The Blossom That Left a Mark

A Mark in the Wrong Place

Vellin had made a modest career of carrying things nobody else wanted to carry. Apologies. Invitations. A jar of nectar that had once tried to bite him. On the morning the coral blossom marked his backside, he was delivering a spool of blue thread to the nursery and practicing a smile he considered devastating.

The smile had never devastated anyone. It had, however, made three moths fly into a hedge because they were laughing too hard to steer. Vellin regarded this as a mixed success.

The Sugarwild Garden was dressing itself for the Day of Open Petals. From the path, every bloom appeared to be trying to outshine the next. Ribbons hung between stalks. Dew had been polished off the broad leaves where guests were expected to sit, then reapplied in decorative drops by someone with a brush and too much spare time. The nursery's long shadecloth had been borrowed to make a grand arch over the procession route. Vellin noticed its blue edge fluttering above the path and thought it looked magnificent.

He did not notice the bare seed trays beneath the climbing sun.

Redveil grew beside the nursery gate, rooted in a deep basin of moss. Her coral petals were broad enough to roof a beetle's house, speckled like ripe fruit and edged with dew. The bloom had been awake since dawn, lifting one petal at a time to watch carts pass. She could speak when the morning moisture gathered in the throat of her flower. Once the heat dried it, her voice thinned to a rustle that only someone close enough to listen could hear.

"Courier," she called.

Vellin stopped, checked behind him for a more impressive courier, and turned. "If this concerns the thread, it's not late. The sun is early."

"It concerns the shadecloth. The nursery took it off the beds."

"Borrowed it," he said. "For the arch. Very flattering to the arch."

Redveil drew one damp petal inward. "The seedlings don't care how flattering it is. Take my request to the procession steward. Tell her I want it back before the sun reaches the western trays."

Vellin looked toward the arch, where a line of guests had begun to gather. A morning bell rang. He caught the words take my and before the sun and missed the middle, which was an unfortunate portion of the sentence to lose.

"You want me?" he asked.

"To carry a message."

"Naturally. I carry many things." He gave her the smile. "Though you may find I am better at the delicate ones."

Redveil held still for a moment. A bead of dew swelled at her lip. "You are standing on my root."

He stepped back so fast the thread spool bounced against his hip. "Right. Sorry. I did not mean to put my foot in your private business."

"You have put your foot on my private business. There is a distinction." She tipped her face toward the nursery. "Listen carefully. The shadecloth must come back. The steward won't move festival material on a courier's word, so I'll mark you as my messenger. Let me touch your shoulder."

Vellin was turning to see who had laughed behind the hedge when he answered, "Of course." He leaned toward her, but the bell sounded again. A guest shoved past with an armful of ribbon. Vellin lurched, Redveil's petal landed nowhere near his shoulder, and a warm puff of pollen struck the broad curve of his haunch.

"Oh," said Vellin.

"That was not the shoulder," said Redveil.

The print was a golden flower, perfectly formed, with five bright petals and a dark center. It sat on Vellin's scales as if an artist had spent the morning painting it there. He twisted to inspect it, lost his balance, and caught himself against a mushroom cap. The cap released a shower of spores that made his frills stand on end.

"You marked me," he said.

"As a messenger. Tell the steward I sent you. Return the shadecloth."

But the bell clanged for a third time, and a knot of guests came around the bend. Vellin heard only I sent you. He looked from the magnificent flower on his backside to Redveil's broad coral petals and felt an alarming confidence bloom in his chest.

He bowed. It was a good bow, if one ignored the fact that his tail knocked over the spool of thread. "I shall conduct myself with discretion."

"I would settle for speed," Redveil said.

Vellin hurried down the path. Behind him, the flower tried once more to call him back, but her dew was already thinning and the procession bell had acquired the volume of a personal grievance.

At the first crossing, Nellith saw the mark.

Nellith was a small shell-backed dew mason who repaired cracked basins and had known Vellin long enough to distrust his face whenever it looked pleased with itself. She stopped with a bucket of wet clay balanced on one hip.

"What did you sit in?"

"Nothing," he said, turning sideways to offer her a better view. "I was selected."

"For what?"

"A private matter."

"That private matter is four inches wide and pointed at the road."

Two young lacewings passed. One whispered, "Redveil's kiss," and the other choked on her nectar cup. Vellin pretended not to hear. He had never heard of a blossom placing a kiss precisely there, but he had also never been kissed by a blossom, and he was reluctant to dismiss the opportunity on technical grounds.

By the time he reached the arch, the story had outrun him. A vendor offered him a mirror. A beetle offered him a congratulatory biscuit. Someone asked whether the flower was free for an introduction. Vellin explained that a gentleman did not discuss such things, which was exactly the answer a garden full of interested people needed to discuss them for him.

Nellith caught up beside the ribbon stand. "What did Redveil actually say?"

Vellin opened his mouth. He could recall her name, the heat, the arch, and the astonishing sensation of pollen meeting scales. The rest had been swallowed by bells and his own vanity.

"Something about the sun," he said.

