A Dream of Daisies

Chapter 1

Chapter One

C hamomile Greenthroat enjoyed life.

On Firstdays he helped old Lyesmith do his shopping and cleaning, as well as poor Maggie Brownbird, whose health was not good and whose husband traveled. One week of the month he kept the counter at Mavis Silverscales’ general store while she visited her sister’s family in the next town, and every other Fourthday he watched little ones while the Goldenbough Town Council convened and the book club met at the library.

He was paid when it could be afforded, or else rewarded in goods or food. His kitchen cupboards never lacked, and just last week Hilbet Surecast sent her boys to wash his windows.

It was not a way of life he’d sought out, exactly. It just seemed to happen. Chamomile went nearly a year without giving thought to regular employment, too busy with his schedule of favors to realize that he didn’t have such a position or, particularly, a need for one.

One day, as Mavis wrapped up his bundle of soap and yarn and paper, purchased with credit she’d given for help around the shop, he paused, and realized he could not recall the last time he’d actually paid her, only that every time he reached into his pocket she waved him off.

“I think hauling twenty sacks of potatoes around last Fifthday well covers this, Cham,” she would say, or something like it, on every occasion. “Don’t worry about it.”

It was like that everywhere. Rheta Lightfood said “Psh!” at the notion of coin for his basket of berries, citing his aid clearing her attic the week before. Bertie Greenswitch brought him coal for the third winter in a row, and when asked, said it was repayment for mending his fishing nets every spring.

It was hardly to be believed. There was a part of Chamomile that waited for this precarious balance he’d struck to falter, for a need to arise that couldn’t be filled in this manner, but time passed and such an event never came. He made his way helping people in town, and unconventional though it was, he was supported.

Perhaps, he reasoned, it wasn’t as spectacular as it seemed. Families that lived in Goldenbough had done so for generations, and the Greenthroats, though now lived only by himself, were no exception. Goldenbough was a close knit community, hemmed in on all sides by Jadepin Lake, the River Awn, and the valley in which it sat. The East-West Road was the nearest source of traffic, and connected only by a narrow, dusty trail called Golden Lane. Newcomers were an infrequent occurrence, and the most traveling ‘Boughers did was to Wavecrest, two days south, or Hiddenvale to the north, which was, apropos to its name, even more secluded.

Chamomile kept the family home comfortably warm and tidy, if cluttered by the collected belongings of his relatives. On easy weather days he opened the windows to let the air in, and the curtains on clear nights so he might stargaze as he drifted off, tucked under a quilt. He wasn’t much of a green thumb, if truth be told, but his mother’s garden was virtually self-supporting, and got on respectably well with minimal assistance.

His grandmother’s books filled the sitting room’s many shelves, interspaced by his father’s whittled knick-knacks. His mother’s painted murals adorned more walls than not throughout the home, turning the living room into a brightly-lit meadow, the master bedroom into a starry night sky, and the nursery into a springtime forest.

Chamomile stood in the doorway to the nursery, looking into it. One of his earliest memories was of his mother craning precariously atop a short ladder, stretching to shade a hanging blossom, while his father, in the rocker with its crooked leg, carved a little goat for the neighbors’ newborn.

The nursery was kept clean and usable well after he’d graduated to a bedroom, though his mother had stayed away from it except on dusting days after his father’s early death. She’d never spoken of it, but Chamomile suspected they’d planned for more children, to try and break the unintentional tradition of small Greenthroat families.

He studied the crib in its place under the window, and the mural behind it, dwelling on thoughts of his parents and what they might have wanted.

Quietly, Chamomile despaired. He had always dearly wanted children, even as a child himself, playing games of pretend families with his peers. Grown, the desire had become visceral. He craved a warm little body wiggling in his arms, for small voices and laughter to fill his home with cozy chaos.

He was running out of time, and he knew it. Well into his thirties and unattached, he felt the passing of each year as a chance untaken, time irrevocably lost.

Chamomile chewed his lip as he stared into the nursery. Almost everything within was constructed with love and care by Greenthroats past: the crib, heavy and fashioned of dark wood, built by his great-great-grandmother; the pillow and tiny quilt inside sewn by his great-grandfather; and the mobile overhead crafted by his own father, down to the painted raindrops and petals that matched the flowering trees on the walls.

