The great,
grey ship hangs above Stylwark like an iron cloud—although
it is actually made of a substance called Glerkhanum, its inhabitants would be
sure to correct you if you asked. Its lower shields have been painted a dull bronze; its
wings are like those of a butterfly, sending half of the city into shadow. It
is not particularly intimidating, nor is it particularly beautiful, but it
makes you shiver every time you catch sight of it glimmering outside the Flower
Emporium’s window.
‘An insect with horns,’ Jessica calls it, shaking his head, whenever he catches
you staring at it—which is often. ‘Get back to work, you knob.’ And he hands
you another bunch of roses that need slicing up; you press them into oil in an
almost mechanical way, because that is the biggest sell this season: rose
perfume (made from actual roses!). You think people would tire of the advert—but
they never do, and you count yourself lucky, sometimes, that you didn’t grow up
in a city.
The flowers in the shop are large and colourful, like ostriches, all
genetically engineered to last longer than normal ones. Every new specie that
the scientists in New London dole out is brighter, more flamboyant, and less
like a flower and more like a five-year-old’s first attempt at building a house
out of clay. You are not fond of that kind
of flower. ‘What’s the point of them if they can’t breathe?’ you ask Jessica,
and he just shrugs. Jessica doesn’t waste his time thinking these kind of
things, even though you can tell he is not fond of the Prientas Gulgarum and Therndegs
either. When he handles the large, cactus-like flowers, he does it with
distaste.
‘It’s not natural,’ he says, and you wonder if he is talking about the ship
hovering over City Hall, or the newest shipment of Carthage roses. The
cash-register clatters beneath his lightning-fast movements; his forehead is
scrunched up and a slip of paper is pressed between his teeth. ‘Yeah, some of
them’re all right, I guess’—here, you gather that he is talking about flowers—‘but if it weren’t for your farmhand
flowers, we’d have been out of business a decade ago.’
You nod distractedly as a gaggle of teenage girls cluster at the entrance and
demand bouquets in different sizes to be tied to their hats—large, vulture-like
creations in blue and black. ‘A wedding,’ they tell you, and you nod, wondering
if the weight of their headgear would be enough to cause a domino-effect in the
pews.
‘Oi, Miles, hand me another of these carnations over there,’ Jessica says, and
you push your way through the crowd to get to him, squeezing your way between
two men with handlebar moustaches as they argue over the stems of a Flora Contestus. A handbag swings into
your face and you trip over your own feet. Finally, you duck underneath the
counter and emerge on the other side, your mouth full of the leaves from
somebody’s awry bouquet.
Jessica’s gaze is still focussed on the cash-register. He holds out a hand. You
notice his palm is bleeding.
‘Your palm is bleeding,’ you say.
‘I know. Cut it on an untrimmed rose.’ Something flickers in his dark eyes. ‘Carnation,
please.’ His teeth are gritted as he takes the yellow flower, and glances out
of the large, circular window that takes up most of the Emporium’s west wall. His
palms are sweaty and he jumps when you place a hand on his shoulder ten minutes
later, nearly ramming into the low ceiling.
‘Jess ... you okay? You’re a little … er, you look like…’
‘Like shit.’ He runs a hand through his short spiky hair. ‘It’s nothing.’ He
looks out the window again, then drags his gaze to the large antique dial clock
that you imported from London five years ago. It reads three o’clock. ‘You’d
better go on home,’ he says. ‘I’ll deal with the old coot, er, coots’—he
gestures at the men still arguing over the Flora
Contestus—‘and close down shop.’ You hesitate, looking down at your
trainers, but Jess clicks his tongue impatiently. ‘Go on, Eileen’s prob’ly
waiting for you.’
You laugh. It is the kind of laugh that speaks of bitterness in all languages,
short and humourless.
‘Yeah, I bet she is,’ you say heavily, and Jess gives you a friendly pat on the
shoulder.
‘Go on, man, it has to be better than last night.’
You look around the shop, at the years of work you put into it after your
family migrated from the South, escaped the plague, died, leaving you nothing
but flowers to arrange for their chain-funerals. The shop is a timeline. It
started out as nothing more but a garden patch. The Emporium was your
beginning, you think, gathering up the shop-apron between your fists. Eileen was your beginning.
