Chapter Five
S y l v i a S w a n
The bell above the door rings as I step inside the small warm flower shop. The smell of damp earth and the sweet nectar of flowers embraces me.
Multiple buckets sit on the floor with pale stems inside, submerged in water as they bow toward the floor. The owner looks up from his spot behind the counter, his soft pale eyes on me. He’s tall and narrow, dressed impeccably well.
“Do take your time, my dear.” He smiles and his voice is cultivated with old world syllables. “If you prefer something more…personal, I keep the better blooms in the back.”
I smile, enhanced by the way he carries himself, so luxuriously soft and compassionate.
“Yes please, I’d like to go to the back.”
I follow behind him past the front display. Daisies and gladiolus are arranged in multiple sections meant to be glanced upon rather than touched. I stare at the beautiful flowers in awe until we come up to a narrow door, a theatrical bow centered on the wood.
“You may pluck them yourself, dear,” He says softly, holding the door open. “I find it suits occasions of the heart.”
I smile and step past him into the glass paned room, every item feels less like merchandise and more like confidences.
“Thank you.” I nod with appreciation.
“If you need any help my name is Vincent, don’t be afraid to holler,” He says as he shuts the door.
I move around the room slowly, looking for lavender. My mother’s favorite. I name them off as I walk, baby’s breath first, thin and dusting my fingers. Forget-me-nots beside them, their blue petals too bright for how small they are.
Finally I come up to lavender, my hand hovering before I cut it free. The scent rises, claiming the space all at once, and for a moment it feels like she’s standing behind me. So close that If I turn around she’ll be breathing on me.
I shake my head, cutting a little too many pieces free. When I finish I take the flowers to Vincent and he examines them with a critical, almost reverent eye.
He grabs a few white roses before wrapping them all delicately in paper the color of dusk—dark purple around the edges. He ties them with a pale purple ribbon and smiles, holding them out to me.
“Excellent choice, dear.” He winks as I grab them. “The roses are free.”
“I can’t.” In my weak state I feel tears surface.
“You must.” He sashays around the counter and takes the dollar from me.
“Thank you,” I reiterate and he smiles.
“Of course, dear, come back any time.” I nod, holding the flowers to my chest as I walk out of the shop.
I sit down on a bench, the wind biting at my warm cheeks. I rest the bouquet in my lap, too beautiful for how heavy it feels. I loosen my grip and the paper shifts as it rests against my thighs.
I close my eyes, enjoying the smell of lavender tangling in the bitter wind. My breath stutters with the familiar scent, I can almost feel her hand at the small of my back. The thought should bring me comfort but really it hollows me out.
The cemetery is back in our home town and all I have to do is stand but I can’t. I feel glued to the bench.
My fingers tighten around the stems until pain subdues in my finger tips. What if I get there and feel nothing again? Or worse, feel it all at once.
I look down at the bouquet I had just made, only a moment ago, but I can’t. My chest twitches painfully and I brush a stray tear off my cheek.
“I’m sorry mama, I can’t visit you yet. I’m not ready,” I whisper with a hiccup, the wind answers with a whoosh as it hits the side of the brick building.
“Talking to yourself?” A voice comes from my right and I angle my head to look towards it.
The moment I meet his eyes I know I’ve made a mistake. My lip lifts with a curl of disgust as I turn back to the flowers in front of me.
“Go away.”
He chuckles as he sits beside me. His leg brushes mine and I want to pull away but I don't, I don’t want to show weakness.
“Who are these for? Your boyfriend?” He asks, plucking a lavender into his hand.
I snatch it from him before he can pull it too far away from my grasp and push it back into the bouquet.
“That’s none of your business,” I snap.
He tilts his head and lifts my chin with his hand.
“Do you have a boyfriend, Little Swan?”
He doesn’t hide his roaming gaze, it moves from my lips to my breast to my eyes. What a deviant. His fingers sprawl across my cheeks; warm, rough, comforting, and a tear cascades down his hand.
“Leave me alone,” I whisper, my breath mingling with his in a way that's too intimate.
I tug from his hold but it's as if he knows my next move and wraps his arm around my waist while the other remains firm on my chin. His fingers spread out so he can touch as much of me as he can, treading dangerously close to my ass. I suck in a breath, my heart hammering against my ribs.
He tsks and leans closer. “It’s just a question.”
I swallow, my stomach fluttering from his soft tone.
“Maybe.”
I lie because I hate how he looks at me with that expression. There’s something terrifying in how calculated he is—stripping me bare as if he owns me.
He studies me as if he doesn’t believe me, his lips twitching but not into a smile. His hand around my waist tightens, a tinge of pain shooting through my side. My bottom lip wobbles with anger and he notices, his sharp gaze cutting across them.
He clicks his tongue and nods.
“You’re an awful liar.” His fingers dig into my face, bruising the area as he pulls me closer, his lips brushing mine. “I don’t like liars.”
I swallow, my breath leaving me in shallow spurs. The flowers in my lap shift with my trembling hands. I don’t risk letting them go, knowing they’ll get ruined if I do. I suffer through his torment, instead.
“I don’t,” I whisper, hoping he’ll find satisfaction in my honesty and leave me alone.
“Good girl,” he muses, his tongue flicking out to lick his bottom lip.
His thumb brushes under my lip, soft and ever so slowly like he’s fixing something that doesn’t belong to him. He presses his thumb firmly against the center of my mouth, pushing into my teeth.
I squirm, my gaze flickering to the people around us.
“Stop.”
“Smile.” He ignores me, his voice cold as a sinister smirk spread across his lips. “Do it.”
I don’t know why my lips curl into an awkward smile, betraying my own mind as it settles on my face. Maybe because there is something dizzying in being chosen, singled out so publicly. Or maybe because I lost my mind when my mother died.
“Much prettier my little swan,” he murmurs, his arm around my waist loosening.
Heat rushes up my neck, mortifying and I hate that my stomach flutters from his approval. People who walk the street, slow, pretending like their eyes are on the store but no one says a word. Fear silencing them, everyone here is afraid of him.
I should slap him but instead I sit there; face red, heart racing, hands quivering—painfully aware of how I feel under his touch.
He finally stands, his hands leaving my body burning where he last touched. He pulls a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, lighting one with ease.
“Don’t worry.” He blows the smoke in my face and I choke out a cough. “They won’t forget what they saw.”
My embarrassment deepens and I stand.
I need to get home. My mind is too weak, too fragile to deal with him right now.