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"I read up on it, you know." Flora says later, when all the hubbub has died down.
Later, when we're back in the palace, back on that rooftop terrace, sitting with our backs pressed against the rough stone next to the door, just barely sheltered against the mizzle.
Flora dragged out a fluffy blanket from somewhere, though, and there's two candles flickering in the breeze on either side of us.
"What?" I lift my head from her shoulder (I was right, my cheek really does fit perfectly there, even when we're sitting). I blink, and try to shake the sleepy contentment from my mind.
Flora has the piece of rose quartz out, and is fiddling with it, running a thumb over its edges and turning it over and over. There's something in her voice, a hint of that rare vulnerability that tells me to sit up, pay attention. I only manage to stretch my legs out, though, too lazy and exhausted from that crazy day to actually sit up. I yelp when my foot slips out from under the blanket, the cold air a shock to my system and quite effectively pulling me further into wakefulness.
Flora laughs at me and manoeuvres her own feet to shift the blanket back to cover me, but I can tell her heart isn't entirely in it.
This really has to be weighing on her. I snuggle a little deeper into her side and reach for her hand, stilling the nervous fiddling.
"What did you read up on?" I ask, quietly.
"Rose quartz," she says, and her voice breaks a little. I freeze, and my heart gives a lurch. I think this might be fear of what Flora is going to say next—but I'm learning to be brave, so maybe I don't have to be afraid.
"Oh," I just say, and let her say what she wants to say in her own time.
"I know you're mostly a nerd about the scientific side of rocks, but I guess you know that people are superstitious and willing to ascribe a meaning to quite literally anything. Names, flowers, colors... rocks." She swallows, her gaze on our hands in her lap, and she starts fiddling again. This time, I let her.
"The meanings differ depending on the source, of course, but. The first google article that popped up kinda made the biggest impression."
It's quiet for a while, as the mizzle turns into a proper drizzle, and the sky grows steadily darker, voices of palace staff passing by, the noise of traffic in the far, far distance.
"Oh?" I prompt her, eventually.
"Yeah," she says, as if that's an answer.
"Do you want to tell me about it?" I ask, gently. I don't think that this is a conversation that can be rushed, and really, I don't want to. For once, I am comfortable here, and while the anticipation thrums lowly in my blood and my heart pumps out more fondness and affection for the girl next to me with every passing second, I find myself not minding it.
"Yeah," Flora says, again. I hide a smile against her shoulder, press a kiss against her neck. She shivers, her fingers stilling for a moment, but she doesn't otherwise react.
Her voice sounds like from far away when she eventually finds it again, as though she's reciting something she read somewhere. "Rose quartz is known as a healing crystal and the stone of unconditional love. It's believed by some to emit strong vibrations of love, joy, and emotional healing."
Oh. She was reciting something. And what a something.
And she's not done yet, because she ignores my choking on air to continue in that same monotone: "Rose quartz is a powerful healing crystal. Its soft, gentle, almost pastel pale pink coloring is a good indication of its most commonly known property: that of pure love. It’s a stone of both giving and receiving love."
I feel a little dizzy, but that may well be because of the lack of air. Or maybe not, because then Flora (finally, finally) looks up at me, and the look in her (so very golden) eyes takes my breath away all over again.
I close my eyes to escape it, to draw a deep breath and calm my racing heart. I feel a little shaky with just how much in love I am, and, somehow, this is so much more terrifying than my own public love confession just a few hours earlier.
This is Flora, and this is her exposing that soft and squishy heart of hers to me.
This is her trusting me with it.
"There's more," Flora says, a little livelier, a little less monotone. "There was also this pretty picture. Rose quartz – Healing the Wounded Heart. A bit pretentious, but okay."
I refrain from saying that Flora would know all about pretentious, of course.
Flora sighs out a breath as though she knows exactly what I'm thinking—I don't doubt it, considering all the other things she seems to be able to read from my face.
"Helps with: overcoming heartbreak and betrayal, learning to trust again. Affirmation: I open my eyes to give and receive love."
The silence stretches, again.
One of the candles goes out in a wisp of smoke, and I take it as a sign.
