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rainbowfic2019-04-08 09:16 pm
thisbluespirit) wrote in rainbowfic2019-04-08 09:16 pm
Cloudy Grey #6, Snow White #5 [Divide & Rule]
Name: thisbluespirit
Title: once i spoke (the language of the flowers)
Story: Divide & Rule
Colors: Snow White #5 (hedge of thorns), Cloudy Grey #6 (rectify)
Supplies and Styles: Eraser + Pastels (also forgenprompt_bingo square “Remix” + hc_bingo square “accidents”.)
Word Count: 3444
Rating: PG
Warnings: Slight mentions of death/loss.
Notes: Edward Iveson/Julia Graves, AU. Remix of a segment of this old piece as it played out in this Magic AU. (But it's just their marriage of convenience in a Magic AU, really.)
Summary Edward comes home to find his house has been taken over by flowers – and that roses have thorns.
***
She’d been dancing alone, a book in hand and an old record on the gramophone. He’d halted in the doorway to the living room, watching as she frowned over the printed instructions, trying out uncertain steps. Last week it had been daisy chains in the garden, before that an accident with paint when the uncle she loathed came to call. Edward found himself entirely captivated by the unpredictability of his life now Julia was in it.
Julia turned sharply, before spotting him there. She yelled and threw the book into the air, Edward taking that as his cue to catch it, handing it back with a grin.
“It’s good discipline, they say,” she told him, clutching the book against her, and raising her chin. “For magical training. You needn’t laugh. Besides, who wants to be a wallflower at parties?”
He’d stepped forward and held out his hand, starting the record again with one nod in the direction of the machine; showing off a little. “Didn’t they teach you to dance at school?”
“Country dancing,” said Julia, screwing up her face. “I don’t expect that’s what they go in for at these political parties. And I must have an escape from ministers and civil servants, mustn’t I?”
She wouldn’t meet his gaze and her hand trembled as she placed it in his. He felt certain suddenly that they were moments away from a shift in everything. He put his other hand to her waist, and she did look up then, blue eyes suddenly almost green in this light, and her breath hitched, whatever she’d been going to say lost.
“Most dancing these days merely goes something like this,” he said, moving closer, leading her into a vague jogtrot. “Besides, if this hypothetical party of yours is as dreadful as all that, you can tell me and we’ll make our escape together.”
She was still looking at him, and they were close enough that he could feel the warmth of her on this late summer’s afternoon. Her lips hovered on the brink of a smile, and he was so sure it was all going to be all right at last, when she tugged herself away, so violently that she thudded into the door, hitting her elbow on its handle.
“No, no,” she said, and waved a hand vaguely, as if to ward him or something else off. “I can’t – I’m sorry. I can’t do this.”
She ran away.
Edward picked up his pace as he turned into Chalcot Crescent. Despite the awkwardness of their current situation, he couldn’t keep from being eager to see Julia. Whatever came next, he would be glad for what time they had had together, even if perhaps he shouldn’t be. In fact –
“Good grief,” he said, coming to an abrupt halt on the pavement a few yards from their house, and losing his train of thought entirely. Greenery was wound about the entire frontage, red flowers and yellow blossoms bursting open as he approached. Even from here, the pollen made his eyes stream. He dropped his briefcase and umbrella, pulling out his hanky to cover his mouth and nose, and pressed on inside.
He could sense Julia’s power behind it – who else could it have been? – and he was alarmed. Such a ridiculous spell could only have been an accident, and it was a large enough one that it might well have left her exhausted, or worse.
Why the hell, though, might be the question burning in his mind, but it would have to wait until he’d found her and made certain she was unharmed. Edward took one step back, picked up his umbrella as the nearest weapon to hand, and ventured inside the overgrown garden his house had become.
“Julia!” he called out, in between bouts of sneezing and coughing, but there was no answer, and he had to plough his way up the stairs, squeezing past thorny-stemmed roses and chrysanthemum blooms, like some cartoon parody of a fairy tale prince in search of his sleeping princess.
She was awake, however, and came out onto the landing to meet him. “Julia,” he said, all other words failing him as he pushed his way up the last few steps towards her.
“Edward,” she said, and wiped her streaming eyes. “Oh, I am sorry! I meant to warn you, but I couldn’t even move to begin with.”
He edged past more yellow blossoms with wariness – they seemed to be the source of the vicious pollen – and held out his hand to her, which she gripped, letting him pull her nearer.
