The Flourishing of Floralie Laurel

by Fiadhnait Moser

  “Nino!” yelped Floralie, unable to keep the panic from her voice. However, the mouse did not crawl onto Floralie, but rather, the box, sticking his whiskery nose into the keyhole.

  He’s not terribly bright, scrawled Nino, still holding out the blackberries for Philomenos, but the little mouse was far too preoccupied by the box. But he is loyal.

  Philomenos started squeaking again and scurried around the edge of the box, nosing the left-hand side.

  “What!” breathed Floralie.

  Floralie and Nino leaned over the side of the box. There was a tiny knob there engraved with the letters E.F.T., and pulled out from inside was a tiny corner of parchment.

  Floralie gasped. You don’t think . . .

  Only one way to find out.

  Floralie confessed to Tom, “I don’t want them to stay together.” But when Papa said Mama was destroying their marriage, all Floralie wanted was to be small. Two years later, Floralie discovered that Papa had been threatening to leave Mama for fifteen years. But the day Papa accused Mama, Floralie found a sprig of asphodel on Papa’s side of the bed with a note that read, My sorrow will follow you to the grave.

  “It’s his fault,” said Tom, “not yours, Flory.”

  Floralie would rather it have been hers.

  Floralie pinched the end of the knob. Her heart sped double time, the steady waltz of it turning into a quick-footed Charleston dance; the knob turned against the wood, scritch-scratch, scritch-scratch.

  Floralie read Nino’s eyes. They said, Impossible. Gently, Floralie pulled out a compartment in the side of the box.

  The scent of fine French perfume filled Floralie’s nostrils. “Flowers.”

  Inside the box was indeed a collection of flowers—piles of different sorts. Blues, violets, reds, pinks, large and flamboyant, small and ghostlike. But the most curious thing of all was not their colors, shapes, or sizes, but their age. The flowers were pressed flat so they looked more like paintings of flowers than flowers themselves. Most were wrinkled, but all had somehow retained at least most of their original color.

  There was something mesmerizing about the dried flowers. They weren’t dead, but they weren’t alive either. Floralie’s fingers traced the edge of the box and slipped inside. The flowers were rough to the touch, crinkled, like the pages of an ancient storybook. And there was something else about them that was like a storybook, too. They had a certain air of story to them—a mystery, a secret, a bittersweetness, a memory filled with melancholy—a je ne sais quoi. That was what Mama had described her ballet costumes as having. Je ne sais quoi. That was what Mama would have called the flowers.

  Floralie’s fingertips brushed against something smooth. She bent closer, flicked away a leaf, and found a yellowed piece of paper folded into quarters. As Floralie pulled the paper out, however, Philomenos hopped up and snatched it with his teeth. Nino snapped his fingers at the mouse, and it twitched its mouth, then sheepishly dropped the paper.

  Sorry, wrote Nino. Like I said, he likes to steal paper. My poems disappear all the time.

  Nino handed Floralie back the paper, and she unfolded it one quarter at a time, then laid it flat on the floor between her and Nino. And together, they read what was written there in Indian ink and sorrow and ghosts.

  My Dearest Wildflower,

  Many years will pass before you find this, but I have gathered these flowers for you. Let them be your compass. Anything you wish to know about me, you will find in them. All you need is the flower dictionary, La Floriographie Complète, by, yes, the one and only Sylvestre Tullier. It will translate these flowers into their meanings. As much as you may or may not get along with him, you should know that Sylvestre was a great friend to me. Disagreeable, perhaps, but I still have faith that he is, deep down, a good man. You must trust him with all your heart. And my wish for you, Wildflower, is that you find me inside these petals and leaves, and the gaps between them. But more important, I hope you find yourself in them, if even just a fragment.

  Remember me,

  Viscaria

  “She found them,” whispered Floralie.

  What? wrote Nino.

  Floralie shook her head. Nothing.

  The truth was, though, that it wasn’t “nothing” at all. And Nino, of course, knew it. Nothing, he wrote, is almost as bad as “I’m fine.”