He ached to look at it all, in his heart and in his stomach.

There was still something he could do. It was a thought he’d had on occasion, on lonely nights when he drank too much wine. A tradition from days past, for when a lonely omega had no other recourse. He’d read of it in one of his grandmother’s books when he was a young man, feeling the stirring of puberty and looking for sordid things to stir him up more. His interest in it had changed over time, from an inspiration for his fantasies to a possibility, had he only the courage.

Every now and then, over the years, he took the book down and thumbed its spine, considering. Each time he’d hidden it deeper and higher among the shelves, until he needed to drag a kitchen chair over and stretch to retrieve it.

He needn’t have bothered, though, for he remembered the composition of the bouquet correctly: sticky catchfly for an invitation, daisies for new beginnings, and grass for submission.

Chamomile grew all of those in his garden. Perhaps he knew himself better than he’d realized, had known a time would come when he would be brave enough to make a little charm of flowers, tied with grass, and leave it on the flat stone by his walk for precisely five days.

If he was lucky, an alpha would give an answer in fern, or ivy, or white heather. Chamomile imagined a sprig of forsythia left on his stone and shivered.

The timing isn’t right, whispered the same voice of doubt that came every time he considered the old tradition. Wait a few months. Wait for a heat.

Halfway to the kitchen, and the door that led to the garden, he slowed, chewing his lip. The odds of conceiving were greatly reduced outside of heat, it was true...but he had waited so long already that he’d thoroughly lost the taste for it. There was no more waiting in him. And what if, when his heat came, this sudden fire deserted him?

No, now was the time. It felt right, in all ways.

Awash with nerves but decided, Chamomile took up his shears, gloves, and a pail of water, and went out the kitchen door. He chose two modest blooms from his daisy bush and a sprig of catchfly that was deeply pink, and pried up a few lush strands of grass.

His stomach was in knots as he knelt to leave his painstakingly-made charm on the stone, sheltered by his mailbox. It was twilight by that time, and he stopped to admire the horizon. Goldenbough lay beneath him down the hill, Jadepin Lake visible beyond it. If he squinted, he could make out a few figures walking the streets, but by and large the townspeople were settled in their homes for the night.

Chamomile wondered if his plan would work, and if it did, which alpha would answer him. There was Quizzel Firefingers, the blacksmith, whose broad shoulders and large, sooty muscles he sometimes stopped to admire. He imagined a daughter with his green eyes and laugh. Or perhaps a son, with Tabitha Lightwind’s flyaway blonde hair and her shrewd smile. And one must not forget Roa Fishcatcher, who was so very tall, and calm as the lake surface.

There were any number of fine alphas whose attentions Chamomile would count himself fortunate to receive. Upon consideration, he found he had no preference between the blond child, or the green-eyed child, or the calm-mannered child. Any child would make him happy.

With one last look at the town, and a wish on his charm, he returned inside and closed the door.

The next morning there was a bottle of milk on the stone next to his charm, but no answer.

Be still , he urged his racing heart. The only one to have seen the charm yet would have been the milkman. Patience.

Chamomile marshaled himself and made the walk to town, where he went about his business. His neighbors, he knew, would see the charm and spread the word. The tradition had not been enacted in many years, to his knowledge, but parents and grandparents would know of it, and soon the gossip mill would ensure that everyone did.

He blushed fiercely as he unlocked Andee Flowingscript’s bookstore and flipped the sign. Andee’s mother-in-law had been doing poorly as of late, and Chamomile had spent the better part of the week minding the shop for them.

He sold Andee’s stock of The Language of Flowers by Jhula Rowanbow (three copies), and a book on traditional courtship rituals. He thought nothing of it.

A little before dinnertime he locked up and walked home, smiling at those he passed along the way. When he reached the little cobble path to his door, he kept his eyes firmly raised as he checked his mailbox. It was empty; he had not been expecting anything. Finally, belly squirming with nervous energy, he looked down, and gasped.

