by J A Armitage
“Gossip says the younger duke was like that in his youth,” Daisy said. “Had a reputation for being a bit of an ass. Fortunately, he seems to have grown out of his bad habits.”
I imagined Lilian being trapped in a marriage like that one. Seeing her and Duke Remington in the newspaper enjoying themselves had grabbed at my heart and ripped it to shreds, but at least, he didn’t seem to have taken after his parents.
It was something to be grateful for.
After breakfast, I headed straight for the walkway from the previous night where the tulips had been dying, but I didn’t make it more than ten steps out the door before Reed jogged toward me. His slender, freckled face was pale with worry, making his big dark eyes look twice their normal size.
I stopped in my tracks.
“What’s wrong?” I said.
“It’s probably nothing.”
He shook his head, but it was too late for me to believe that. Something was wrong—terribly wrong. My mind flitted to Lilian, then the festival. Reed fidgeted and twisted his hands together.
“What?” I demanded.
He bit his lip. “You’d better come see.”
I knew what I was going to find before we got there, but that didn’t stop my stomach from lurching at the sight. Another flower bed near the palace walls—this one full of Queen’s Tulips, the flowers that were the pride and joy of Floris—was dotted with the nodding gray heads of diseased plants. The die-off in this bed was worse than I’d seen last night.
Much worse.
“Does Jonquil know?” I said. “The others? The tulip specialists?”
“It’s not just the tulips,” Reed said.
I followed his gaze. A trellis thick with wisteria lined the walkway nearby. In a few of the clusters, the pale purple of the blossoms had begun to fade toward gray.
“Tulip blight wouldn’t affect wisteria.”
The words escaped my mouth before I had a chance to think through the implications of such a thing. The questions that could only follow such a statement hung in the air.
“Yeah,” Reed said, acknowledging the pregnant silence between us.
I stared at the wisteria, then back at the tulips.
“But yes, the others know,” Reed said. “Anyone who’s on shift in this part of the gardens, anyway. It’s not just these.”
Icy cold prickled down my arms in spite of the morning sun. It didn’t make sense. No disease that invaded the tulips should impact the wisteria like this. But when I moved closer to inspect the gray blossoms, it was clear that we were dealing, however improbably, with the same illness. The flowers all shared the same flat lack of color, the same sogginess under my fingers, the same sickly-sweet smell of decay.
“Any idea what it is?”
“He hasn’t a clue,” someone said loudly behind us.
My shoulders tensed at the voice, and I turned to frown at Jonquil.
“This started in the tulip beds,” I said. “You should have caught this earlier.”
His face flushed red, and the injustice of my words twisted in the pit of my stomach. It wasn’t Jonquil’s fault. I’d seen the decay, too. I’d never imagined it would spread so fast, or like this.
“Perhaps you should have been keeping a sharper eye on your gardens,” Jonquil retorted.
Never mind that I had forty acres to manage, and never mind that I wasn’t a tulip specialist. I ground my teeth together to stop myself from saying something I’d regret later.
Always give yourself time before you speak, Hedley had told me a long time ago, back when he’d started quietly training me to fill his boots. Better to be sure you mean what you say.
Years later, it was a lesson I still struggled to learn.
“We need to get this quarantined, and fast,” I said. “Jonquil, focus on the tulips. See if you can figure out what’s gone wrong. Pull in anyone you need to help. Reed, take a few of the apprentices and have them search the whole garden in case this is showing up elsewhere.”
“I don’t have time for this,” Jonquil said.
I hated having thoughts in common with him. The Flower Festival was coming up quickly, and no one on my staff had a second to spare, let alone the full day it would likely take to find and remove every diseased flower in the garden.
“We either make time, or we’ll have to spend more of it tomorrow,” I said grimly. “With any luck, it won’t have gone beyond these beds. Check the walkways along the palace wall, too,” I added. “I saw something like this there last night. Meant to talk to you about it this morning.”
“Would have been good to know about that before it spread,” Jonquil said.
I held up a hand. “There’s no way it would have gotten from there to here that quickly. If it’s the same blight in both groups of tulips, they’re both victim to some outside cause.”
Jonquil muttered something under his breath, which I didn’t ask him to repeat. I nodded at him to go and was relieved when he slunk away.
He might not like taking orders from me, but the seriousness of this situation wasn’t something any of my gardeners could ignore.
“What do you think it is?” Reed said in a low voice once Jonquil had gone.
I shoved my hands into my pockets and stared at the dead gray tulips. They seemed especially bleak, surrounded by the brightly iridescent Queen’s Tulips, and the urgency of removing them before the sickness could spread gripped me.
I took a deep breath and tried to get the sudden pounding of my heart under control. “I have no idea.”
I had never been one for libraries. The dust on the books made me sneeze, and the tiny print on the pages made my eyes ache. I’d been born for sunshine and fresh air, not dim lamplight and this musty scent that tickled the inside of my nose.
I wished I had Lilian here. She adored books of all kinds, and I loved listening to her read aloud. We’d gotten through most of our schooling that way, with Lilian narrating passages in her melodic voice while I weeded herb beds or taught myself to juggle.