You suck a breath in as you move towards the window, looking out at the ship—at
the shadows it casts across half the city. It arrived a day ago, and it shows
no signs of leaving any time soon. A stairway has been constructed at the
ship’s gates, from where the … guests? Aliens? The newspapers weren’t clear on
which … are expected to disembark the next morning. You look at the dark
outline of buildings in the distance, and you remember Eileen’s threats from
the night before, the crying and the crashing of a wine bottle so close to your
face. You remember her melting to the ground, sobbing after hurling harsh words
at you. Shouldn’t you have been the one to cry? you wonder. It’s not your fault
she’s like this.
You pluck a single daffodil from one of the not-for-sale vases by the counter.
Throwing a half-hearted grin at Jess, you mutter a ‘goodbye’ and stride out of
the back entrance, chucking the apron over the door as you go.
When you get home that night, a purple lilac is speared to the front door with
a kitchen knife. You pull the knife out of the door and a note flutters to the
ground.
It reads: ‘Goodbye’.
~*~
November passes in a haze. Every morning you wake up, as people are wont to do,
and the ship still hangs there, unmoving. The city hall and the train station,
called the Expressway, are in perpetual night. Office workers complain that the
ship completely ruins their view of the Alps in the distance—the Alps being the
miniature steel mountains that start somewhere in Boston and end in New York,
of course—but the government shrugs it off. There’s really not much you can do
where an International Deputation of Royals is concerned, especially when
they’ve travelled 200 years back in time just to visit your town. People will
just have to understand.
It fascinates you, if you are honest with yourself. The ship being there is
exciting, even though you don’t really know why
it’s there. Its undercarriage is a glimmering white set in contrast to the
dull bronze of its shields, and you have begun to talk about it at work, much
to Jessica’s aggravation. He thinks the ship is bringing bad luck, but you only
scoff at him. Bad luck doesn’t exist. If it did, you insist, it would make
sense for good luck to exist, too. But it doesn’t. It doesn’t, it doesn’t, it
doesn’t. Eileen is proof of that.
This morning, the streets are carpeted with the gold leaves off the newly
imported tropical trees that have been planted in floating boxes along the
avenue. It is a lovely sight, especially when you are walking to work and an
entire branch falls at your feet. The flower shop is making a lot of money
selling artificial flowers as winter nears, but you keep a sprig of Tantelion in
a jar on the counter. For memory’s sake, you tell Jessica, but the whole truth
is that it reminds you of Eileen. It pains you to admit, but you’re still in
love with her. Jessica understands, of course, because he’s known you for
twenty years, ever since you crashed into one another on your baby-buggies on
the Californian Expressway. Your mothers, each finding the other to be a
kindred spirit, became fast friends. The two of you have been inseparable ever
since, even if Jessica is overbearing sometimes, and has the oddest
fashion-sense.
Recently, Jess has been less overbearing and more skittish. Every day, at ten
minutes to three, his face becomes drawn and he disappears mysteriously into
the back after asking for a carnation. Some days it is a yellow carnation,
other days it is pink or purple—but never white. You wonder what is going on,
but you have learnt, as Jess’s friend, that people safeguard their secrets as a
reason.
So you do not pry.
The bell jingles as you enter the shop at eight in the morning, smiling
brightly at Jessica, who is already dusting the counter. He coughs and
brandishes the duster at you. ‘Hey. How’re you?’ He doesn’t wait for an answer,
of course; he can read the answer in your eyes. Despite your pretences, you’re
still not over her. He hasn’t sympathised, of course, because Jessica’s not
like that.
He hands you a broom instead.
You work quietly for a half-hour, watering the flowers and turning on the
artificial meadow-burst. The inside of the Emporium is much more pleasant than
the outside—the skylight and the translucent walls make it appear larger than
it is, and even though it’s not in any way natural, the artificiality is not
stifling. The familiarity soothes you.
At ten minutes to
nine, someone raps on the back door. Jessica swears profusely. ‘Damn it, I told her not to come early,’ he mutters,
averting his eyes from yours as he glares at the back door. Whoever it is
standing there knocks again, and again, until you’re surprised the door hasn’t
budged underneath the barrage of fists.
