The smell’s very faint but still laces the air. It’s there. The white
rose among the dried flowers in the vase. Shriveled and fragile, but
holding on to that unnatural perfection cultivated in Snow’s greenhouse.
I grab the vase, stumble down to the kitchen, and throw its contents
into the embers. As the flowers flare up, a burst of blue flame envelops
the rose and devours it. Fire beats roses again. I smash the vase on
the floor for good measure.