The Department of Unsolicited Petal Affairs
Sir Glazebutt had never been knighted.
He had not rescued a princess, defeated a dragon, defended a bridge, recovered a sacred turnip, or performed any of the other mildly ridiculous errands by which knighthoods were traditionally earned in the Sugarwild Garden. He had never even owned a sword, unless one counted the tiny butter knife he carried in his waistcoat for emergencies involving scones.
Nevertheless, he had been calling himself “Sir” for so long that correcting him now felt less like defending the truth and more like ruining a perfectly good afternoon.
His newest title was equally unsupported.
“Royal Petal Inspector,” Sir Glazebutt announced, presenting a pink card to Madame Honeyslip of the Golden Trumpet Vine. “First Class. Fully accredited. Authorized to examine stamens, sepals, blossoms, buds, folds, ruffles, undersides, oversides, and any unusually inviting crevices.”
Madame Honeyslip adjusted her spectacles and studied the card.
It had been cut from the side of a raspberry custard box. The royal seal was a squashed marmalade thumbprint, and the signature at the bottom read:
Her Most Radiant Majesty, Definitely the Queen.
“This looks suspicious,” she said.
“That proves it is official,” replied Glazebutt. “Government documents are supposed to look suspicious. It keeps the public respectful.”
Madame Honeyslip looked from the card to Glazebutt, then from Glazebutt to the magnificent coral-pink bloom behind her. The flower had opened that morning, its broad inner petal gleaming beneath a fine coat of nectar and dew.
Glazebutt looked at it too.
He looked at it with the concentrated professional interest of a frog who had not invented his occupation until approximately six minutes earlier.
“And what,” Madame Honeyslip asked, “does an inspection involve?”
“Extensive testing.”
“Of what sort?”
“Firmness. Moisture. Structural integrity. Polish.”
“Polish?”
“Vital.”
“To the flower?”
“To morale.”
Before she could ask whose morale he meant, Glazebutt hopped onto the bloom, turned around twice, and lowered his considerable turquoise backside onto the petal with a satisfied sigh.
The petal gave a soft, damp squeak.
“Interesting,” he murmured.
He shifted slightly to the left.
Squeak.
Then to the right.
Sqrrrk.
“Very interesting indeed.”
Madame Honeyslip stared.
Sir Glazebutt reclined against the warm curve of the blossom and adopted the grave expression of a physician confronting an especially complicated rash. His jewel-bright skin shimmered turquoise and coral beneath hundreds of round, glassy droplets. His amber eyes narrowed in concentration—or possibly pleasure—as he slid several inches down the slick petal.
“Your bloom has a dangerously inconsistent finish,” he declared.
“It was not polished when you arrived.”
“Precisely. A serious violation.”
“There is now a shiny trail shaped exactly like your arse.”
Glazebutt glanced behind himself.
A broad, sparkling streak ran down the petal.
“Evidence,” he said solemnly.
“Of what?”
“Neglect.”
Madame Honeyslip’s mouth tightened. “Get off my trumpet vine.”
Glazebutt produced a second card from his waistcoat. “Interfering with a royal inspection carries a penalty of three jars of preserves.”
“That card says ‘Collect Twelve Berry Tarts and the Thirteenth Is Free.’”
“The law is often written in language ordinary citizens find confusing.”
She chased him from the vine with a watering wand.
It should have ended there.
It would have ended there if Sir Glazebutt possessed either shame or a realistic understanding of consequences. Unfortunately, he had misplaced the first years ago and regarded the second as a gloomy rumor spread by people with insufficient imagination.
By sunset, he had inspected seven more flowers.
He examined the cushioning of a buttercup, the spring tension of a tulip, the reclining angles of two open lilies, and the “emergency slipperiness” of a particularly broad blushberry blossom. At every stop, he displayed his custard-box credentials, frowned critically at the petal, settled himself upon it, and wriggled until the surface shone.
He then issued each flower an official report.
These reports consisted of phrases such as adequately supple, excessively ticklish, promising but narrow through the rear approach, and, in one particularly scandalous case, requires immediate attention from a second inspector and perhaps a towel.
The garden should have recognized the obvious fraud.
Instead, the garden became impressed.
This was partly because Glazebutt used a clipboard.
Very few creatures in the Sugarwild Garden understood clipboards, but everyone feared them. A clipboard suggested forms, regulations, and the possibility that somebody somewhere had been counting things. The mere sight of one could make innocent beetles confess to crimes they had not committed.
It also helped that Sir Glazebutt inspected flowers with extraordinary confidence. He would approach a blossom, tap its edge, sniff its center, squint at its folds, and then nod as though the petal had just confirmed a deeply troubling suspicion.
“Hmm.”
That was usually all it took.
“What?” the flower’s owner would ask nervously.
“I would rather not alarm you.”
“Alarm me about what?”
“Have you noticed any unusual softness in the mornings?”
“It’s a petal.”
“So that’s a yes.”
Within two days, nervous gardeners were requesting appointments.
“I have a peony that feels rather plush,” said Lady Dewbuckle.
“Could be serious,” Glazebutt replied.
“My orchid bends when pressed.”
“Textbook instability.”
“The underside of my moon lily remains damp until noon.”
“Madam, I am amazed you survived the week.”