Now, of course, the princess of Floris had better things to do than read to her gardener, so I ignored the headache blooming between my eyes and squinted at the page.
Blight is difficult to eradicate once the disease is established in the tulip bed. However, a competent gardener may attempt remedy by any of the following means.
I skimmed the list that followed. All the information was obvious to the point I could have recited it in my sleep. Remove and burn the infected plants. Check bulbs for mold or signs of rot. If planting in raised beds or containers, change out the soil, and if planting in the ground, avoiding putting tulips there for a few years to avoid the spores infecting future plants.
That was all well and good, but this wasn’t some common blight. I’d seen firehead blight before, and gray bulb rot, and pythium root rot, and bulb nematode, and breaking virus, and this wasn’t any of those.
This was something new, and none of these books seemed equipped to identify the problem, let alone deal with it.
Footsteps shuffled along the row of books to my right, then stopped. I looked up from my table, with its mass of stacked tomes, and met King Alder’s gaze. I shot to my feet and bowed.
“Your Majesty, my apologies. I didn’t see you there.”
The king seemed to bite back a smile. A few slender volumes were under his arm, their spines decorated with gold flowers.
“My apologies for disturbing you,” he said. “I was merely curious as to what had you under such a spell.” He nodded at the books. “I didn’t expect to find you indoors so close to the festival.”
His smile made it clear that this was only a comment, not a chastisement, but my face heated up anyway.
“A good gardener always stays up to date on developments in the field,” I said. Thank goodness a few of the books behind me had been published in this decade.
“I’ve always admired your dedication to your work,” King Alder said. “As did Hedley. He told me more than once that your
hunger for knowledge of your plants couldn’t be matched.” He glanced at the towering stack of books, and his eyebrows drew together. “I think he might have understated the case. We are prepared for the Flower Festival, aren’t we?”
“Everything’s well in hand, sir,” I said with a slight bow.
I sent a silent prayer to whoever might be listening that it would be true.
The King offered me one of his warm smiles. “I’ll leave you to your studies, then.”
“Did you find what you were looking for?” I nodded at the books under his arm.
He started as if he’d forgotten he was holding them and glanced down at the floral covers. “I did,” he said. He held one up, revealing the elaborately scripted title The Knight of the Mountain Mists: A Tale of Heroism and Romance. “The Queen is still abed and beginning to resent her inactivity.”
I permitted myself a grin. “Her Majesty has never been one to enjoy sitting still.”
The queen was every bit a lady, but always an active one. It was she who had taught Lilian how to shoot a bow, ride horses, and train dogs and birds. I’d rarely seen the queen without something in her hands—a piece of embroidery, the strings of her lute, a hand of playing cards.
“Being trapped in bed must be torture for a woman as lively as your wife if you’ll permit me to say so, sir,” I said.
“You speak only the truth.” The king grimaced, though there was deep affection buried in the expression.
“Is she feeling any better?” I bit my lip. “I realize it’s been only a day since we spoke.”
“A long day,” the king said. “She seems to be brighter this afternoon. The court physician expects a full recovery.”
He spoke as if he were reciting someone else’s words. I considered pressing him for more, but what good would it do? The king had no reason to share his personal life with his gardener, and I was so full of worry about the blasted tulips that worrying about the queen on top of it was likely to kill me.
“Give her my best wishes,” I said.
“I did yesterday,” the king said. “She sends her love.”
I had never had a mother. But in moments like this, when I was reminded of the queen’s kindness to me, I felt a hint of what it might be like to have that kind of sunshine over my life.
I bowed to the king, and he moved away, the books once again firmly under his arm.
I couldn’t disappoint him, or the queen. I would find the answer to this problem, no matter what it took.
I turned back to the books. The throbbing in my head returned within moments.
I ignored it.
My soul recoiled the moment I stepped into the greenhouse. Normally this incredible jungle of tropical plants lifted my spirits like nowhere else in the gardens. Today, though, I wasn’t met with just the plants.
Jonquil sat with his arms folded at one of the round iron-wrought tables that dotted this large paved clearing. His gaze was trained on me, and there was nothing inviting or forgiving in it. The other gardeners at their various tables were focused on me, too, their faces strained or dismissive or outright angry. The late-afternoon light streaming like gilt through the glass ceiling did nothing to soften their expressions.
This greenhouse, normally used for the queen’s luncheons during the colder months, was one of the only garden spaces big and private enough for an all-staff meeting. It was the third I’d held since I’d taken on Hedley’s responsibilities almost a year ago and the first to be called to address an emergency.
I swallowed and looked out at them. My heart pounded.
Amid the unfriendly faces, Reed smiled and nodded his support: You can do it.
I took a deep breath.
“Thank you all for coming at such short notice,” I said. “I know you’re busy.”
“Get to the point,” Jonquil muttered.
I pretended I hadn’t heard.
“As most of you probably know, we’re experiencing an unusual form of blight in the gardens. We haven’t seen it before, and it seems to spread quickly. The tulip specialists and I are trying to identify and eradicate it, but that means we’re going to need to redistribute some assignments so we’re still ready for the festival on time.”
