Roses & Violets

Book : The Rosenholm Trilogy

by Gry Kappel Jensen

Genres: YA Contemporary; YA Romance

Synopsis

A fantastical romance with Norse roots that's a thriller murder mystery!

Four girls from very different backgrounds are making their way to the mysterious Rosewood Boarding School from different corners of the country. The one thing they have in common is the strange offer they have received to apply for a place at what will turn out to be a school for magic, deeply embedded in Nordic mythology, nature magic and shamanism. The girls have been invited to apply for a reason that is as yet unknown to themselves, but already during the unorthodox application tests, it becomes apparent that a spirit is trying to establish contact with the girls. It turns out that a young girl was murdered under mysterious circumstances in the 1980s and the killer was never found. Her spirit is still haunting the place, and she is now urging the four girls to bring justice and find the killer. But someone is keeping an eye on them and it quickly becomes clear that their lives are in danger.

Release date: September 26, 2023

Publisher: Arctis

Print pages: 345

Sample

Prologue

He lays me down in the grass. The sky spins above me, like when my sister and I played as small children. We spun and spun with our faces toward the sky, arms spread, our dresses forming perfect circles around us.

He repositions my arms, arranges my legs, spreads out my hair. He strokes my cheek, his mouth is very close to my ear, his breath is warm. He sings for me, he tells me that I am beautiful, that he loves me.

He bends over me, a dark figure, a shadow against the swirling spiral of the sky. I know who he is, but I cannot see his face. I want to scream, but I cannot. The rustling of the silver poplars vies with the sound of my pulse whooshing in my ears, the violets bloom around me and the sky goes black.

 

Part 1

Summer

 

Roses are red

Violets are blue

Strawberries are sweet

And so are you

 Traditional love poem, often used in 19^th-century autograph books

 

July 6^th 3:45 p.m.

Kirstine

Kirstine listened. It was silent in the house. She forced herself to take a deep breath.

Relax. It’s not the same as stealing.

The letter was hers, after all. It just happened to be lying in the top drawer of the large, oak writing desk. The drawer where her father kept their passports and baptismal certificates and that sort of thing. The drawer that could be locked.

Her sweaty fingers clutched the small, gold key she’d taken from the back corner of the china cabinet, where it was always kept.

“Kirstine, do you want some coffee? There’s still a bit of cake from yesterday.”

The sound of her mother’s voice from out in the garden made her jump.

“No thanks!” She closed the door into the living room and attempted to ignore the small crucifix hanging over the writing desk. Jesus looked down at her reprovingly. The key turned easily, but the drawer stuck. She had to yank it open. It was sitting on top—she recognized it immediately. The thick, white envelope. A stamp with a postmark indicating that the letter was sent several weeks ago. And her name on the front. Kirstine Marie Jensen. Despite this, it was locked away in a drawer. And despite this, someone had opened the envelope and read it. She grabbed the letter and put it in her pocket.

Footsteps on the kitchen floor, someone opening the door to the living room. She hastily shoved the drawer closed.

“Are you in here? Don’t you want to get outside now that the sun’s finally shining?” Her mother briefly scanned Kirstine’s face and body. Was she looking for something? Had she seen something? Kirstine’s heart pounded.

“No. I mean yes. I think I’ll go for a bike ride.”

“Oh, okay. But be sure to get home by dinner time . . .”

Kirstine nodded and edged around her mother. Her hand still clutched around the key, and she could clearly feel the letter in her pocket as she unlocked her bike. She would have to put both the letter and the key back again tonight, after her parents had gone to bed.

Kirstine had just pushed her bike out through the gate when she saw her mother standing in the street, waiting for her. She must have gone through the front door.

“Did you take something from your father’s desk?”

July 6^th 4:05 p.m.

Kirstine

The westerly wind whipped in her face. She pedaled so hard that her thighs burned and her knees ached.

She’d screamed at her mother. Loud enough that the neighbors must have heard. It wasn’t like her, but it was her letter, they had no right to hide it from her. And now she was running away from it all.