His waiting list grew longer. His waistcoat grew tighter. His reputation expanded faster than his understanding of botany, which remained entirely theoretical and mostly wrong.
He established the Department of Unsolicited Petal Affairs beneath a striped mushroom awning. The department contained one velvet cushion, three empty filing boxes, a bell stolen from a snail hotel, and a painted sign reading:
ROYAL PETAL INSPECTIONS
DISCRETION • QUALITY • THOROUGH CONTACT
Below that, in smaller letters, he added:
NO BLOOM TOO LARGE
NO CREVICE TOO QUESTIONABLE
Customers were instructed to pay before the inspection. Accepted fees included berry wine, iced buns, sugared gnats, seed cakes, jam, polishing oil, and anything described as “cream-filled.”
Business flourished.
Sir Glazebutt soon required assistance and hired a pale green aphid named Nigel to manage appointments. Nigel had been dismissed from the Royal Treasury after accidentally calculating that the kingdom owed eleven million acorns to a dead squirrel. Glazebutt considered this excellent administrative experience.
“What should I tell clients who ask to see your official appointment from the palace?” Nigel asked.
“Tell them it is classified.”
“What if they ask which royal authority classified it?”
“The classified one.”
“And if they ask whether you have insurance?”
“Ring the bell and pretend the building is on fire.”
Nigel nodded and wrote it all down.
For several glorious weeks, Glazebutt lived magnificently.
He breakfasted on honeyed crumpets. He lunched on blossom cakes glazed with raspberry syrup. In the evenings, he reclined on his finest inspected petals and dictated imaginary regulations to Nigel.
“All tulips must provide lumbar support.”
“Very good, sir.”
“Daisies shall be prohibited from excessive perkiness before sunrise.”
“Naturally.”
“And no bloom may describe itself as ‘extra plush’ without submitting to a full seated examination.”
“Should I file that under consumer protection?”
“File it under urgent.”
The system might have continued indefinitely had Glazebutt not inspected Lord Nectarwick’s prize rose.
Lord Nectarwick was a wealthy pollen merchant who owned six conservatories, four fountains, and a hedge shaped like his own profile. He spoke of his roses the way proud parents spoke of talented children, except that the roses were regularly entered into competitions and the children had been sent to boarding school for touching the furniture.
His newest bloom, the Duchess Rouge, was enormous.
Its petals were a deep, lustrous pink, curled into soft folds and drenched in aromatic dew. It had won first place at the Grand Bloom Exhibition, second place at the Moonlight Fragrance Trials, and an honorable mention after biting a judge at the Thornvale Horticultural Society.
“Handle her carefully,” Lord Nectarwick warned. “The Duchess is sensitive.”
Sir Glazebutt climbed into the rose.
“Sensitivity,” he said, “is my specialty.”
Nigel coughed into his clipboard.
Glazebutt tested the outer petal with one orange-tipped foot. Then he pressed both palms against its surface. Finally, after making certain that everyone was watching, he turned and lowered himself into the central fold.
The Duchess Rouge made a deep, wet sound.
Fwoomp.
Sir Glazebutt sank to his elbows.
Only his head and one raised finger remained visible above the petals.
“Aha,” he said.
“What is it?” Lord Nectarwick demanded.
Glazebutt had no idea.
The rose was warmer than expected. Its nectar was unusually thick. Something beneath him appeared to be pulsing.
“Advanced bloom pressure,” he declared.
The rose contracted.
Glazebutt shot upward with a noise normally associated with a cork leaving an expensive bottle. He sailed across the conservatory, bounced off a hanging orchid, and landed backside-first in a silver bowl of decorative custard.
Nigel rang the emergency bell.
“Fire!” he shouted.
“There is no fire,” said Lord Nectarwick.
“Classified fire!” Nigel cried, and fled.
Glazebutt climbed from the custard bowl with as much dignity as a jeweled amphibian wearing pudding across his backside could reasonably assemble.
“The inspection is complete,” he announced.
Lord Nectarwick pointed toward the Duchess Rouge.
A gleaming trail ran from the flower’s center to its outer edge. The prize-winning petals had been pressed flat in the exact outline of Sir Glazebutt’s celebrated anatomy.
“You have ruined her!”
“Ruined?” Glazebutt gasped. “My good lord, I have revealed a serious defect.”
“You sat on my rose!”
“Under controlled conditions.”
“You wriggled!”
“Diagnostic movement.”
“You shouted, ‘Oh, that’s unexpectedly warm.’”
“Clinical terminology.”
Lord Nectarwick’s face darkened until it closely matched the Duchess Rouge.
“I shall report this to the palace.”
Sir Glazebutt froze.
“The palace?”
“The Queen herself will hear how her so-called inspector conducts royal business.”
“There is no need to disturb Her Majesty over a little professional polishing.”
“You left a buttock print in a championship rose.”
“Many artists sign their work.”
Lord Nectarwick seized his walking stick.
Glazebutt left through the nearest window.
He landed in a hydrangea, rolled into a birdbath, and hurried back to his office with his clipboard held protectively over his rear. Nigel was already there, packing the seed cakes into a suitcase.
“We must close the department,” Glazebutt said.
“I assumed so.”
“Temporarily.”
“Of course.”
“Due to routine administrative improvements.”
“And the fact that you committed fraud against a politically connected rose?”
“Mostly the improvements.”
