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"The Purple House did another spectacular job on the decorations," Cole commented, pale fingers caressing the flawless curves of the vines. It was rough on his smooth skin. "The freshmen are certainly looking forward to decorate each other with the most feminine looking flower they could find."
Weston College, a historical figure that brought forth many competent graduates to serve London, now looked like a large flower basket of wreaths, garlands, and posies painted the halls and doors and any spot one could hang the décor on. Much like the school itself, the country adored valuing the old traditions and bringing nostalgia for the elders.
"I agree. This year's students did a marvellous work on the arrangements. It all only happens on one day after all," Redmond answered, sipping his tea and leaned back from his chair. "Of course, the Red House won't get left behind."
Despite a day dedicated to flowers and beauty, the four respective Houses can still relax and unwind while participating with their trademark talents. Green House for horseback riding and archery; Blue House for the exposure of Celtic and Pagan tradition; Purple House for the fair and parade preparations; Red House for the flower arrangements with poetic lines concealed within the petals.
The fag smiled, approaching him with a teapot at hand, as he poured another fresh batch of green tea. "Small details like the language of flowers are really a nice touch, Redmond."
"You can call it a test of knowledge," he said. "And once they figure out the message, wouldn't that be more meaningful?" Edgar looked up at the standing Maurice Cole. Short, blonde curls all in place and not a strand astray as his eyes glinted to the compliment the over-decorated garden. He found this dull, but graceful nonetheless. "Would you like for me to teach you the language of these flowers?" He sets down his cup. "Take it as an advance lecture, if you will."
Nodding, he clasped his hands together with the brightest smile he could manage. "It would be an honour. Thank you, Redmond."
The prefect of the Red House gave the brief instructions to the enthusiastic Maurice, eyeing each flower Edgar picks, presents and rinse and repeat. This day will really be exhausting for him, as the powder would mix with the beads of sweat he'll have from the festivities the tradition passed on for them to take on an annual basis. Maurice pressed his list of things to do for the day on his mind: sit, enjoy the outdoors, and listen to Edgar's offered lessons.
As Redmond moved to the next flower at the edge of the garden, Maurice immediately smiled in awe at the sight, "How beautiful."
Edgar chuckled, amused at his childlike joy, "The dragon flower?"
Without warning, Cole picks up a snapdragon and pulls it closer to his nose to smell it, only to wrinkle his nose and hide an ugly wince in front of Edgar. Scent aside, the flower suits Maurice, making the holder appear fascinating and cordial, partnered with a myth, which claims the flower restores youthfulness and preserves physical beauty.
Fascinating, affable, beauty, Edgar noted the words, lightly nodding his head in agreement as he watches Cole to admire the rest of the garden.
Then came a frown.
Fascinating, affable, deception, presumption.
Knitting his brows, Edgar closed his eyes and pushed the thought away along with resurfaced recollections — unwanted, unnecessary memories.
The same mistake will not be committed twice.
His gaze wandered to the bed of red roses and exhaled, turning away. The language was simply a pastime of passing a message and nothing more, it is not meant to give an accurate label of the bearer.
He called towards the young blonde, ushering him to leave the garden and join with everyone at the feast.