Leaning down, I inhale. “This one. What is this?”
The flower attendant smiles widely—she has perfect teeth, straight and white. “I found this one specifically for you and Mr Butcher. You have a good eye.”
I blink at her. “You knew I was coming?”
She taps her nose. “Of course, we rarely do market stalls, but the committee received an announcement from your security detail.”
I flick Bronson a look. “Normality?”
He shrugs. “What is normal?”
“Are all these patrons actors?” I ask, eyes bouncing around the market grounds.
“Not all of them,” he says through a laugh. “I’m messing with you, Sister Fawn, none of them are. I could have closed the market down for a few hours, but I didn’t want you to feel rushed. Xander told me you don’t like to stand out. Which is a shame and something we should work on, yeah?”
“I don’t want to put anyone out, is all.”
“How is spending Clay Butcher’s money putting these fine people out? Not to mention the eye-candy.” He gestures at himself. “Lucky little minxes.”
Rolling my eyes at him, I turn back to the light peach rose. “What is this one called?”
“A Juliet Rose,” the attendant says, “well, her descendant.”
“She is perfect. How many can you get?—"
“For four months’ time?” She pulls out a tablet, scrolling and looking. “How many do you need?”
Fuck. I don’t know.Five hundred?“Um…”
“Twenty thousand,” Bronson says.
I stumble on my own legs—legs I’ve managed to use adequately for nineteen years until now.Like what the fuck? Twenty thousand?“What?”
He uses his tattooed fingers to count. “Approximately fifty tables, two hundred roses per table? That alone is ten thousand stems. Then you have the stairwell garland, the bridesmaids’ bouquets, the arch garlands…” He nods. “Atleasttwenty thousand.”
“Fucking hell,” I mutter, thinking how easy this will be now that I have a colour palette. Everything will match the roses—peach, cream, ivory, and white.
Then, something prickles at my back.
And it’s not a Juliet Rose stem…
I feel someone right there, tapping at my spine, but when I turn around, there is no one. I blink. Only a little old lady about five paces away with a fist full of daisies. But… But I still feel the attention, tangible, like clutching hands.
My gaze jerks to the entrance.
And there… a silhouette stands, unmoving, its posture both familiar and strange.No.I blink harder. Once. Twice. Trying to shake the image, rattle it to reveal another harmless stranger, because it can’t—it can’t be.
It is.
My foster mother.
I sense Bronson’s attention turn, tracking the same line as mine, his boots rapping a step closer to me.
“Friend of yours?” he asks, close.
“I… I think I know her,” I whisper. My voice scrapes out with caution, like stepping through shattered glass.I do know her.I am just not sure how to react.
The henchmen to her left and right stiffen, as if my words and gaze coil electricity through them, awakening them.