Glazebutt tore down the sign, buried his raspberry-box credentials beneath the velvet cushion, and spent the evening practicing innocent expressions in a spoon.
By morning, he had settled upon an expression combining wounded dignity with mild constipation.
It was excellent.
It was also useless.
At precisely nine o’clock, a procession of royal lacewings arrived at the mushroom awning. Their wings glittered like stained glass, their uniforms were spotless, and each carried a scroll bearing the authentic golden seal of Queen Maribelle Bloomcrown.
The captain stepped forward.
“Sir Glazebutt?”
“Never heard of him.”
“You are wearing a waistcoat embroidered with the words ‘Sir Glazebutt.’”
He glanced down. “A tragic coincidence.”
The captain opened the scroll.
“By order of Her Majesty, you are commanded to appear tomorrow at the Royal Festival of Blossoms.”
Glazebutt swallowed.
“Am I being arrested?”
“No.”
His shoulders relaxed.
“You are to conduct a complete public inspection of the Queen’s Moonpetal Rose before the assembled court.”
His shoulders climbed back toward his ears.
The captain continued reading.
“Her Majesty has received extraordinary reports regarding your expertise. She expects a formal demonstration of your methods, an explanation of all relevant floral regulations, and proof of your appointment as Royal Petal Inspector.”
Nigel quietly removed his name badge.
“Attendance is mandatory,” the captain concluded. “Failure to appear will be regarded as impersonating a royal official, falsifying palace credentials, fraudulent collection of pastries, and unlawful contact with protected blossoms.”
“What is the punishment?” Glazebutt whispered.
“The last creature convicted was sealed inside a decorative garden gnome.”
Glazebutt’s color faded from turquoise to the pale blue of frightened porridge.
The captain handed him the summons.
“The Queen looks forward to your inspection.”
“How lovely.”
“The entire kingdom will be watching.”
“Even lovelier.”
“Do wear something dignified.”
The royal lacewings departed.
For a long while, Sir Glazebutt stood beneath the striped mushroom awning, clutching the summons with both hands. Across the garden, bells began announcing the festival. Flower owners emerged from their cottages. Vendors raised colorful tents. Courtiers polished their wings, washed their antennae, and spread the news that the Queen’s mysterious Royal Petal Inspector would finally demonstrate his celebrated technique.
Glazebutt turned slowly toward Nigel.
“How difficult,” he asked, “would it be to become a real botanical expert by tomorrow morning?”
Nigel considered the question.
“How attached are you to sleeping?”
“Moderately.”
“And to remaining outside a decorative garden gnome?”
“Extremely.”
Nigel reopened the suitcase, returned the seed cakes to the desk, and placed the clipboard between them.
“Then we had better learn what a petal actually is.”
Sir Glazebutt stared at him.
“It’s the soft bit you sit on.”
Nigel sighed.
Outside, the festival bells rang louder.
They had twenty-four hours to transform the Sugarwild Garden’s most confident backside into something resembling a qualified royal inspector.
It was not enough time.
It was, however, considerably more time than anyone sensible would have given them.
A Brief Education in Things Glazebutt Had Already Sat Upon
Sir Glazebutt’s botanical education began badly and deteriorated from there.
Nigel opened The Complete Illustrated Anatomy of Respectable Blossoms to its first page and pointed at a diagram.
“This is a flower.”
Glazebutt frowned. “I know what a flower is.”
“Yesterday you described one as ‘a naturally occurring cushion with perfume.’”
“That was a functional definition.”
“It was a daffodil.”
“A narrow cushion, then.”
Nigel took a long breath through his nose. He had been doing that frequently since accepting employment at the Department of Unsolicited Petal Affairs. It was either a calming technique or the beginning of a medical condition.
They had converted the mushroom office into an emergency classroom. Books lay open across every surface. Diagrams hung from the awning. Specimen blooms filled jars along the desk, although Glazebutt had already eaten the honeysuckle and claimed it had been necessary for comparative research.
Nigel tapped the diagram again.
“The brightly colored parts surrounding the reproductive structures are called petals.”
“I knew that.”
“The green outer structures are sepals.”
“I knew that too.”
“What is a stamen?”
Glazebutt studied the picture.
“A private matter?”
“No.”
“A flower’s personal wand?”
“No.”
“The bit that gets overexcited when bees arrive?”
Nigel hesitated.
“Biologically imprecise,” he said, “but disturbingly close.”
They continued through the night.
Glazebutt learned that pollen was not “flower dandruff,” nectar was not merely “bee liquor,” and pistils were neither kitchen tools nor a scandalous rumor involving Madame Honeyslip. He learned that petals attracted pollinators, protected delicate structures, and communicated through color, scent, temperature, and subtle changes in texture.
This last fact captured his attention.
“Texture?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“So my methods were not entirely fraudulent.”
“You polished an orchid with your backside for forty minutes.”
“But texturally.”
“You charged extra for circular movement.”
“Specialist labor.”
Nigel closed his eyes.
“Please try to absorb one useful fact before sunrise.”
Glazebutt tried.
He genuinely did.
Unfortunately, his mind had been trained by years of laziness to reject information that could not be eaten, worn, or used to excuse questionable behavior. Botanical terminology entered one ear, wandered around looking for somewhere comfortable, and departed through the other.
By midnight, he could distinguish a sepal from a soup ladle but not with complete confidence.
