Rica pins the white flowers in her hair before going to her patron’s side. Her younger sister fusses with the hairclips a bit, but she’s useless at this sort of thing—always has been—and she finally settles for brushing the hair that hangs loose.
“You sure about this, Rica?” she asks gruffly, her brow puckered lightly with worry.
“I’m sure. They’re beautiful.”
“You’re beautiful,” Theramina counters. “Knock ‘em dead. I’mma go do Beraht’s shit with the Provings before he eats us both alive.”
About a year later, just before they give Paragon Theramina to the Stone, Rica presses two faded, brown blooms into the Grey Warden’s stiff hands. They fall gently to her sides; even in death, she’s useless with flowers.