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“Geez, I thought we’ve been through this already,” Franky grumbles. He wipes off a smudge on the lens of his goggles with the back of his glove. “She’s in the clear, isn’t she? Wanna tell me why we’re spying on your wife… again?”
Loid closes his eyes and sighs. Unfortunately, there’s no roundabout sort of way he can make his explanation, so all he does is brace himself for whatever Franky might have to say. He could try to delay the blow, though, as best he can.
“I’m inclined to believe that the SSS are well on their way to gain some intel about my mission,” Loid says. Franky blinks back at him, waiting. “I… have my suspicions.”
“Suspicions,” Franky repeats.
“Yor received flowers at work yesterday.” Loid pulls his chapeau further down over his eyes, lest Franky tries to glare at him. He clears his throat. “And… they weren’t from me. Obviously.”
“WHAT?” Franky bursts, as if on cue, and tosses his hands up. “You’re telling me I’m here ‘cuz your wife got some flowers and you’re worried that… what, she’s gonna up and leave you for another man? Pretty sure that’s the least of your problems, pal!”
Loid lets out a groan. Of course Franky would jump to such a crass assumption; he’d predicted as much. But to actually hear it directly from him is a completely different thing. He’s about to open his mouth to protest, and it’s just then that the subject of their stakeout walks past them. Loid quickly pulls his newspaper up over his face, and Franky starts whistling—badly and out of tune, which only serves to make Yor glance their way. The absurd whistling halts at once, and Franky tips his hat; Yor nods back at him politely before continuing her walk.
Though, Loid supposes walk would be putting it lightly. Past the bench where he and Franky are seated, in disguise, Yor hurries down the street at a brisk pace, clutching her bag in one hand and a bouquet of gladioli in the other. As soon as she approaches the bin outside City Hall, she sneaks a surreptitious glance around her and chucks the entire bouquet into the bin.
“Those aren’t from ya either, right?” Franky asks, startling Loid. “‘Cuz otherwise… ouch.”
“Of course not,” Loid mutters, making a face, “I would never get Yor those. Her favourites are roses. But considering this is already the second attempt, I’m going to find out who’s the perpetrator behind all this.”
“Perp, huh? And what’s the crime, admiration for your wife? I don’t think—” Franky stops talking abruptly, and then gives Loid a very strange look. “Did you just say, ‘her favourites are roses’?”
“That’s right.” Loid nods, undeterred. “Sometimes it’s carnations, but only the red ones. I’ve made the mistake of giving Yor yellow ones once… let’s just say it almost caused a major setback in Operation Strix. I had no idea Yor Briar was quite so partial to flowers. Luckily, I had The Language of Flowers: An Alphabet of Floral Emblems on hand. Nightfall gave me a copy of it a while back, though I’ve no clue why she would think I’d have any use for it. I’m grateful now, though, because at least I’ve learned how to…”
He trails off when he sees Franky staring at him wordlessly. “What?”
“You get your wife flowers?” Franky narrows his eyes at him. “As in, for no reason? Just because?”
“No, not just because!” Loid says firmly, even though he can feel his face growing warm. “For the sake of my mission, Franky, you know that.”
“Right,” Franky says slowly, “and just how dedicated are you to your mission, Twilight?”
“It’s for world peace. So, I’d say incredibly dedicated.” Loid tugs his chapeau even lower down over his forehead. He’d rather not deal with any unwarranted assumptions from Franky. “I assure you, this has nothing to do with Yor or the flowers. It’s just that flowers have always been used to send secret codes within organisations. Espionage 101. That’s all this is.”
“Uh-huh.” Franky waves his goggles around, as if to make a point. “And yet you have no problem dragging me on a stakeout—on a Friday night, by the way—just to make sure no funny business is happening with your wife.”
“For the sake of my mission, wha—weren’t you listening? Anyway, it’s not like you had another one of your, uh, dates or anything…” Loid pauses, glancing over at Franky, “… did you?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know!” Franky erupts defensively. “Like it’d make any difference at all!”