“I’m not surprised,” he said. “It must have taken everything out of you.”
She nodded, biting her lip to keep back laughter that threatened to become tears. “And what a terrible waste! I simply couldn’t stop it. Oh, dear, I’m not a convenient wife at all – I’m a thoroughly inconvenient one.”
“Come on,” said Edward, leading her down the stairs, trying to shield her from the worst of the thorns as they went. “Let’s get out of here and you can explain. I’m sure we can fix it presently, but I think we’d better find somewhere else to stay for the night.”
There was a small café around the corner in Regent’s Park Road that was still open and willing to take Edward’s order for a pot of tea, although the waitress gave a dubious look at the clock before she obliged.
Edward waited until Julia had made a start on her tea, and then he glanced across at her. “Well?” he said, with a raise of his eyebrow. “I’m going to nip out and make a phone call to Harding, but I need to know what’s going on, if only so I can tell him.”
“I bought some flowers,” said Julia. “A bunch of roses, chrysanths and ambrosia blossoms. They’re the spiky ones with the attack pollen, which I had no idea about when I bought them. It was only a joke – to do with the language of flowers, a secret message, but then I let everything get out of control again, it seems.”
Edward stirred his tea for the third time, his attention more on Julia and their current horticultural situation than his hot drink. “Ah,” he said. “Of course. And since language is key in many spells, the language of flowers would work just as well – better, perhaps even. I wonder if Harding’s come across that before? What an interesting thought.”
“I’m glad you think so,” said Julia. “Interesting isn’t how I’d put it. Anyway, it’s all your fault. I never had any incidents like this before I met you.”
Edward smiled. “I suspect that’s true, to a certain extent. I did warn you magic wasn’t to be played with, but you would have a demonstration. Seriously, though, Julia, are you all right? Shaken, of course, but nothing worse, I hope? Any headaches, bleeding –?”
Julia shook her head. “I’d like to put my head down on the table and sleep, but apart from that, no.”
“Julia,” he said, more softly, “I do need to know the meaning of the flowers. If that’s the spell, that’s the key to undoing it.”
Julia put her cup down on its saucer, and frowned. “I’m sure your department must have a book on the subject somewhere.”
“Or you could tell me.”
Julia sighed. “If I could, I wouldn’t have bought flowers as a secret code and accidentally enchanted the house, and then we would be back at home having dinner as usual. You could even have given me some more instructive literature to read again afterwards.”
Edward had to bite down hard on the instinct to object; that she needed the books, that she had more than once asked for them, and that was hardly all he wanted their evenings together to involve, as she knew damn well. He took a hasty sip of his tea and then got to his feet. “Julia, I’m going to find a telephone. I’ll be as quick as I can, and then I’ll find somewhere to take you. You’ll feel much more yourself again after dinner and a lie down.”
She nodded, and wouldn’t look up at him before he left.
Mr Harding at the Department for Magical Affairs was thoroughly amused by Edward’s predicament once Edward, hunched awkwardly against the side of the phone box, had finally managed to convey the scale of the problem to him. However, he not only agreed to send a couple of colleagues over in the morning to help Edward untangle the spell, but he said that Edward and Julia were welcome to stay in his London flat for the night; he was off home for the weekend anyway.
That accomplished, Edward hurried back to the café to be sure that Julia was all right and that they weren’t closed yet, and having reassured himself on both points, he returned to Chalcot Crescent and his overgrown house.
One of his neighbours caught him as he went past. “It’s not likely to spread, is it?”
“No, no,” said Edward. “Merely an unfortunate accident – it’ll be cleared up in the morning. It’s not dangerous.” He wasn’t sure any of his neighbours had ever spoken to him before. The Crescent was not that kind of street. If anyone even twitched the net curtains they were too discreet to be caught. But then, thought Edward, as he stopped outside his house, one had to admit that this was outside the ordinary.
The first time he had been too preoccupied with wondering where Julia was, what she’d done and if she’d hurt herself to take in many details about the magic she’d accomplished. The nature of the spell was too overwhelming for his usual methods to be any use, either. Now, however, he realised that the plants were moving towards him as he fought his way back up to the bedroom. Thorns snagged on his jacket, while stems improbably wound their way around his arms and legs, and petals brushed against his face and hair, like fleeting kisses.
