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Plucking petals in a sort-of divination of future romance is idle child's play Ivy would never have condoned. If you knew the species you'd also know its number of petals, and with it, the result of your query. Harley didn't, not before Ivy told her about merosity, when she tried to identify Mr. J's feelings for her. She counted out the answer on tulips, roses, pansies, on anything that would supply a satisfying answer.
"He loves me... he loves me not... he loves me. Yahtzee!"
With Ivy's stance on plant cruelty, Harley knew what her answer would be regardless of the petals' outcome if she so much as thought of harming another flower. Apart from wanting Christmas trees to decorate their home, Harley stopped any contemplation of doing deliberate damage to Ivy's foliate friends. Which did not mean that sentiment caught on.
Now, as she gathers Ivy into her arms, smooths down her hair, kisses the gash defacing her cheek, Harley thinks she finally understands the excrutiating pain the other woman must have felt for her leafy favorites.
Now that her flower has been plucked, no ramie bindings could patch her up again, no potions bring her back to life.