Chapter Seven
The air in my tiny greenhouse is thick, like a fever under glass-walled skin, but it might be one of my favorite places in the world.
It’s nice to get back to some familiarity after working with the unusual power of the Odyssa all of yesterday.
I’d studied the twin flowers for as long as I could allow myself, enchanting and inspecting and sketching until my fingers ached, but eventually, I had to pack them up and leave them in the collection box.
I was worried they would wilt without the winter weather conditions, but neither flower showed any signs of weakening.
And just like with the Feiyan, the welcome sum of ten gold was left behind and nothing more.
I’m clipping away at my collection of colored roses when the chime of the door pulls me back to reality.
“Just a moment,” I call out, placing my pruning shears next to the jug of sugar water I’ve balanced between pots—just another reminder that my flowers will be fighting for space if I can’t invest in a bigger greenhouse soon.
I leave behind the overpowering smell of roses and enter my shop through the back door.
There I find Marceline, my part-time delivery girl, bouncing on her toes, her auburn hair in two braids beside pink windswept cheeks.
It surprises me that she’s here already.
It must mean it’s later in the day than I thought.
Time often distorts in the greenhouse, like it’s on a different beat from the rest of the world.
“Got anything for me?” Marceline asks, unable to still the energy in her limbs.
“I do,” I say, fetching a bouquet I’d prepared this morning. It sleeps in a thin blanket of pastel-blue paper, tied together with a white ribbon. “I have this for Drew Maccan.”
“Oh, he lives next door to the bakery, right?”
That’s why I trust my deliveries to Marceline.
She has an incredible memory and can recite addresses to perfection.
Marcie has been helping out for a few months now, after our mums got to talking at the tearoom.
She needs practice interacting with people, her mum had said.
I need not mention how relieved customers must be to see a face other than my own.
I pass over the bouquet of deep-purple gladioli, dainty forget-me-nots, and white wind anemones—a bouquet that speaks of a heroic love and the hope that it isn’t unrequited—especially after I worked my magic to bring out the emotions.
“Yes, it’s from the baker’s son, Rane. There’s a card in here, so make sure it doesn’t fall out.”
“Of course, miss.”
“And remember to go straight home after.”
I tuck Marceline’s flyaway hair behind her ears so it doesn’t get in her eyes and open the front door for her.
She skips down the street in the direction of the bakery, and when her animated frame is out of sight, it’s time to get back to my roses.
I’m reaching for my shears when the bell above the front door rings again. She’s probably forgotten something.
“Back so soon?” I ask, stepping back into the shop.
I stop dead. It’s not Marceline. Gods, I wish it was.
Lark stands before me, not in his usual guard armor, but in a green cotton shirt that matches the hue of his eyes and the sickness that twists my stomach. He brushes his blond fringe to the side.
“I wouldn’t call this soon,” he says, and it has me wishing I’d kept the shears in my hands. Just in case. You never know.
“What are you doing here?”
He takes in the flowers that line the edges of the room with a small smile. How dare he take any sort of joy in my flowers? I’d rather they wilt away than suffer his presence. No, I don’t mean that. They don’t deserve to wither because of him.
Then again, neither did I.
“Can we talk?” Lark asks, and takes a step forward.
I take a step back.
“We are open for paying customers,” I say, determined to keep my composure. He’ll never see me break again.
“Fliss, I only want to—”
“If you have a business transaction to make, then yes. Otherwise, get out.”
Both of us are surprised at how fast I reply.
I hadn’t lied to Willoh the other day; Lark used to get so annoyed at my slowness to speak, my methodical, mindful word choices.
However, now that I think about it, it was probably his increasing pressure that caused my response time to get worse.
Without the fear of pleasing him holding me back, I can talk just fine.
Lark studies me, then strides to the nearest pot, plucks out a flower, and holds it out.
“Then I’ll take this one,” he says, and places it on the wrapping table in the center of the room.
“Really?”
“Really,” he says, and gestures for me to approach the table.
“Do you even know what that flower means?”
“It means that I can keep talking to you.”
I clench my jaw. He’s not wrong. Still, the flower lying on the table has me struggling to keep a smirk off my face. I take slow steps and pick up the stalk of asphodel. Unceasing regret. Despair. Usually used in mourning bouquets. Well, if he wants to feel that way, then I shouldn’t refuse him.
