Chapter 6 Monroe
MONROE
“Here,” Cherri says, grabbing us some rolled-up crêpes stuffed with smoked salmon, cream cheese, capers, and dill. We eat them as we continue toward The Nursery, and while the food is delicious, it’s lead in my gut.
An expansive playground takes up the middle of The Nursery, evergreen benches lining the cream-colored walking paths shooting from it.
There are viny swings, hollow tree-trunk slides and tunnels, and a zipline draped in flora across from a set of monkey bars.
Children squeal, weaving in and out of the playset, a few jumping off and joining their parents as they head into the school.
It’s a single-level structure, painted evergreen like the benches, with walls that are mostly made of glass.
The grid of windowpanes allows us a peek inside the classrooms. The moment Kendrick heads inside, his sprouts circle him, hopping up and down, eager to learn.
The Blooms all seem so happy. As they should be. This is their afterlife.
My afterlife.
I should accept that and find some way to cope. But no matter how hard I try or how many positives I tally off about this place, I can’t.
I miss my old life. Sure, it was hectic, but I was loved. Needed. They talk about the Blooms and their duty to bring spring, making it sound so dreamy and magical. But creating pretty flowers seems frivolous in comparison. I had a purpose on Earth. Beyond the veil, I’m simply adrift.
“Shoes off,” Cherri instructs, halting me in place.
“Why?”
“Helps with grounding when you’re drawing from the earth with your magic.”
I step out of my heels and set them side by side, admiring the peek of pink beneath them. “They really complete the outfit.”
They disappear along with Cherri’s flats, and my jaw drops. “Wha—"
“Don’t worry. You’re still hot. Come on.” Cherri holds out her hand for me, and I take it, though my attention is wholly focused on the other end of the narrow path.
Blanketed with ivy and flowers in dusky rose and royal purple, the massive stone building is poised behind an archway of hanging vines, their vibrant buds blossoming as we pass.
Up ahead awaits large cream-colored doors outlined in rose-gold metalwork, a set of matching knockers carved into bulbs glinting from the wood.
I scrunch my toes each time my soles brush the dirt between the stepping stones lining our path, fighting back a shiver.
City life has trained me against this sensation—dirt between my toes.
“Welcome to the Bloom Conservatory,” Cherri says with a gentle smile. “You ready?”
No. I’m not ready for any of this.
But instead of telling her I want to go back to the cottage, I toss out a lie and nod. “Ready.”
I miss the thump of my heart. Even the painful thudding from nerves. Because now? Now there’s nothing. Just anxiety lingering in my hollow body like the brittle stems of wilted flowers in a vase.
Blinking rapidly to stifle my tears, I unclench my fingers and flatten my skirt against my thighs.
Cherri grips the knob and twists. My entire body stills and I suck in a breath, secretly hoping I’ll wake from this whimsical nightmare.
I wait for the beep of machines. The face of whoever’s waiting for me. Someone had to be waiting for me, right?
My assistant? Beth and Richard? A random stranger, like something out of While You Were Sleeping?
But when the door swings the rest of the way, there’s only a flower-lined hallway buzzing with students.
My stomach twists and all I manage is “Wow.”
“Right?” Cherri agrees, tentatively slipping a hand between my shoulder blades and weaving ahead before a couple of students walk into us: a pale-purple man with a shaved head and a tall sage-green man in a pair of thin frames.
“Excuse us,” he says, voice drenched in unspoken authority.
“Sorry!” I squeak, and his lavender brows bunch together, bright-purple eyes flickering. The two of them veer off in the other direction, but it takes him a few extra moments, whipping his head back to his friend.
“Who’s that?” I ask Cherri, gaze lingering on the inked rose spiraling the back of his hand as it trails the nape of his neck and through his hair, a dark-lavender close-cut fade. His chin shifts over his shoulder, jaw locked tight.
My eyes drop to my bare feet.
“Oh, they’re faculty.” Cherri sighs and there’s so much behind that sound and the way she bites her lip afterward that has my lips parting, ready to go full therapist mode and unpack that look.
But before I can, Cherri shakes her head.
“Come on.” She loops her arm through mine and drags me forward. “We’d better get to class.”
Walls of greenery line the corridor, budding with roses, peonies, daisies, and baby’s breath. I resist reaching out and run my fingers along the petals. Cherri doesn’t stop herself, though.
“Aren’t they beautiful?” The hand that’s not clasped with mine primps the blossoms, admiring each one. “I can’t believe we will be able to make these soon.”
“I’m sure you will,” I reply, not wanting to give her any false hope that I’m joining her this session. I’m still envisioning that I’ll wake up and find myself strapped to some hospital bed or on the sidewalk next to that busy city street.
At the end of the hallway an arch with giant flowers greets us, hanging above a petite woman with pink irises. She flashes us an infectious grin. “Welcome. Come on in and take a seat.”
I scan over the few rows of desks in the large, circular auditorium. Curving along the space is a wall of white roses, a stunning backdrop to the figures all waiting for us to sit. Cherri picks out a set of empty seats in the second row, right in the center.
Four Blooms walk into the classroom, and the rest of the students go silent.
“Those are the instructors?” I nod toward the line of harbingers in front of an empty long table that has vines hanging around it like a living table cloth.
They sway gently as a tall woman with a green bob that hits at her chin reaches under it and draws out a clipboard.