By two in the morning, he had memorized the sentence, “Petal luster may indicate hydration, cellular health, or surface structure,” although he pronounced cellular as if it were a minor kingdom near the coast.
By four, Nigel began testing him with specimens.
He held up a daisy.
“Identify this.”
“Asteraceae.”
“Excellent.”
“I read the label on the jar.”
Nigel turned the jar around.
He held up a moon lily.
“And this?”
“Moist.”
“Botanically.”
“Moistaceae.”
“That is not a word.”
“It should be.”
Nigel abandoned the specimens and moved to emergency strategy.
“You cannot fool the entire royal court with made-up terminology and a serious expression.”
Glazebutt raised one finger. “You underestimate both my expression and the royal court.”
“The Queen will ask questions.”
“I shall answer confidently.”
“With actual facts.”
“Let us not cripple the performance with unnecessary restrictions.”
“And you must present proof of your appointment.”
The two of them looked toward the velvet cushion beneath which Glazebutt had buried his raspberry custard card.
Nigel lifted the cushion.
The card was gone.
In its place lay a small trail of purple crumbs and a note written in blackberry juice:
Thank you for supporting local wildlife.
A family of mice had eaten Glazebutt’s royal credentials.
“This,” Nigel said, “may be the most legitimate thing ever to happen to them.”
Glazebutt stared at the crumbs.
“We need another card.”
“We need a miracle.”
“Can we print one of those?”
Nigel reached for his coat.
“Where are you going?”
“Somewhere far away from the decorative gnome into which you are about to be sealed.”
Glazebutt caught his sleeve.
“Nigel, my trusted colleague.”
“You pay me in damaged pastries.”
“My closest friend.”
“You thought my name was Neville until yesterday.”
“My beloved Neville—Nigel. Nigel. Obviously Nigel. You cannot abandon me now.”
“Why not?”
Glazebutt opened his mouth to invent an answer.
Then, perhaps because dawn was approaching and exhaustion had weakened his defenses, the truth slipped out instead.
“Because everyone is going to see that I am nothing.”
Nigel stopped pulling away.
The festival bells continued in the distance, but inside the mushroom office, everything became quiet.
Glazebutt stared down at his jeweled hands.
“Before this inspection business, no one invited me anywhere,” he said. “Flowers complained when I sat on them. Gardeners locked their conservatories. Lady Dewbuckle once installed a fence specifically shaped to repel my bottom.”
“It was a very effective fence.”
“Cruelly effective.”
“It had bells.”
“Humiliating bells.”
Glazebutt sank onto the velvet cushion.
“But when I carried the clipboard, creatures listened. They asked what I thought. They brought me cakes. For once, I was not merely that glossy idiot who lounges around on things and pretends not to notice when they bend.”
Nigel’s expression softened despite his best judgment.
“You are not nothing.”
“Name one useful quality I possess.”
“Your skin is highly decorative.”
“That is not useful.”
“You survived being launched from the Duchess Rouge.”
“My bones are mostly suggestions.”
“You can identify a comfortable petal from twenty paces.”
Glazebutt looked up.
Nigel looked back.
Neither spoke for several seconds.
“That,” Nigel said slowly, “might actually be useful.”
He returned to the botanical book and flipped through the pages until he found a chapter entitled Mechanical Stress, Surface Damage, and Pollinator Load.
“Flowers respond differently to pressure,” he said. “Healthy petals bend and recover. Weak or diseased petals crease, split, discolor, or remain compressed.”
“So sitting on them can reveal their condition?”
“Under carefully controlled circumstances, pressure testing can reveal structural weakness.”
Glazebutt stood so quickly that the cushion stuck briefly to his backside.
“My arse is scientific.”
“I immediately regret telling you.”
“Nigel, this changes everything.”
“It changes very little.”
“I am not a fraud. I am an intuitive pressure-testing instrument.”
“You are a fraud who accidentally stumbled near a legitimate principle.”
“History remembers results, not footnotes.”
Nigel flipped to the chapter on petals that changed color when damaged. Then he found one on nectar temperature, one on fungal spotting, and another describing how certain enchanted flowers reacted to sound, emotion, or touch.
Glazebutt leaned over his shoulder.
“What does it say about the Queen’s Moonpetal Rose?”
Nigel searched the index.
There were three entries.
The first described the Moonpetal Rose as an ancient royal bloom grown from a cutting carried through seven kingdoms by Queen Maribelle’s grandmother.
The second explained that its translucent petals reflected moonlight even during the day.
The third contained only four words:
See Volatile Magical Flora.
Nigel fetched another book.
They found the relevant passage just as sunrise painted the mushroom awning gold.
“Here,” Nigel said. “The Moonpetal Rose possesses empathic properties. Its petals respond to the intentions of anyone who touches them.”
“Respond how?”
“Pure intentions produce a silver glow.”
“And dishonest intentions?”
Nigel read the next sentence.
His antennae drooped.
“Dishonest intentions produce thorns.”
Glazebutt glanced at his own reflection in the spoon.
“How large?”
“The book says their size is proportional to the deception.”
“How annoyingly poetic.”
“There is an illustration.”
Nigel turned the book around.
The drawing showed a dishonest duke being fired through the roof of a greenhouse by a thorn the size of a fence post.
Glazebutt stared at it.