  It’s just . . . , started Floralie, and it took her a minute to finish her thought. It’s like she’s written back. To my letters, without ever even getting them.

  Nino eyed her. You said you wrote letters on your hands. I remember that from when I met you.

  Floralie nodded. They’re to my mother.

  Your mother? I thought you said you didn’t have parents.

  I don’t—not really. We left her three years ago. I didn’t want to . . . it was complicated. Anyway, the letters—I never send them. I don’t even know where she lives anymore. All I’ve wanted to do since—Floralie could not bring herself to write the words, to write out in permanent ink the fate of Mama—since things changed, is find her. And to be honest, I’d rather have had her die than disappear. Because now I feel so unfinished. I feel like there is a piece of myself missing, but it’s out there, taunting me. I want to find it before it disappears completely. Before I disappear. And this box of flowers and this letter are from her. I know it. She used to call me her wildflower. Her name was Viscaria. I don’t understand the other letters though—A.C. My mother was simply Viscaria Laurel. V.L. No middle name, or anything. And then, E.F.T.—that makes no sense at all.

  Your mother’s name was Viscaria?

  Floralie nodded.

  I like that, wrote Nino. It’s a poetry word.

  It’s a type of flower, wrote Floralie. I’m not sure what it looks like. But my mother used to say it meant “dance with me” in the language of flowers. She was a ballerina, and she loved flowers. Funny, the way she grew into her name like that. Floralie paused. “Nino?”

  Nino looked up, startled by Floralie’s voice.

  “Will you help me?” Floralie’s words choked at the back of her throat. “I think . . . I think I’ve got to find out the meaning of these flowers. Before Grandmama takes me away. Away from my paints, away from Tom, away from you. She’ll lock me up like a prisoner in that ridiculous orphanage of hers, force curtsies and ‘Yes, sir. Yes, madam’ down my throat.”

  Orphanage? wrote Nino. There was a hollowed-out look to his eyes that unnerved Floralie.

  She runs the Adelaide Laurel Orphanage for Unfortunate Children atop the farthest hill of Whitterly End, wrote Floralie. I just can’t go there. Mrs. Coffrey’s was bad enough.

  No, you can’t go there. Absolutely not. His letters were jagged, sharpened like knives. Floralie vaguely wondered where this sudden passion had come from.

  “I’ve got to find out my mother’s message,” Floralie said aloud. “This could be my last chance to find her.” And then she added on paper, for the words wouldn’t dare touch her lips, She’s the only one who ever cared for me—really cared for me, besides maybe Tom, who just doesn’t know how. She’s the only one who never, not once, tried to change me. I’ve never fit anyone’s ideals, anyone’s except for hers.

  Floralie stared at Nino, noticing for the first time the shadows beneath his eyes, hardly any lighter than the letter’s Indian ink. His eyes had ghosts, too.

  Nino picked up the pen again. I will help you however I can. Cross my heart. And he mimed an X across his chest.

  Floralie smiled. I should go. It’s getting late, and Tom will wonder where I am.

  Nino nodded. See you tomorrow?

  Yes.

  Floralie was about to get up when Nino wrote something else. And, Floralie—

  Yeah?

  Nino’s mouth twitched, and he wrote in tiny, barely legible letters, You fit my ideals.

  Tins of blush and mascara littered Mama’s vanity table. As Mama powdered her face, the puff of foundation reminded Floralie of fairy dust. “This is magic stuff,” Mama would
say. “This is child stuff.”

  When Floralie asked what that meant, Mama said, “Every child is born flawless. Every human begins as a perfect, unscathed being. But as they grow older . . . regrets collect, mistakes manifest, and fears ignite. That’s why us grown-ups need this magic stuff. It makes us feel new again, even if we aren’t.”

  Floralie fingered the tube of scarlet lipstick. She wanted to wear it, but there was something about it that made her feel uneasy. As if putting on that lipstick would change her, somehow, forever. She tucked her fingers back into her palm. Later, she thought. Later.

