries weren't uncommon for the business by any stretch. The only thing noteworthy about this one was the anonymity of it, but Kristoff assumed the patron had their reasons for that.
Without hesitation at his father's command, Sven jogged out of the stockroom, disappearing around the corner. Kristoff, in turn, reached behind himself to untie his smock, pulling it over his head and throwing it over the crook of his elbow.
"Kristoff," Cliff started again. "Take the roses with you so that your mother can put them in water."
Kristoff blinked at the bouquet as it was held up to him, having completely forgotten it existed, before recovering and reaching out to take the blooms from his father.
"Yes, sir."
–
The Bjorgman family home was a mid-sized manor on the outskirts of town, where it sat on a few acres alongside the road. Although they were technically the richest family in town– thanks to Cliff's proprietorship– the Bjorgmans still only made a modest living by most standards, allowing for a comfortable lifestyle where one needn't ever pine for the necessities, along with the ability to afford a few luxuries here and there. They were wealthy, but they weren't nearly as wealthy as the highborns of British society; they were self-made.
Although it was standard practice for wealthy families, even merchant families with new money like the Bjorgmans, to have a staff of household servants under their employ, Bulda Bjorgman refused any help in maintaining her home– except for a single maid, whom Kristoff had only convinced her to hire after Grand Pabbie's health had failed one too many times. Yet, she lived off of the property, and was usually dismissed after dinner, despite the fact that she was still paid full days' wages.
Kristoff returned home to find Bulda and the maid, Gerda, in the kitchen, prepping a bushel of turnips and potatoes for beef stew. He removed his cap, gloves, and day coat before entering the room, hanging them on a peg on the wall by the door; although it was nearly summertime, the air still had a residual springtime nip to it, requiring the proper layers to be worn.
"Kristoff," the plump, blonde-haired woman cooed in a sing-song upon seeing her adopted son. "You're home early."
Despite the fact that she worked around the house nonstop, without so much as a governess to assist her, Bulda still always wore her fine clothes, even when chopping vegetables. Her silvery-blonde hair was curled and pinned atop her head in a fanciful updo, and adorned with silk flowers. Her dress– the lacy, scalloped neckline of which revealed an inappropriate amount of spotted cleavage– puffed at the shoulders and narrowed slightly at the waist, before fanning out in a broad skirt, the spring green and yellow layers of which were hoisted up by a crinoline and bustle. She looked more ready to attend a party than to cook supper for her family.
"Hello, mum." Kristoff leaned down to greet his mother with a kiss on the cheek; she was even shorter than her husband was, but had the same accent when she spoke. When she noticed the bundle of flowers in her son's arms, Bulda gasped.
"Those are lovely," she crooned, pausing her work to sniff at the blossoms. "Where did they come from?"
"Miss Brigham. I was going to put them in water for you."
"Allow me."
Kristoff allowed his mother to take the bouquet from his arms, and she worked quickly to procure a porcelain vase of water in which to put them. When she was finished, she set them on a wooden bistro table in the corner of the room, before returning to her station beside Gerda, who was already piling her minced turnips into a bowl.
Bulda picked up her knife and began dicing once more. "How was the shop today?"
"Papa had us hauling sacks of grain all over the place. I'm knackered." Kristoff meandered over to the pot as it simmered over the fire, giving it a good stir with the wooden ladle hanging beside it. The smell of brown gravy wafted up to greet him and his mouth began to salivate.
"Why's your brother not come home yet?"
"I don't know and I don't give a fig."
"Kristoff!" Bulda snapped, appalled by her son's foul mouth.
"Sorry," he apologized, rubbing a hand over his hair sheepishly, shaking out the strands with his fanned fingers and then smoothing them down again with his open palm. "Been with Sven in the stockroom all day. Forgot to mind my language."
Bulda shot her son one final, stern glare before going back to dicing potatoes. He moved to the corner table and sat down in one of the wrought-iron chairs, stealing a look at the red roses in front of him; there must have been a dozen of them or more. Poor Miss Brigham must have sacrificed an entire bush for such a stunning bouquet. The phantom tickling returned to the back of Kristoff's neck and he averted his gaze, choosing instead to face towards the window. His mind wandered to Sven, and where he could possibly be at the moment. Probably still delivering for E.
After a minute of silence, save for the sounds of slicing vegetables, Kristoff's curiosity got the better of him and he spoke up.
"Mum, where does Sven go when he delivers for Mr. E?"
If Bulda's hand momentarily halted the knife mid-slice at his question, it was nearly imperceptible before she continued with the cut. But Kristoff noticed, and he cocked his head at the odd response to a seemingly innocent question.
"Sounds like your father's business," Bulda deflected, keeping her eyes trained on the potatoes on the counter in front of her as she scooped them into a bowl. "You'd be best off asking him."
Kristoff hummed, disappointed but not surprised by her flippant answer, deciding not to press it further. He gazed out of the window, towards the dying light on the horizon where the hazy storm clouds gathered, as the fragrance of roses continued to overpower the smell of the stew, tantalizing his senses to no end.
–
A/N: I changed the decade to better match the fashion style of the story, sorry! The previous chapter now takes place in 1873.