Julia’s ‘joke’ had been a message to him and hope flared into life, despite his best efforts to dampen it down. He didn’t know much about the language of flowers, but roses were for love, weren’t they? A thorny stem tightened around his wrist as he made the mistake of pausing with his hand on the banister, and he bit back a short cry, pulling his hand away again. On the other hand, roses had thorns and God only knew what that vicious ambrosia stuff meant, but it didn’t seem likely to be good, and he didn’t have a clue about the chrysanthemums.
But roses were for love, and, in between his sneezes, he felt something in the air here, as if he could almost understand if he tried hard enough – a warmth within, a fog that stole into his thoughts. And for Julia to let her powers run on as badly as this, she must have felt something strongly. Love, surely, not hate?
But she had run away – she didn’t want him near her, he reminded himself sternly, and forced his way on through the forest of leaves and blossoms. The bedroom, once he reached it, was clearer, although leafy stems trailed in after him, seemingly fatally attracted. (Julia had been in there, and it was the epicentre from which everything had exploded outward.)
He hastily shoved a change of clothes into the case, along with some night things and was pushing the awkward case shut, when he started, as something gently snaked its way down his neck. He froze as a thorny stem snagged against his collar. He had one hand still pressing down on the case and another stem wound its way around his wrist again, tightening in until it drew blood, causing him to bite back a curse.
He was caught between exasperation and a desire to laugh that would no doubt earn him worse scratches. He closed his eyes, trying to remain focused while putting his free hand up to the stem at his throat, concentrating on that alone until he turned it to dust, despite the distractions of a red rose blossom on the other side nuzzling at his cheek.
Freed, he stood as swiftly as he could and grabbed hold of the case, using it as a shield as he fought his way back down the stairs, along the hallways and out into the early evening air.
“Well,” he said, as he looked back at the house, wiping streaming eyes with his hanky, and struggling not to laugh in the street, “I suppose I already knew there was a good chance she’d be the death of me.”
Once they got to Mr Harding’s flat – a modern service flat in central London – they both washed and changed into clothes that were, if not entirely free of the pollen, then at least less contaminated than those they’d arrived in. Julia lay down on the bed in her underwear, wrapped in a silk dressing gown that presumably belonged to Harding. Or, Edward thought, with a wry twist of his mouth, one Harding used for guests. She seemed set to go to sleep.
“Julia,” Edward said, passing through on his way back from the bathroom. He perched on the edge of the bed. “I really do need to know the meaning of the flowers.”
She turned and gave him a tired little nod, before closing her eyes again. “Later,” she said.
“After dinner,” he agreed, lowering his voice and making his way out into the living room. It had leather armchairs and plenty of bookcases, but they seemed to be for information, or possibly merely for their aesthetic value, rather than for leisure. Edward ran a hand along identical leather-bound green volumes of legal history, both magical and mundane, aware of the stale scent of Harding’s cigars in the air. He stared blankly out of the window, his mind on Julia’s floral message. He unbuttoned his shirt cuff, looking at the pattern of tiny thorn marks around his wrist and, suddenly, he could smell roses, not cigars. He closed his eyes, stretching his fingers out to the window pane. Julia hadn’t meant to do it, but she’d cast a spell on him. Light, so redundant as to be unnecessary; almost unnoticeable, given what his feelings already were, but it made the need for him to understand what it was all the more pressing.
His mind cleared again, the ghostly scent of petals gone, and, struck by a thought, he dived for the telephone on the sideboard. Picking up the receiver, he asked the operator to put him through to his cousin.
“Nan,” he said, when she picked up. “Is Isabel there?”
“And it’s nice to speak to you, too, Ned.”
He grinned. “Sorry, old thing. It’s just a bit of a magical tangle and I’m pretty sure she’s got a book that might help. Is she there?”
“She is,” said Isabel herself, Nancy evidently having passed the receiver over at the mention of magic and books. “What is it you’re looking for?”
Edward leant against the sideboard. “I seem to recall seeing a book on the language of flowers over at your place. In the study, on the bookshelves on the far wall, down the bottom. A small Victorian thing.”
“Yes, yes, I know,” said Isabel. “And I do – essential for the kind of sentimental guff I write, I tell you. Wait one moment –” She held the receiver away, but he heard her clearly yelling instructions at Nancy. “You do know meanings can vary, though, don’t you?”
“Hopefully the general sentiments will hold true, and that’ll be a start. I need some sort of clue.”
