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Argenta prays in the small chapel near the Dargonus palace on all days of the local planetary week but one. On the last one, she prays in the main cathedral of the city. This is the routine ever since the Rogue Trader has defended Dargonus and in turn been taken hostage by responsibility. So she keeps to it. It helps her make sense of her surroundings, of this world and her place in it, of what she’s done and what she’s yet to do in the service of Theodora’s successor. Above all, it gives her strength.
It also makes her feel less idle, when between her holy duties and her training Cassia insists on taking her to swim in the lake behind the palace grounds, or Jae invites her to stroll the promenade. The weeks pass slowly.
It is a beautiful summer's day on Dargonus when upheaval quietly returns to her life.
The palace halls are nearly empty, staff and occupants alike trying to escape the midday sun, but the streets are bustling.
She walks the same road as always.
A summer breeze sneaks into the cathedral alongside her. For a moment, the air smells of new beginnings and blossoms, before the door shuts and blocks out sound, smell and distraction. The stone halls welcome her back in their ceremonial embrace.
They always offer the same kind of sanctuary: peace for the mind, rest for the body, silence for all thought. Even after all these years spent underneath such roofs, she still holds a profound love for what they do to the soul. Their high arches dwarf the human figure as a reminder that they are all naught but specks of life before the Emperor.
On the battlefield, she is a presence, large, loud, triumphant. Here, she is small.
Argenta makes her way through the nave. She chose this turn for the seclusion it offers. No other worshippers find their way here today, maybe too distracted by the merriment outside, but she has no impulse to join. In contemplation, one must welcome solitude.
One each last day of the week, in the main cathedral of Dargonus, she prays in the same corner of the room. There’s a hall that snakes all the way around the apse of the easternmost part, built for a choir that seldom sings. Slightly to the left, third nook from there, is an alcove she has chosen as her own.
It is usually no different from the other ones - the same sandstone wall hammered into ornaments, a small sill to put a prayerbook on, a ledge to kneel.
Today, a vase stands on it. The flowers in it have lost nothing of their vibrant yellow, but their heads and petals are already dropping, all over her prayer space.
Argenta’s first response is to be annoyed, before she reminds herself she has no claim to this place. Even if life on Dargonus feels like hers a lot of the time, it is no more a home than Footfall was. Transient. Meant to be left behind once the voidship engines start back up,
But the bloom is long past its prime and has exceeded what is appropriate as an offering, so before any worship of her own can happen, she decides to dispose of it. There’s a hatch outside to the back of the church, and she watches the petals fall off her hands into the darkness.
Except now she still has the vase. It's pretty, a solid clay wall of clearly good craftsmanship. You can still see the ridges of the finger pads that have shaped it. A blue glaze covers the interior and rim. It is arguably too nice to send it down the chute.
She doesn’t want an earful from the chaplain again about leaving personal belongings behind either. She had forgotten her scarf once , when Dargonus has been colder and the year newer, and yet the man never ceases to remind her.
She looks for something to fill it with. Let it be someone else’s problem.
Red flowers decorate the altar for Sanguinala, ones that look like little stars, and white ones for the Festival of Saints, but those are large and foreign. Most of what grows on Dargonus’ fields is nothing like that.
Behind the church must have been a garden, many years ago, but now it sits as an empty lot of grass, hedges, and the garbage disposal. She’s not one with a strong demand for aesthetics, but it is the carelessness for these sacred spaces that irks her.
Blotches of blue bloom beneath grass that could benefit from a culling. Argenta reaches in, trying not to catch too many blades of weed. The flowers are more delicate than they look, and she breaks two before she figures out how to handle them. In the end, they find their way into the vase and even get their water changed.
More satisfied about this than she has any right to be, Argenta marches back inside. She sets the flowers down where she found them. The blue of them matches the glaze.
There, let the person who brought them deal with them.
Argenta recedes into prayer. She doesn’t ask the Emperor for much, she doesn’t have any right to, but she weaves a few lines in there, on hope, and a good summer on Dargonus.