His outburst draws attention from passers-by—and Yor, who turns to glance at them from the steps leading up to City Hall. Franky tips his hat again, apologetically, and Yor gives them both another bright smile, and scuttles off. Loid is only aware of his own lingering smile when he belatedly registers the sore along his cheeks. Franky gives him another strange look; Loid frowns back.
“I’ll… uh, go investigate the flowers now.”
“Uh-huh.”
As soon as Loid’s knuckles graze the gladioli petals, he’s shocked to find the flowers still fresh. The stems are still firm to the touch; sturdy, which means whoever it was that had sent the flowers must have wanted Yor to receive them immediately. As though Yor not receiving them couldn’t be an option whatsoever. The thought doesn’t sit well with Loid.
He turns the flowers over and finds that they’re wrapped in a delicate tissue paper, and the red from the gladioli has slightly stained the tips of the sheet. He does not find a message card, or any names or addresses of any kind.
It’s on the third day Loid watches Yor toss the same bouquet of flowers into the same bin outside Berlint City Hall that his suspicions grow into a larger, far uglier feeling that he only vaguely recognises.
“You have a kinda funny look on your face,” Franky comments, and his eyes go wide. “Twilight, tell me you’re not—”
“I’m not… whatever it is you were about to suggest,” Loid says curtly as he smoothes out his hair. He’d forgotten the hat for his disguise today, so he feels doubly exposed—even more now that Franky’s giving him that look. “I’ve just never struggled with an investigation like this before. Tell me, Franky, who would give flowers with no return address? And why isn’t Yor’s name on it? How would the postman even know who and where to deliver the flowers to? And—”
Loid halts his string of questions, pondering a much more important one: Is Yor the one throwing away the message cards? Is she worried the flowers might be sent to our home address? Is she… hiding something?
“Geez, Twilight, it’s all over your face,” Franky mutters. “Hey, didn’t I already tell you before? You gotta keep your emotions out of—”
“And I am,” Loid cuts in. “Spare me the lecture, Franky.”
The gladioli—a dull, faded bouquet of blue this time—continue to thwart Loid on the fourth day. Franky has put an end to his complaints at this point, and Loid chalks it up to the fact that he’s just as determined to solve this mystery. At least he does, until Franky decides to take matters into his own hands. And as usual, he goes completely off-script.
“Excuse me, ma’am,” Franky says, bounding ahead to where Yor is standing by the bin. They’re disguised as elderly men tonight—not quite in uniform, but close enough to pass as waste collectors. Elderly men should not be skipping down the street like some kind of drunken hooligan the way regular Franky would—and the way he currently is. “Couldn’t help noticin’ those flowers yer keep throwin’ out. And I can’t for the life of me figure out why on earth you’d be doin’ that. What’s wrong with ‘em, huh?”
“Fr—Frederic!” Loid calls, rushing toward them. Franky always chooses to resort to the aggressive persona. The cautious, wide-eyed look on Yor’s face sends an awful feeling down Loid’s spine. Truth be told, after their last confrontation, Loid is much more worried for Franky than he is for Yor in their current situation. “Come on, let’s not bother the woman. Apologies about my friend here, ma’am. We’ll leave you alone now.”
Yor gives them a nod. “That’s all right—”
“No, no, I gotta know, ma’am,” Franky continues, much to Loid’s chagrin. “What, yer think yer too good for this chap? His pretty li’l flowers ain’t good enough for ya, is that it?”
“Frederic,” Loid hisses, yanking him by his shirt collar. “What do you think you’re doing?”
Yor drops her head to the ground, and Loid quickly braces himself for an attack. But when she lifts her hands, it’s only so she can wring them fervently instead. Yor’s feet start shuffling underneath her, and she’s doing everything she can to avoid looking them in the eyes. Loid knows this particular look. He has seen this look on far too many people in his career as a spy. This is the unmistakable look of guilt.
