Enlarged with AI from a smaller original
Pink rose on the ribs
Botanical · Ribs · Colour · Photo
A woman in a dark backless dress holds the fabric aside to show a single rose tattoo on her side, just below the ribcage. The rose is shaded in soft pinks and reds with smooth, blended edges and fine petal detail. It sits alone on bare skin against a plain pale wall, with the open fabric framing it.
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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction
The steward wanted the rose down before the trust's inspectors came up the hill on Thursday. "Nothing growing on a listed wall," Mr Dunmore said, tapping his clipboard against the gatehouse stone as if the stone had complained to him. Agnes said nothing. She had been pulling bindweed from the great hall for three summers and had learnt that silence cost less than argument.
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The rose had got into the east window of the solar, where the lead had come away years ago and left a gap the width of a hand. Its canes went in through the hole and came out again, pink and heavy, and at the top of the frame a single bloom had opened the way the old roses did, layer on layer, the outer petals gone soft at the edges as if someone had breathed on them and let the colour run.
She worked the ivy off the sill with a hook and a pair of leather gloves that were too big for her. Under the roots she found a sealed jar, the glass gone milky, with a folded slip inside: a list of names and the word "bloom" underlined twice, in a hand she half recognised from the parish register. Someone had left it there, she guessed, expecting the rose to outlast the wall.
On Thursday Dunmore walked the solar with his clipboard and stopped beneath the window. He looked up for a long time. "Leave it," he said, and wrote something down, and Agnes never learnt whether it was a note or a name. That evening she took a cutting and set it in a clay pot by the gatehouse, where the stone still held the afternoon warmth.
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