***
For Cassia, having a good summer is essentially the same as having a good winter. The girl has her nose buried in books all day, now that there’s nothing for her to navigate. It’s merely the place that changes. Sometimes she’ll sit under the apple trees in the courtyard, sometimes in one of the many tea houses, sometimes she disappears entirely.
Today, she has chosen one of the pews, a tome propped up on her slender legs. She’s wearing a sundress, feet in open sandals, while Argenta has never left her robes behind. She ties them a little higher these days, so the warm air may brush against her ankles and grant her relief from the heat.
“Did you know that each one of these stones is engraved?” Cassia points her finger at the walls, “so they could tally whose servitor placed which ones.”
“I did not.”
She’s reading on architecture right now. Argenta has invited her to come along and study the intricacies of stonework and engravings. It doesn’t always have to be solitude.
While she compares the illustrations with what's in front of her, Argenta retreats to the choirway. Much to her dismay, the vase is still there - refilled once more. A small cluster of white flowers Argenta doesn’t know greets her on the marble top.
Argenta sighs, and it reverberates in the silence of the hall.
“Are you alright?” Cassia's worried voice reaches her through the corridor.
“Yes, yes. Someone’s been leaving flowers in my prayer spot.” answers Argenta, aware she’s sounding like a displeased child.
Cassia’s head pops around the corner. Her fingers thrum along the stone.
“Oh, Argenta,” There’s a glint in Cassia's eyes that frightens her a little, “I believe these are for you.”
Argenta wrinkles her nose. “Why would I want wilted flowers.”
“Well, they weren’t always wilted, I suppose.” Cassia cocks her head, exposing the gill-like structure on her neck, “Huh, Dargonian starwort. That’s rare.”
Someone else must have used this space in prayer, and left them behind.
“They have simply found their way into my corner, anything else would be presumptuous. And a church is no place for this.”
Any and all messages sent here should be to the Emperor.
“Flowers don’t always mean amorous intentions, Argenta.” Cassia takes one of the stalks, twisting it between her fingers. She regards it intently, crimson eyes full of knowledge. “You don’t know much about the language of flowers, do you?”
“I don’t.” Argenta confesses. She’s sent flowers before, back when she was a progena, back when there was a girl she liked. They were clumsily collected from a field, grabbed what looked nice, no care for name or colour. She couldn’t have done half-bad when it earned her a hasty kiss on the training grounds. There had been no secret language to it.
Cassia produces a small book, bound in a plain blue cloth from the heavy-looking bag she carries. She splits the pages where the list starts with “D”. Contrary to its unimpressive binding, each page is illustrated with beautiful flowery flames of azure, cobalt and emerald tones.
“Did you just happen to have that on you?”
“Yes.” Cassia answers, as if that is a perfectly normal thing to do. “Hand me that flower.”
Argenta obliges. Cassia places it on the page, next to a drawing of the very same plant immortalised in ink. “See?” The joy in her voice lifts the spirits upon hearing it alone - but that may just be her power.
“What does it mean, then?” Argenta tries to read over her shoulder, but Cassia is a good bit taller than her, so she has to look around her side instead.
“ Greetings to a stranger. ” Cassia taps the page with a satisfied nod, “Usually it would be as part of a full bouquet, so we’re left without context here, but I believe the choice was no accident. Now which kind did you leave last time?”
“Blue ones.”
“Argenta!” sighs Cassia, “You’re worse than any man I’ve met - no eye for these things at all. No wonder your love life is nonexistent.”
“So is yours!” Argenta doesn’t bother to explain to her that there is no time for such a thing in her life. The young woman is historically adamant on finding her a match, no matter her protests.
“Not true!” Cassia triumphantly lifts her chin, “I’ll have you know I was invited to take tea with Lord Winterscale.”
“Calligos?” Argenta asks, ready to jump the flamer is the old man tries to even thinks of so much as-
“Evayne.” Cassia clarifies. “And I intend to pay very close attention to his bouquet.”
Argenta mumbles something about if he even brings one at all, given the younger Winterscale doesn’t strike her as a romantic. People rumour his father to be a casanova, and she wouldn’t be surprised if that particular apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.
