The Explorer's Apprentice

6:Rose

I only own Alison:)

Alison Lovett

She’s almost forgotten about it. As Alison reaches into her backpack— made swollen with so many schoolbooks— for her assignment folder, her fingers scrape against its rough, wrinkled cover. Choosing curiosity over commitment, she puts the usual first-day-of-school information papers aside for her father to read later, and gently pulls out the borrowed book.

It’s bound in dark, cracking leather, and string so yellow Alison is afraid it might disintegrate at a touch. Maybe it isn’t the most expensive, but obviously a lot of thought had gone into purchasing it, as a little rose had been burnt expertly onto the corner. It’s obviously very old, so old it creaks when she moves it, very pockmarked and rubbed and loved, the best kind of old. The flower corner looks in danger of falling off together, and Alison’s hands itch to glue it back together, but at the same time, she wants to do nothing but keep it in this perfect, imperfect, condition. Other than the flower, the front is blank. Alison stares at the symbol for a while, debating whether or not to open it. It isn’t as if her father doesn’t collect lots of old things; that’s pretty much his job.

The only other time she’d taken something from her father without asking, she’d been four. It had been sitting on the kitchen table, an antique Russian nesting doll, as bright red and round and sweet as a candied apple. Hand-painted flowers curled up its sides, framing a face so innocent it had to be holding back a secret. Alison had stolen it, without a second thought. And, playing with it in her room, pretending she was an explorer unearthing hidden treasure, she’d accidentally broken it open. The doll inside was black.

She thought she’d killed it.

Alison had almost burst into tears when her father found she was hiding it under her pillow. But instead of getting mad, he’d simply laughed and showed her that was how nesting dolls were supposed to work, and inside the black appeared a yellow doll, then a green, then a blue, and finally another red, each smaller than the last. He explained that he was going to give it to her anyway. Her father likes to keep souvenirs of his trips; little things that his client can’t or doesn’t bother selling. At the time, Alison couldn’t put to words what he was trying to say, but she knows what he meant. Just because something doesn’t have value, doesn’t mean it doesn’t have worth.

The nesting dolls are still there, sitting by her bedside lamp, still as mysterious as ever.

Alison had never again taken anything from her father without asking, until now.

Maybe this is important, a part of her argues, I should put it back. Or at least ask. Then again, her father hardly ever brings stuff home, with the threat it can get lost or broken in the organized hurricane of his office. As he’d told her nearly twelve years ago, pointless documents that have to do with treasure are kept on-site, while everything fun and important is brought home with her in mind. If he had it in his office, buried under a bunch of papers no less, it’s probably harmless.

Alison cautiously flips open the front cover.

On the first page, written in elegant calligraphy are the words:

 

Rose DeWitt Bukater

January 1, 1912

1912… That makes sense. It’s a Titanic artifact. Or, at least, has to do with it. While the edges of the pages did indicate some seawater damage, she doubts the book – a journal, it seems – could have survived a century underwater and not become total mush. She feels a twinge of guilt for going through someone else’s journal. After all, she wouldn’t like random people going through her things, not even if they were almost a hundred years younger. The paper smells of salt and something flowery, possibly perfume. Alison imagines it’s how Rose herself smelled.