Chapter One #2
I turn right toward the shop my mum and I call home.
It’s clear that our house is a florist’s before you’re close enough to read the wooden Farrow’s Flowers sign.
I always keep an ever-growing number of seasonal flowers in pots lining the walls and windowsills, and right now, there are freesias that bloom in early spring, their petals bending backward in a variety of bold shades that welcome me home with a burst of color.
They’re usually what I give Card on his birthday.
Freesias are a symbol of friendship and trust, and there’s no one I trust more than him.
I know my neighbors are aware of my curse.
Mum has never tried to hide it. She says it’s because she never wants me to feel ashamed, but I imagine the strange way I spoke as a child needed to be explained somehow—and what better way than the truth.
I learned quickly how much sway my words can have.
Everything I say is meticulously thought through.
The truth must be carefully handled. Too much restraint, and it’ll suffocate, kill chances, deceive.
But if you let it free without care, the consequences can cause irreparable damage, so I spend my days with a tightly wound headache and forced smile, thinking through every sentence that leaves my mouth and trying to ignore my mother’s guilt-ridden eyes.
Before opening the front door, I pause at the noticeboard and the wooden boxes nailed beside it.
They were an idea Mum had years ago when she ran the shop full time.
Her friend had mentioned that her daughter wanted to buy a bouquet for her crush but was too shy to ask for it directly, so shortly after, the anonymous request box was born.
In a lucky coincidence, it’s also what retains the customers who don’t want to speak with me directly now that I’m mostly in charge.
Today, when I unlock the cedar box, I find a sheet of parchment sitting inside and excitement sparks in my chest. Gods, I love getting these requests.
Not knowing what kind of bouquet I’m about to create is such a delight.
It’s the silently held breath before the creative cogs in my brain leap to life, before I get to rummage through my collection and journals and do something useful that isn’t related to my curse.
I slide the request form out and study it.
The penmanship is interesting, like they’ve purposefully altered their letters in a strange and stilted way—but it’s nothing I haven’t seen before.
Some people want to stay truly anonymous, especially with the queen squeezing every drop of information from me.
However, instead of a string of sentences answering the standard questions on the form, there are only three words: Feiyan. Collection. ASAP.
What the gods is a Feiyan?
I flick the page over expecting to find some sort of budget or payment plan, only to find a crudely drawn map of the Kingdom of Alrick on the back.
I can make out the citadel walls in the center, the crossroads within the northern forest leading up to the mountains, and to the far northwest, there’s a highlighted field with a bold arrow pointing to it. My chest tightens. No.
The northern forest is where the rebels have been attacking and robbing the trading wagons after being corrupted by dark magic.
It’s where the rumors say Willoh Vane killed an oak tree and poisoned the land.
It’s where Simon— Well, it’s not somewhere the king and queen like anyone going.
Why would someone ask me to go up there?
And why haven’t I heard of a Feiyan? The fact I haven’t bothers me. A lot. More than it should. I’m supposed to be good at this.
Inside, as the door chime fades, I’m still turning the request over in my hand as if it’ll suddenly reveal a hidden clue. I place the basket of dahlias on the wrapping table in the middle of the room, puzzled.
“How was the meadow, dear?” Mum asks from the corner of our wide downstairs room. She sits at our teacup-cluttered kitchen table, long black hair loose down her back, and her typical tight-lipped smile on rose-tinted lips.
I used to grow my hair down to my waist too.
Then Lark happened and I’d wanted to burn anything he’d touched.
Months ago, in a moment of madness—with Card on hand for moral (and physical) support—I’d used some gardening shears to chop my black hair in a jagged line above my shoulders.
It hadn’t been enough, so I’d grabbed some blush-pink roses and barreled my magic into their petals, bleeding the colors into my hair until the ends were dyed pink.
It had worked. I’d felt lighter. Cleaner.
Different. And when I’d next met Card and his fiancé at the castle, when we’d walked past a group of guards, I’d refused to return Lark’s stare.
“I got some more dahlias,” I say. “Have you heard of a Feiyan flower? I just found this anonymous request.”
I wave the paper, and Mum pulls her straight eyebrows together.