“So, which ones? Forget-me-nots?”
Argenta nods. At least she thinks that’s the name.
“Those mean faithfulness.” Cassia doesn’t even have to flip through the book, “I suppose it is good you haven’t insulted the good stranger yet, but that is all I can say in your defence here. We will not be rude. Send greetings back!”
“ We ?”
Five minutes later, Cassia leaves to find a florist that stocks rare flowers, while Argenta prays.
She still doesn’t believe there’s a message in it, but puts the flowers in the vase as instructed. It looks nice enough, and it certainly won’t hurt.
“Actually, you can keep the book.” Cassia contemplates as they step out into the streets again. After the dim light of the cathedral, the sun is blinding. “Under one condition.”
“Thank you, Cassia, but I don’t think I’m going to be getting more flowers any time soon.”
Cassia shoots her a glance that tells her she’s already plotting the optimal beginning of a romance novel in her head. Her optimism is endearing, even if completely misplaced.
“As I was saying, under the condition that you tell me if you receive any more. And you will.”
“Are you going to put them there yourself?” Argenta smiles.
“Maybe!” Cassia laughs along.
***
A new arrangement stands on the sill. Argenta is left curious despite herself and the book Cassia has lent her sits heavy in her bag. Determined to not let another message get over her head, she deciphers.
They are small, harmless compliments paid in small, harmless flowers. And because she can’t just let it be, she replies.
Amethyst flowers are the response.
Whoever it is that keeps sending her these, they admire her. As silly as she feels at times, standing in line at the flower shop, it does lift her spirits. She doesn’t even mind that someone is using her corner of the church that much.
Argenta carries herself even more confidently that week, devotes herself to her duties with extra fervour.
***
The flowers of saint Argenta are marigolds, and the city hangs over and over with them, spilling over buildings and buckets. Before the holy festival of Saint Argenta, she puts out Butterfly Orchids that won’t go under in the sea of orange and yellow. The stranger wishes her well in the form of Volkameria - may you be happy .
It has been a good summer, even in the absence of the Rogue Trader. Cassia and Jae have kept her company.
The trio traverses the streets that evening, to look at festival goers, pay their respects, or take in the atmosphere. A sprawling market has been put up outside the church doors, selling trinkets, lanterns and treats to fill the pockets and collection. Her namesake is by no means the most popular saint in the Expanse, and the effort that has been put into this display of worship makes her think that a very busy von Valancius may have had their tinkering hand in it.
Cassia has looped her arm into Argentas so as to not get lost in the crowd, but Jae always walks a few paces ahead and frequently turns around to check she hasn’t wandered too far.
Cassia has brought out a light blue walking suit, with a hat to match. It seems Jae has lent herself one from her closet, because the skirt is slightly too long and drags just a little. She’s given it her own spin, with an embroidered shawl wrapped around her shoulders and held in place with a belt. She looks ethereal, and for the first time Argenta feels underdressed.
Jae just finished a riveting story about a similar festival a few years ago, involving a stolen shuttle and several activities that have Argenta raising her eyebrows until they can go no further, but she has to admit it amuses her.
“So anyways,” Jae finishes, eyes wandering over a stall selling little whittled images of the saints, “from then on I was no longer allowed to help fund the festival in the name of the Exalted One. Can you believe it?”
Cassia laughs, a light girlish sound contrasted with Jae’s full bellow. They turn into a side street where a group of elderly women sell homemade beverages. They each purchase a cup. Whatever it is, it tastes of roses.
“So what is it between you and the Winterscale boy?” Jae asks eventually, as they all stand leaning against a ledge to enjoy their drinks.
“Oh Jae,” Cassia sighs, “It is an up and down. We’ve been on so many strolls as of lately, but whenever I think there might be a spark, he takes ages to initiate anything of sorts. It is maddening.” She shakes her head, vexed by the mention of the heir. “Let us not talk about it any longer. Argenta here has also been making acquaintances.”
Jae raises her brows, gaze sharply turning to Argenta who grows hot under the sudden attention.
