“I do,” I say, fetching a bouquet I’d prepared this morning. It sleeps in a thin blanket of pastel-blue paper, tied together with a white ribbon. “I have this for Drew Maccan.”
“Oh, he lives next door to the bakery, right?”
That’s why I trust my deliveries to Marceline. She has an incredible memory and can recite addresses to perfection. Marcie has been helping out for a few months now, after our mums got to talking at the tearoom. She needs practice interacting with people, her mum had said. I need not mention how relieved customers must be to see a face other than my own.
I pass over the bouquet of deep-purple gladioli, dainty forget-me-nots, and white wind anemones—a bouquet that speaks of a heroic love and the hope that it isn’t unrequited—especially after I worked my magic to bring out the emotions.
“Yes, it’s from the baker’s son, Rane. There’s a card in here, so make sure it doesn’t fall out.”
“Of course, miss.”
“And remember to go straight home after.”
I tuck Marceline’s flyaway hair behind her ears so it doesn’t get in her eyes and open the front door for her. She skips down the street in the direction of the bakery, and when her animated frame is out of sight, it’s time to get back to my roses. I’m reaching for my shears when the bell above the front door rings again. She’s probably forgotten something.
“Back so soon?” I ask, stepping back into the shop.
I stop dead. It’s not Marceline. Gods, I wish it was.
Lark stands before me, not in his usual guard armor, but in a greencotton shirt that matches the hue of his eyes and the sickness that twists my stomach. He brushes his blond fringe to the side.
“I wouldn’t call this soon,” he says, and it has me wishing I’d kept the shears in my hands. Just in case. You never know.
“What are you doing here?”
He takes in the flowers that line the edges of the room with a small smile. How dare he take any sort of joy inmyflowers? I’d rather they wilt away than suffer his presence. No, I don’t mean that. They don’t deserve to wither because of him.
Then again, neither did I.
“Can we talk?” Lark asks, and takes a step forward.
I take a step back.
“We are open forpaying customers,” I say, determined to keep my composure. He’ll never see me break again.
“Fliss, I only want to—”
“If you have a business transaction to make, then yes. Otherwise, get out.”
Both of us are surprised at how fast I reply. I hadn’t lied to Willoh the other day; Lark used to get so annoyed at my slowness to speak, my methodical, mindful word choices. However, now that I think about it, it was probably his increasing pressure that caused my response time to get worse. Without the fear of pleasing him holding me back, I can talk just fine.
Lark studies me, then strides to the nearest pot, plucks out a flower, and holds it out.
“Then I’ll take this one,” he says, and places it on the wrapping table in the center of the room.
“Really?”
“Really,” he says, and gestures for me to approach the table.
“Do you even know what that flower means?”
“It means that I can keep talking to you.”
I clench my jaw. He’s not wrong. Still, the flower lying on the table has me struggling to keep a smirk off my face. I take slow steps and pick up the stalk of asphodel.Unceasing regret. Despair.Usuallyused in mourning bouquets. Well, if he wants to feel that way, then I shouldn’t refuse him.
“Enchanted and wrapped up, please,” Lark says, knowing it will take longer.
“Five copper.”
