The Florist – Part 2: Full Bloom

She arranged him as she would a bouquet, with unhurried precision. She had him stand, kneel, hold still among the buckets. She made him recite the names of flowers, Latin and common, correcting each slip with a murmured no. She walked behind him, ran a gloved finger along his jaw, and told him, in a low even voice, exactly where he belonged in the composition. She made him kneel on the tile and hold a single white rose in both hands, upright, without moving, for ten minutes, while she watched. It was strict, composed and entirely tender, and the shop smelled of green and sweet.

Every half hour: "Does Mr Hale wish to continue?" "Yes, Madam." "Say it clearly." "I do. Thank you."

"The Florist does not require thanks." But she smiled at the roses.

At midnight she took the rose from his hands, tucked it behind his ear and stepped back.

"Thorns," said Delphine, softly.

It was her word, and she used it for them both. The gloves came off. The apron slid to the floor. She sat on the shop step in her stockinged feet, scattering petals, and held out her arms.

"How are you?"

"In full bloom," said Mark, with a damp laugh, sitting beside her. "I think."

"You are." She kissed his forehead, and pulled a petal from his hair. "You were exquisite."

"Will there be another arrangement?"

"Saturday, after the wedding order." She grinned. "I have a number of ideas for the display."

"I'll bring my own vase," said Mark.

"You will bring yourself," said Delphine. "That is the arrangement."

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