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Roses.
All Enola could think of were roses.
Even as the shot rang out as loud as her own scream, as Tewksbury flew backwards, his whole body hitting the ground with a vicious thud, she thought of roses. She thought of them even as the gun cocked for a second time, and she found herself staring straight into the end of the barrel – staring death in the eye for yet another time that day. Watching the old woman’s face fall as the bullet did not come- as the girl she had tried to kill stared death in the eye so intently that it fled in the opposite direction, as it had done many times before- that’s when she thought of roses, of a book her mother once gave to her in a place that seemed so far away, an age so long ago. The language of flowers.
Roses. red: the lover’s rose. passion, devotion, desire. white: humility, innocence. yellow: friendship, joy. pink: gratitude, appreciation, admiration.
Enola hadn’t cared much for roses, or for any flowers, for that matter. She had always found them a waste of time. Pretty, but meaningless in many ways. Even her mother’s book hadn’t stirred any particular feeling or emotion that might come when one is so interested in a subject. But suddenly, trapped in a cold hallway with dizzying marble floors, suits of armour and shiny chest plates toppled over each other, moonlight glinting from the metal- that’s when she remembered. And that’s when they started to mean something.
Her mother used to say something to her often. You’ll take things for granted. Words whispered around tendrils of smoke, hot fires and scrabble pieces and dusty floors. You’ll take things for granted, and when they’re gone you’ll remember how much you wish they hadn’t left you, how you should have appreciated them whilst they were still here. It’s your move, Enola.
She hadn’t taken Viscount Tewksbury Marquess of Basilwether for granted, not really. But she’d taken the flowers for granted, the flowers that he himself gave her. The slight brush of his hand against hers as he passed. The small quirk of his mouth upwards, the twinkling in his eye when he talked about burdock, and mushrooms, and roses. The way he looked at her- she’d taken all of it for granted, and now he was gone, just like her mother said. Him and his roses, his innocence, friendship, admiration, love. All gone.
Enola! I said, it’s your move.
Tewksbury’s face was pale, nasty red lines crossing his throat where he had almost been strangled by the man in the hat who lay dead just a few metres away. Enola knew he was gone- no one could survive a bullet to the chest in reality, as much as she now hoped they could- but that didn’t stop her from sobbing, running her hands over his hair, shaking him, tewksbury, wake up, come on. please, laying her head on his chest with the hole blasted through it and crying until her whole body was shuddering from top to bottom.
It’s your move, go on! What are you waiting for?
I‘m out of moves! She wanted to scream into the ether, louder than she’s ever screamed before in her life. I can’t move, I don’t have any more bloody moves left! She wrapped her hand around his, limp and deathly cold; intertwining their fingers together, deciding right then and there that she would not leave, not move an inch until someone forced her, and even then she wouldn’t go without a fight. She had never done before, and she wouldn’t do now, because she wasn’t ready to say goodbye to the pretentious useless boy that gave her a rose and incidentally, so much more.
Enola thought about roses when she felt his hand start to shift. Slowly, at first, folding his fingers over and gripping hers weakly.
“Tewksbury?”
His eyes fluttered open softly, and he groaned. Even as she lifted him up into a sitting position, Enola wasn’t sure if it was real or if she were dreaming. Maybe she had been shot. Maybe this was all a dream, and she was somewhere else, conjuring the both of them back to life in some insane part of her imagination.
“I’m not entirely an idiot, you know.” Tewksbury’s hands travelled down to where his shirt was already half open, revealing the silver chest plate now covered with dents and one huge bullet hole. He looked at her again the way he’s always looked at her, scanning her face with big brown eyes and an expression that said, it’s okay. we did it. we did it. and for a moment it was all she could do not to burst into hysterical laughter.
Wrapped in his embrace, she thought of roses again, and how much she’d like to give him one, when they got out of this mess. A red one- for love, because she knew that’s what this was, for certain, no matter how many times she’d tried to deny it. Yellow, for his friendship. For conversations about wild plants and jumping from trains and hurried, on-the-run haircuts. Pink, for the gratitude that comes with knowing that he hasn’t gone forever, that he’s still there and there’s more time to appreciate the way he looks at you, to truly think about what it means, to love and be loved the same way a red rose loves the sunlight.
Your move, Enola. What’s it going to be?
Roses, she thought.
It's going to be roses.