“Ma’am?” Loid frowns. Was I actually right? Is Yor… hiding something?
“I… I’m already married!” Yor cries out suddenly, throwing her hands up in the air. “I have no need for flowers! Especially not these flowers! They mean nothing to me.” She reaches for the bouquet she’d just dumped into the bin, and holds it out to Franky. “Here, sir, you take them if you like the flowers that much. I’m more than happy to be rid of them!”
“Say,” Franky says, inspecting the bouquet closely, “yer must really hate this chap if yer wanna get rid of these so badly, huh?”
“H—hate? Oh, no!” Yor pulls at the sleeves of her coat nervously. Loid has never seen this look on her. Something about the way she’s staring at the flowers, mouth agape, clear regret in her eyes… it reminds Loid of the sad, wistful looks the women of his past missions have given him, just before he broke their relationship off. “I couldn’t hate him. But I can’t accept these flowers. It’s not right. Not when I’m already married, of course!”
“AHA!” Franky cries, waving the gladioli bouquet around, making Yor shrink back. In his disguise, Franky looks like an absolute madman. “I knew it! So, it is a chap after all, eh? And just what would your husband think of this, hmmm?”
Loid lifts his hand to pinch the bridge of his fake, wrinkled nose. This is becoming a disaster, and fast. He’s still trying to process the possibility that Yor had a previous relationship with another man. He’s also trying to decipher why it’s bothering him more than it ought to. But with Franky going off-script, he can’t afford to do either—he’s going to have to re-engage Twilight Mode right away.
“Pay no attention to my, uh, associate,” Loid says with an easy smile. “He tends to get quite flustered around pretty women.”
“Real smooth,” Franky whispers; Loid keeps his expression intact. As soon as Yor averts her gaze, he shoves an elbow into Franky’s side; it earns him a yelp and a sharp glare. “All right, just wrap it up, old man!”
Yor shakes her head. “Sir, I’m already m—married…”
“So you’ve mentioned,” Loid says. The smile on his face is already starting to unravel. Strange. “I don’t suppose you get much of this sort of gesture from your husband, do you?”
“Oh, but I do!” Yor twists her fingers together. Under the darkening sky, Loid notices a flush creeping over her face. “I get roses from him every now and then. Carnations, too. I don’t think he understands what the flowers mean…” Yor halts, catching herself. “Not that it matters, of course! It’s still a lovely gesture all the same.”
“Ma’am,” Franky cuts in when Loid is left gawking at her, unable to find the proper words to say, “just why’re yer tellin’ us this?”
As Loid stands before the rows of flowers of all sizes, jammed into countless tin buckets on the shelves, or tied together with twine, the feeling overwhelms him even more. He’s the last customer in the flower shop across the street from the boutique where he’d first met Yor—just why that added detail has decided to wriggle into his train of thought, Loid’s not sure—and it’s close to nine o’clock now.
There are two conclusions Loid can draw up after almost a week of conducting his stakeout: first, Yor was possibly involved with another man before she’d agreed to this sham marriage with him; and second, Yor thinks it’s lovely that he gives her flowers.
While the second conclusion may not be as important in the grand scheme of things, it wouldn’t hurt to file it away in his memory.
The florist hadn’t bothered to look up when Loid entered the shop. She’s also far too occupied with her magazine to notice that Loid has brought his own bouquet of flowers—the gladioli from earlier, so he can make comparisons with the flowers in the shop. For the sake of his mission, Loid must find out if the sender is in the immediate vicinity. If the man knows where Yor works, then he might discover where she lives. And then Loid will have to intervene. For the sake of his mission.
“Can I help you?”
The florist has set the magazine aside to scowl at him and gesture at the clock above her. It’s two minutes past nine, which means the flower shop is technically closed.
“I was wondering,” Loid begins, holding out the gladioli bouquet, “if you sold these here?”