  Mama slipped a sweet alyssum flower inside the vanity drawer and said, “Your worth is greater than your beauty, Flory. Remember that.”

  The next day in the attic, Nino picked up Philomenos, looked to Floralie, and then dropped the mouse into Floralie’s hand. Floralie’s fingers tensed, but the mouse kept still and quiet, as if he could sense Floralie’s fear. His fur felt soft like the skin of a peach, and his whiskers tickled Floralie’s palm.

  I found him here. He became my first and only friend after I left

  The letters stopped mid-sentence, as if the rest of the words had fallen off a broken bridge.

  After you left . . . prompted Floralie.

  Nino’s mouth twitched. I’ll trade you, he wrote. Secret for a secret?

  Floralie eyed him carefully.

  That way, added Nino, neither of us will tell.

  Floralie bit her lip and looked to Philomenos, who had curled up in her palm. Something warm pressed against her forearm—Nino’s hand.

  And then we’ll trust each other, added Nino. With everything, forever and ever. Okay?

  Floralie nodded.

  They wrote simultaneously, word after word, unraveling their secrets. The words leached to Floralie’s fingernails, holding on with elephant strength. There was something inside the simple letters that wouldn’t let go of Floralie. They were unspeakable. Unwritable. She heaved them onto the page.

  Finally, the two exchanged their secrets.

  Nino’s read:

  I escaped your grandmother’s orphanage. I’m the boy everyone’s been talking about, everyone’s been looking for. Things were bad before, but they only got worse at the orphanage. People were . . . I felt afraid. Always afraid.

  Floralie stared at Nino’s words. She felt as if someone had sliced a hole in her stomach. Nino was the kindest person Floralie had ever met. She wanted to tell him, You didn’t deserve that; you deserve marzipan and silk and cuff links and wonderful, beautiful things, but she seemed only to be able to think in pictures at the moment; any words her brain tried to form came out in hieroglyphics.

  Nino waited, and then Floralie handed him her notebook. We didn’t leave my mother; she was taken from us. My father started drinking even more after that. That’s how he died.

  It was true, but not the whole truth. The whole truth was far too scary to put into writing, into words. This truth was better hidden in gardens, enveloped in the petals of newly sprung tulips, white, just beginning to bloom. A poem lingered under Floralie’s fingers and she was finally able to picture the words in her mind:

  Forget-me-not like this

  Like this is perfect

  Like this you breathe

  In and out like morning glories

  You hold lifetimes in one bloom

  Forget-me-not like this

  Like this you know the bluebells

  Weep tonight under star shine

  You hold oceans in one dewdrop

  Forget-me-not like this

  Like this is perfect

  Like this you live

  For one fleeting moment

  You are in bloom

  You are alive in your universe

  So do not forget

  So never forget

  Like this you live

  One petal on the surface

  You hold roses in thin-veiled skin

  Do not be afraid

  Open up your petals, your palms

  Your lungs, and breathe me in

  Like this, forget-me-not

  Forget-me-not

  Forget me not.

  The words never made it to paper, but Nino smiled. Good. Now we know each other. For real. He tore off Floralie’s secret, pocketed it, then handed his own to Floralie. An inkling of guilt trickled through her spine as she tucked Nino’s secret into her bag, knowing that hers and his were not equal in truth.

  And that was that. Not another word was spoken about either secret.

  One day Mama pulled Floralie by the hand across a grassy cliff and said, “Hide away with me, my wildflower.” In her other hand, Mama carried a parasol flung out behind her. Their steps became cushioned with the wind, feet lighter, breath easier. Nearly flying. When they reached the edge of the cliff, Mama said, “It’s too open here. We’ve got to find a cave. We’ll have a picnic of strawberries there. We’ll look for fairies and elves. We’ll tell secrets there, just you and I, Floralie. Would you like that?”

  “Yes, Mama,” said Floralie. She would like that very much.

  But they never could find the cave. So they never had a picnic of strawberries, and they never looked for fairies, and they never looked for elves. And never did they tell their secrets that day on the cliff by the sea.