Cassia nods. “At church there is a person who-”
“Nothing.” Argenta says, “It is nothing.”
“Sounds like it.” Jae whistles in Argenta’s direction, but asks no more.
It isn’t like that - Cassia has misinterpreted the situation, that is all. It is a good-natured exchange between believers and nothing more.
A few seconds later Cassia already strolls ahead to go look at one of the stalls, where sweets rolled out of a thin dough and drenched in syrup are made fresh.
Jae looks at her, her expression warm.
“Fall is fast approaching, shereen. Evenings like these will become rare. We should find something to do once summer ends.”
Indeed there is a chill in the air. The evenings are getting shorter.
Argenta pulls her robe tighter around her shoulders.
“Cold?” Jae lifts a hand into the air, checking for rain just in case. The air is dry, the sky clear.
Argenta nods, but doesn’t halt. They’ll go home soon enough, and it's only a bit of chill. Jae doesn’t seem to feel the same.
She stops her in a quiet corner of the market, along a stone wall, undoing the tie around her waist.
“Can’t have the most beautiful of all Sisters wear a scowl on her holy day.” Jae murmurs, lips in her ever-present smile, her teeth white as church marble.
She’s joking. She always is.
Argenta has heard her call her pretty, and angelic, and beautiful and awe-inspiring so many times. It never means anything to Jae, of that she is sure.
She drapes the shawl around her, tugging the edges to sit properly on Argenta’s shoulders.
“It looks good on you, shereen.”
Yet her eyes aren’t on her clothing. Jae looks into Argenta’s face, and she can’t shake the feeling that a shadow hangs over her smile.
Argenta doesn’t reply for a long time, because she doesn’t know what to say, and by the time she manages a thank you Jae has already joined Cassia at the sweets stand.
They stroll a bit more, falling into their old banter and familiar dynamics. She watches Cassia almost spill syrup over the front of her dress, and how Jae quickly puts her hand underneath the pastry to prevent disaster, and she laughs along with them. Cassia laments the loss of the syrup that Jae now licks off her fingers.
Argenta realises she’s gotten used to their presence.
It takes her by surprise.
At the end of the market, they part ways into different directions. Cassia and Jae will return to the palace grounds, but Argenta lives in the halls of the Ecclesiarchy.
She attempts to take off Jae’s shawl. The way home isn’t long and she can surely take it.
“Keep it.”
Again, there is that disarming smile not permitting a no.
She plucks the fabric, silky between her fingers. The last notes of a perfume drift through the air - Jae’s perfume.
Vanilla, and something vaguely citric she can’t place.
The silhouettes of the two women disappear along the cobbled path back to the Rogue Trader’s domicile. Argenta stands there, alone, for a time.
***
Sometimes single flowers follow - but meaning whole sentences - sometimes bouquets. Once a week she stands in line at the florist, between lovesick young men and mourning relatives, getting the man behind the counter to help her express sentiments in return and of her own.
It doesn’t feel silly anymore. Maybe she’s even come to like the exchange, over time. She begins to harbour a growing fondness for someone she might not even know, and doesn’t desire to know.
That changes eventually.
Orange blossoms. She compares the illustration with the stalks sitting in front of her. White flowers, their scent filling the air over the altar. There’s no mistaking it.
“Your purity equals your loveliness.” It reads underneath the inked drawing, black on white, framed in indigo.
Heat rises in her cheeks.
A compliment so brash she’s glad to be alone. Had someone said that to her face, she would have disputed them, or turned away, but here in the quiet it slowly sinks in.
For the first time she desires to uncover the mysterious stranger.
She tries to get Cassia on the case, but she’s too busy with her own romantic adventures to go sleuthing with her.
Something about it feels familiar. Like there’s a scent clinging to the bouquets that isn’t just the flowers.
Someone with a knowledge of these things. She imagines a tender heart, but a fierce soul. Devotion, and contemplation.
At night she dreams of dark hands clutching stems and black curls framed by a crown of marigolds.
It is true she considers the people around her, that if they know her, she might know them, but it simply feels too conceited to hope for something like this to bloom out of familiarity. And besides, there’s that first flower..