“Perhaps the Queen would accept a visual inspection.”
“She requested a complete public demonstration.”
“Perhaps I could touch it with a very honest toe.”
“Every part of you would still belong to the same liar.”
“Harshly phrased.”
“Scientifically accurate.”
There was no time to create a new plan.
Trumpets sounded from the palace grounds. The Royal Festival of Blossoms had begun.
Nigel dressed Glazebutt in the most respectable clothing they could assemble: a berry-red waistcoat, a gold sash borrowed from a jar of luxury marmalade, and a small velvet cap formerly used to cover a teapot. The clipboard remained because Glazebutt insisted it gave him authority and Nigel admitted it at least kept his hands from visibly shaking.
They joined the procession toward Bloomcrown Palace.
The festival spread across the royal lawns in a riot of impossible color. Towering lilies formed archways above the paths. Lantern moths drifted beneath flowering trees. Musical beetles performed from the centers of trumpet blossoms while vendors sold nectar fizz, sugar pollen, and commemorative cushions embroidered with Glazebutt’s face.
He stopped at the sight of them.
“They made merchandise.”
“Do not let that strengthen your confidence.”
“There are three sizes.”
“Keep walking.”
Creatures lined the avenue to watch him pass.
“There he is!” cried a young bloommouse.
“The Royal Inspector!”
“Show us the diagnostic wiggle!” shouted somebody from the crowd.
Glazebutt raised his clipboard and waved.
His expression became grander with every step. The admiration of strangers entered his body like warm syrup. By the time he reached the palace gates, he had almost convinced himself that everything would be fine.
Then he saw Lord Nectarwick standing beside the royal platform.
The pollen merchant smiled without warmth.
Beside him stood Madame Honeyslip, Lady Dewbuckle, three offended orchid keepers, and the owner of the blushberry blossom that Glazebutt had described as “generous through the rear fold.”
Each carried one of his inspection reports.
“Your former clients have been invited to provide testimony,” Nigel whispered.
“How festive.”
At the center of the lawn rose a circular stage surrounded by thousands of spectators. Upon it stood a crystal pedestal. Growing from that pedestal was the Queen’s Moonpetal Rose.
It was breathtaking.
The bloom was larger than Glazebutt’s office, its petals white at the edges and deepening toward luminous shades of pink, coral, and violet within. Silver veins shimmered beneath its translucent surface. Pearls of nectar rolled slowly along its curves, catching the sunlight like tiny moons.
It was also covered in thorns.
Most were no longer than Glazebutt’s fingers.
Yet.
Queen Maribelle Bloomcrown sat beneath a canopy of flowering vines. She was an elegant luna moth with emerald wings, a crown of living roses, and the composed smile of a monarch who had already heard every excuse and enjoyed collecting new ones.
“Sir Glazebutt,” she said as he approached.
He bowed.
The marmalade sash slipped over his head and landed at her feet.
“Your Majesty.”
She lifted the sticky ribbon with one jeweled slipper.
“Is this breakfast packaging?”
“Ceremonial breakfast packaging.”
Nigel made a faint choking noise.
The Queen’s smile sharpened.
“We have heard remarkable things about your methods.”
“The reports may have exaggerated my brilliance.”
“The reports primarily mention your bottom.”
Glazebutt adjusted his waistcoat.
“An unfortunate tendency in modern journalism.”
The crowd laughed.
Glazebutt felt a spark of hope. If he could keep them amused, perhaps nobody would remember to put him inside a garden gnome.
The Queen gestured toward the Moonpetal Rose.
“This bloom has recently shown signs of distress. Its luster fades at sunset. Several petals have become unusually slick, and yesterday it produced three thorns after my chief gardener complimented its fragrance.”
The chief gardener avoided everyone’s gaze.
“You will inspect it,” she continued, “identify the cause, and demonstrate your celebrated polishing technique.”
Glazebutt stepped toward the rose.
Its thorns turned slightly in his direction.
He stepped back.
The thorns relaxed.
“Responsive,” he muttered.
“Is something wrong?” asked the Queen.
“Nothing beyond the ordinary complexities of royal botany.”
A thorn lengthened by two inches.
The crowd murmured.
Nigel hurried forward and whispered, “It reacts when you lie.”
“I am aware.”
Another thorn grew.
“Stop doing it.”
“That is like asking a nightingale to stop singing.”
“That is the least flattering comparison anyone has ever made to a nightingale.”
Queen Maribelle leaned forward.
“Before you begin, your credentials.”
The lawn fell silent.
Glazebutt held the clipboard against his chest.
The eaten raspberry card was gone. The marmalade sash lay at the Queen’s feet. Lord Nectarwick watched with hungry satisfaction. Thousands of creatures waited to see proof of the authority Glazebutt had been flaunting across the garden.
He could confess.
He could admit that he had invented the title, fabricated the paperwork, and charged innocent citizens for an activity he would otherwise have performed free of charge.
Or he could lie one more time.
Glazebutt looked at the rose.
The rose seemed to look back.
He reached into his waistcoat and slowly produced a folded piece of paper.
Nigel’s eyes widened.
“What is that?” he whispered.
“A replacement credential.”
“When did you make it?”
“During the parade.”
“You cannot forge a royal appointment while walking.”
“Not neatly.”
Glazebutt unfolded the paper.