Kirstine swung her bike to the right, toward the forest. She stood up on the pedals for the last stretch and then threw the bike against the ancient, moss-covered stone wall encircling the small, white church. Then she walked past the church and into the forest. The wind made the treetops sigh, but it was quiet among the trunks. The air smelled of pine needles, dead leaves, moss, water, earth. She followed the path a short way, but then turned in among the trees to follow her own route, the one the mushroom pickers didn’t know about. It had been a rainy summer, but today the sky was clear and the sun shone through the deep-green branches. She felt the water rising up through the thick layer of moss with each step, her sandals getting wet in the process. She stopped, pulled the sandals off, and continued barefoot. It was a strange feeling, walking through the moss of the forest floor as the ice-cold rainwater rose up between her bare toes. Her mother had looked alarmed when Kirstine began shouting at her. No, not alarmed. Afraid.

There was a small hill in the middle of the clearing where the heather was in bloom and chanterelles grew in late summer. At the top of the hill were five large stones, some of which had fallen over hundreds of years ago, and no one now living knew their original purpose. Kirstine sat on the largest stone—it lay on its side and had almost disappeared into the heather and grass. She pulled out the envelope. She’d first seen the letter on the kitchen counter alongside brochures and the local paper one afternoon a few weeks ago. She hadn’t thought anything of it until her mother hurriedly swept it away and took the stack of mail with her into the living room. That’s when she’d gotten the feeling that the letter was for her. She finally opened the envelope and unfolded the letter. It was printed on thick paper with a grooved texture she could feel between her fingers, and there was an embossed logo of a rose at the top of the paper. In gold letters, the envelope read: Rosenholm Academy.

 

***

 

June 17^th

 

Dear Kirstine Marie Jensen,

 

The faculty of Rosenholm Academy for gifted and exceptionally talented youth invites you to an informational meeting to tell you more about Rosenholm’s program and, potentially, admit you to the first-year class this fall.

 

Rosenholm Academy is located on Zealand and surrounded by natural beauty. We have a long, glorious history specializing in the education and molding of young people possessed of rare and special talents. Rosenholm Academy comprises approximately three hundred students, all of whom live at the school for the duration of our three-year program. The course of study corresponds to the final years of traditional secondary education and is tuition-free.

 

We hope to see you at the informational meeting on July 7^th at 10:00 a.m. Please note that the meeting is only for prospective students—parents are not welcome.

 

The enclosed information sheet includes the school’s address as well as options for traveling to the school via public transportation.

 

We look forward to meeting you.

 

With best wishes,

 

Birgit Lund Birgit Lund

Headmistress

 

It took her a long time to work her way through the letter. She let her eyes scan the words again . . . gifted and exceptionally talented . . . Uh, what? If there was one thing Kirstine was sure of, it was that she did not fit that description. That much she had gathered after years of failing school. Special instruction, school psychologists, discussions, reading programs—nothing had helped, and in the end, everyone around her had apparently given up. After a disastrous attempt to finish high school, she’d stopped going to school altogether, and now she only left home to go to her cleaning job at the assisted living facility. And the church functions her parents were always dragging her to. In short, she’d just turned eighteen and had no idea what to do with herself.

Kirstine let her fingers run over the envelope’s beautiful gold embossing. If she hadn’t been sure no one would bother going to so much trouble to trick her, she would have thought it was a prank. But no . . . She’d perfected the art of making herself invisible. She 

wasn’t bullied, just overlooked.

She checked the date again. The meeting was tomorrow. Forget it. It’s never going to happen.

Her parents would never, ever give her permission. She’d never even been allowed to go to the parties held by her classmates. So going all the way across Funen to some strange school on Zealand? No way. It was just as well they’d hidden the letter in the first place.

Kirstine lay on the ground at the center of the circle of stones. She stayed there until she felt the tingling sensation she always felt when she lay there long enough. A prickling heat that spread through her body until she almost felt as if she was lifting from the ground and rising up toward the white clouds drifting across the blue summer sky. A feeling of strength and energy filled her body, driving out the anger. Although she’d never told them about her experiences in the forest, she was sure her parents would not approve. Where do you get this stuff, Kirstine! Stop this nonsense . . . But she didn’t care. When she felt like this, it almost felt as if she could go wherever she wanted, and she just let her body rest against the forest floor like an empty vessel.

Her thoughts swirled around the mysterious letter. Maybe she could tell her parents how she actually felt, what she did and thought about, was afraid of, wished for. Simply explain it all until they understood and supported her and would see her off on the train, rejoicing over the fact that she could stand on her own two feet. Yes, that’s exactly what she would do—except for the part about telling them anything.

Kirstine breathed deeply until she felt she’d fully returned to her body. Then she pulled out her phone and typed the school’s address into Google Maps.