Two little bundles were neatly placed next to his charm. One was fern and chrysanthemum, the other, sweet pea and fern again. Fern, meaning fascination, confidence, shelter. Good, proper alpha traits. Chrysanthemum for affection, support, and cheerfulness. The sweet pea stumped him, somewhat. To his memory it symbolized goodbyes, and parting lovers. Much more appropriate to receive after—

He blushed, and went inside to fetch his own copy of The Language of Flowers , which helpfully reminded him that sweet pea could also mean blissful pleasure . Chamomile abandoned the book in favor of preparing a calming tea, his cheeks glowing with intense warmth.

The next morning there was yet another bundle, this one composed of garlic flower ( for strength ) and a bloom Chamomile could not immediately identify. His encyclopedia pronounced it a cactus flower, and The Language informed him it meant endurance .

Heavens . That presented quite the picture.

At the bookstore that day, Chamomile was forced to turn away Addicus Blackearth when he came looking for The Language of Flowers . Desperately trying not to make assumptions, he advised the pouting young alpha, “Your, ah, elders might be able to help you with your problem.”

There were three new bundles when he returned home, and two more the following morning.

As the week progressed, Chamomile was reduced to a smiling, stammering mess when he spoke to anyone in town, so flattered and surprised was he by the response to his charm. Even the bundles indicating platonic sentiments, such as friendship and a willingness to help, pleased him immensely.

It was difficult not to try to match charms to alphas as he passed them in the street, or as they came into Andee’s shop. Could lsagail Littlebird have left him the yellow tulip? There’s sunshine in your smile . Or Harbor Gutbleed the viscaria? Dance with me .

According to tradition, he was to let the bundles collect until the end of the five days, but it pained him to watch the flowers grow limp and the greens dull. In the spirit of compromise, he placed them all in their own mugs and teacups with water. He toyed with the idea of cutting the stems, but managed to hold himself back.

The next morning there was a new bundle, and another in the evening that was left in its own little jar. This discovery pleased him, and he made a mental note of that one, with its budding anemone ( protection ).

The morning of the final day, Chamomile paused to admire his collection. The flat stone was too small for its many burdens, pots and cups and jars of flowers littering the base of his mailbox. He felt swollen with happiness, and well-loved.

There were no new bundles that morning, but the evening brought what would be the final answer to his charm. He returned late that night, having stayed for coffee with members of the book club, and almost missed it in the dark, amongst the disorder.

Per his grandmother’s book, an alpha’s placement of their answering charm in relation to the omega’s was significant. The further away, the more platonic their feelings; the closer, the more passionate. Many of his charms had been placed a few interested but courteous inches away, even as their number grew, while a handful were firmly in friendly-and-helpful territory. The Strength-and-Endurance-Alpha’s had been boldly placed, its leaves almost touching those of his.

This latest addition was almost on top of his charm, and most definitely touching it. Quite possibly it was incidental—the remaining free space on his stone orbited his charm, and the last bundle was quite a large one. A modest bouquet, even. All of the other charms included only a sprig or two of each flower, and none had more than three types. In no way were those charms inadequate—the construction of each was carefully considered, the blooms perky and the greens vividly healthy.

Yet still, in contrast, this bouquet was something .

Fern and garlic, yes, but also the white heather he had imagined, and ivy with white tendrils, which was affection but also anxious to please . There were gardenia ( secret love ) and blue violets ( faithfulness ) and tulips, both variegated ( beautiful eyes ) and red ( a declaration of love ). Bluebells ( humility ), camellias ( desire ), and flax ( domesticity ) joined them, and in the center there was a single gloxinia in mid-bloom, which meant love at first sight .

It was not a pretty bouquet, busy as it was, and had obviously been designed with its message in mind over composition and aesthetic. That, however, meant nothing to Chamomile, who nearly swooned as he held it in his hands, hopelessly charmed by the earnestness of his admirer. His heart pounded as he buried his face in it to smell its confused, sweet scent.

There was no mistaking the meaning of this offering: this alpha wanted to be more than the father of his children, but his mate as well. His partner in life. Chamomile, excitedly examining each wonderful bloom, could not imagine denying them.

He only wondered who it was and why, when they felt so strongly, they had not approached him sooner.