“No,” the florist says immediately, without taking her eyes off him, “we don’t.”
“Ah, are you sure?” Loid plasters on the classic Twilight smile, but it seems the florist’s eagerness to close up shop and go home prevails over his skill. “Perhaps you can check—”
“I assure you, sir.” The florist reaches over and seizes the bouquet from him, and here is his third conclusion of the week: that’s that. “We definitely don’t sell these here.”
“It’s Papa!” Anya exclaims, as soon as Loid reaches the top of the stairs. It’s amazing how often Anya is able to tell when Loid has arrived before he even enters the house. “Finally!”
“I’m home,” Loid greets as he slips through the door. An unusual, sharp scent wafts out from the kitchen—Yor must have already gotten started on cooking. “Sorry I’m late.”
“Welcome back, Loid!” Yor calls from the kitchen. “It’s all right. I got back a little late, too. I was caught in a rather interesting conversation with a couple of elderly men earlier!”
Loid freezes, hat in hand. “Is that so?”
“One of them was particularly strange,” she goes on, “but the other was a sweet old man. They had some prying questions about… er, my status, but I think I did a good job convincing them of our marriage. I really believe I’m getting quite good at this, Loid!”
“Oh, right. That’s good, Yor.” Loid nods absentmindedly. “I’m glad.”
He finds himself unable to match her enthusiastic voice—not after he has seen the faraway look on her face when she surrendered the bouquet to Franky just that evening. Loid has yet to confirm the identity of the mystery sender, but he can at least be certain that Yor had had a relationship with the man. And while the man poses no direct threat to Operation Strix just yet, Loid can’t help wondering how Yor is able to conceal her feelings so effortlessly. Is Yor’s chipper mood at home just a front all along? Has she been secretly yearning for someone else this whole time? Did something happen in her past to prevent her from being with him? Does Yor wish she could be with the one who sends her gladioli bouquets every day instead of—
“Papa? What’s wrong?” Anya calls, effectively breaking Loid’s train of thought. Her expression is a mix of worry and confusion; sometimes he forgets just how perceptive she can be. “Ooh! Whuzzat flower doing there?”
“What—” Loid notices, in complete horror, that his tie is dotted with gladiolus petals. “Oh… that’s, uh, nothing!”
“But Papa, that’s—”
“Actually, I’m… not very hungry,” Loid blurts, cursing himself when he sees Yor’s face fall. She’s in the middle of spreading out the dishes on the dining table. “I’m sorry, but I’m feeling unusually tired today. It was a brutal day at work, so I’d rather rest early tonight.”
Before his eyes can linger on the disappointment in Yor’s face, Loid makes his way toward his room. At once, Twilight Mode is engaged and the guilt is quickly shed. But somehow Loid still feels a twinge in his chest, a stubborn fragment of emotion still wedged in there. He can’t quite put a name to it at the moment, but he remembers encountering such a feeling in the women from his past relationships—and it’d become even more prominent when he’d brought up other women’s names.
He reaches for his copy of The Language of Flowers: An Alphabet of Floral Emblems underneath the bed, and flips all the way to ‘G’.
“That sure is a pretty bunch of gladioli, ma’am.”
It is day five and Loid is early to the scene—but evidently, Yor has left the office even earlier. The bouquet of flowers, already halfway through the bin, stops mid-air as she glances up in surprise.
“Oh,” Yor exclaims, smiling brightly, “you again!”
Loid had surmised quickly enough who, between himself and Franky, was ‘the strange one’ and ‘the sweet old man’. Yor releases her grip on the bouquet and it drops, unceremoniously into the bin. She gives him another smile, pulls her coat more firmly around her shoulders and begins her journey homeward.
“Ma’am,” Loid calls, and Yor pivots to face him. “If you don’t mind me asking…”
Drop it, Twilight. Operation Strix could be hanging in the balance as it is. What exactly are you trying to achieve? She isn’t even your real wife. Whatever reasons she might have to hide her past relationship from you is not your concern. It isn’t sabotaging your mission in any way. So, why do you really need to know?
