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Summary
Gabrielle’s eyes squeeze shut in a silent plea, Sweet Aphrodite, what am I to do? And when they blink slowly open again she sees it on the desk beside her writing box, in a spare ink pot filled hastily with water - a single, unassuming rose. Her fingers are at the stem before she can register what she’s doing, and this time there’s no hesitation.
Or: what if the playwright Gabrielle kept the rose tossed at her feet by the Empress of Rome?