Nellith looked past him. The nursery trays lay exposed on the other side of the gate. Their smallest leaves had begun to curl. Above them, the stolen shadecloth billowed over the procession like an expensive blue promise made to the wrong people.

"Then perhaps," she said, "you should stop admiring your arse and ask her again."

What the Flower Actually Asked

Vellin returned to Redveil by the shortest route, which unfortunately ran through the longest line of people who wanted to congratulate him.

"There he is," said a mantis in a hat shaped like a teacup. "The chosen one."

"Chosen for an errand," Nellith said.

"That is what they all call it before breakfast," said the mantis.

Vellin considered hiding the mark beneath his tail. His tail was translucent in the sun and covered approximately one third of the evidence. He carried on.

Redveil's dew had nearly evaporated. She opened one petal when he approached, not in welcome but to make room for the words she had been trying to say since morning.

"I did not ask you to announce our engagement," she said.

"I did not announce an engagement."

"You told three strangers you were selected for a private matter. One of them has already asked whether I receive visitors after dusk."

"I may have encouraged a misunderstanding."

"You cultivated it. There is a difference, and I know a great deal about cultivation."

Nellith set down her bucket. She did not rescue Vellin. Some holes were worth watching a friend climb out of.

"I am listening now," Vellin said.

Redveil indicated the uncovered nursery. "The blue shadecloth belongs over those trays. My seedlings are too young for a full morning of direct light. I cannot walk to the steward, and by noon I will not be able to speak loudly enough to call anyone. I marked you so she would know the request came from me. It was meant for your shoulder."

Vellin glanced at the golden blossom on his haunch. "Yes. The delivery angle could have been better."

"It was not an invitation. It was not a claim. And if you come near my roots again without watching your feet, it will be a complaint."

"Understood." He looked at the trays. The leaves were pale at their edges now. "I'll get the cloth back."

"Ask for help if you need it," Redveil said. "There are more carriers in this garden than one courier with a theatrical smile."

Vellin left without bowing. It was the first useful thing he had done all morning.

The procession steward stood beneath the arch with a spool of ribbon tucked under each arm. She was a sturdy cicada with a practical voice and a schedule that had been revised so many times it had developed a personality. Vellin explained the nursery's problem. When she looked doubtful, he turned and showed her Redveil's mark.

"I can confirm where you got it," she said. "Half the garden has described it to me in detail."

"They have described it badly. It means she sent me."

"I believe you. The issue is the arch. That cloth is holding the crossing's upper ribbons. If I pull it now, six silk strands fall into the path, and the procession is already moving."

Vellin glanced beneath the structure. Beetles were carrying trays of food under it. Small children in petal hats had found a place to sit in the shade. He could not simply tear it down to save another patch of shade.

"Then stop the procession," he said.

"I can slow it. I cannot leave a loaded arch hanging without a cover. Find me something of equal width and enough strength to take the ribbons, and I will give the nursery its cloth."

The steward was not being cruel. She had borrowed a thing for a day and forgotten what that thing did when it was home. Vellin had made precisely the same mistake with Redveil's mark.

He and Nellith searched the nearby stalls. A ribbon merchant offered a glittering strip three feet too short. A mushroom keeper had a broad cap, but it was attached to a mushroom that objected, quite reasonably, to being uprooted for a parade. An awning seller offered one at a price that included a commemorative speech about generosity.

At the old dew cistern, Nellith stopped. A retired leaf sail hung beneath its roof, patched with clay-colored thread. It had once shaded the cistern while its basin was repaired. It was stained and unglamorous, but its woven veins were stronger than festival silk, and it was almost the right width.

"You know how to hang this," she said.

Vellin touched the sail. "I know courier knots. They hold parcels, not processions."

"A procession is a parcel that complains while you tie it."

They carried the sail back together. The steward tested a corner, tugged twice, and nodded. "It will hold. We need four hands on the high line and someone to keep the lower ribbon from snapping across the path."

"I can do the high line," Vellin said.

"Excellent. Tell the crowd why we're replacing the pretty blue cloth with that."

He stared at her. Around them, guests had begun to stare at him. The mantis in the teacup hat arrived with two friends and a grin. Vellin could feel the flower mark glowing through his scales. If he explained it, he would have to say out loud that Redveil had not fancied him, had not invited him anywhere, and had been trying to save her seedlings while he performed a romance for strangers.

Nellith lifted one end of the old sail. "You can let me explain," she said. "But it was your message to carry."

Vellin climbed onto the low rail. He cleared his throat. The first words came out too small. He tried again.

"Redveil did not kiss me," he said. "She stamped a request on the wrong part of a courier who was too busy admiring himself to hear it. The nursery needs its shadecloth back. If you help me swap this sail onto the arch, her seedlings may still have leaves by lunch."

There was silence. Then the mantis asked, "So there is no engagement?"

"There is a cloth," Vellin said, "and there is not much time."

A young lacewing took one corner of the sail. Another took the next. The steward slowed the procession. Nellith looped a guide line around the rail and gave Vellin the knot end. For a moment, it looked like enough.

Then a gust caught the blue shadecloth. The arch lifted, the upper ribbons tightened, and a row of glass dew bells began to swing over the crowded path.