She scans over us, scrutinizing whatever is on her paper, taking notes.
“A girl can hope.” Cherri smiles, eyes glittering with something much more mischievous than hope.
The woman’s gaze passes over me. She does a quick scribble and moves on to Cherri.
I’m not even enrolled, what’s she jotting down?
I lean forward in my seat a moment, then rock back.
How many times have I done the same thing to my clients?
Their curiosity piqued at the things I wrote about their sessions.
For all I know she’s just handling attendance and noting that I’m auditing orientation today with Cherri.
I glance over at the clock that has two tulips for hands and a smaller one that doesn’t seem to move at all.
That’s odd.
The woman finishes going down her clipboard. She lowers it, and the hanging vines wrap around the wood like tentacles, tugging it beneath the table.
How in the—
I stop the thought there. This isn’t any world I understand. Why try?
“Welcome to the Bloom Conservatory,” the woman says, her voice firm, and my spine straightens immediately. She addresses us more like military cadets than students for whatever this is. “My name is Claire, and I’ve been the dean of the school for over two decades.”
She surveys the rows of desks, and I uncross my ankles, recrossing them the other direction.
“Over the coming months, you’ll be learning everything you need to know about your duty as a Bloom and bringing spring to the mortal realm.”
The idea of getting out into the world fills the hollow space in my chest with a slip of renewed hope.
The wall of white roses illuminates and a projector buzzes to life.
Claire scrunches her face like she’s going to sneeze, and a video starts playing, different spring scenes flicking across the flowers.
People enjoying the warmth of the sun, walking through gardens, running through the rain, and having picnics.
“While you may go on to specialize in different areas and pursue other afterlife opportunities in your off seasons, it is imperative you all remain dedicated to your Bloom duties.”
A syllabus pops up with a weekly schedule that seems to rotate every other day.
I scribble it down into my notebook, not sure what the various titles mean.
There’s no rubric or grading system shared as she flips through the slides, only bursts of information about the course load and scheduling.
“These benchmarks can take a few months or years. That all depends on you.”
Years? I don’t have time for this to take years. I need to check on everyone now.
She scans over us once again, and I’m shocked that someone seemingly so cold is a spring harbinger… She’d be much better suited as an ice queen presiding over winter.
“Focus, ask questions, learn as much as you can from our faculty. Once you’re ready, you’ll be sent out to do your work and earn your marks.” She flicks her wrist, showing off the ink spread over her fingers and climbing up beneath her sleeve.
Those must be the marks my roommates were talking about. It’s captivating how unique each person’s are. The dean’s even have rose gold shimmering from a few.
“I’m going to turn this over to your professors, but I look forward to seeing you afterward at our welcome mixer. All of your teachers have earned the prestigious title of Radix. That may not mean much to you yet, but for a Bloom, it is the highest achievement.”
She steps back, and one of the men who came in behind us walks into the center of the room. His bare feet scuff the floor from under his dark jeans.
“Hello. I’m Kitt, your professor of Botany.” His bald head glows where the light from the projector beams on it. Photos pop up in a collage of him working with students in the giant greenhouse.
My inner plant reaper cringes. I couldn’t keep any plants alive in life… I highly doubt I’ll be better at it in death.
“I’ve been a Bloom for seventy-three mortal years. My mate, Tess, and I have been together for fourteen.”
“Hi, I’m Tess.” The mossy-haired woman with creamy skin comes beside him, staring up at him with so much adoration I’m sickened by the sweetness of it. She finally tears her gaze away and smiles at us. “I’ll be your professor of Bloomology.”
Her pink stare slips from one student to the next. She’s the warmest of all the professors so far. “I’ll be teaching about what it is like to be a Bloom in the mortal world as well as preparing you to use your magic in your daily life.”
“That leaves your Transformative Studies professor,” the dean announces.
The final instructor steps to the center of the room. My gaze drops a touch when his lavender stare sweeps past.
“I’m Professor Briar, and as the dean mentioned, I’ll be teaching you about earthside transformation and how to stay safe in the mortal realm.” His voice is deep and rich. I can’t help but drag my attention back up to him. Who knew sage skin and lavender locks would do it for me?
Get it together, Monroe. It’s not like you’ve never seen a hot guy before.
“Don’t be fooled, this will be your hardest class.
But if you can’t master this, you won’t be able to go to the mortal world.
No mortal world, no marks.” He lifts his chin, showing off the intricate leaves and blossoms lining the base of his jaw and throat.
They are stunning and I want to step closer, study every sweeping stroke of the inked masterpiece that skims along his neck and disappears beneath the collar of his fitted V-neck T-shirt where slabs of firm muscle ripple.
I nibble my bottom lip.
Cherri’s whisper pulls me from my distraction. “Someone’s hot for teacher.”
“Am not,” I snap under my breath, shooting her my best glare. “But you are.”
“At least I don’t deny it.” She chuckles. “Anyway, stop distracting me.”
She nods toward the illuminated screen where a series of topics slip across the roses. “The dean asked us to focus, and I’d hate to disappoint her on day one.”
“Uh-huh. I’m sure that’s the reason.” I don’t miss her lingering attention on Kitt and Tess. Meanwhile, Professor Briar stands with his arms crossed over his chest, every inch of his body tense, as if on alert, attuned to some unseen threat.
And though he keeps his gaze averted, I’m hit with a sneaking certainty he’s watching me too.