Whenever she steps into church and passes rows of strangers, she wonders if one of them is hers.
According to the state she finds the flowers in, they come by in the middle of the week.
“It is a shame most of the local flora and fauna of Dargonus doesn’t fetch good prices, else they might grow more of it,” the palace gardener explains to her while he’s elbow-deep in the earth, “and the artificially grown kinds just don’t last that long.”
“Are there any that just mean a sincere ‘ thank you ’?”
“Many, miss. But if you want a real good one, two rows from here, to the right at the end of the path. Small white bells." He wipes sweat off his brow, “Don’t know much about hidden meanings, but a Rogue Trader many generations ago grew them himself to express gratitude to his wife for the.. Ah, does it matter? But they don’t make the Von Valancius’ like this anymore.”
Argenta thanks him and hurries to the indicated spot before he can ask her more questions or tell her more tales.
She doesn’t know how to put anything about all of it into words. Luckily, the chosen medium expresses it for her.
***
One day, her stranger puts her in front of a dilemma - namely, the flower doesn’t appear in the book. Stars of bright pink look at her as if mocking her with a message she can’t decipher, and for the hundredth time she wishes they would be trading letters instead.
Whose idea was this anyways? To rely on subtlety and context and combination instead of speaking plainly? She’s beginning to think Cassia's words may have had some truth to them, seeing how bad she is at the aforementioned things.
She knocks on her friend’s door, but the servants tell her she is once again out, and her whereabouts unknown. Argenta has a sneaking suspicion.
Her recent inclination for her to consult Cassia on the going-ons in her life has her feeling like a young Schola girl eager to trade gossip rather than the Sister Argenta who handles everything by herself.
The palace gardener, caught on an early lunch break, reminds her he knows only the meaning of those flowers he sends to his lady wife. He says all this while eating a sandwich with his hands still stained by earth, and Argenta notes that he may truly not be the one to help her with manners of refinement and grace.
He can’t tell her the name of the flower, either, surprising both himself and her. Curious he points out the yellow ends, fading to black like the stinger of a bee. She declines his plea to keep one or two specimens for study.
Argenta stalks the palace grounds for two entire turns around the gardens before finally giving in and knocking on Jae’s door. She doesn’t know whether to be relieved or nervous when she opens.
“Shereen!” Jae greets her with nothing but joy written onto her expression, and it eases her heart a little. “What brings me the honour?”
“Do you know about flower meanings?” Argenta is surprised at how quiet her voice suddenly becomes.
“Well, my angel, if a man sends you flowers that usually only has one meaning.” She winks. “Come inside.”
“Any man who would do such a thing would find himself rejected.”
Simply by virtue of being a man .
Argenta holds her tongue before the latter and more important part of the sentence can slip out.
“.. Being a Sister of Battle does not allow time for these things.” she concludes instead.
“Of course.”
Jae’s tone betrays no emotion. Argenta wrestles with the feeling that she’s said something wrong, something stupid.
She steps past Jae into the room, which the cold trader has truly made her own. Every corner seems to have been decorated with expensive or exotic-looking trinkets, and a clock in the corner ticks softly. Birdsong from the garden floats through the open window. They’ve given her a large room - or she’s fought them for it - and the desk in the middle rivals the Rogue Trader’s both in size and workload stacked on it.
“Are you busy?” she asks, to break the resulting silence.
“My work isn’t just fun and leisure, sadly.” Jae flicks one of the papers on the desk, and it slides over it and lands on a different stack. “But when friends come, I devote my time only to them. Tea?”
She draws two chairs to a smaller side table near the window. A tray stands on it, holding a pot of aged golden sheen and two cups.
Strange, Argenta thinks, for a woman as sociable as Jae to only have a set for two in her room.
Her friend sits down opposite her. She’s clothed in a flowing silk top, neckline always low enough to be considered almost blasphemous, and Argenta draws her eyes back up before they can reach the end of her augmented neck.
Jae pours them tea, graceful motions of slender hands lifting the spout up and down as if it were a dancer, dropping a cube of sugar into each of their cups without asking.