“Which flowers?” asked Isabel.
Edward told her, and waited with her for Nancy to return, his hand unsteady against the receiver. He could have sworn there were petals falling around him.
Edward tapped lightly on the bedroom door, and then poked his head around it, but Julia didn’t move, still sleeping. He contemplated leaving her undisturbed, but given how far she’d exhausted herself, he thought she ought to at least try and eat something, so he crossed into the room, and sat carefully on the side of the bed. She was lying on it, rather than in it, the blue silk dressing gown draped over her.
“Julia,” he said softly. “Julia.”
She stirred, and turned towards him, blinking, but on taking in his presence, she smiled, and held out her hand.
He took it, his heart lightening at the way, unguarded, she took pleasure in seeing him. Perhaps he had misunderstood entirely; perhaps he should not have left her alone so much lately after all.
“They’ve sent up dinner,” he said. “I thought you ought to have some.”
“Quite,” said Julia, pulling herself up. “You know I’d never forgive you if you ate my share of the rations.”
Edward grinned. “Feeling a little better?”
“A little,” she said, rubbing her forehead. “What is it? Dinner, I mean.”
Edward loosed his hold on her hand and drew back. “I didn’t think to look.”
“Well, and what use are you, then?” said Julia with a laugh, pushing him away. “Give me a minute, darling.”
Once they’d finished the roasted chicken (that no doubt wouldn’t bear enquiries as to its source), Edward watched Julia polish off her ice cream, and waited.
“Mr Harding does all right for himself,” she said. “Such luxuries in these times!”
“Did you ever doubt it?”
Julia met his gaze. “Edward. What does Mr Harding use this flat for when he’s not lending it to homeless employees?”
“He lives too far out to commute every day,” said Edward. “Although, knowing Harding, probably what you were assuming as well.”
“Gosh.”
Edward leant forward. “Julia,” he said, lowering his voice. “Why shame? That is what the red rose means, isn’t it?”
It was the right question. She pushed away her dish, and her shoulders sagged. “Oh. Yes, yes, it is. Because I agreed to marry you like this. I liked you, obviously, or I would never have done it, but it was supposed to be safe. You would love me, and me not to love you – not yet, not for a while. I was sure I would in the end, though; I didn’t want to be quite as horrid as that sounds. But it was all for escape, and comfort – and simply not to be alone any more. I told you I wasn’t a very nice person, and it’s true.”
“You weren’t the one who made that proposal,” said Edward. He pulled at his sleeve, revealing the circle of tiny red scars. “Your roses had the right target. I’m the one who should be ashamed, not you.” He didn’t pull his hand back, only held it out to her, the thud of his heart sounding loud in his ears as he waited for her response. “And the chrysanthemum, the ambrosia – love, love returned. Are those for me, too?”
She looked down, nodding, as if that were another shameful admission, instead of the best news he’d heard in the past decade at least. He tried to beat down the rising sense of joy.
“Julia.”
“I can’t,” she said, meeting his gaze again. “You know how it is. Not yet. Not like this – not being happy.”
The table was far too much in the way: Edward stood and moved across to crouch down by her chair, waiting until she turned and took hold of him, unwillingly but tightly, sliding down into his arms, and they both sat there together on the plush carpet.
“And anyway I didn’t know,” said Julia, her voice muffled, speaking into his shoulder, “if it was real, or if it might be a lie to say it, when I didn’t know for sure. I didn’t want to build you up and let you down like that.”
Edward stroked her hair. “Darling, I’m sorry. But, Julia, it’s a good thing. Besides, no need to worry about happiness – that’s easily avoided. A quarrel a day would do it, I should think. We can manage that.”
“Don’t be silly,” she said, lifting her head and giving a small choke of laughter. “You’ll make me cry. I am sorry about the flowers, though. Wretched things, betraying all my secrets to the whole damned street!”
Edward kissed her forehead. “Oh, we’ll sort them out in the morning. And while I can’t answer for everybody in the Crescent, I’m grateful. And,” he added, with another rueful glance down at his wrist, “I should probably keep a few of those roses.”
For shame, yes.
***
thisbluespiritTitle: once i spoke (the language of the flowers)
Story: Divide & Rule
Colors: Snow White #5 (hedge of thorns), Cloudy Grey #6 (rectify)
Supplies and Styles: Eraser + Pastels (also for
genprompt_bingo square “Remix” + hc_bingo square “accidents”.)Word Count: 3444
Rating: PG
Warnings: Slight mentions of death/loss.