Moving all of the charms into the house required several trips. Once inside, he immediately sat down to trim the stems, as he’d burned to do for days. He put the whole lot in a short pot with water, and put it in the rear-facing kitchen window.

He stood back to beam at them, hands on his hips and pleased as punch. Placed there, he could enjoy them without seeming to flaunt his favors.

Task completed, Chamomile dusted his hands and finally turned back to the bouquet. Part of him regretted that he must pick it apart, but his response to his chosen alpha was to contain flowers from both theirs and his own, original charm. He delved his fingers into the mass of stems, eager to begin, but stopped when his fingers met something solid: gleaming, lacquered wooden rings, that bound the bouquet together.

No, not rings , he found, upon investigating, but a single, spiraling piece—thin, and yet supple enough to stretch, just a bit. It bore an odd texture beneath his fingertips, and after carefully extracting it and holding it to the light, Chamomile saw the texture was, in fact, delicate designs carved along the entire length on both sides. Whorls and loops and braids, here what might be a flowering vine, and there a body of flowing water. He regretted that it was night; in the meager light, he could only guess at the motif. The lines were so thin, he struggled to track them.

The piece was just the right size to be worn on his arm. No, it was intended to be—it was a wrist cuff.

Placing it gently on the table top, he sat back to consider it. Had he doubted the unknown alpha’s sincerity, this would erase all uncertainty. Wearing it, he knew, would be tantamount to accepting the mysterious alpha as his mate.

In many ways that was all that made him hesitate: the mystery. Luckily it was less of one than it might have been, the cuff acting as a considerable clue. A marriage gift was to be made with one’s hands; no self-respecting alpha would give an omega such a gift unless they themselves crafted it, and the exceptional construction of the cuff left only one possibility in all of Goldenbough: Lark Woodwhistler.

Of course Chamomile knew him. Goldenbough was a small village—it was a wonder they weren’t all related. Lark was a carpenter who lived on the edge of town opposite Chamomile. He sold wood sculpture and furniture through Mavis Silverscales’ general store. His pieces went for large sums, and brought outside custom to Goldenbough. One might even call him famous, though mostly he was known for being a solitary sort.

Chamomile knew him to be somewhat intimidating in his silence, though by all indications he was as good a man as any. His work was exceptional and fairly priced, and commissions were returned in a timely manner. He gave his services in charity when those in need could not afford them; no roofs leaked in Goldenbough, no matter how severe the summer storms, or frequent the spring rains.

Chamomile dimly recalled him as a tall man with hair more red than blond, and perhaps hazel eyes. Chamomile thought Lark must be his senior by a decade, if not slightly more.

The last time they met had been some months ago, when Chamomile assisted Doctor Golden Longfeather, standing in as her assistant in place of Corte Bluesky. Lark had smashed a finger days before and wrapped it, meaning to let it heal on its own, but the persistent pain had grown to worry him. Chamomile had washed it in hot saltwater and rewrapped it after Golden’s examination.

He hadn’t noticed anything odd in their interaction that day, though there was not much to dissect. Lark was clipped in his answers and did not speak unless spoken to. Chamomile, sensing his preference, had not tried to engage him in conversation.

Now, at his kitchen table, Chamomile toyed with the cuff, squeezing it gently to aid his thought process as he came to...well, at least one decision. There were more to be made, but one was more than enough to be getting on with.

And so Chamomile straightened up, pulled a few exceptionally pretty blooms from Lark’s bouquet, and set to fashioning his answer. He bound his grass and daisies, drooping by this point, to stems of white heather, bluebells, camellia, and flax, tying them with a piece of twine.

After a moment’s thought and a quick trip to his garden, he added fresh forsythia.

It was later than he’d realized by the time he stepped outside to place the new bundle on his flat stone. The waning moon was high overhead, and there was an unseasonable nip in the breeze. Chamomile spared a moment to close his eyes and hope , holding his housecoat tight at the throat, before going inside again.

He placed the cuff on his bedside table for the time being, ignoring how it seemed to beseech him for an answer. The alpha who made it—Lark—would come to his room tomorrow night and, fate willing, give him a child. As to the cuff and the offer it represented, he would make his decision in the morning.