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The first thought that entered Esmé's mind upon seeing the bouquet outside of her dressing room was one of horror. Exactly five days ago, bouquets made of faux flowers were declared "in", while bouquets made of real flowers had been deemed "out". The flowers set before her were completely genuine; the only part that was cloth was the ribbon that tied them together. She considered tossing them then and there when she actually stopped to look at them.
The bouquet was an assortment of different colored petunias, and it was upon realizing this that Esmé couldn't help but laugh. Her reputation of following what was "in" was so strong that, to the public eye, it seemed impossible for her to even be aware of the things that were considered "out", real flowers being what was considered "out". However, be it "in" or "out", Esmé knew that every flower had its own meaning; the flowers that had been sent to her meant "resentment".
The thoughts of horror turned to those of amusement as Esmé incorporated the petunias into the dress she would be performing in later that night. If the sender happened to be in attendance, she'd show them exactly how little she cared about their message.
A few nights later, she was greeted by another "out" bouquet at her dressing room door; specifically, orange lilies. Esmé knew they weren't meant to be taken as a compliment, but there was something about being given a bouquet that meant she had almost too much pride that made her feel incredibly smug. However, there was a thought that entered her mind that, when she thought about it, she was surprised she hadn't wondered about the other bouquet: Did someone she know send it?
A number of possible suspects had crossed her mind in a flurry, but each one was just as quickly dismissed: Beatrice sent flowers, but she focused more on the shade of the bouquet than the meaning of it. The flowers Olaf sent were the flowers that grew outside of the theater, and none of the flowers in the bouquet were poppies. Georgina rarely had the time to write to her at all, never mind the time to send her flowers, but even when she did they were never bouquets.
Besides, the bouquets she had been receiving were all coded messages. The sender would not only have to be aware of the fact that bouquets of real flowers were "out", they'd also have to care a great deal about meanings and definitions.
She almost dropped the bouquet at that thought. The sender's identity was clearer than the night sky at that point, and before she could stop herself, she found herself on her way to the in-est florist's shop that happened to still be open during the late hours of the night. Before the cashier could even ask how they could help, Esmé said, "I need you to send a bouquet of your faux-est marigolds to The Daily Punctilio's theater critic."
Three weeks and four performances had passed since she sent the marigolds in return, yet she hadn't gotten another bouquet since. She was surprised to find herself disappointed; every bouquet she had received was considered "out", and if she was correct about the sender's identity, then the flowers were nothing more than another way to spread his reviews.
Yet despite that, that didn't stop the rush of satisfaction when she happened to bump into the critic himself leaving a bouquet at her dressing room door.
"Candytufts?" Esmé questioned.
"A few associates of mine have told me that these are very in now," Lemony responded almost immediately, as if he rehearsed it.
"Darling, those have been out for months now," Esmé replied. She was about to add that faux flowers were still the only flowers that were "in" when a cold chill suddenly ran down her spine.
Darling. She had not just called Lemony Snicket "Darling".
Lemony was about to speak again, only to stop himself, an amused glint in his eye replacing the nervousness that had been there before. "Did you just call me--?"
She most certainly did, but she would rather die than admit that. "I didn't call you anything, you must be dreaming," she spoke as fast as she could, taking the flowers from his hands and shutting the door before he could say anything else. She had to force the smile on her face to leave as she truly looked at the bouquet. Candytuft flowers, while not rare, weren't exactly all that common. She couldn't help but wonder how long it took for him to find them, and she was surprised she had to talk some sense back into herself by telling herself what they meant: indifference.
She was most certainly not relieved that she was entirely correct with her guess on who was sending her the bouquets, and she was most certainly not happy that he didn't decide to stop sending her flowers.
She was most certainly not lying to herself.
After the end of each performance for the next few weeks, she had managed to catch Lemony leaving bouquets at her door often enough for him to instead wait at the door and give them himself. Esmé was surprised to find herself wondering whether it was him or the bouquets she looked forward to on performance nights; each of the bouquets shared similar meanings to the meaning of the candytuft flowers, yet part of her wondered if maybe there was a bouquet or two she wasn't getting right. If the meanings were all somewhat similar to "indifference", then why did it feel like they meant something more to her?
One night before a performance, however, she was greeted by a sight she was surprised shocked her as much as it did: a bouquet of petunias, blooms which roughly meant "resentment", in front of her dressing room door. She picked the bouquet up, looking over each flower to see if maybe she was mistaken, yet each flower produced the same meaning: resentment.
Why did this distress her? She didn't even like him, why was she upset about this?
..She didn't like him, right?
She had five minutes until she had to be out on stage, and there she was, about to burst into tears for reasons she felt too proud to admit. She had to get herself together.
She had to get herself together.
Her performance that night earned her the most applause she had ever received; it was almost enough to make her forget about what happened hours prior.
"Almost", for as soon as she made her way to her dressing room, she bumped into a worried Lemony.
"I don't want your praise if you don't mean it, Snicket, words or in a bouquet," she said, trying to pay him little mind.
"I never sent you a faux bouquet," Lemony said after a moment of trying to find the words he wanted.
"I'm aware of that," Esmé replied, not sounding as stern as she'd hoped. He told her exactly how he felt about her, and of he was trying to lie--
"'Faux' means--"
"I'm well aware of what 'faux' means, Snicket," she interrupted, trying to sound as cold as she could without her voice breaking. Before she could reach for the door, she felt Lemony take her hand in his. His hold was loose, almost hesitant, as if he expected her to pull away.
She didn't.
When she turned to face him, his hold became a bit firmer, yet it still felt loose enough for her to pull away. She didn't want to admit that that was the last thing she wanted to do.
"Didn't you realize the material of the flowers I gave you?" Lemony asked, and it was if a window had shattered: cloth. The material was cloth. Lemony had sent her a faux bouquet, but she had been too caught up in what the petunias meant to realize what they were made of.
A flurry of questions entered Esmé's mind, but before she could filter through the ones she felt mattered most, she began to ask, "Why were the others real?"
"I wanted each meaning to be genuine," he admitted. "At first, the flowers I sent were real because I wanted each meaning to reflect my reviews," he stopped himself for a moment, hesitating before continuing, "But then I found myself sending them for..other reasons. I wanted each meaning to reflect how I felt."
"But why was that--?"
"I was worried you wouldn't feel mutual about how I do," Lemony answered before Esmé could finish asking.
Esmé was surprised to find herself nervous to ask one last question; it wasn't exactly like her to feel hesitant. She brought her free hand up to his cheek, and she could've sworn she felt him lean into her touch. She didn't want to admit how nice it felt. "What do you feel for me, darling?" was on the tip of her tongue, but Lemony's actions were already proof enough of what he felt.
Instead, her eyes fluttered shut as she whispered, "Kiss me, darling, please," her sentence just barely finished before Lemony's lips brushed against hers, firm yet gentle. As he let go of her hands and wrapped his arms around her waist, Esmé truly realized she didn't like this man: she loved this man.