Notes: Edward Iveson/Julia Graves, AU. Remix of a segment of this old piece as it played out in this Magic AU. (But it's just their marriage of convenience in a Magic AU, really.)
Summary Edward comes home to find his house has been taken over by flowers – and that roses have thorns.
***
She’d been dancing alone, a book in hand and an old record on the gramophone. He’d halted in the doorway to the living room, watching as she frowned over the printed instructions, trying out uncertain steps. Last week it had been daisy chains in the garden, before that an accident with paint when the uncle she loathed came to call. Edward found himself entirely captivated by the unpredictability of his life now Julia was in it.
Julia turned sharply, before spotting him there. She yelled and threw the book into the air, Edward taking that as his cue to catch it, handing it back with a grin.
“It’s good discipline, they say,” she told him, clutching the book against her, and raising her chin. “For magical training. You needn’t laugh. Besides, who wants to be a wallflower at parties?”
He’d stepped forward and held out his hand, starting the record again with one nod in the direction of the machine; showing off a little. “Didn’t they teach you to dance at school?”
“Country dancing,” said Julia, screwing up her face. “I don’t expect that’s what they go in for at these political parties. And I must have an escape from ministers and civil servants, mustn’t I?”
She wouldn’t meet his gaze and her hand trembled as she placed it in his. He felt certain suddenly that they were moments away from a shift in everything. He put his other hand to her waist, and she did look up then, blue eyes suddenly almost green in this light, and her breath hitched, whatever she’d been going to say lost.
“Most dancing these days merely goes something like this,” he said, moving closer, leading her into a vague jogtrot. “Besides, if this hypothetical party of yours is as dreadful as all that, you can tell me and we’ll make our escape together.”
She was still looking at him, and they were close enough that he could feel the warmth of her on this late summer’s afternoon. Her lips hovered on the brink of a smile, and he was so sure it was all going to be all right at last, when she tugged herself away, so violently that she thudded into the door, hitting her elbow on its handle.
“No, no,” she said, and waved a hand vaguely, as if to ward him or something else off. “I can’t – I’m sorry. I can’t do this.”
She ran away.
Edward picked up his pace as he turned into Chalcot Crescent. Despite the awkwardness of their current situation, he couldn’t keep from being eager to see Julia. Whatever came next, he would be glad for what time they had had together, even if perhaps he shouldn’t be. In fact –
“Good grief,” he said, coming to an abrupt halt on the pavement a few yards from their house, and losing his train of thought entirely. Greenery was wound about the entire frontage, red flowers and yellow blossoms bursting open as he approached. Even from here, the pollen made his eyes stream. He dropped his briefcase and umbrella, pulling out his hanky to cover his mouth and nose, and pressed on inside.
He could sense Julia’s power behind it – who else could it have been? – and he was alarmed. Such a ridiculous spell could only have been an accident, and it was a large enough one that it might well have left her exhausted, or worse.
Why the hell, though, might be the question burning in his mind, but it would have to wait until he’d found her and made certain she was unharmed. Edward took one step back, picked up his umbrella as the nearest weapon to hand, and ventured inside the overgrown garden his house had become.
“Julia!” he called out, in between bouts of sneezing and coughing, but there was no answer, and he had to plough his way up the stairs, squeezing past thorny-stemmed roses and chrysanthemum blooms, like some cartoon parody of a fairy tale prince in search of his sleeping princess.
She was awake, however, and came out onto the landing to meet him. “Julia,” he said, all other words failing him as he pushed his way up the last few steps towards her.
“Edward,” she said, and wiped her streaming eyes. “Oh, I am sorry! I meant to warn you, but I couldn’t even move to begin with.”
He edged past more yellow blossoms with wariness – they seemed to be the source of the vicious pollen – and held out his hand to her, which she gripped, letting him pull her nearer.
“I’m not surprised,” he said. “It must have taken everything out of you.”
She nodded, biting her lip to keep back laughter that threatened to become tears. “And what a terrible waste! I simply couldn’t stop it. Oh, dear, I’m not a convenient wife at all – I’m a thoroughly inconvenient one.”