Argenta takes a careful sip. Despite the brew having been ready before her arrival, it has lost nothing of its heat. The tip of her tongue burns. It is strong but pleasant, the bitterness balanced by the sweetness.
“So, tell me about this secret admirer of yours.” Jae leans back, arm draping over the ironwork of her chair. A perfect picture of ease.
Argenta feels her cheeks flush. “It is nothing like that.” She clears her throat. From her pocket she produces the now rather beat-up flowers she had taken from the cathedral, while the rest of them remain on her shrine.
“If you can tell me what these are, I would be grateful.”
Jae twirls a stem between two of her fingers. She takes a good, long look at it, making Argenta almost discard the idea of her being knowledgeable or involved.
“I know this one.”
“The palace gardener didn’t.”
“Then he is a fool and not very good at what he does.” Jae smiles, “It grows like weeds on the slopes of my homeworld once spring comes. A distant cousin of what you call cowslip, which is quite a terrible name, but more resistant to sun and sand.
“But as for meanings, mine may be very different from yours. On Efreet, we had a tradition. For princesses and commoners alike.” She adds the last sentence as if it is an afterthought. “If you had any sort of ailment, hurt feelings, a wish or a prayer, you’d tie it into a wreath to leave for the Exalted One. Nothing extravagant, the poor folk would just use whatever they could find. My grandmother said that once it would wilt, so would all worries. Even as her hands grew knotty and stiff she would still tie those flowers as if she wanted to strangle them with thread.”
Jae laughs, heartily but with something melancholic to it.
“An interesting practice of worship. I can imagine it pleases the Emperor to see such devotion.” Argenta says, and means it. “Did you ever tie one?”
“I was a child of many sorrows.” Jae looks away into her tea, “So I developed quite the artistry.”
“Then what does it mean in Efreet?”
“It is a simple flower, for young boys to give to maidens, or maiden to maiden or vice versa. First devotions, old flames, such things. Not worthy of much attention, and certainly not worthy of one so breathtaking as you. It means-”
Jae looks up. There’s a depth to her dark eyes that has Argenta holding her gaze for just a second longer.
“You are my divinity.”
“Oh.”
And that is all she knows how to say.
Heat rises at the base of her spine.
“Of course all such divinity still stands below the Exalted One!” Jae jokes, and waves her hand to dissolve the tension that seemed to hang in the air for a second.
“I need to-” Argenta rises, suddenly overcome with the urge to flee. It is atypical for one such as herself, she knows, one who stands her ground and looks her enemy in the eye, but an admirer? A much harder task.
“I need to think.” She quickly throws in the direction of Jae, but by then she’s already standing.
Jae lifts her hand, as if for a second considering to stop her, but it sinks to her chest instead.
“Far be it from me to stop you.” Her words drip with sweetness, but her smile stays sombre this time.
***
By the time her next visit to the cathedral rolls around, Argenta knows she’s messed up. Not only has she not given an answer to the last flower, but the longer she’s laid on her back, staring at the ceiling of her quarters and making a list of everyone she’s met in her Dargonus days, the clearer the picture becomes.
Failure, to her, is hardest to cope with. The gnawing ache in her stomach doesn’t dissolve, and the rainy weather that Dargonus sends them doesn’t do much to lift her spirits.
She intends to leave her worries at the shrine, still life gives her more of the same.
Instead of single flowers, an abundance of them spills over the alcove. She’s studied the blasted book long enough to know it is a bouquet of sorrow.
Argenta skips her training that day. Cassia and her simply sit in the tall, empty nave and listen to the rain patter against the stained-glass windows.
“Let’s see.” Cassia recounts, recaf in her hand she procured on the way. Considerate as she is, she’s brought one for Argenta as well. “We have yellow chrysanthemums for rejection, yew for sorrow and this one means a wounded heart. Ah, it may not be common knowledge, but this violet stands for longing between women.”
Argenta shoots her a questioning look.
“I’ll have you know the books I read are quite diverse.” Cassia shakes her damp hair like a dog. “This is such a sad ensemble - Argenta, what did you do?”
