“No, Floralie, I can’t.”
The velvet curtains, still hanging from Grandmama’s visit, seemed to close in on Floralie, smothering her vision like fog before a thunderstorm. A flame of anger flickered in Floralie’s chest; none of this would have happened if Grandmama hadn’t sent Mama away in the first place. “You can’t or you won’t?”
Tom sighed. “You think I know more than I do.”
Floralie was almost certain he knew more than he let on. She also knew he was afraid, not only for Floralie’s sake, but for his own. He didn’t want to admit what had happened. No one did. No one would. But Floralie had to know one thing: “Is she still alive?”
Tom closed his eyes and took one of Floralie’s hands. “I don’t know.” He squeezed Floralie’s hand, then regained his concreteness and said, “Regardless, it matters not. Neither of us can have any contact with her anymore. It’s for the best. In four days’ time, you are going to go live with Grandmama. That’s my final word.”
A lump formed at the back of Floralie’s throat, and she croaked, “Won’t you miss me?”
Tom sighed again. “I think I’ve indulged you far too much this evening, Flory. It’s time for bed.”
And so Floralie did as she was told. She crawled into her barren wonderland, stripped of all its magic, and lay upon the sagging cot. And just like that, Floralie’s stone wall crumbled down. Ivy bristled her fingers and pulled her away to her beautiful, faraway, magical place. It was raining in Floralie’s wonderland, but it was warm rain, hopeful rain. Flowers crouched over like old men with canes, but sparkled with the raindrops like newly crowned queens. Tomorrow, Floralie would fight. Tomorrow, she would make a masterpiece from the pigments of her mind. Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow.
When things started going bad, Papa would drive Floralie to the dance studio where Mama practiced to make sure Mama was doing okay. Usually, she was. And usually, Floralie would watch the ballerinas twirl and leap and glide across the wood floor. Everything was beautiful, everything was in bloom—until one day. The rain hammered the roof of the studio, and the air pressed in on Floralie’s skin, heavy and damp. She watched from the wood bench at the end of the studio, next to the director, who was shouting counts at the dancers. Mama bourréed to the center of the stage, pirouetted, pirouetted, pirouetted . . . withered. She fell, crumpled like a dying carnation. She screamed. Dancers crowded in, and Papa told Floralie to stay put, but she could still hear this:
“Please, just take me.”
Floralie never discovered who Mama was talking to.
Mama left a colchicum flower in her pointe shoe and said she was getting new ones in the morning. “My best days have passed, my wildflower.” She sighed, and repeated, “My best days have passed.”
Early next morning, before Tom even had time to call Floralie for breakfast, Floralie found Nino not in his attic, but on the doorstep of the Whitterly Library beside the flower shop. Philomenos sat faithfully next to him, and when the little dormouse caught sight of Floralie, he began to squeak excitedly. Nino looked up and at once got to his feet.
Floralie! he scrawled in his notebook in large, curly letters. He leaped over to her, Philomenos skittering along behind him, and linked arms with Floralie. As they ambled toward the library, Nino wrote, Philomenos and I were thinking this morning about where to start with the flowers. We were sitting on this doorstep, actually, when it occurred to me—the library of course! We’ve got to find Sylvestre Tullier’s flower dictionary, so what better place to start than there? And I have something else to show you, too. A surprise.
Of course, Floralie had visited this library from time to time—mostly just to find Tom, as many nights he studied there as if he were at university. But libraries were not of much interest to Floralie. Museums, though . . . museums were heaven. Perhaps, thought Floralie, libraries were like museums to Nino.
Nino twisted the ivy-laced doorknob, and the two walked in. The familiar, yet ever-so-overwhelming walls of books towered over them. Ladders five times as tall as Floralie clung to bookshelves, and up above was the most marvelous stained-glass window she had ever seen. A golden-rimmed staircase stood at the back, and straight across from it at the front was the librarian’s desk, with a green glass lamp and a scattering of notecards atop it. In the center of the desk rested a plaque that read, MISS DELPHINE CLAIROUX. And behind it sat Miss Clairoux.
Floralie thought Miss Clairoux looked a bit like an iris flower—old, wrinkly, but regal. She was tall and thin with a large silver bun piled atop her head. She was holding open a book, but was not reading it. As Floralie and Nino neared her, Floralie saw that Miss Clairoux was feeling the book, wrinkly fingers traveling across wrinkly pages . . .