“Come on,” said Edward, leading her down the stairs, trying to shield her from the worst of the thorns as they went. “Let’s get out of here and you can explain. I’m sure we can fix it presently, but I think we’d better find somewhere else to stay for the night.”
There was a small café around the corner in Regent’s Park Road that was still open and willing to take Edward’s order for a pot of tea, although the waitress gave a dubious look at the clock before she obliged.
Edward waited until Julia had made a start on her tea, and then he glanced across at her. “Well?” he said, with a raise of his eyebrow. “I’m going to nip out and make a phone call to Harding, but I need to know what’s going on, if only so I can tell him.”
“I bought some flowers,” said Julia. “A bunch of roses, chrysanths and ambrosia blossoms. They’re the spiky ones with the attack pollen, which I had no idea about when I bought them. It was only a joke – to do with the language of flowers, a secret message, but then I let everything get out of control again, it seems.”
Edward stirred his tea for the third time, his attention more on Julia and their current horticultural situation than his hot drink. “Ah,” he said. “Of course. And since language is key in many spells, the language of flowers would work just as well – better, perhaps even. I wonder if Harding’s come across that before? What an interesting thought.”
“I’m glad you think so,” said Julia. “Interesting isn’t how I’d put it. Anyway, it’s all your fault. I never had any incidents like this before I met you.”
Edward smiled. “I suspect that’s true, to a certain extent. I did warn you magic wasn’t to be played with, but you would have a demonstration. Seriously, though, Julia, are you all right? Shaken, of course, but nothing worse, I hope? Any headaches, bleeding –?”
Julia shook her head. “I’d like to put my head down on the table and sleep, but apart from that, no.”
“Julia,” he said, more softly, “I do need to know the meaning of the flowers. If that’s the spell, that’s the key to undoing it.”
Julia put her cup down on its saucer, and frowned. “I’m sure your department must have a book on the subject somewhere.”
“Or you could tell me.”
Julia sighed. “If I could, I wouldn’t have bought flowers as a secret code and accidentally enchanted the house, and then we would be back at home having dinner as usual. You could even have given me some more instructive literature to read again afterwards.”
Edward had to bite down hard on the instinct to object; that she needed the books, that she had more than once asked for them, and that was hardly all he wanted their evenings together to involve, as she knew damn well. He took a hasty sip of his tea and then got to his feet. “Julia, I’m going to find a telephone. I’ll be as quick as I can, and then I’ll find somewhere to take you. You’ll feel much more yourself again after dinner and a lie down.”
She nodded, and wouldn’t look up at him before he left.
Mr Harding at the Department for Magical Affairs was thoroughly amused by Edward’s predicament once Edward, hunched awkwardly against the side of the phone box, had finally managed to convey the scale of the problem to him. However, he not only agreed to send a couple of colleagues over in the morning to help Edward untangle the spell, but he said that Edward and Julia were welcome to stay in his London flat for the night; he was off home for the weekend anyway.
That accomplished, Edward hurried back to the café to be sure that Julia was all right and that they weren’t closed yet, and having reassured himself on both points, he returned to Chalcot Crescent and his overgrown house.
One of his neighbours caught him as he went past. “It’s not likely to spread, is it?”
“No, no,” said Edward. “Merely an unfortunate accident – it’ll be cleared up in the morning. It’s not dangerous.” He wasn’t sure any of his neighbours had ever spoken to him before. The Crescent was not that kind of street. If anyone even twitched the net curtains they were too discreet to be caught. But then, thought Edward, as he stopped outside his house, one had to admit that this was outside the ordinary.
The first time he had been too preoccupied with wondering where Julia was, what she’d done and if she’d hurt herself to take in many details about the magic she’d accomplished. The nature of the spell was too overwhelming for his usual methods to be any use, either. Now, however, he realised that the plants were moving towards him as he fought his way back up to the bedroom. Thorns snagged on his jacket, while stems improbably wound their way around his arms and legs, and petals brushed against his face and hair, like fleeting kisses.
Julia’s ‘joke’ had been a message to him and hope flared into life, despite his best efforts to dampen it down. He didn’t know much about the language of flowers, but roses were for love, weren’t they? A thorny stem tightened around his wrist as he made the mistake of pausing with his hand on the banister, and he bit back a short cry, pulling his hand away again. On the other hand, roses had thorns and God only knew what that vicious ambrosia stuff meant, but it didn’t seem likely to be good, and he didn’t have a clue about the chrysanthemums.
