“He left you a sign after all,” Anne whispered.
“I suppose you’re right,” Vincent said as he continued to gaze at the buds that were still unfurling, his steely expression having softened at the sight. “As you so often are.”
Anne placed her other hand atop Vincent’s and leaned against his shoulder as they took in the sight unfurling before them.
Soon, she’d need to return to the chaos of the tearoom, where whispers of new troubles would come to her attention as quickly as steam pouring from the top of a spout.
But for now, she was content to merely savor the scent of flowers blooming in the snow and the comfort of knowing that there are two things in this world stronger than death: stories and love.
CHAPTER 39
Flowers
Symbolize new beginnings.
The Quigley sisters knew it was the first true day of spring the morning they awoke to the scent of beeswax and found their best lace tablecloth missing from the linen closet.
The house always shooed them out into the garden when it decided that the change in the seasons was here to stay, expecting them to enjoy their tea and scones out in the sunshine while it threw open the windows and shook away the dust that had gathered in the corners during the winter.
By suppertime, the floors would glisten as brightly as a looking glass, and all the cinnamon sticks and cedar in the front parlor would have disappeared, replaced by vases brimming over with lilac.
And the day after, when the first customer stepped over the threshold, they would draw in the fresh scent of new beginnings and stand a bit straighter, the weight of long winter eveningsquickly fading as daydreams about warm summer afternoons started to take shape.
But before then, the sisters were expected to stay out of the way and simply enjoy the sensation of watching the world wake once again.
“Some things never change, do they?” Violet murmured to Anne as she stepped out of the kitchen and took in the sight of the garden, which was so bursting with daffodils, tulips, and azaleas of the richest pinks and purples that it seemed she’d never be able to look through anything but a pair of rosecolored glasses.
“The most important things never do,” Anne replied as she joined Violet in the doorway and wrapped a hand around her waist, giving her a soft tug as they breathed in the singular scent of spring.
Violet turned toward Anne and smiled, her eyes as bright as they had been when Anne first saw her flying across the circus tent.
She and Emil had returned to the ring only a week ago, but Anne could already tell that Violet’s heart was beating to that familiar tempo again. The doubt that had so weighed on her sister no longer had any hope of keeping her grounded. On the opening night of the circus’s run in Chicago, she’d flown from one bar to the next as if she’d been born with a set of wings and had made a home in the sky.
“Where do we want these?” Emil asked, his voice laced with excitement as he walked into the garden with a croquet set, the wooden sticks worn about the handles from so many years of lively competition in the summer sunshine.
“Anywhere will do,” Anne replied as she walked toward the lacecovered table, where Vincent was waiting to hand her a steaming cup that smelled of green tea and elderflowers. “I’m sure it won’t be long before we start to play.”
His clothes were still a striking shade of black, but all the hard edges that had once marked Vincent’s face seemed to have melted along with the snow.
When Emil and Violet turned their backs, trying to determine where to place the posts for their game, he pulled Anne close and whispered something that carried the texture of a shared secret, his lips grazing her ear as he spoke.
“You’ll have to keep an eye on her,” Beatrix chimed from where she was standing near the gate, her eyes locked on the alleyway that turned onto the street. “Anne’s not beneath kicking someone else’s ball an inch or two out of the way when no one is looking.”
“I most certainly would do nothing of the kind,” Anne huffed, trying her best to hide the smile that was tugging at the corners of her mouth. “What are you doing standing over there, anyway?”
“I’ve invited a guest,” Beatrix said, her cheeks growing just pink enough for Anne to guess who might make an appearance.
Though Beatrix had been shy about bringing Jennings around at first, thinking that it would be best to introduce him to a world where magic beat at its core in small steps, once the house learned that he’d been told the truth, it wouldn’t let the man out of its sight.
Violet might be marked for a life of movement, but the Crescent Moon was still hopeful that Beatrix could be drawn closer again.
It believed that dazzling Jennings with the magical comforts of home and hearth could be the key to convincing Beatrix to stay, and every time he came to visit, he’d end up lingering hours longer than he’d intended, transfixed by dancing teacups and rooms that seemed to appear from the depths of someone’s daydreams.
“Here he comes now!” Violet cried as she leaned forward to better hear the footsteps echoing against the cobblestones. “And it sounds like he’s brought someone with him.”
A moment later, Jennings appeared at the gate, his hand tucked politely in the crook of May’s arm.
She’d abandoned her heavy, dark satin for a lavender linen blouse and straw hat lined with fresh peonies, and the change reminded Anne just how much lighter she looked since that evening in the kitchen months before.