“Enchanted and wrapped up, please,” Lark says, knowing it will take longer.
“Five copper.”
The coins are placed on the table and begrudgingly I pinch the end of the stem, winding my magic into the flower and feeling for its connection to the earth, to the emotion, searching for the thread.
I’ve made a lot of bouquets with asphodel in my time, so I know just how to hook out the magic inside.
Asphodels are sharp. The sorcery inside them feels like a barbed shell, imprisoned by its own grief.
It takes a patient hand, the soft brush of their white petals, and an understanding of the cage they keep themselves in.
If I wind my magic just right, I can coax the asphodel’s emotion to the surface and create an enchanted flower that cries out in regretful agony.
As I work, half my mind meanders in the flower’s magic, and half keeps a watchful eye on Lark.
“I heard you went north recently,” he says.
“And?”
“You need to be careful.”
Gosh, thank you, I want to say, but I don’t want to genuinely thank him for his concern, so I can’t. Lark folds his arms. He knows what my silence means.
“Did you go alone?” he presses.
“I left the citadel alone, yes,” I say, to avoid revealing I met Will and Pigeon out there. “Card and Bash are busy these days, so I didn’t ask them to come with me.”
Lark’s broad shoulders rise.
“Prince Bastion and his consort have duties to attend to,” he says, with a drop of bitterness.
It’s not my fault he has to address them like that.
Lark used to join us outside the citadel too.
He was there for hot, lazy summer walks in the grass, winter evenings in Bastion’s chambers with wine and wild stories.
Now he has to treat Bash like the rest of his subjects do—with a distance and respect that Card and I can bypass.
When I drag the last of the asphodel’s power to the surface, Lark moves around the table and closes the space between us. I flinch away like he’s fire, scorching every defense I’ve built.
“Fliss, I’m being serious. You can’t be going off into the northern forest alone anymore,” Lark says.
He takes my shoulders and his sandalwood scent washes over me.
I hate how nice it smells. It was the first thing I’d noticed about him that day in the training yard, when I’d hung back waiting for Card to finish flirting with Bash.
Lark had wandered over, a rookie guard-in-training from the south, and done what many people are reluctant to do with me—smile and say hello.
“Let go of me.”
He does. A sting of tears threatens the back of my eyes.
Just concentrate on working, on choosing some wrapping paper, on folding it around the flower.
I select a ribbon (the cheapest one) and tie it to the bottom, flooding the package with a spell that will keep the flower alive and healthy for much longer.
“There are rebels out there,” Lark continues, his hands now clenched at his sides.
“They’ve been attacking the trading wagons more frequently, and you know what happened to Simon.
That explosion might not be a one-off. You have no idea what kind of security we’re putting in place to prepare for Prince Merit’s return. ”
“I’ve come back unharmed so far,” I say. I don’t mention the injuries that were gained and healed while I was gone, but my point still stands.
“Fliss, you’re not listening to me.”
“I don’t need you to tell me what to do.”
“I’m only trying to help.”
“I don’t want your help!”
The truth of it knocks at Lark’s persistence. He runs his eyes over the tight press of my mouth.
He drifts into that velvety tone. “Fliss…how long will it be until you stop looking at me like that? You need someone to protect you.”
“Protect me? I don’t— You—” My tongue trips over all the curses and exasperation I can’t find the words for.
He thinks I’m weak.
Lark skims a finger over a petal of the asphodel in my shaking hands.
The enchantment must sink in. It doesn’t take much for the emotion to bleed out once I’ve triggered the magic.
Unfortunately for me, unceasing regret and despair are just what prompt Lark to lift a hand to my cheek and gaze deeply into my face.
His skin is rough from years of sword training. Compared to Willoh’s hands, they’re—
“Fliss, I’m sorry. I can tell you every day if that’s what it takes. I shouldn’t have—” He cuts himself off.
“No, go on. Tell me exactly what you shouldn’t have done.
” I push him back, twisting out of his grip.
Let him squirm. Let him suffer. He only wants the attention and applause.
The boost to his ego. The proximity to the royals.
But he can’t handle my honesty. His pride can’t take the hits. That was our breaking point after all.