 

July 7^th 3:23 a.m.

Victoria

See me . . .

“No!”

Victoria gasped for air. It was only a dream, only a dream. Breathe . . .

She sat straight up in bed and wrapped her arms around herself. Slowly, she regained control of her breathing, but the anxiety left her shivering. The moon sent a diffuse light through the white curtains fluttering in the breeze from the open windows, and the dreamcatcher over her bed spun around slowly. She let her eyes follow its movement. It was there to protect her.

She’d dreamed about the white shadows again, but this time was different. One of them had come up close, had practically bent over her. Way too close.

She wrapped herself up in her comforter, but the cold wouldn’t loosen its grip. She was still shivering when she went downstairs to make a cup of tea. The large house was silent. The twins slept further down the hall. Despite the many bedrooms, they insisted on sleeping in the same room. Their au pair had her room in the basement, and her parents’ bedroom was at the opposite end of the house. There’s no one here, there’s no danger.

Victoria turned on the light in the kitchen and, as always, avoided looking at the windows when it was dark outside. She didn’t want to see her own image reflected in the glass. She poured water from the instant hot water tap directly over the teabag and counted the seconds as the tea steeped. No one’s trying to hurt you.

It startled her when, inevitably, she did make eye contact with her pale reflection in the windowpane. The white shadow was clearly visible behind her. She closed her eyes. Face your fears . . .

Victoria turned around slowly but kept her eyes closed a moment longer. Then she forced herself to open them. There’s no one else here, you’re alone. Or at least that’s what she tried to tell herself. But Victoria was never truly alone.

July 7^th 4:30 a.m.

Kirstine

It was getting light outside the train’s windows. Kirstine imagined the birds competing in song outside, but inside the train you could only hear the monotonous rattling of the motor and the metallic clang of the rails. Her stomach was in knots, and it was impossible to breathe normally, even when she really tried. What was she was doing? Running away in the middle of the night—who does that? She did. Obviously.

There weren’t many people on the train. Diagonally opposite her seat was a young man, asleep with his head leaned back against the seat. His reddish hair lay sprawled over his forehead. His skin was fair with small freckles strewn over his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. He was older than her, but she wasn’t sure how much older. Somewhere, as the train worked its way through Jutland, he’d gotten on board, chosen a seat, thrown himself down, and immediately fallen asleep. But she couldn’t sleep. The young man shifted in his sleep, and she realized she’d been staring at him. She turned her face toward the window instead and pressed her forehead into the cold glass. It was almost light now.

Almost twenty minutes before they reached Sorø, Kirstine put on her jacket, zipped her bag shut, and sat with it in her lap. She’d read the directions again and again until she knew the stations by heart in case the loudspeaker system was down and she had to read the flickering names of stations and cities flashing past on the information display at the top of the train compartment.

“Next station Sorø.”

She jumped up and edged carefully out between the legs of the people who had boarded as the train crossed Funen. The young man was still asleep as she went past. Just then the train took a turn, and her leg bumped into his knee.

“Wha—?” he blurted out, looking up blearily, as if he had no idea where he was. “Is this Sorø?”

She couldn’t get a word out, but luckily she managed to nod.

“Oh, thanks,” he said. He ran a hand through his already tousled hair before grabbing his jacket and springing out of his seat toward the doors that had only just opened onto the platform.

“Wait!” Her voice stuck in her throat, and it was impossible for her to shout louder. “Your bag!”

Out on the platform she finally caught up with the young man as he walked away from the train determinedly.

“Your bag!” Shyly, she handed him a brown, leather shoulder bag. “You left it on the train.”

“Aww shit, did I? Thanks a million.” He smiled, looking simultaneously happy and embarrassed. He looked a bit older now that he was awake. “Really, thank you,” he said with a crooked grin. “And you were getting off at Sorø too?

“Yes,” she said, trying to force her voice to a normal volume. “I mean, I’m continuing on by bus.”

“Me too. The busses leave from over there.” He vaguely indicated the direction with a careless movement of his arm. The sun was up now, and the birds were singing in the early morning.

“Which bus are you taking?” he asked when they’d reached the row of blue bus signs.

“Number 14, I think,” she said. But she didn’t think, she was absolutely certain that she would remember the bus number to her dying day after having studied the route so many times.

