Standing in the middle of a flourishing garden of roses she was sure she had never seen in her life, Calla felt an odd sense of familiarity. Like if she squinted to where she could only make out the shapes she might recognize something. The urge to try overcame the try-not-to-look-dumb-in-front-of-strangers part of her mind, so she squinted and began to look around.
"Is something wrong?" Mr. Pompous interrupted her, startling her out of her squint-y observations.
"No, uh, I just... this place seems familiar is all...," Calla fumbled.
"Well, I should certainly hope so," he huffed. "You steal a rose from my garden--which I'm actually thankful for, do not misunderstand me--and you have been keeping my lovely garden alive for so long. Or, at least, I'm assuming it's been you." His sentence trailed off into a length of mumbling and pacing as he lost himself in his thoughts. She tried to pull her hand from his, since she no longer needed guiding, but his grip was unrelenting as he subconsciously pulled her along with him as he paced.
"Excuse me, sir? Hey.... Sir? Um... my hand? Could you let go?" Calla's words failed to snap Mr. Pompous out of his thoughts. Stumbling as he turned yet again, she finally lost her footing and nearly fell. Not wanting to end up being dragged through the dirt and grass, she pushed her shoulder into him. "Earth to drama queen? Hell-o-o-o? Can you let me go now?"
This snapped him out of it. "No! You cannot go! You must help me!" He pulled her hand against his chest, pleading with her.
"I meant 'can you let go of my hand and stop dragging me around while you mumble to yourself'." Calla said, flatly.
"Oh. Terribly sorry." Mr. Pompous dropped her hand and straightened his fancy jacket. Calla didn't know what it was called, but the fashion seemed familiar to her. She'd have to do some internet searching of men's fashion over the last few centuries to see if she could pinpoint anything.
"So, what is it you need my help with?" Calla asked.
"First, can you tell me what you've done with my rose? It was you who took it, yes? Every time I've sought it, you are the only thing I see."
"Your--?" Calla wasn't sure exactly what was going on but if she wasn't jumping to conclusions then perhaps he was talking about the rose she had taken from the garden last night. "It's in my bag, I think." Shrugging her bag off her shoulder and onto the ground in front of her, she knelt and unzipped it. The rose she'd so carefully cultivated that morning peeked up at her, perhaps glad to see some light despite the magic it had to sustain it.
"Sorry little friend," she whispered to the flower, removing it from her bag and setting it on the ground. She zipped her bag back up and swung it back over her shoulder before picking up the rose again and standing up. "This is what you're talking about, right?"
The man was simply staring at her. She could not see the expression on his face through the thick veil he wore, but perhaps he was surprised? What if he was disgusted? He had said 'witch' rather harshly before. Calla doubted he held very much esteem for her.
"It looks just as beautiful as the day it fully bloomed," he sighed, sending a shiver down her back. Part of her wanted to step back, surprised by the sheer amount of emotion in his words. She knew they were not for her but she had truly never heard anyone speak with such reverence before.
"I'm... it's just the magic... the rose's... not mine, really." She clutched the plant closer to her, wishing he would just turn away so she could be sure he wasn't looking in her direction. She moved forward to put it on the table.
"No!" he cried, rushing toward her, grabbing for the rose.
She lost her balance and the pot nearly tumbled from her hands. She grabbed for it, too, and the ceramic pot hit the side of the pedestal in front of them. They froze, each gripping the pot, as the pedestal wavered. There was a scraping sound and the clear glass dome that rested so carefully on top of the pedestal slid off onto the hard wooden floor of the gazebo, shattering on impact.
"Wow," Calla squeaked.
Mr. Pompous wrenched the rose from Calla and held it close to him as if she might break it. "If I didn't need your help...!" he hissed, glaring at her.
"Oh, it's my fault? If you hadn't have pushed me then you wouldn't have knocked it over," Calla snapped.
"If you had not have been so stupid as to.... No, no, never mind. It's... fine," he forced out through gritted teeth. He started to mutter something to himself again. "I... I need your... help, witch."
It sounded like it hurt him say it. So Calla did what seemed like the most appropriate thing to do at the moment. "I'm sorry, what was that?" She did her best to sound sincere.
He stiffened. After a moment he said, "I'm cursed. It's a hideous curse and you are going to break my curse... not unlike you broke that glass display dome, I suppose."
"I'm going to break your curse, am I?" Calla asked, crossing her arms. "I don't see what your curse has to do with me--why should I be the one forced to break it? I have other things to worry about than the curse of someone I don't know. A curse that I know nothing about and, for all I know, you could very well deserve."
Mr. Pompous seemed to be at a loss for words.
Calla huffed, tossing one of her braids over her shoulder triumphantly. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to get going. Give me back my rose."
"Your rose? You stole it from me!"
"I didn't steal it from your garden, I stole it from my garden. Totally different place that's not inside a magical portal. And while my garden is also a rose garden, all of my roses are made of ice. And it's not actually stealing if it's from my own garden, either. So give it back."
"What makes you so certain your garden is not my garden? If you did not take my rose, which you previously said this one," he held up the rose in his hands, "was, then where is my rose? And why would you appear every time I went to look for my rose if this was not, in fact, my rose?"
This was feeling more and more like the most childish argument Calla'd had in ages, so she did the petty thing. She snatched the rose Mr. Pompous was holding out with a sure air of pompousness, and she ran.
She could hear the startled gasp of surprise from the man behind her--that had clearly been the last thing he'd expected her to do and, really, it'd also been the last thing she'd expected herself to do. It had just happened. He yelled for her to come back and then he yelled some more about the dreadfulness of "Satan's women" and he made absolutely no effort to run after her, which she'd been half-expecting, half-hoping. His clothes were far too fancy to be the clothes of anyone who would after anyone.
Then she heard it. The pounding of feet. She swerved between the rows of lush rose bushes, trying to remember the way out, trying to remember which way was which in this perfectly symmetrical rose garden so much like the one she'd been set to care for that she figured it probably was the same garden. She picked up her pace, sprinting now. There was no way she was going to let anyone--especially some pompous, childish, dramatic--
Calla didn't get to finish her thought because something slammed into her back, and would have sent her (and the rose) flying if arms much longer than her own hadn't reached around her and plucked the rose right out of her hands. She hit the ground, rolled once, then continued to slide right into a nearby rosebush. Seething with anger, Calla pushed herself up onto her hands and knees and was about to actually attack Mr. Pompous when she saw him.
He was on his back, gasping for air, holding the rose above him. It was clear he'd landed just as roughly as she did and while he hadn't rolled, he'd obviously skid a couple of feet through the dirt. Somehow--most likely out of desperation, she thought--he'd managed to keep the pot from breaking or the rose from being killed, instead sacrificing his heavily embroidered clothes to the dirt and thorns. Mr. Pompous had put so much effort into getting the rose back and protecting it that he'd neglect everything else--even his veil. And this is what had her frozen.