But roses were for love, and, in between his sneezes, he felt something in the air here, as if he could almost understand if he tried hard enough – a warmth within, a fog that stole into his thoughts. And for Julia to let her powers run on as badly as this, she must have felt something strongly. Love, surely, not hate?
But she had run away – she didn’t want him near her, he reminded himself sternly, and forced his way on through the forest of leaves and blossoms. The bedroom, once he reached it, was clearer, although leafy stems trailed in after him, seemingly fatally attracted. (Julia had been in there, and it was the epicentre from which everything had exploded outward.)
He hastily shoved a change of clothes into the case, along with some night things and was pushing the awkward case shut, when he started, as something gently snaked its way down his neck. He froze as a thorny stem snagged against his collar. He had one hand still pressing down on the case and another stem wound its way around his wrist again, tightening in until it drew blood, causing him to bite back a curse.
He was caught between exasperation and a desire to laugh that would no doubt earn him worse scratches. He closed his eyes, trying to remain focused while putting his free hand up to the stem at his throat, concentrating on that alone until he turned it to dust, despite the distractions of a red rose blossom on the other side nuzzling at his cheek.
Freed, he stood as swiftly as he could and grabbed hold of the case, using it as a shield as he fought his way back down the stairs, along the hallways and out into the early evening air.
“Well,” he said, as he looked back at the house, wiping streaming eyes with his hanky, and struggling not to laugh in the street, “I suppose I already knew there was a good chance she’d be the death of me.”
Once they got to Mr Harding’s flat – a modern service flat in central London – they both washed and changed into clothes that were, if not entirely free of the pollen, then at least less contaminated than those they’d arrived in. Julia lay down on the bed in her underwear, wrapped in a silk dressing gown that presumably belonged to Harding. Or, Edward thought, with a wry twist of his mouth, one Harding used for guests. She seemed set to go to sleep.
“Julia,” Edward said, passing through on his way back from the bathroom. He perched on the edge of the bed. “I really do need to know the meaning of the flowers.”
She turned and gave him a tired little nod, before closing her eyes again. “Later,” she said.
“After dinner,” he agreed, lowering his voice and making his way out into the living room. It had leather armchairs and plenty of bookcases, but they seemed to be for information, or possibly merely for their aesthetic value, rather than for leisure. Edward ran a hand along identical leather-bound green volumes of legal history, both magical and mundane, aware of the stale scent of Harding’s cigars in the air. He stared blankly out of the window, his mind on Julia’s floral message. He unbuttoned his shirt cuff, looking at the pattern of tiny thorn marks around his wrist and, suddenly, he could smell roses, not cigars. He closed his eyes, stretching his fingers out to the window pane. Julia hadn’t meant to do it, but she’d cast a spell on him. Light, so redundant as to be unnecessary; almost unnoticeable, given what his feelings already were, but it made the need for him to understand what it was all the more pressing.
His mind cleared again, the ghostly scent of petals gone, and, struck by a thought, he dived for the telephone on the sideboard. Picking up the receiver, he asked the operator to put him through to his cousin.
“Nan,” he said, when she picked up. “Is Isabel there?”
“And it’s nice to speak to you, too, Ned.”
He grinned. “Sorry, old thing. It’s just a bit of a magical tangle and I’m pretty sure she’s got a book that might help. Is she there?”
“She is,” said Isabel herself, Nancy evidently having passed the receiver over at the mention of magic and books. “What is it you’re looking for?”
Edward leant against the sideboard. “I seem to recall seeing a book on the language of flowers over at your place. In the study, on the bookshelves on the far wall, down the bottom. A small Victorian thing.”
“Yes, yes, I know,” said Isabel. “And I do – essential for the kind of sentimental guff I write, I tell you. Wait one moment –” She held the receiver away, but he heard her clearly yelling instructions at Nancy. “You do know meanings can vary, though, don’t you?”
“Hopefully the general sentiments will hold true, and that’ll be a start. I need some sort of clue.”
“Which flowers?” asked Isabel.
Edward told her, and waited with her for Nancy to return, his hand unsteady against the receiver. He could have sworn there were petals falling around him.
Edward tapped lightly on the bedroom door, and then poked his head around it, but Julia didn’t move, still sleeping. He contemplated leaving her undisturbed, but given how far she’d exhausted herself, he thought she ought to at least try and eat something, so he crossed into the room, and sat carefully on the side of the bed. She was lying on it, rather than in it, the blue silk dressing gown draped over her.