“Number 14? Huh, that’s funny. Me too. Then again, maybe it’s not so strange. I doubt anyone takes the train to Sorø at this time of day, unless . . . May I ask if you’re on your way to Rosenholm?”

Kirstine nodded. “Yes, for a meeting.”

The young man’s eyes scanned her face as if he was searching for something.

“Yes, well, I know they need people. But I should introduce myself: Jakob.” He extended his hand and gave hers a firm squeeze. “I’ve got Norse Studies there.”

She settled for nodding again. He said it as if it was self-explanatory, and she had no intention of exposing her ignorance by asking what that meant.

“You know it’s only half past six, and the bus doesn’t leave until eight,” said Jakob, studying the old, scratched watch on his wrist. “We might as well sit down.” He pointed at a shelter about thirty feet away from the bus stop. The bus station was desolate. There was just a solitary bus with the motor running and the text Not in service glowing in yellow above the windshield. Kirstine couldn’t remember ever having

been on Zealand before, but this was pretty similar to what she was used to at home. Maybe that’s what gave her the courage to start a conversation. Or maybe it was because Jakob didn’t seem nearly as intimidating as he would have if she hadn’t seen him sitting and sleeping and running away from his bag.

“Do you live in Jutland?” she asked.

“No, but my parents live in Skanderborg. The options for getting here are awful, aren’t they? It takes almost an entire night.”

“This is the first time I’ve made the trip,” she said as they sat down in the small shelter.

Jakob turned his face toward her in surprise. “Is that right? You’ve never been to Rosenholm before?”

Kirstine shook her head. Had she just said something stupid after all?

“Did you go to school abroad then?”

“No, only in Thy.”

The remark made him chuckle, and she laughed too, even though she hadn’t said it to be funny.

“Well, there you go,” he said, and he didn’t seem to think she was stupid, just that she’d told a joke.

They sat there without saying anything for a few minutes. The air was chilly and nipped at her cheeks. They hadn’t seen too many cloud-free skies this summer, but on this cold July morning there wasn’t a cloud in sight. She shivered in her thin summer jacket, regretting that she hadn’t worn more layers.

“Just a minute,” Jakob bent forward and unzipped his bag. “I think I have it with me.”

He handed her a wool scarf with a checkered pattern.

“What a summer,” he said, as he invited her to take the scarf with a nod. He was wearing a short, dark wool coat, even though it was, theoretically, the height of summer. She took the scarf and wrapped it carefully around her neck. It smelled faintly of woods and wood smoke. The bus, which had kept its motor running, had changed its Not in service out for a number and rolled slowly over to one of the other bus bays.

“You shouldn’t be nervous about today,” Jakob said, as he followed the bus with his eyes. “They’re really nice at Rosenholm. A little old-fashioned, maybe. Birgit, the headmistress, you know? She seems a bit stern, but she’s super fair. She’s helped me out a lot. And you really don’t need to worry about your age and all that,” he said, casting a quick glance her way so that the heat rose to her cheeks.

Embarrassing! Of course, he’d noticed that she was too old to still be in high school.

“Hey,” he said, as if he sensed her embarrassment, “they took me, right?” He winked at her, and she felt herself begin to smile. If she had dared, she would have asked which year he was in. But he was right, he seemed older than a typical student, even if he was in his final year.

The bus gave up on waiting for passengers and drove away empty.

“Pretty quiet, huh?” she asked, not actually expecting an answer.

“Quiet? It’s absolutely dead.

Totally dead.” Jakob’s voice had taken on an apocalyptic tone, which again made her smile.

“It doesn’t really bother me, I’m used to it,” Kirstine said.

“You still live at home? In Thy or wherever it was?” he asked.

She nodded.

“What then, your parents are sitting at home, cheering you on from afar?”

“No, they don’t even know I’m here.”

“What? Huh,” Jakob said.

“It’s a little complicated. They’re pretty strange. It’s because . . . we—my family—we’re very Christian,” she stammered, blushing over the words. What was happening to her? Why was she sitting here and telling this to a complete stranger?

“Okay, shit, like some kind of cult or what?” Jakob asked, looking at her with concern.

“No,” Kirstine started to laugh. “Inner Mission, if you know what that is?”

“No, not at all. No one in my family has followed the Christian faith exactly. But . . . it must be a lot to deal with, right?” He laughed as if he couldn’t quite wrap his head around all the implications of what she’d just told him.

She shrugged. “Well, I never really thought about it when I was a kid. ...