Chapter Two
I deliver cheerful pink chrysanthemums once every four weeks to Creon at the apothecary, so when I enter his store, I’m glad to see the flowers still thriving and well in a glass vase on his desk.
As they should be—one of the enchantments I put on my flowers keeps them fresh for far longer than their natural lifespan, and if they’re well taken care of by their recipients too, then it could be a month before they start to wither.
I’ve taken my mum’s advice and decided to check if the old man knows anything about the Feiyan before I blindly risk heading north.
Mum always looks after the shop if I need to go out for the day, and this anonymous request will certainly take up all my time.
It already had me up all night. I scoured old journals and botanical textbooks, but found no mention of the flower.
Nothing. How is that possible? How is there a flower I don’t know about?
Unless the request is a joke. A waste of effort. A prank meant to have me lost and wandering in the forest. Revenge for a time my curse got someone in trouble, or for any of the bouquets I was requested to send with less than positive intentions. But who would bother to do such a thing?
Anyone in the citadel could have their reasons.
If a customer wants to remain anonymous, they can take one of the forms pinned to the noticeboard outside the shop and fill out their choices.
They can tell me which flowers they want or which emotions they want shared, their budget, their deadline, if they wish it delivered or collected, and any other information required.
The bouquet will be prepared, all without revealing their identity.
And there’s a locked payment box that only Mum and I can access.
It’s worked flawlessly so far. So much so that I can hardly believe it was my own mother who came up with it.
These days, most of the anonymous requests I get are declarations of love, usually unrequited.
Occasionally, someone wants to send a warning or ask for forgiveness, and once or twice I’ve been asked to create a bouquet to deliver someone’s bitterness or jealousy.
Granted, those times made me hesitate about following through, but I figured it wasn’t up to me to control someone’s message.
It’s their truth. And I know all too well what it feels like to have your words regulated.
However, this is the first time that a request has me thoroughly stumped.
It seems even Creon, with years that make him wiser than me, doesn’t have much to add.
“Sorry, Felicity, I can’t say I’ve heard of this flower,” the old man says, holding the request sheet close to his glasses.
He’s halfway up a ladder and hangs on to a rung with one hand while he examines the paper with the other.
“But this map will take you to an area of the forest with some rare fauna. I’ve found a few unique species of insect around there, so I wouldn’t be surprised to encounter unusual plant life as well.
Aside from that, however, I’m afraid my memory gets a little foggy.
I haven’t been up there in a while. It’s too close to the cursed tree and recent rebel attacks. ”
He’s right. The path to this flower isn’t far from the tree that started the conflict between the north and the citadel.
That led to Simon’s death. It’s been half a decade since the original incident, and in all that time, I’ve never dared to see the tree for myself.
It’s the source of a poisonous festering disease that blighted the northern forest beyond recognition, people say, a vile and warped stain of evil that will surely corrupt anyone who goes near it, just as it turned ordinary northern citizens into hostile rebels.
The king and queen sent them food and supplies to build new shelters when their villages and crops were first affected, but nothing could be done to slow the spreading rot. Or so I’ve heard.
Creon eyes me warily when I keep my mouth shut, as most do. “Are you sure about this?” he asks. “Passion is one thing, Felicity, but I’ve warned you before about treading too close to obsession. It’s reasonable to deny a request if it’s too outlandish or dangerous.”
I take the paper back. He doesn’t understand. Being able to complete orders reliably is all I have. It’s the only thing people have faith in me to do.
“I’ll try to be careful,” I say.
I thank him for his time and leave the apothecary with a growing curiosity.
The morning sky is painted with threads of cotton-like clouds, and it holds all the hope of a delightful day.
A successful day. I stroll toward the northern gate and swing my basket, scrambling to put the pieces together.
This Feiyan has to be incredibly rare, but I’ll find it; there’s no lie there.
On my way, I pass a blacksmith hammering away in his forge, each clang an accompanying note to the distant hails from the marketplace and shouts from the builders fixing a roof at the end of the street.