“No, I haven’t. Are you sure it’s spelled correctly? Did you read it right?”
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Even though I’m cursed to only tell the truth, she still finds ways to doubt me.
“Yes. There’s a map too.”
“Well,” Mum says, and picks up her cup of tea.
She’s been working a few shifts at the local tearoom since I took over most of the workload of the shop, and now she’s hardly ever without a cup.
I sometimes wonder what ingredients they’re putting in those blends, because she’s thoroughly addicted.
“You could always ask Creon. He might know.”
“Yeah, I might pop to the apothecary tomorrow. I have some orders to complete here first though. Did anyone come in while I was out?”
“Only the painter from down the road. He wanted some carnations for his mother’s birthday coming up.”
I nod and start to transfer my freshly picked dahlias into vases I filled with slightly warm sugar water. With my eyes on my work, I try to keep my tone light.
“I saw Simon’s mother earlier. She was by the fountain again.”
Mum sighs and rests a pale hand on her chin. “Poor thing. And poor Simon. Such a horrible way to go. Although I suppose an explosion would make it quick…. Anyway, I’m sure that woman will be doing everything to make the forest safe from now on so Prince Merit can come back for the wedding.”
“That woman” is what Mum calls Queen Fern.
She’s always held a deep resentment toward the queen, but never told me why.
Mum was like this before I was first summoned to snitch for Queen Fern, so it can’t only be that.
It’s one of Mum’s many secrets—one of the topics that darkens her eyes and brings out the snap in her tone, like it does whenever I ask about my father. I don’t even know his name.
I nibble the inside of my cheek. The thing about telling the truth is that there’s a time and a place, and when it comes to my mother, no time ever seems suitable. I keep my head bowed so the pink ends of my hair swing over my cheeks as I busy my hands.
“Card showed me the wedding invitation list earlier. They’re being sent out later this week,” I say, slowly.
“Oh?” Mum takes a sip of tea. “Are the king and queen from Dreah coming too? Gods, I hope so. King Cyrus is a hunk and a half.”
“Mum.”
“What? I’m allowed to look,” she says, unrepentant. Mum always enjoys it when the Dreyan royals visit. I thought it was because they export most of the fruit teas she’s so into, but apparently not.
Prince Merit, Bash’s younger brother, lives in the next kingdom over—the Kingdom of Dreah—for a few months of the year because of his peacemaking betrothal to their youngest princess. It’s hard to believe that Queen Fern allows him out of her sight, seeing how she’s so overprotective of Bash.
I pause, my fingers resting on the stem of a particularly vivid dahlia, and fight a flicker of fear. I tried not to react when I’d read the name earlier. I tried to push it down. But the truth always comes out one way or another.
“Um,” I say, then clear my throat. “No. Not them. It’s…Morgana. Morgana is invited.”
Mum’s back snaps straight. “She’s coming here?” A flash of hysteria has her pitch rising, her hands turning to claws around her teacup.
I nod, my jaw as tight as her fingers. Morgana is the sorcerer responsible for my curse. To me, she’s a mystery, an invisible face. To Mum…
“But she never comes to Alrick these days!” Mum squeaks. “She’s supposed to be at the Library. Here? Soon? Gods—”
She meets my russet-brown eyes and quickly flattens her expression.
“I’m sure she won’t come,” she says briskly. “It’s far too beneath her. She hasn’t been back in years. I wouldn’t worry about it, baby. She won’t come here. No, of course she won’t.”
Mum can repeat lies to herself until she believes them.
A luxury I don’t have.
I turn back to the anonymous request for the Feiyan flower.
The map on the back leads into the northern forest, past the site of the explosion that killed Simon and farther than I’ve been before.
Regardless, I’ll go. I have to. I’ll get the flower and deliver it, for whatever purpose the person needs.
Because despite my curse, it’s what I do best. I tell the truth.
On behalf of others, for things they can’t say themselves.
Not through words or letters, but through flowers.
Petals instead of carefully crafted sentences. A bouquet instead of a sonnet.
Mourning flowers for a mother’s arms.
White wedding flowers for my best friend.
Feiyan for an anonymous stranger.