Floralie and Nino now stood barely a foot from Miss Clairoux, and Miss Clairoux turned her head up—but her eyes remained closed. Nino took a funny-looking object—a slate of sorts with holes punched in it—and a stylus from the desk. He then slid a note card beneath the slate and began to punch holes into it with the stylus. He finished in half a second and reached for the woman’s hand.
Nino placed the punched paper into Miss Clairoux’s hand, and Miss Clairoux’s face bloomed to life.
“Monsieur Konstantinos! Bonjour to you, too!” Her lips spread wide in a smile so bright and honest it could have belonged to a five-year-old. Her accent was French; Floralie knew it well. “Have you grown taller since I saw you last?” and she opened two milky pale eyes and winked one at Nino, prompting the two to burst into laughter. Floralie breathed a slight laugh, but she really didn’t understand what was so funny.
Nino, however, had pulled out his notebook. Miss Clairoux is blind, he wrote to Floralie.
You know how to write in braille? wrote Floralie, astounded.
Nino shrugged. I can write in lots of languages.
“And who is with you?”
She can hear your breath, explained Nino.
Floralie exchanged a nervous glance with Nino, then cleared her throat. “I—I am, ms.”
Miss Clairoux smiled. “And who is ‘I’?”
“Floralie,” she said. “Floralie Laurel. I sell flowers next door. I’m Nino’s friend.”
Miss Clairoux clasped her hands together. “Oh, young love! C’est belle!”
“No—no, no,” said Floralie. “We’re friends, just friends.”
Nino smiled.
“Un jour, peut-être,” muttered Miss Clairoux, which Floralie knew to mean, “Someday, perhaps.”
Floralie’s cheeks flushed, but thankfully, Miss Clairoux moved the conversation along in a more comfortable direction.
“Now, what can I do for you today, mademoiselle et monsieur?” asked Miss Clairoux. “I’ve got an order of brand-new poetry books coming in for you, Nino, but not until Tuesday.”
Nino had already started writing some more braille.
Miss Clairoux’s fingers read, and then she tilted her head.
“Floriography, you say?” she said. “Follow me,” and Miss Clairoux stepped out from behind her desk. She walked with a cane out in front of her for guidance, but really, she didn’t look like she needed it. She zigzagged in and out of the labyrinth of desks and bookshelves as if she had lived in the place for a century. Perhaps she had.
“Now, these books, I will tell you, are a bit hard to come by these days,” said Miss Clairoux. “While the flower language was a very popular form of communication in the 1800s, having started in France and spread to England, it did start to fade away around 1900. Which, of course, was nearly three decades ago, so we’ll be lucky if we can find some.”
“It’s got to be Sylvestre Tullier’s version, Miss Clairoux,” said Floralie. “It’s important.”
“Syl-Sylvestre . . . who?”
“Tullier,” repeated Floralie.
A far-off look crossed Miss Clairoux’s face. “Tullier,” she whispered, then shook her head, wisps of silver hair swirling as she returned to reality. “Well then, we must search our hardest with wit in our
heads and gusto in our hearts,” declared Miss Clairoux, and a few boys Tom’s age scowled up at her from behind their desks.
The three wandered up to the second floor, and finally, Miss Clairoux stopped at a bookshelf in the corner. She ran her fingers along the spines of the books and pressed her ear up against them as if she were listening.
Nino pulled his notebook out. She’s feeling the books, he wrote.
Feeling them? repeated Floralie.
Nino nodded. Miss Clairoux knows how all her books feel. She knows them by heart.
After a few minutes, Miss Clairoux had pulled out five flower language books.
“Let’s see, I’ve got Jacqueline Fournier’s, Sébastien Laurent’s, Brigitte Leblanc’s, Walter Myer’s, and Albert Winslow’s. But no Sylvestre Tullier. I—I honestly haven’t seen his book in years . . . Why don’t you two get started with these, and I’ll search around to see if Mr. Tullier’s book is hiding somewhere?”
And so Floralie and Nino carried the books to a secluded desk between a bookshelf and a window. When they sat, Floralie wrote, I don’t even know where to begin.
Do you remember any of the flowers in the box? wrote Nino.