The Proper Way to Carry a Message

"Nobody move under the bells," the steward called.

Everyone moved under the bells. Some moved to help. Some moved because someone else had shouted. The mantis in the teacup hat stepped backward into a bowl of sugared dew and discovered that dignity was less stable than he had imagined.

Vellin climbed the arch rail before the cloth could lift again. The blue fabric had been tied in six places, not four. Its middle knot was pulling the ribbons into a single tight cord, and the glass bells hung from that cord like bright little threats. If he cut it, they would fall. If he left it, the gust would tear the whole arch sideways.

"Nellith," he said, "I need the clay bucket."

She was already beside the rail. She handed it up without asking why. Vellin pressed the bucket into the crook of the arch and looped a short guide line around its handle. The extra weight steadied the middle cord, but only just. He could feel the knot trembling through his palms.

"That is an ugly place to put a bucket," the steward said.

"I know. It is holding an ugly place to put six bells."

Nellith and the lacewings hauled the old leaf sail across the lower rail. It was stiff with age and smelled faintly of wet stone. Vellin fastened its first corner to the arch with a courier's double turn. He had used that knot to keep a bottle of fermented pear sap from rolling down a hill. It had survived the bottle's attempt to leave. He hoped the arch would prove less determined.

The mantis climbed out of the dew. "I can take a corner," he said, wiping sugar from his hat.

Vellin looked down. "You will need both hands."

"Then I shall remove the hat. We are all making sacrifices."

He handed the hat to a beetle child and took the final corner. Together they pulled the patched sail over the top of the structure. It hid the ribbons' cheap knots and gave the bells a steady roof. The steward tested the new lines with her full weight. Only when they held did she tell Vellin to untie the blue cloth.

He worked from the far end toward the nursery, giving the fabric to Nellith a length at a time. Each freed span exposed a little more of the old sail. It was not as pretty as the blue cloth. Its patches were visible. Its edges drooped. Yet beneath it, the crossing stayed cool, the bells stopped swinging, and the procession could pass without anyone wearing glass as a hat.

At the middle knot, a fresh gust came through. Vellin's tail caught a ribbon. The golden flower on his haunch flashed in the sun. Below, someone whistled.

"Yes," he called down, "I still have the mark. No, it does not entitle you to a closer look."

Nellith laughed so hard she nearly dropped the cloth. The mantis caught her end. The laugh broke the crowd's breathless silence, and suddenly other hands were ready. The steward guided them into two lines, one to carry the freed shadecloth and one to keep the path clear. The last knot came loose. The blue fabric slid away from the arch intact.

Vellin jumped down and took its leading edge. He could have handed it to Nellith. He could have let the crowd make a heroic story out of his brief climb and omitted the reason he had been on the arch in the first place. Instead, he carried the cloth beside her through the nursery gate, where Redveil waited with her petals drawn tight against the heat.

The trays were warmer than they should have been. One small leaf had browned at its tip. The rest still held. They spread the shadecloth over its old supports, checked that every tray lay beneath it, and lowered the edge until the brightest strip of sun vanished from the seedbed.

Redveil's remaining dew gathered at her throat. "You heard me," she said.

"On the second attempt."

"A personal record."

Vellin accepted that. "I owe you an apology for making your request into a performance. And for stepping on your root."

"You do. I accept the apology. I would also like you to tell the next three people who ask that a flower can send a message without proposing marriage."

"Only three?"

"I have ambitions, but I remain realistic."

Nellith brought a cup of water to Redveil's basin. The flower took it through her roots, slowly enough that no one could mistake the act for a trick performed for their amusement. Vellin waited until she had settled before asking, "Will the mark come off?"

"With oil and patience. My pollen clings to skin until the next washing. It was made to prove where a messenger had been, not to announce what anyone wants from their private life."

"That distinction has become clear."

"Good. Next time I ask you to carry something, perhaps you will listen to the whole sentence."

He looked at the blue cloth, the saved trays, and the old leaf sail now keeping a procession cool. "Next time, ask me twice if there's a bell."

Redveil opened one coral petal. "Next time, I shall mark your hand."

Vellin considered the crowd beyond the gate. "You may want to tell me what it means before you do."

By afternoon the story had changed. The mark was still discussed, of course. It was too handsome a mark and too inconveniently placed for a garden to ignore. But when the mantis told the tale, he mentioned the seedlings first. The steward told it with particular attention to knots. Nellith told it accurately, which meant Vellin was allowed no heroic expression at all.

Vellin delivered the blue thread at last. The nursery keeper thanked him, then noticed the golden blossom on his scales and asked whether he wanted a towel.

"Not yet," he said. He had not expected the answer. The mark was embarrassing, but it was also evidence of a message he had finally carried properly. "I think I'll keep it until evening."

He left by the shaded path. At the gate, Redveil rustled as he passed. It might have been a farewell. It might have been a reminder to watch his feet. Vellin watched his feet and did not presume to know which.

At the crossing, the mantis called, "Courier! Your flower is showing."

"It's a work mark," Vellin said.

"Where I come from, work marks go on the hand."

"Where I come from," Vellin replied, "we try to stand still when a flower asks us to."