  But Mama let a melianthus flower fly away from her fingertips to the grassy hill, saying, “I love you. In time we’ll learn each other’s secrets.”

  That evening, Floralie took the long way home—that is to say, she walked straight past her door, past the cobbler, over the Here and There Bridge, and across the farthest hill of Whitterly End until she met the wrought-iron gate of the Adelaide Laurel Orphanage for Unfortunate Children.

  The manor stood tall and stately, hedges pruned and black curtains drawn across every window. Floralie imagined her life behind the gate. Hardly anyone around town ever saw the orphans; they were scarcely allowed outside. She tried to picture what they might look like—but the only images she could summon up were ones of children with heads of beasts, slimy and big toothed, waiting like tigers to gobble her up. And though she had just met him, she imagined her life without Nino. And that felt very empty indeed.

  She then imagined what her room would look like: plain, gray, flowerless. Her desk would be spotless, and the sheets of her bed would be either tucked too tightly or too loosely. Tom always tucked Floralie’s just right.

  She imagined what Tom’s life had been like there. The story went that Papa persuaded Mama to let Tom stay with Grandmama during his childhood so he would have a better education than was available in Giverny. But Floralie knew the real reason was that Papa was too busy with his banking career to care for a child, and Mama danced ballet shows every other night. Tom never talked much about his time at Grandmama’s orphanage; Floralie wondered how he had kept hope. If he had ever had a wonderland.

  And then Floralie made a promise to herself. Never will I end up behind that gate. Whatever it takes, I will find a way out of this.

  Floralie made her way back to the cottage, and when she crept in through the back door, she found the entire house to be dark—except for the sitting room. As Floralie inched inside, she found Tom sitting at the splintery desk, sorting through bills and bills and bills.

  “Tom?” breathed Floralie.

  Tom’s head snapped up, eyes veined scarlet. The color of poppies, all asleep and dark centered. “Flory. Come in,” he said, his voice soft and fatherly. He clasped his hands together, and turned around on his stool.

  “What can I do for you?” said Tom.

  Floralie’s heart pulsated. As she spoke, her voice quaked. “I . . . I just want to ask you something. I had a tiny—minuscule, really—question, maybe about Grandmama and—and what she has planned for me.”

  “Go on, then,” allowed Tom.

  “Right, well, I wondered if perhaps I could skip going to Grandmama’s and—and find someone else to take me instead. Like, a tutor, or—or perhaps a family member.
” She felt herself shrinking like a morning glory at twilight.

  Tom leaned back in his chair and ran his fingers through his hair. “You know we haven’t got any aunts or uncles. So who precisely did you have in mind?”

  “Well—well, I don’t know, exactly, I’ve barely even thought about it. It was just an idea, really.” Floralie realized her fingers had started to fiddle with the lace on her sleeve, drawing wider an already-present hole. “But—but perhaps Mama.”

  Tom stopped his hair stroking and turned. “Mama?”

  Though his eyes were bloodshot, they pierced through Floralie, and she had to look away.

  “Mama is . . . Floralie, Papa and I explained this to you, remember? Mama is not well—”

  “She was fine when we left her,” whispered Floralie. “Sort of, anyway. I just thought, I always liked Mama. And—and I’ll never be happy at Grandmama’s, you know it, Tom. And Mama was always really good at being ladylike—when she wanted to, anyway—so she could teach me all about that, and I—”

  “Floralie—”

  “—I’ll work really hard. I’ll learn multiplication, and I’ll play the piano—”

  “Flory—”

  “—and I promise I won’t daydream too much, I swear it. Mama didn’t want me to leave her three years ago—I’ll make her happy again, and we’ll be together. You could come visit; it would be just like before. I just . . . have to find her.”

  Tom sighed. “She’s gone, Floralie. She has no connection to us anymore, you know that. She could be anywhere for all I know.”

  “But maybe if you would just tell me where she went in the first place—the address of her new home, even the color of the walls or the slant of its roof, anything.”