Carpenters’ sawdust floats in the air, earthy and woody, mixing with the sweetness of the freshly baked bread and clean linen hanging on lines strung between buildings.
A hurried messenger, arms stuffed with scrolls of parchment, dodges the two women walking ahead of me, both carrying empty wooden buckets, probably heading to the nearest well for water.
I don’t mean to eavesdrop. They wouldn’t talk so freely if they knew I was right behind them.
“I would be outraged if I was Simon’s family,” one of the women says. “I know King Garland is a man of few words, but to not even bother making an appearance at the memorial—well!”
“I heard from one of the maids that his sickness has him bedbound for days at a time. His condition is much worse than they’ve let on.”
“Really? The last announcement from the castle only mentioned that the king would occasionally be absent from holding court, not that he’s at death’s door! Imagine if he’s not able to attend the prince’s wedding either!”
“I wonder if it’s the northern sickness. It’s no wonder the queen is so—”
One of the women catches sight of me and grabs her friend’s arm.
Their faces pale as mine reddens, and I quicken my pace to pass them in silence.
When I’m far enough away, their whispers will surely be wondering if I’ll be repeating their words when I next see the queen.
It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve unwillingly snitched on my fellow citizens.
Before I can worry too much, the familiar voice of my best friend’s fiancé shakes me out of my thoughts. The crown prince is riled up and ranting, which means one thing. There’s only one person that can shatter Bastion’s trained composure.
Willoh Vane must be in town again.
At the gate, the road out of the citadel is to my right, but to my left, with the castle looming in the distance, townsfolk cluster cautiously at the edges of the street with guards stationed at intervals for protection.
Cardamine’s fiancé, Prince Bastion, stands in the center of it all, slicked-back black hair and leather armor aglow under the sun.
A brown hand clenches the handle of the sword sheathed at his waist as he faces the person he likes least in this world.
I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve encountered a similar scene—Bash flushed red, face screwed up, voice raised, and Willoh, hands in pockets, casual and collected.
Despite being of a similar height and age—nineteen, one year older than Card and me—they could not be more different, and their encounters vex the prince like nothing else.
They used to be inseparable, but five years ago, after the incident in the northern forest, rumors started circulating that Willoh Vane’s magic was the reason for the corruption, and any shred of friendship between them was destroyed.
I wasn’t there to witness the details, thank the gods.
Their fallout was just before the queen’s paranoia reached such a degree that she started summoning me to the castle to tell her the truth, and before Card met his fiancé, so neither Card nor I were there to see what actually happened.
From what I’ve gathered, I suspect it’s Willoh’s gift for magic and Bash’s complete inability to summon even the smallest of spells that really agitates the prince.
I’d call it jealousy, but I know better than to open my mouth.
Magic is supposed to run strong in the royal line and Bash is the only exception, much to his mother’s distress.
“How many times do I have to tell you to get lost?” Bastion says through gritted teeth. “No one wants you here.”
Willoh’s expression doesn’t budge from its fixed smirk. He’s in a maroon leather jacket, with a brown satchel slung over a shoulder. Underneath chestnut waves of hair, colored earrings on warm golden skin wink in the sunlight.
“My almighty princeling, you know it pains me to go too long without seeing your grouchy face,” he drawls.
“Shut up and get out,” Bash growls. His tone is not very effective at intimidating the sorcerer.
“How polite,” Willoh says. “Anyway, I literally need to buy one thing from the tailor’s, so if you don’t mind—”
“Buy it somewhere else,” Bash snaps back.
“Somewhere else?” Willoh says, a sharpness to his voice. “Where do you suggest? Or have you forgotten—?”
“Get lost.”
There’s usually two ways the conflict goes from here.
Sometimes Willoh grins, delighting in Bash’s agitation.
Sometimes he’s irritable, which usually results in it escalating until something in the citadel gets destroyed by a blast of Willoh’s magic.
Hence why the guards are quick to sprint toward the sound of Bash’s shouts.