Jess grunts and disappears into the back, the beaded curtain clicking as he
leaves. You stare at the door for a second and, despite a voice in your head
urging you not to, follow him inside.
The back is small, a mostly-bare room with only one window. It is cluttered
with flowers, pots, and tins of paint. Jessica has the door open by the barest
inch; his head is stuck in that space and he is arguing with someone in furious
whispers.
‘Flying batshit, woman, I don’t care, I
told you you’ll be seen if you come at this time—the back alley’s used by the
morning workers and if someone recognises you—’
The laugh that follows this is soft and musical. You move closer to the door. When
she speaks again, you notice that she has a light accent, not unlike the New
Londoners, but … somewhat different.
‘No one will recognise me. By earth
standards, I should’ve been dead two-hundred years ago.’
‘Your skin is white. Cover it over
with as much paint as you will, one accident and everyone will know.’ Jess’s
shoulders are shaking now; he grips the door tightly.
‘Oh, it’s not like yours is any better,’ the woman hisses. ‘What’ve you done—perma-dyed
it? They didn’t get behind your ears all that well, did they?’
You reach up and touch your own skin. You are surprised with how correct the
woman’s guess it—no one has guessed, in the ten years out of your twenty-seven
that you’ve spent in Stylwark—that your colour is the result of a dye-job Jess
gave you in a ratty old apartment in San Francisco ten years ago. The colours—bright-green—hasn’t
faded since. You wonder how the woman noticed—no one has, not in ten years. If
they had, the Stylwark police would’ve thrown him into prison no sooner had he
crossed the border into East America.
‘Look, you’ll get into trouble,’ Jess is saying now. The woman replies quietly,
but you can’t hear what she says, so you inch even closer to the door. You’re
so caught up in trying to listen in on their conversation that you don’t look
to see where you’re going—your foot snags on the handle of a mop and you trip,
your jaw colliding with the wooden floor.
‘Owh,’ you yelp, eyes streaming. You hear the sound of floorboards creaking as
Jess turns around and swears—‘Crap, Miles’.
You roll over on the floor, rubbing your now-throbbing jaw, and Jess’ face
swims into focus. You grin sheepishly. His brown eyes narrow into a glare.
Sighing, he says, ‘C’mon,’ and he hoists you up by the elbow.
When you stand, you are nearly a foot taller than Jess, with his smaller, wiry
build, but you shrink under his withering look. He is not pleased. You look
away from him—at the door, which has swung open. The woman peers into the room
curiously, a pale green—you assume ‘painted’—hand placed on the old, metal
door. Her light brown hair falls in curls around her small face, and she grins
at him impishly. Her incisors are oddly pointy.
‘Wotcher,’ she says, raising a hand at him in greeting. ‘I’m assuming you’re
Master Two of the shop?’
You nod at her. ‘Yeah.’ Then, because Jess has proceeded to glare at his feet
instead, you continue: ‘What are you looking for?’
‘What?’ Her nose scrunches up. She regards you with confusion.
‘I mean—’ You rub the back of your neck. ‘I mean, what kind of flowers are you
looking for? Because … we sell flowers here.’
Jess snorts. Your lips twitch as you try not to smile.
‘I know,’ the woman says, amusement lighting up her eyes. ‘I buy flowers here
every day.’
Something clicks. ‘The carnations?’ The question is directed at Jess, but it is
the woman who nods. She smoothes down the front of her dress—silk, with a
pattern of constellations covering every inch of it—and steps into the shop. ‘I
need them for my wedding,’ she says.
‘Oh.’ Then, before you can stop yourself, you ask: ‘Who’re you getting married
to?’
There it is again—the slight twitch of the lips. ‘Devon,’ she says, ‘Head of
the International Deputation of Royals.’
‘King, you mean.’ Jess is on all-fours now, searching for something amongst the
clutter in the corner of the room. He looks over his shoulder at them. ‘She’s
going to be Queen. And here she is, prancing around the city, a prize doll off
of the very machination that’s got everyone in Stylwark bleeding mesmerised.’
You look back at the woman to confirm this. She nods, laughing. ‘Yeah, I guess
I am.’ And you wonder if the sadness in her eyes is a product of your own
imagination.
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