Page 28
BLOSSOMS AND STEEL
E
The next morning, Elara returns to the garden.
She sits on the second step of the grand, dark marble staircase, looking out at the thick green leaves dusted with morning frost. A few resilient white paperwhites bloom amidst the cold air, their pale petals anchoring the quiet landscape. Nearby, an elderly gardener tends to them with unhurried care, untouched by the bustle of the palace beyond. Her gaze lingers on a cluster of pink poppies, and, as always, her thoughts return to her mother.
The silver ring upon her finger remains a strange weight, and the crown resting upon her head acts as a constant reminder of the forced arrangement. Wrapped in her usual gown, with long silk gloves shielding her hands and arms, she feels little of the cold beyond the sting at the tip of her nose.
A stronger wind sweeps through the garden, carrying with it the sharp bite of winter, though it scarcely troubles her.
Footsteps and low murmured chatter reach her ears. A group of three women approaches along the path. One has pale skin and wears a pink silk scarf wrapped around her head, covering her hair and neck. Her coat is thick, and her clothing beneath is hidden by a black gardening apron. The second woman, with warm-toned skin, has long golden hair and emerald eyes, dressed in a simple long gown with thick tights underneath, a glimpse of them appearing around her ankles as the skirt sways from the wind. The third has hazelnut-dark skin, her black hair secured in a neat bun, wire frames resting upon her nose, and plain breeches paired with a long tunic.
When they notice Elara alone upon the steps, embarrassment takes hold of her. The sound of their giggles and whispered words cuts deeper than expected. A throb beats within her chest, carrying the weight of the isolation she has endured throughout her life.
Harsh words spoken behind her back. Cruel laughter from common children she once tried to befriend during outings through the market streets, mocking her for being too prim and proper to ever join their games.
They had called her entitled for wanting companionship, for wishing to talk, to laugh, to run freely and play. Even grown adults spoke of her with cruelty, whispering words like political pawn and useless heir that she did not understand until she was older, unafraid of any punishment from a careless king who never bothered to enforce her safety.
A physical shiver runs through her tightening frame. Few ever understood that the title, the wealth, or the distance placed between her and others were things never requested. Unfamiliar treatment and harsh judgment had always followed her nature and her uncertainty.
Shifting her gaze away to shut out the soft laughter, a longing arises to escape the moment. Immobilized on the marble step, she forces her frame to remain perfectly frozen, hoping that staying still will prevent the three women from noticing her presence.
The women move through the garden, each carrying brown paper bags. The trio works near the patch of hardy hellebores, their gloved hands parting the frosted earth with care and setting the loosened soil aside before placing the winter roots within. Another woman waters the ground, smoothing the soil against the chill.
The third woman approaches Elara, her dark skin catching a soft golden sheen beneath the morning sunlight.
“Your Highness,” she says, inclining her head with respect. “Do you take an interest in these flowers? Forgive me if I seem intrusive, but I could not help but notice.”
Straightening her posture as her earlier anxieties ease, she offers a smile. “Yes,” she replies. “I adore flowers, especially pink poppies.”
The woman lets out a laugh. “A coincidence, then. His Highness requested that we clear the dead autumn stalks and prepare the earth to plant pink poppy bulbs for the spring. It was a surprise to the three of us. We expected roses, or apple trees, since they are so prized in Riverath.” Her gaze drifts toward the garden, where the remaining leaves carry shades of yellow and orange against the gray sky. “Though it is winter, he insisted on this preparation.”
“He did?” Elara’s heart skips a beat, a wave of confusion rushing straight to her chest.
She stares at the dark earth, her mind spinning back to the silence of the bedchamber last night. She replays the sound of Cael’s muffled sniffles in the dark, matching his tears with the verses she read from his booklet. The realization that he secretly ordered these specific flowers, her mother’s favorite, just for her alters her old assumptions. He is not the cruel, detached captor her father trained her to expect; he tracks her grief in secrecy.
Still, a cold spike of fear keeps her protective barrier locked. She worries that leaning into this hidden kindness is a dangerous trap, a vulnerability that will leave her exposed when the reality of their forced political transaction inevitably crashes down.
“Yes. Quite unexpected,” the woman continues, smiling. “If you wish to explore the grounds further, you may do so. Our work will not disturb you.”
“I would like to help you plant them. I wish to learn,” Elara reconsiders.
The woman’s brows rise in pleasant surprise before her expression softens into a warm smile. “Of course, Your Highness. We would be honored to teach you.”
Before they begin working the soil, the dark-haired woman hands Elara a light wooden rake to help clear the remaining debris from the patch. Elara takes the tool, the smooth handle cool against her palms as she pulls the dried yellow and orange leaves away from the planting beds, piling them neatly to the side.
Finishing with the last of the dead roots and clearing the fallen leaves, the remaining two women turn toward Elara. “She wishes to join us?” the woman with the scarf asks, her voice bright with delight.
“I may?” Elara asks, caught off guard by her own boldness. “But... what of my gown? It will be stained.”
The blonde woman lets out a quiet laugh. “Flowers have never minded fine fabric, Your Highness. Mud certainly does.” She gestures toward a nearby shed. “We keep plenty of gardening aprons to protect your dress. We have even helped Her Highness before. We simply gather the skirt, pin it in place, and you will be able to move about comfortably.”
Elara’s shoulders ease. “Do you happen to have any pins?”
While the first woman steps away to retrieve a garden apron, the remaining two stand close. Receiving a nod of consent, they lift the fabric of the gown, folding the skirt and securing it just above her knees. A chill brushes her skin, sending a ripple of goosebumps along her legs. When the woman with the scarf returns, she produces several golden pins from her pocket and looks up at Elara with a smile.
“I must always be prepared, Your Highness,” she says with a laugh. “My scarf does not always stay in place.”