Yor tilts her head curiously. The light catches in her hair; the setting sun casts a deep glow over the rest of her. And the voice in Loid’s head goes quiet in an instant. “Yes?”
“If you don’t mind me asking,” he tries again, “what exactly happened between you and the—this here chap who keeps sending you the flowers? Why do you keep throwing them away?”
“You mentioned gladioli,” Yor counters instead. “You can tell that these are gladioli, sir?”
Of course Loid can tell that those are gladioli, because he’d hastily combed through The Language of Flowers: An Alphabet of Floral Emblems to identify the flowers. But he can’t very well say that.
“I have a daughter who’s quite fond of flowers,” Loid recites smoothly. It’s not exactly a lie—he does indeed have a daughter, and she isn’t not fond of flowers. “I make it my job to know.”
“How sweet!” Yor clasps her hands together. “I have a daughter, too. She’s wonderful!”
“Ah,” is all Loid says as he waits for her to answer his question. Yor drops her head toward the ground and wrings her hands. A telltale blush spreads over her face. “Ma’am, are you all right?”
“I don’t have such a relationship with the person who sent me these flowers,” Yor murmurs, and he can tell she’s valiantly fighting back her blush. She is unsuccessful. “I’m… completely loyal to my husband, sir!”
“I believe you,” Loid offers, laughing. He feels his own cheeks warm up and cannot fathom why. “But you don’t suppose this man—”
“This man used to own a flower shop in my hometown. In Salzig. He’s an old family friend.” Yor exhales. “He’s not a florist, but he did manage the shop for years when I lived there. You could say he’s a…”
“Shopkeeper?” His gaze catches hers when she lifts her head to regard him steadily, and he holds it. The expression on her face is, at once, impossible to read.
“That’s right.” Yor nods. “But I’ve recently decided to put an end to the friendship. Throwing away the flowers is my way of sending a message.”
That seems a little harsh—for the flowers, but Loid is not about to comment on her methods. “Did something happen between you two?”
“I’m already married!” Yor blurts, face completely reddened, and Loid wonders just how often she’s rehearsed the line to make it sound natural. “What I mean is, I’m making my family my priority in life at the moment. I wouldn’t want any unwanted suspicions to arise. My co-workers can be very chatty, you see!”
That Loid knows all too well. He gives her a sympathetic smile, and is about to offer some advice on that when Yor interjects, arms flailing, cheeks redder than Loid has ever seen.
“Besides, gladioli are my least favourite flowers! At least my husband has the decency to give me flowers he’ll know I like.” Yor puffs out her chest proudly—unaware that somewhere within Loid’s own chest, his heart is seemingly drumming out a march. It is yet another feeling he only vaguely recognises; one far too big for his heart, it seems. “If there’s one thing you should know about him, sir, it’s that he has very good taste in flowers!”
Once again, Loid is the last customer in the flower shop—it’s still a while before closing time, which makes him wonder if anyone really buys flowers from this shop in the first place. It has been six days since the gladioli incident first started. And today, it seems as though Yor’s message was finally received.
“Whaddaya mean, there’s no more flowers?” Franky had asked earlier that evening at their usual vantage point. “Did the guy just give up?”
Loid had only shrugged back. “I overheard one of her co-workers ask the same thing. Apparently the fact that the flowers have stopped coming at all seems to warrant some kind of gossip among them, too.”
The florist’s glare greets Loid when he pushes through the doors, but because it’s not too late in the day yet, his classic Twilight smile does the trick. Just as he’s about to get to work picking out the flowers, however, it dawns on him that he’d left his copy of The Language of Flowers: An Alphabet of Floral Emblems underneath his bed at home. He stands, helpless, staring at exotic and bright colourful blooms before him.