It was one of the festival programs. Across the top, in berry ink, he had written:
By Extremely Royal Authority, This Frog Is Official.
Nigel covered his face.
Queen Maribelle extended one hand.
Glazebutt lifted the document toward her.
The Moonpetal Rose shuddered.
Every thorn on the bloom began to grow.
Some curled around the pedestal. Others rose above the stage. One particularly ambitious specimen extended beneath Glazebutt, lifting the back of his waistcoat several inches.
The crowd gasped.
Lord Nectarwick smiled.
The Queen did not.
“Sir Glazebutt,” she said quietly, “is there something you wish to tell us before that flower introduces your backside to the palace roof?”
The largest thorn creaked beneath him.
Glazebutt looked at the Queen.
He looked at Nigel.
He looked at the thousands of creatures who had come to see a royal expert and were seconds away from discovering a jewel-covered fraud with custard credentials.
Then he looked down at the suspiciously slick Moonpetal Rose.
Something in its surface caught his attention.
Beneath the silver veins, almost invisible within the shining petal, ran a thin line of orange residue.
Glazebutt knew that color.
He knew that texture.
He knew that sticky, artificial gleam better than any trained botanist in the kingdom.
It was polishing oil.
Someone had tampered with the Queen’s rose.
And judging by the fragrance rising from its petals, Glazebutt knew exactly who had supplied it.
The Truth, the Thorn, and the Diagnostic Wiggle
Sir Glazebutt lowered the forged credential.
The largest thorn stopped growing, though its point remained pressed against a region of his anatomy rarely included in formal royal proceedings.
“Your Majesty,” he said, “the Moonpetal Rose has been polished.”
A murmur rippled across the lawn.
Queen Maribelle glanced at the gleaming bloom.
“Of course it has. My gardeners tend it daily.”
“They water it. They feed it. They remove damaged growth and whisper encouragement when it becomes temperamental.”
The chief gardener nodded. “It prefers compliments after breakfast.”
“But someone coated its petals with artificial polishing oil,” Glazebutt said. “Recently, generously, and with all the restraint of a drunk beetle icing a wedding cake.”
Lord Nectarwick’s smile vanished.
The Queen rose from her throne.
“Can you prove that?”
Glazebutt stared at the orange residue beneath the translucent petal. Then he looked toward Lord Nectarwick, whose prize roses were famous for their deep color, perfect sheen, and suspicious ability to remain moist during droughts.
He could expose the pollen merchant.
He could save the Queen’s rose.
He could also be fired through the palace roof at any moment because he remained perched above a magical flower while carrying fraudulent paperwork.
“I can prove the oil is present,” he said. “But first, I must explain something.”
Nigel’s antennae lifted.
The crowd became silent.
Glazebutt took a breath.
“I am not the Royal Petal Inspector.”
The thorns trembled.
Then, all at once, they shortened.
The point beneath his waistcoat withdrew with a soft scraping sound that made Glazebutt close his eyes in profound gratitude.
“I appointed myself,” he continued. “My original credentials came from a raspberry custard box. The royal seal was marmalade. The classification system was invented while I was eating a bun, and the Department of Unsolicited Petal Affairs has no legal authority beyond Nigel’s ability to ring a bell and shout about fire.”
The audience turned toward Nigel.
He gave a small wave.
“Administrative support,” he said.
Glazebutt unfolded his replacement credential.
“This one was written on a festival program while walking. The handwriting is poor because the parade route contained cobblestones.”
Queen Maribelle accepted the paper and read it.
Her eyebrows rose at the phrase This Frog Is Official.
“I see.”
“In fairness,” Glazebutt added, “the public should not have believed any of it.”
Several flower owners folded their arms.
“I had a clipboard,” he said defensively.
The flower owners exchanged embarrassed glances. That part was difficult to argue with.
“You collected payment under false pretenses,” said the Queen.
“Yes.”
“You impersonated a palace official.”
“Yes.”
“You conducted unauthorized physical examinations upon protected blossoms.”
“Extremely thorough ones.”
The rose produced a new thorn.
“Unauthorized ones,” Glazebutt corrected quickly.
The thorn receded.
“Why confess now?” Queen Maribelle asked.
Glazebutt glanced at the Moonpetal Rose.
Its silver veins had begun to brighten.
“Because it will not reveal the truth while I am standing beside it telling lies.”
He discarded the forged credential. It fluttered from the stage and landed in Lord Nectarwick’s lap.
“I am not a knight. I am not a botanist. I do not understand half the words Nigel forced into my head last night, and I remain convinced that moistaceae deserves formal recognition.”
Nigel sighed.
“But I know polishing oil,” Glazebutt continued. “I know what it smells like, how it spreads, and what it does when compressed against a warm surface.”
Lady Dewbuckle raised her hand. “Because of your inspections?”
“Because I once spilled an entire bottle on a dining chair and spent three hours trapped beneath a duchess.”
The Queen blinked.
“A piece of furniture called a duchess,” he clarified.
The rose produced another thorn.
“Fine. She had a title.”
The crowd erupted in laughter.
Even Queen Maribelle’s mouth twitched.
Glazebutt approached the bloom without raising his clipboard or inventing a regulation. The thorns remained still.