Argenta reluctantly begins to retell the tale. From her visit to Jae, from where she may or may not have insinuated she’s uninterested by accident, to her untimely escape, to her missing answer.
Argenta breathes in deeply, as if that gives the words more meaning. “I think it’s Jae.”
Cassia looks up from the bouquet, “Wasn’t that obvious?”
“You knew ?” Argenta gasps, her composure breaking for a slight few seconds, “This entire time?”
“No, but I suspected.” Cassia giggles, “I didn’t want to interfere with the plot, you see.”
“The .. plot?”
“Yes - Isn’t this straight out of a romantic tale? That much was plain to see to anyone with eyes, of which I have three."
“I had suspicions.” Argenta confesses, “I thought they were wishful thinking on my part. She didn’t seem like that kind of person. One who would understand and appreciate the meaning of .. all this. At times it seems she can take nothing seriously.”
Cassis puts the flowers at her feet.
“You’re doing her a disservice, you know? I know she comes off as brash at times, but she’s got a soft heart. She isn’t all jokes and parties.
I once cried on her shoulder for an entire evening when I thought Evayne had rejected me. It was nothing in the end, but she was so sweet and patient to me. I would just like to see both of you happy.”
Argenta thinks back to the summer, to their intertwined lives on Dargonus, to all the moments shared.
“What do I do?”
“What you want, Argenta.” Cassia smiles, “You do what you want, and what that is, I cannot tell you.”
***
She weaves a bouquet of forgiveness, of return of sentiments, of sincerity and humility, until she is at last left with a beautiful arrangement of purple, white and green that looks too inconspicuous for what it represents.
But that just isn’t enough.
The time of secret messages has reached its end.
***
In the middle of the week, the chapel is more lively than at its end. The chaplain makes an appearance instead of staying in his sacristy and out of sight, the gangways come alive with believers and members of the Ecclesiarchy, and the last lingering souls after the sermon populate the halls. It warms Argentas heart to be connected with all these people through the ties of faith.
Yet that isn’t why she’s here.
No one really looks at her, standing by the door, except with respect and reverence, but she’s seeking the one that views her in a different light out of her bottomless eyes.
That person isn’t here, so she ventures further. The choirway is still empty, the silent space where most don’t dare to thread.
For a second, her heart sinks, expecting to find no one there, too. She stands under the watchful gaze of depictions of the Emperor and many of his saints, and feels so insignificant and small. A lonely sister, flowers in her hands.
Steps resound on the opposite end of the hall.
Jae is as beautiful as ever, even when half of her is covered by the abundance of marigolds she holds pressed to her chest.
Argenta looks at them, so nervous she’s almost sick with it.
“The flowers of Saint Argenta.”
Caught, Jae grins sheepishly.
“I had to let the Exalted One know what troubles me most.”
“So did I.” Argenta nods. “I think an apology is in order.”
“You do not need to apologise, shereen. If it is me or simply your duties as a sister.. Just let me lament for a few days and I will cheer up eventually.”
Argenta holds out the bouquet.
“I have been more than clumsy with my words, and I meant nothing of what I said the way it came out of my mouth. But I want to be true, Jae, and I hope I can say it in better ways.“
Jae’s eyes widen.
“Please.”
There are vast oceans contained in what she means to say.
Jae smiles, a soft, genuine thing that is nothing like the one she wears when she means to cover her hurt.
“Summer is ending, shereen, and to be quite honest, I might run out of flowers soon. Another tea with me - I believe the flower for that is a pimpernel - If I bring you one, will you say yes?”
“I will say yes regardless.” Argenta smiles, her heart suddenly lightened. “I don’t need any more offerings.”
“But you are my divinity, how could I not?”
Jae looks up at her, and Argenta finds nothing more to say for a long time.
***
Argenta prays in the small chapel near the Dargonus palace on all days of the local planetary week but one. On the last one, she prays in the main cathedral of the city. Afterwards, each week anew, she goes on a date with Jae Heydari.
A good summer comes to an end on Dargonus.