“Julia,” he said softly. “Julia.”
She stirred, and turned towards him, blinking, but on taking in his presence, she smiled, and held out her hand.
He took it, his heart lightening at the way, unguarded, she took pleasure in seeing him. Perhaps he had misunderstood entirely; perhaps he should not have left her alone so much lately after all.
“They’ve sent up dinner,” he said. “I thought you ought to have some.”
“Quite,” said Julia, pulling herself up. “You know I’d never forgive you if you ate my share of the rations.”
Edward grinned. “Feeling a little better?”
“A little,” she said, rubbing her forehead. “What is it? Dinner, I mean.”
Edward loosed his hold on her hand and drew back. “I didn’t think to look.”
“Well, and what use are you, then?” said Julia with a laugh, pushing him away. “Give me a minute, darling.”
Once they’d finished the roasted chicken (that no doubt wouldn’t bear enquiries as to its source), Edward watched Julia polish off her ice cream, and waited.
“Mr Harding does all right for himself,” she said. “Such luxuries in these times!”
“Did you ever doubt it?”
Julia met his gaze. “Edward. What does Mr Harding use this flat for when he’s not lending it to homeless employees?”
“He lives too far out to commute every day,” said Edward. “Although, knowing Harding, probably what you were assuming as well.”
“Gosh.”
Edward leant forward. “Julia,” he said, lowering his voice. “Why shame? That is what the red rose means, isn’t it?”
It was the right question. She pushed away her dish, and her shoulders sagged. “Oh. Yes, yes, it is. Because I agreed to marry you like this. I liked you, obviously, or I would never have done it, but it was supposed to be safe. You would love me, and me not to love you – not yet, not for a while. I was sure I would in the end, though; I didn’t want to be quite as horrid as that sounds. But it was all for escape, and comfort – and simply not to be alone any more. I told you I wasn’t a very nice person, and it’s true.”
“You weren’t the one who made that proposal,” said Edward. He pulled at his sleeve, revealing the circle of tiny red scars. “Your roses had the right target. I’m the one who should be ashamed, not you.” He didn’t pull his hand back, only held it out to her, the thud of his heart sounding loud in his ears as he waited for her response. “And the chrysanthemum, the ambrosia – love, love returned. Are those for me, too?”
She looked down, nodding, as if that were another shameful admission, instead of the best news he’d heard in the past decade at least. He tried to beat down the rising sense of joy.
“Julia.”
“I can’t,” she said, meeting his gaze again. “You know how it is. Not yet. Not like this – not being happy.”
The table was far too much in the way: Edward stood and moved across to crouch down by her chair, waiting until she turned and took hold of him, unwillingly but tightly, sliding down into his arms, and they both sat there together on the plush carpet.
“And anyway I didn’t know,” said Julia, her voice muffled, speaking into his shoulder, “if it was real, or if it might be a lie to say it, when I didn’t know for sure. I didn’t want to build you up and let you down like that.”
Edward stroked her hair. “Darling, I’m sorry. But, Julia, it’s a good thing. Besides, no need to worry about happiness – that’s easily avoided. A quarrel a day would do it, I should think. We can manage that.”
“Don’t be silly,” she said, lifting her head and giving a small choke of laughter. “You’ll make me cry. I am sorry about the flowers, though. Wretched things, betraying all my secrets to the whole damned street!”
Edward kissed her forehead. “Oh, we’ll sort them out in the morning. And while I can’t answer for everybody in the Crescent, I’m grateful. And,” he added, with another rueful glance down at his wrist, “I should probably keep a few of those roses.”
For shame, yes.
***
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I looked up the flowers myself and got a slightly different meaning which honestly just enhanced the story. A+, I love this so much.
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I looked up the flowers myself and got a slightly different meaning which honestly just enhanced the story.
When I wrote the original I spent ages looking up the language of flowers on modern sites and old books via Google Books and it became clear that they do differ slightly anyway, but there is also a difference between the older and the modern and particularly (as ever) between British and American and almost all of the internet sources were (as ever) American, so I got my references from this book, which was old and British and therefore might have been available to these characters, and no doubt the one that Isabel owned. Presumably Julia's guy at the market stall also coincidentally had a copy.
Anyway, flower meanings make great story prompts, really; that's my conclusion. :-D
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