“Artificial oil blocks the tiny structures through which petals exchange moisture,” he said, repeating the lesson Nigel had drilled into him before dawn. “On an ordinary flower, that can cause discoloration and weakness. On an enchanted Moonpetal Rose, it also traps emotional residue.”
“Meaning?” asked the Queen.
“Meaning the flower has been absorbing dishonest intentions without being able to release them. That is why it has grown defensive. It is slick because someone coated it, and thorny because the creature who did it was lying through their expensive teeth.”
Lord Nectarwick stepped backward.
Glazebutt noticed.
So did Nigel.
“The oil contains bitter orange blossom,” Glazebutt said. “Very rare. Very costly. Usually sold by pollen merchants to competitive rose growers.”
Every eye turned toward Lord Nectarwick.
“This is absurd,” he snapped. “Dozens of respectable gardeners use blossom oil.”
“Not this blend.” Glazebutt rubbed a droplet between his fingers and sniffed. “Bitter orange, moonseed wax, powdered pearl, and something called Nectarwick’s Championship Sheen.”
Lord Nectarwick’s face paled.
“You cannot possibly identify that by smell.”
“You used it on the Duchess Rouge.”
“Nonsense.”
“I landed in a bowl of custard after she launched me. The oil was embedded in places where a gentleman should never be expected to recognize a commercial fragrance.”
Madame Honeyslip covered her mouth.
Lady Dewbuckle did not bother. She laughed so hard she nearly dropped her inspection report.
Queen Maribelle descended from the royal canopy.
“Lord Nectarwick, did you apply this substance to my rose?”
“Certainly not.”
The Moonpetal Rose hurled a thorn across the stage.
It passed through Lord Nectarwick’s hat and pinned it to a flowering arch thirty feet away.
He stared at his bare head.
The audience stared with him.
“The bloom appears unconvinced,” said the Queen.
“It is malfunctioning!” he cried.
Three more thorns grew.
“Perhaps,” Glazebutt suggested, “you should stop lying before it redecorates you.”
Lord Nectarwick looked around for support. His gardeners avoided him. His wealthy acquaintances became fascinated by their shoes. Even the Duchess Rouge, displayed beneath a nearby pavilion, appeared to curl one petal away in embarrassment.
At last, he sagged.
“I only meant to dull the Moonpetal Rose temporarily,” he confessed. “The Duchess Rouge was supposed to win the Royal Bloom Medal. How could she compete against a flower that glows?”
The thorns shortened slightly.
“I applied the oil after midnight,” he continued. “I did not know the rose would absorb my intentions. I certainly did not know it would become aggressive.”
“You sabotaged a protected royal bloom,” said Queen Maribelle.
“I panicked.”
“You then accused Glazebutt of damaging your own rose.”
Lord Nectarwick’s expression hardened. “He did leave a buttock print in her.”
“That part is accurate,” Glazebutt admitted.
The Moonpetal Rose remained calm.
The Queen summoned two palace beetles. They escorted Lord Nectarwick from the lawn while he protested that his hat was still attached to the arch and that the public had no appreciation for the pressures of competitive horticulture.
“What will happen to him?” Glazebutt asked.
“He will repay the damaged growers and perform six months of service in the palace compost pits,” said the Queen.
Glazebutt winced.
“And afterward?”
“He will be sealed inside a decorative garden gnome.”
“Ah.”
“Only for the weekends.”
“Merciful.”
The immediate threat had passed, but the Moonpetal Rose remained coated in oil. Its petals sagged under the sticky film, and small thorns continued to twitch along its stem.
Queen Maribelle turned to Glazebutt.
“Can the oil be removed?”
He examined the surface.
“Ordinary water will spread it. Soap may damage the petal. A cloth would tear the silver veins.”
“Then what do you recommend?”
Glazebutt hesitated.
Nigel read the answer on his face.
“No,” the aphid said.
“It is the safest option.”
“Absolutely not.”
“My skin naturally absorbs floral oils.”
“You invented that.”
“We have established that my inventions occasionally stumble into science.”
“Occasionally stumble backside-first into science.”
Glazebutt turned to the Queen.
“The petal needs controlled pressure and gentle movement to lift the residue without bruising the tissue.”
The Queen stared at him.
“Are you proposing what I think you are proposing?”
“That depends upon whether you are imagining something dignified.”
“I am not.”
“Then yes.”
He removed his waistcoat and handed it to Nigel.
The crowd leaned forward.
“If the rose responds to intention,” Glazebutt said, “then I must approach it without greed, deception, vanity, or personal enjoyment.”
“Can you manage that?” Nigel asked.
“For several seconds, certainly.”
A tiny thorn emerged.
“I will attempt it with sincerity,” Glazebutt amended.
The thorn withdrew.
He climbed carefully onto the Moonpetal Rose.
Its enormous petals shifted beneath his weight. The silver veins dimmed. Several thorns angled toward him but did not grow.
Glazebutt placed both hands against the inner fold and lowered himself slowly.
The petal released a deep, resonant squeak that carried across the royal lawn.
Somewhere in the audience, a child giggled.
Glazebutt closed his eyes.
For once, he did not think about applause, pastries, titles, or how impressive he would look embroidered on a commemorative cushion. He thought about the wounded flower. He thought about the creatures who had trusted his ridiculous cards. He thought about Nigel staying when he could have fled. Most painfully of all, he thought about how badly he wanted to become the creature everyone had briefly believed him to be.