I fold my legs under me and pull away from Flora's side, just enough that I can turn around and face her, taking her hands into mine. I follow the motion of her thumb as she runs it over the stone again.
Then I clear my throat and try to think of the best way to say this, but even my thoughts are all nervous-babbling at me, so maybe that's just how it's gonna be.
"You were right about me only caring about the scientific facts, and on that side of it rose quartz really does have no special qualities, other than being pretty. But.
"You were right then too. Being pretty is a very special quality all on its own, and, well. There's more to it than just being pretty, isn't it? There's so much more to it with you, after all, so why not with a rock as well?
"So. I read up on it, too. We found the same picture, I think. And I—well. I didn't expect you to know about it, too, but it was meant to be a promise to myself, and therefore to you.
"Jude, Dastardly Jude, yes, she broke my heart. She betrayed my trust, and it hurt—it hurt so much that getting away from her was part of the reason I went through with Gregorstoun. It hurt, and then that stupid article made me think (for a while, and so very stupidly) that the same thing was happening all over again, and I was so afraid of getting hurt again that I did the worst thing possible and hurt you before you had the chance to hurt me. I'm so sorry for that, so very incredibly sorry. It's no excuse, I know, but—
"Anyway, the rose quartz is supposed to be a reminder. You're not her, and while we both have our issues, we can work on them together.
"I will open my heart, and not jump to the worst conclusions at every turn, listen to you over the rumors and gossip and try to accept that I'm worthy of being chosen by you, and I'll shower you in as much love as you deserve. Which, for the record, is a lot."
I'm a little impressed with myself that I managed to get through this in a vaguely coherent manner. I'm also a little impressed that Flora managed to not interrupt me with some smart-ass comment or another.
Then I focus my gaze and discover the reason for it: Flora's eyes are red and there are tear tracks down her cheeks, and her grip is white-knuckled around the rose quartz.
My breath hitches at the sight, and my heart stops and stutters. My body jerks, as if pulled forward by the heart, and I reach out, cupping my hand around her cheek even as I land hard on my knees, the blanket’s comfortable warmth gone, and I try to smooth her tears away with my thumb, even as more well up.
Flora just stares at me and blinks, and stares and blinks.
"Oh, dear."
We both startle at her sudden proclamation.
She pulls in a shaky breath, and "oh, dear," she repeats on the exhale. "I really am in love with you."
It takes a moment for the words to sink in. Then I laugh, pure relief shaking from my chest, even though I had hoped that this may be it. Flora isn't one for the big public declarations, after all, not with what really matters to her.
I had hoped I might fit into that category.
I'm not quite prepared to be faced with the reality of it. My heart does that so-big-it-could-burst thing again, and I smile through the wonderful pain of it.
"I really am in love with you, too," I say, because that's a wonderfully frightening thing to say, too.
Everything feels wonderful right now, the Scotting mizzle and almost-full moon that shines through a gap in the clouds, the single candle still burning, Flora's hand in mine, Flora's lips on mine, the lingering taste of chocolate mixing with the salt of her tears.
And the most wonderful of it all, hearing Flora whisper "I love you," again, like it's a revelation, like it's something precious, something worth repeating.
And it is, because every time she says it, I echo it back at her, and it feels like the rose quartz is working its magic already. Or maybe that's just us.
And we’re worth it, everything we’ve been through and everything that’s yet to come.
She's not wearing any of the invaluable gems or jewels of the royal family.
There's only a simple silver necklace around her neck, spilling down her collarbones, broken and mended more times than we can count over the past ten years.
It doesn't quite match her elaborate white dress, the fancy lace, the precious earrings, but she wears it with pride.
She hasn't taken it off often, and still fiddles with it when she's nervous, or deep in thought.
Right now she isn't either of those, and instead she wears a blindingly bright smile as she watches me walk down the aisle towards her, my father at my side.
I'm not nervous either, despite the flashing cameras and the sheer amount of royalty in the stands.
This was a promise, this is trust, and this can never be a mistake.
The rose quartz sitting on its chain over Flora's heart almost seems to glow when the officiant says "I now pronounce you wife and wife," and, under thundering applause, we kiss.
A very fine rock indeed.