Oh, well. He will simply have to trust his own instincts—and very good taste.
“Loid?” Yor calls, and scurries down the steps of City Hall. “What are you doing here?”
“Yor!” Loid gives her a one-handed wave. “My shift ended early. Shall we walk home together?”
Loid keeps the hand currently holding the bouquet behind his back as Yor meets him by the bench, but the closer she gets—with her beige coat clutched in her hands, bashful smile fixed on her face and eyes gentle from the twilight—the more Loid’s own fingers start to subconsciously crush the bouquet, in a vice grip. Goodness. He loosens his hold at once. It’d be a shame for the flowers to be destroyed before they get to Yor.
“I hope work wasn’t too hard on you today,” she says by way of greeting.
“Huh?” Loid starts, and then quickly recollects himself. When did he start getting sloppy with his own alibis? “Right. No, we managed to straighten out the problem from the other day.”
“That’s good to hear!” Yor chirps, and instinctively, Loid’s mouth pulls up a smile. Her sudden light mood can be quite infectious. “Hm? What have you got there?”
Right. The bouquet. He’s just remembered the bouquet in his hand, still surreptitiously pressed against his back. Right on cue, Loid extends it toward her. “These are for you.”
She doesn’t take it from him right away. Loid watches as her eyes widen considerably, without a doubt studying the mixed bouquet. He’d made sure to get the florist’s help with the arrangement—she finally warmed up to him when she realised that Loid was nothing more than a bumbling fool when it came to the intricate language of flowers—and the final bouquet had turned out quite nicely, if Loid could say so himself.
“Loid,” Yor says, very quietly. Her face has turned an unspeakable shade of red. “Um, did you—are you… um, aware of what these flowers say?”
Loid gives her a regretful smile. “I’m afraid I’m not as adept at the language as you seem to be, Yor.”
“Oh!” She lets out a sigh—apparently relieved, and recovers herself. She beams up at him as she takes the bouquet. “These are lovely, thank you. They’re so beautifully arranged.”
The moon is a little eager to make an appearance tonight. As it turns in the sky, it also lends the ends of Yor’s hair a silken glow. Loid feels himself slipping a bit when he sees Yor running a single finger along the tissue paper. Perhaps now would be a suitable time to engage Twilight Mode.
“Gloxinia,” he blurts, catching both Yor and himself by surprise, “because they’re intensely red, like—like your eyes. And dark cornflowers for your hair, of course.” He’s not exactly sure who is doing the talking anymore. “Daylilies for the gold, just…” Loid reaches over and grazes his knuckle, very lightly, against her dangling earrings, “… over here. And finally, roses. I’m sure that doesn’t require much clarification.” He pauses, and then clears his throat. “That’s about as much as I understand on the subject of flowers.”
Before Loid can carry on his rambling, inconsequential speech, Yor stars laughing. Like the moon, it comes out eager and sudden. It appears to have the ability to reach the stars and stir them awake. It stirs something inside of him, too—a feeling that he only vaguely recognises. But Loid is beginning to see now that the feeling is here to stay.
“Loid…” Yor manages to say after some time, and when Loid dares to look at her, he goes slack—her eyes are glistening in the moonlight, and her cheeks are pink. He has never seen her grinning so brightly at him. “This is truly the best gift I have ever received. I’m so happy.” At once, as if catching herself, she flounders at him. “Oh, but I don’t deserve such a wonderful gift from you! What’s the occasion? Oh, no! Please tell me I didn’t happen to miss an anniversary!”
This time, Loid is the one to break into laughter. A sharp, niggling voice in the back of his head attempts to give him a warning, but Loid manages to push it aside. He shakes his head. “No, no. There’s no reason, Yor. I got you those because… ah, well. Just because!”
He is still smiling as Yor holds the bouquet to her chest, tilts it toward her face, and inhales. And Loid is grateful, at the very least, that Franky isn’t anywhere nearby.