“Card showed me the wedding invitation list earlier. They’re being sent out later this week,” I say, slowly.
“Oh?” Mum takes a sip of tea. “Are the king and queen from Dreah coming too? Gods, I hope so. King Cyrus is a hunk and a half.”
“Mum.”
“What? I’m allowed to look,” she says, unrepentant. Mum always enjoys it when the Dreyan royals visit. I thought it was because they export most of the fruit teas she’s so into, but apparently not.
Prince Merit, Bash’s younger brother, lives in the next kingdom over—the Kingdom of Dreah—for a few months of the year because of his peacemaking betrothal to their youngest princess. It’s hard to believe that Queen Fern allows him out of her sight, seeing how she’s so overprotective of Bash.
I pause, my fingers resting on the stem of a particularly vivid dahlia, and fight a flicker of fear. I tried not to react when I’d read the name earlier. I tried to push it down. But the truth always comes out one way or another.
“Um,” I say, then clear my throat. “No. Not them. It’s…Morgana. Morgana is invited.”
Mum’s back snaps straight. “She’s cominghere?” A flash of hysteria has her pitch rising, her hands turning to claws around her teacup.
I nod, my jaw as tight as her fingers. Morgana is the sorcerer responsible for my curse. To me, she’s a mystery, an invisible face. To Mum…
“But she never comes to Alrick these days!” Mum squeaks. “She’s supposed to be at the Library.Here?Soon?Gods—”
She meets my russet-brown eyes and quickly flattens her expression.
“I’m sure she won’t come,” she says briskly. “It’s far too beneath her. She hasn’t been back in years. I wouldn’t worry about it, baby. She won’t come here. No, of course she won’t.”
Mum can repeat lies to herself until she believes them.
A luxury I don’t have.
I turn back to the anonymous request for the Feiyan flower. The map on the back leads into the northern forest, past the site of the explosion that killed Simon and farther than I’ve been before. Regardless, I’ll go. I have to. I’ll get the flower and deliver it, for whatever purpose the person needs. Because despite my curse, it’s what I do best. I tell the truth. On behalf of others, for things they can’t say themselves. Not through words or letters, but through flowers. Petals instead of carefully crafted sentences. A bouquet instead of a sonnet.
Mourning flowers for a mother’s arms.
White wedding flowers for my best friend.
Feiyan for an anonymous stranger.
Chapter Two
I deliver cheerful pink chrysanthemums once every four weeks to Creon at the apothecary, so when I enter his store, I’m glad to see the flowers still thriving and well in a glass vase on his desk. As they should be—one of the enchantments I put on my flowers keeps them fresh for far longer than their natural lifespan, and if they’re well taken care of by their recipients too, then it could be a month before they start to wither. I’ve taken my mum’s advice and decided to check if the old man knows anything about the Feiyan before I blindly risk heading north. Mum always looks after the shop if I need to go out for the day, and this anonymous request will certainly take up all my time. It already had me up all night. I scoured old journals and botanical textbooks, but found no mention of the flower. Nothing. How is that possible? How is there a flower I don’t know about?
Unless the request is a joke. A waste of effort. A prank meant to have me lost and wandering in the forest. Revenge for a time my curse got someone in trouble, or for any of the bouquets I was requested to send with less than positive intentions. But who would bother to do such a thing?
Anyone in the citadel could have their reasons.
If a customer wants to remain anonymous, they can take one of the forms pinned to the noticeboard outside the shop and fill out their choices. They can tell me which flowers they want or which emotions they want shared, their budget, their deadline, if they wish it delivered or collected, and any other information required. The bouquet will be prepared, all without revealing their identity.Andthere’s a locked payment box that only Mum and I can access. It’s worked flawlessly so far. So much so that I can hardly believe it was my own mother who came up with it.
These days, most of the anonymous requests I get are declarations of love, usually unrequited. Occasionally, someone wants to send a warning or ask for forgiveness, and once or twice I’ve been asked to create a bouquet to deliver someone’s bitterness or jealousy. Granted, those times made me hesitate about following through, but I figured it wasn’t up to me to control someone’s message. It’stheirtruth. And I know all too well what it feels like to have your words regulated. However, this is the first time that a request has me thoroughly stumped. It seems even Creon, with years that make him wiser than me, doesn’t have much to add.
“Sorry, Felicity, I can’t say I’ve heard of this flower,” the old man says, holding the request sheet close to his glasses. He’s halfway up a ladder and hangs on to a rung with one hand while he examines the paper with the other. “But this map will take you to an area of the forest with some rare fauna. I’ve found a few unique species of insect around there, so I wouldn’t be surprised to encounter unusual plant life as well. Aside from that, however, I’m afraid my memory gets a little foggy. I haven’t been up there in a while. It’s too close to the cursed tree and recent rebel attacks.”
He’s right. The path to this flower isn’t far from the tree that started the conflict between the north and the citadel. That led to Simon’s death. It’s been half a decade since the original incident, and in all that time, I’ve never dared to see the tree for myself. It’s the source of a poisonous festering disease that blighted the northernforest beyond recognition, people say, a vile and warped stain of evil that will surely corrupt anyone who goes near it, just as it turned ordinary northern citizens into hostile rebels. The king and queen sent them food and supplies to build new shelters when their villages and crops were first affected, but nothing could be done to slow the spreading rot. Or so I’ve heard.
Creon eyes me warily when I keep my mouth shut, as most do. “Are you sure about this?” he asks. “Passion is one thing, Felicity, but I’ve warned you before about treading too close to obsession. It’s reasonable to deny a request if it’s too outlandish or dangerous.”
I take the paper back. He doesn’t understand. Being able to complete orders reliably is all I have. It’s theonlything people have faith in me to do.
“I’ll try to be careful,” I say.
I thank him for his time and leave the apothecary with a growing curiosity. The morning sky is painted with threads of cotton-like clouds, and it holds all the hope of a delightful day. A successful day. I stroll toward the northern gate and swing my basket, scrambling to put the pieces together. This Feiyanhasto be incredibly rare, but I’ll find it; there’s no lie there.