Then he moved.
Once to the left.
Sqrrrk.
Once to the right.
Fwoop.
And finally in one slow, carefully controlled circle.
The famous diagnostic wiggle.
The crowd held its breath.
The orange oil collected against Glazebutt’s jewel-textured skin. Droplets rolled from the petal and gathered harmlessly along his sides. Beneath him, the Moonpetal Rose brightened.
Silver light spread through its veins.
The thorns softened and folded inward. The petals lifted, opening wider beneath the sun. Pink deepened to coral, coral melted into violet, and the entire blossom began to glow with a clean, pearlescent radiance.
Glazebutt continued until the last streak of oil had been removed.
When he stood, the rose was fully restored.
His backside, however, shone like a ceremonial lantern.
For several silent seconds, nobody moved.
Then the crowd exploded into cheers.
Glazebutt froze atop the rose.
He had heard applause before, usually after falling from something or becoming stuck in something else. This was different. The cheers were not for the title, the clipboard, or the fraudulent mystery of his technique.
They were for him.
Nigel wiped one eye and immediately pretended he had been struck by pollen.
Queen Maribelle approached the restored bloom. She ran one hand across the petal and smiled as silver light curled around her fingers.
“You saved it.”
“With controlled pressure,” Glazebutt said.
“And gentle movement.”
“Extremely gentle.”
“You also confessed to several crimes before the entire kingdom.”
His smile weakened.
“I hoped the successful ending might distract from those.”
“It did not.”
“Bugger.”
The Queen returned to her throne and called for the royal clerk. A silver parchment was placed before her.
“Sir Glazebutt, you will repay every fee collected under false pretenses.”
He looked toward the boxes of pastries.
“Even those already digested?”
“Equivalent value will be accepted.”
“That seems administratively vindictive.”
“You will apologize to every flower owner whose blossom you examined without informed permission.”
Madame Honeyslip waved cheerfully from the audience.
“And for one year, all physical inspections must be supervised by a licensed botanist.”
Glazebutt glanced at Nigel.
“Do you know any?”
Nigel unfolded a certificate from his coat.
“I completed the palace correspondence course while you were memorizing the word sepal.”
“Show-off.”
The Queen dipped her pen into golden ink.
“Subject to those conditions, I hereby appoint you the Sugarwild Garden’s first Royal Petal Pressure Inspector.”
Glazebutt’s mouth fell open.
“Officially?”
“Officially.”
“With genuine paperwork?”
“Yes.”
“And a real seal?”
“Yes.”
“Will there be a clipboard?”
“I suspect there must be.”
The Queen signed the appointment.
The Moonpetal Rose flashed silver, confirming that every word was true.
From that day forward, Sir Glazebutt operated a legitimate office beside the palace conservatory. The sign above the door now read:
ROYAL PETAL PRESSURE INSPECTIONS
LICENSED • SUPERVISED • CONSENSUAL
Nigel managed the appointments, collected reasonable fees, and ensured that every client signed a detailed contact agreement before Glazebutt went anywhere near the merchandise.
His methods became surprisingly respected.
He detected weakened lily folds before they tore. He identified overheated tulips, underhydrated peonies, and a fungal infection in a moon orchid that three distinguished botanists had dismissed as “an unfortunate complexion.” His unusual skin absorbed harmful oils without damaging delicate surfaces, while his soft, mostly suggestive skeleton distributed pressure more gently than any conventional instrument.
He was still vain.
He was still lazy.
He still used phrases like “rear-fold instability” whenever ordinary language would have been perfectly adequate.
But he stopped pretending expertise where he had none. When uncertain, he consulted Nigel. When a blossom refused inspection, he respected it. And when one particularly flirtatious rose requested an after-hours polishing without supervision, he referred the matter to palace legal counsel before removing his waistcoat.
The garden never forgot the Festival of Blossoms.
Neither did the merchants.
By the following spring, Glazebutt’s likeness appeared on teacups, cushions, garden flags, puzzles, and a highly controversial line of polishing cloths. The most popular design showed him reclining upon the restored Moonpetal Rose, one hand resting upon his belly and a thoroughly satisfied expression across his jeweled face.
Beneath the image were the words:
Professionally Inspected. Suspiciously Polished.
Sir Glazebutt kept the first cushion in his office.
Whenever visitors asked whether the story behind it was true, he would settle back, narrow his amber eyes, and smile.
“Every dignified word,” he said.
The Moonpetal Rose outside his window usually produced one tiny thorn.
Just enough to keep him honest.
Sir Glazebutt may have fabricated his credentials, but the artwork from Sir Glazebutt and the Suspiciously Polished Petal is officially available for creatures with impeccable taste and questionable decorating instincts. Display his jewel-bright magnificence as a framed print, canvas print, or gleaming metal print—because few things improve a wall like a suspicious amphibian proudly displaying his professional assets. For a larger dose of Sugarwild Garden scandal, he is also available as a tapestry, cozy fleece blanket, or delightfully slippery puzzle. You can even carry his diagnostic wiggle into public on a tote bag or send somebody a suspiciously polished greeting with a greeting card.
The Bluebell-Shelled Gaspurtle Who Saw Everything
The Backfold Bogbean Who Backed Into Bloomberry Trouble
The Sticky-Toed Bloomtoad Who Entered Through the Back Petal