Some of them. But I only really know two or three. One was primrose, I remember that. Another was a normal rose—sort of burgundy in color, and . . . oh, I can’t remember. I think a lot of them are exotic, or wildflowers, or just really rare.
Well then, let’s start with primrose, and the two flipped through pages upon pages of flower meanings. Soon, all five books were opened to their primrose pages:
Jacqueline Fournier’s: Primrose: Youth
Sébastien Laurent’s: Primrose: Sadness
Brigitte Leblanc’s: Primrose: Truth
Walter Myer’s: Primrose: Childhood
Albert Winslow’s: Primrose: Believe me
They’re all different, scribbled Floralie in frustration. It’s not going to work.
Let’s find Miss Clairoux, suggested Nino. Maybe she’s found something.
And so Floralie and Nino began to search, but Miss Clairoux was nowhere to be found. However, somewhere along the mystery section, Floralie heard a rustling. She beckoned to Nino, and the two pressed their ears up against the bookshelf—and fell right through.
They hit the floor with a thud, and a pile of books rained down upon them. But when Floralie looked up, she saw that this room was not an ordinary, run-of-the-mill room. It was, indeed, filled with books—thousands of them—just like the library. But these were braille books. Floralie could tell by the small bumps on their spines and their colorless covers. They were not arranged neatly on shelves, however, but stacked in precariously tall piles on the wooden floor. And in the middle stood Miss Clairoux. She spun around so fast a hairpin flew out of her bun. “Who’s there?”
“Just us, Miss Clairoux,” said Floralie. “Floralie and Nino.”
“Oh, gracious dears!” sighed Miss Clairoux, clutching her heart. “You gave me quite a fright.”
“Sorry,” said Floralie.
“No need for apologies, none at all. Come in, dears.”
Nino stood and pulled Floralie to her feet. She brushed off her dress and gazed around at the magnificent sight.
“You’re curious about this place,” said Miss Clairoux. “I can feel your wonderment, dears.” She sighed, slipping into a happy reverie. “Ah yes, this is my dream. Everyone has one, you know. Mine is to open a braille library. In France, of course; all my braille books are in French. I’ve been collecting these books for as long as I can remember. And I’ve read every single one, mind you. Yes, that is my dream. One day, perhaps. Un jour.” She shook her head as if shaking off the dreams. “Now, unfortunately, I have not been able to find Mr. Tullier’s floriography anywhere. Were the others of any use?”
“Not exactly, no,” said Floralie, and Miss Clairoux frowned.
“I could have sworn I had a copy. I imagine it went out of print ages ago, but I could have sworn I had a copy. I am most sorry.”
Floralie’s heart sank.
Miss Clairoux edged her way to Floralie and Nino and said solemnly, “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” said Floralie. “Really, it is,” though she knew it wasn’t. She had to figure out her mother’s message. She had to find her. Whatever it would take, Floralie couldn’t end up with Grandmama—not Grandmama with her sharp diamond rings sinking into flesh and lemon-scented hugs suffocating Floralie’s lungs. She had to get Tom out of debt, and she had to save Mama from whatever fate she had met. But most of all, they had to be together again, because Mama and Floralie and Tom, they were like mariposa lilies—one petal falls away, the rest fall apart. “Thanks for looking,” said Floralie, stringing together new plans in her mind. Perhaps she could catch a train to London—Tom said there was a library there with every book in the world. “I guess we’ll go, then.”
Miss Clairoux nodded. “Good luck, my dears. Bonne chance.”
Floralie and Nino left the braille book room, but as Floralie nodded toward the door, Nino stopped her.
Wait, he wrote. Despite Floralie’s own disappointment, Nino was wearing his crooked grin again. I know you’re upset about Sylvestre Tullier. More upset than you’ll admit.
Floralie looked away.
But I want to show you something. He laced his fingers through Floralie’s. Come with me.
Tom, Floralie, and Mama once took a train to Cappadocia, Turkey, just for two days, but it was enough time to fall in love with the place. They soared off in a hot air balloon together, a bright, pink paint splotch against the big blue sky. And when they landed, Mama left a blue violet in the hot air balloon basket and whispered, “We must take faith, my wildflower. Always.”
Floralie and Nino snaked through the desks and shelves of the library until at last they came to a small section closed off by bookshelves.