A few groans rose up around the room. Olive’s forehead knit in concern. Beneath the dangling leafy tendrils of a variegated pothos, Hollis leaned forward and rested her elbows on the table as she stared intently at me.
“I know it’s a lot to ask that anyone take on extra responsibilities right now,” I said. “If this situation continues for more than a few days, I plan to ask King Alder for extra holiday time for each of you after the festival is over. For now, we need to band together to deal with this problem and put on the kind of Flower Festival the world expects from us.”
Chervil raised his hand. “I heard the disease that’s affecting the tulips spread to other plants,” he said, spitting the words at me like an accusation. “Is that true?”
My shoulders tensed at the reminder. “It seems to have passed to some nearby wisteria and a few daffodils,” I said. “We’re wondering if it might be some kind of insect that’s causing the issue, although we can’t confirm that yet.”
Olive clasped her hands on the table in front of her. “What can we do to protect our plants?”
The question hit me like a punch to the gut. I couldn’t answer it. Helplessness gripped me, and I fought to rise above its heaviness.
“Keep a sharp eye on your beds.” My words rang out clearly, delivered in the voice of someone who knew what he was talking about. Behind them, I hid like a liar. “Let me know immediately if you see anything amiss. The more information we can gather about this issue, the sooner we can handle it.”
“That’s wishful thinking,” Jonquil said without bothering to raise his hand. “For all we know, there’s nothing we can do.”
It was my worst fear. Hearing it aloud woke something violent inside of me. I fixed him with a sharp glare. “Are you admitting you aren’t competent enough to be serving in the court of Floris?”
He shrank back, and I looked out at the rest of them with my head high.
“We are the best this nation has to offer,” I said, anger edging my voice like thorns. “Floris is the world’s leader in horticulture, and we are the best gardeners in Floris. If we can’t beat this thing, it can’t be beat. Are you willing to admit defeat?”
They stared at me. A smirk passed over Reed’s face, and he grinned when I caught his eye.
“I said, are you willing to admit defeat?” I repeated.
I looked out at them, and finally, after a long, awkward pause, a few people mumbled, “No.”
Olive leaned forward and cleared her throat. “I didn’t fight my way to the palace gardens just to let a little tulip disease chase me away,” she announced. “I’m ready to take on whatever extra work you need.”
“I didn’t fight my way to the palace gardens to let a teenage upstart give me orders,” Chervil muttered, just loudly enough to be heard by everyone. “And yet, here we are.”
Mace raised his hand. I nodded at him.
“No offense intended,” he started. My stomach twisted with dread at whatever was coming next. “But why should we trust that you know how to deal with this problem? I don’t mean to be rude. Clearly, Master Hedley thought you were a good apprentice, or he wouldn’t have left you in charge.” Condescension leaked from his voice. “It’s just that—and you’ll forgive me for saying this, I don’t mean anything by it—it’s just that you’re young, and you perhaps don’t have the experience needed to tackle a problem of this size?”
I let out a long, slow breath before I answered. Reed’s grin had faded, and he looked now like it was taking all his effort not to smack Mace upside the head.
The annoyance on his face gave me strength.
“With all due respect,” I started, unable to keep a slight tinge of sarcasm out of my voice. Reed’s jaw twitched. “I’m not the only person working on this problem.
At a rough guess, I’d say that together, we have over three hundred years’ worth of experience in this room. Myrtle alone has been working with tulips for almost forty years now, and Linden wrote the literal book on breeding rot-resistant bulbs. You’re right. I don’t have the experience necessary to solve this problem. We do.”
Reed silently mimed clapping his hands. I made a mental note to buy him a beer later.
Even so, as they all filed out of the greenhouse after the meeting, I couldn’t destroy the echo of Mace’s words in my head. I didn’t have what it took to solve this problem.
But I knew someone who might.
29th March
The train jerked to a stop. Steam billowed past my window, and the sounds of people gathering their belongings filled the carriage. A woman nearby hoisted her young daughter onto her hip and kissed the top of her head. The little girl was blonde with rosy cheeks and a purple hair bow almost as big as her head. She reminded me of Lilian at that age. I smiled at her, and she grinned shyly back.
I waited until the carriage was mostly empty, then followed the last few stragglers out of the car and onto the platform. People milled about, greeting loved ones and complaining about the journey. Through the crowd, I caught sight of a familiar silver head and salt-and-pepper beard. My heart lifted.
“Hedley!” I called.
I raised a hand, and his gaze landed on me. The crinkles around his smiling eyes deepened, and he stood, immovable as a boulder, as I made my way through the crowd toward him.
His hug was warm and strong as ever, and I let myself squeeze him as hard as I wanted to and hold on for a few extra seconds. When we pulled back, his whole face twinkled with happiness.
“It’s good to see you,” I said.
“You’re a head taller,” Hedley said, which wasn’t remotely true. “And look at the muscles in those arms. What have they been feeding you, boy?”
“Hard work,” I said. “Lots of it.”
“Good. Young men need that. Keeps them out of trouble.”