Remember how you told me your room was your wonderland? wrote Nino. I mean, before Tom tore things down? Well, this is my wonderland. I thought, since yours is destroyed now, maybe we could share it. I know poetry’s not your favorite thing in the world, but . . . I don’t know. I just wanted you to see it.
Are these all poetry books? Floralie picked one off the shelf and sat on the floor, flipping through it. Philomenos scuttled over to the book and started to tear at a page, but Nino promptly shooed him off.
That’s my favorite, wrote Nino. It’s not all poems. There are some, but mostly, it’s simply a collection of thoughts, ideas, and art. Curated dreams.
Floralie read the title: A History of Dreamlands. It had a familiar ring to it, but Floralie could not pinpoint where she had heard it. It was as if the title were a memory within a memory within a dream.
It starts at the beginning, wrote Nino.
The beginning of what?
Time, of course. Well, close enough to the beginning. It starts with Sappho, a most eloquent poet of ancient Greece. She’s absolutely fantastic. Someday, I wish to uncover more of her poems.
Floralie smiled. Is that your dream?
Nino shrugged.
What is it? wrote Floralie.
What’s what?
Something’s wrong. You’re hiding behind an “I’m fine.”
Nino blushed. I was born in Greece. And when I lived there, before they died, my parents were archaeologists. Every night that they weren’t working, they would read me a Sappho poem. Well, one night a tunnel collapsed on them. They were digging for more of her poetry. They were digging for me.
Floralie squeezed Nino’s hand. I’m sorry.
Nino shrugged again. It’s okay. I was, maybe, six years old then? Anyway, if I’ve calculated right, I’m twelve now, so that was a long while ago. Since then I spent my life traveling and scavenging for food. Thieving, mostly. Until one day, a policeman caught me stealing bread at King’s Cross Station in London. He took me to Mrs. Laurel’s. I won’t lie, she could be cruel. The slightest step out of line—resting elbows on the table, or speaking without being spoken to
—would get you a week’s worth of mopping up the dining hall and eating scraps off the kitchen stove.
It was hardly any better than the streets. Everyone hurt me there—bullies, but also people I thought were my friends, even the caretakers and tutors. It was because of my voice. I can’t talk too well . . . so I just stopped.
But yes. Yes, that is my dream. Someday, I want to finish what they started. He sighed and added, Anyway. The book. It goes all the way to present day. At the end you’ve got contemporary surrealist poems, thoughts from philosophers and artists, and a couple essays on modern-day inventors.
Floralie flipped to the first chapter, which, indeed, read Sappho across the top. The first poem read:
Time will pass, but they will remember us . . .
It’s short, wrote Floralie.
Nino nodded. It’s a fragment. But you can say a lot in just a few words, no? Try this one. He turned to page 42.
In one breath, night whispers away her flames
And hours entwine in hours
For the moon is slipping to ash
And I am slipping, too.
The poem beside it caught Floralie’s eye.
Let me see you, darling . . .
Let me unravel the wonder in your eyes.
What are the pauses for? The three periods? asked Floralie.
It’s broken, wrote Nino, the words small and light as if they were a whisper.
What do you mean?
The ellipses, wrote Nino. See, when archeologists found Sappho’s poems, the papyrus was all crumpled up. Some parts of the papyrus were missing—so, only fragments of the poems could be recovered. The translator uses ellipses to mark the spaces where the papyrus was broken. It’s the same with all the short poems that end in ellipses—they’re fragments, tiny pieces of poems. That’s why they’re broken. Isn’t that beautiful?
Floralie didn’t exactly understand how brokenness could make something beautiful, but she didn’t want to offend Nino. Yes, she wrote. Yes, I suppose.
Floralie flipped through to the end and was about to close the book when something caught her eye—a photograph of an old, gray-bearded man, a middle-aged man holding a baby in one hand, a book in the other, and a young teenage girl with daisy-blond hair and vivacious eyes. They stood in front of a manor blooming with flowers, a mailbox in the front with the number 84 printed in squiggly script. Floralie had seen that house before, many times, a recurring memory, now turned over to dreamland. Now turned over to wonderland. Floralie read a quote, tiny, whispery print beneath the photograph:
The Flourishing of Floralie Laurel Page 6
