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Siena was walking into the empty bedroom as the sun was sneaking through the closed curtains. The society paper in her hand, she came to a halt in front of the small, wooden flower standing on a shelf.
It was not very pretty. There used to be some colour once, but most of the paint had faded over time. Which was no surprise, as the flower had been in Siena’s possession for over fifteen years now.
It was not valuable. For the most part of her life, the flower had lived inside closets and drawers, not nice enough to be put on display. Yet she had been unable to let it go. And even after all those years, she could still remember the day she had bought it as if it were yesterday.
She had been walking along the streets with her mother during a warm summer day, carrying the groceries back to their small flat, when suddenly, an elderly woman had approached them – a fortune teller, promising to tell them their future for two shilling each. Her mother had just scoffed at the woman, grabbing Siena’s hand to pull her away. But while her mother had been grumbling about frauds and liars, Siena’s gaze had wandered back to the woman – quite intrigued by the thought of knowing her own future. She had only been twelve years old, after all.
So later that day, she had told her friend Isabella about the woman, knowing how much her friend loved an adventure. Isabella had been thrilled by the thought of learning about her future and therefore, they had gathered some money before returning to the fortune teller in the afternoon.
The woman had led them into a small room above a restaurant, and amidst the smell of smoke and burnt grease, she had told them their future.
Isabella’s future had sounded rather exciting – no husband or children, but a long life with many adventures ahead of her. Isabella had been very pleased with it. Siena’s future had been calmer – a marriage, living on the countryside. To Siena, it had been quite the disappointment.
The woman had been very vague with her words – and yet, it was pretty laughable how wrong she had been in her vagueness nonetheless. But that woman would hardly care. She had received her money, after all. And Siena had received a wooden flower.
The fortune teller had told her that she would end up with a broken heart – exactly seven times throughout her life. And therefore, she had offered her a wooden flower with seven removable petals, telling her to pluck one whenever her heart had been broken.
Somehow, she had been able to convince Siena to give her yet another shilling for the ugly flower. Half her pay from last week’s performances wasted on a false future and a wooden flower. Siena wondered how many people in this town owned those ugly flowers. But at least Siena could excuse her stupidity for being young and gullible. And she had been incredibly curious – curious to see whether her heart would indeed be broken exactly seven times.
She had returned home then, hiding the flower inside her closet, as she did not want to risk her mother seeing it and asking questions. But later that evening, she had pulled it out again – looking at it quietly for a moment before plucking the first petal.
Her heart had broken before – at five years old, one silent afternoon as she had stood inside the bedroom upstairs. She could still picture it well: her grandmother’s lifeless body inside the bed, her mother to the side.
Siena remembered her grandmother as a rather stout, strict woman – and yet, she had always softened in Siena’s presence; had always been sweet to her. But Siena’s heart had not just ached for her late grandmother – but for her own mother as well.
She had never seen her mother cry before – and she had never seen her cry again since. And back then, Siena had not been able to understand it. Throughout her young life, she had only ever witnessed her mother and grandmother arguing. There had been no sign of affection between them; no words of love or reassurance. And still – that one afternoon, her mother had been kneeling next to the bed, weeping as she had clung onto her own mother’s dead hand.
And many years later, Siena had understood.
Shortly after Siena had turned seventeen, her mother had received the offer to join a corps de ballet in Italy. And at first, Siena had felt rather excited – excited that she would finally be allowed to live her life free of her mother’s reproving gaze.
Back then, they had argued a lot. Especially because her mother had not approved of the man Siena had been meeting with.
Thomas had been an actor, and her mother had constantly reminded her that he was not the sort of man she should be looking for – telling her repeatedly that she had to focus on her future and should not waste her time with some penniless, frivolous boy. But Siena had not cared – because the future had felt very far away.
But then, the future had arrived.
The day of her departure, her mother had promised her that they would see one another again soon. Yet Siena had not seen her in ten years. According to her letters, she was doing well. After growing too old for the stage, her mother had found work as a dance tutor. But that work did not pay her enough to leave Rome; and Siena’s work did not pay her enough to leave London. So letters were all they had.
The evening her mother had left, Siena had eventually plucked another petal. Despite her excitement, there had been tears running down her face. Her mother had always been there, every step throughout her entire life. It had been odd, even terrifying.
Thankfully, she had Thomas to rely on back then – not yet aware that soon, he would turn into a petal as well.
The future had arrived for her. And eventually, Siena had realised that she needed a wealthy, sensible man by her side – a protector; a patron.
Thomas had never been serious about their future. There had only ever been one plan for him – to run away with her, living like beggars. To him, it had represented freedom. To Siena, it had represented misery.
She still remembered her very last words to him: I loved you but I’m grown now.
It had been the first time she had ever told him that she loved him – and the last. Somehow, it had been easier – easier to say it in a past tense, even though her feelings had not yet been in the past.
Siena had not plucked a petal that day. It had been months later, after she had moved in with Isabella, when her friend had asked her why she had not yet removed a petal for Thomas.
Somehow, Siena had considered the flower quite silly at that point. And it had been her decision to leave him. Was it truly possible for someone to break their own heart?
Yet her heart had still been aching for him, and therefore, she had plucked the petal that evening – as Isabella promised her that both their future would be bright and joyful, without further heartbreaks.
Siena dearly wished she had been right.
Many years later, she had returned to Isabella’s flat – hurrying along the streets in the pouring rain.
Siena had been living in a different part of town by then – inside a gorgeous apartment, provided by the Viscount Bridgerton, whom she had just met three months prior. Yet that evening, she had set foot inside Isabella’s flat again – for the last time.
After her performance at the theatre that day, a friend had approached her – telling her that Isabella had been with child; that she had tried terminating the pregnancy; and that the bleeding would not stop.
Siena had immediately rushed to Isabella’s place then, fear grabbing her heart. But although Isabella’s face had been pale with agony written all over it, she had nonetheless greeted her with a faint smile when Siena had reached her bedroom.
Siena had sat down next to the bed then, holding her friend’s hand. Repeatedly, Isabella had mentioned how tired she felt – and repeatedly, everyone in the room had told her to keep her eyes open.
Siena could still feel it – could feel the warm, soft touch of Isabella’s hand as her friend had closed her eyes, never opening them again.
When Siena had returned home later that night, she had dearly hoped that the Viscount would not be there – too afraid to face him in such a vulnerable moment. Yet the second she had seen his face, it had been impossible for her to hold back her tears.
She had never told him how Isabella had died, as she had feared he would not be able to understand her friend’s decision. But he had not asked any questions; had simply held her that night, allowing her to fall asleep inside his reassuring embrace.
The next morning, Siena had plucked a petal for Isabella – silently damning herself for wasting all those other petals. She had barely known her grandmother; would see her mother again, if God permitted it; and Thomas was alive and well.
Now, Siena did not regret plucking those petals anymore. Heartbreaks were never the same. There was never a comparison.
While holding Isabella’s petal in her hand that morning, an odd thought had crossed Siena’s mind – wondering for a short moment if she would ever pluck a petal for the Viscount as well.
It had been a silly thought. None of her other benefactors had ever been worth a petal. Yet she had also never been too fond of them; neither would they have ever comforted her the way the Viscount had done.
Siena had forgotten about the flower for a while after that – hiding it away, not wishing to look at it as it only ever reminded her of all the pain she had been forced to endure.
The next time she had pulled the petal out of a cramped drawer again, it had been the middle of the night – during a thunderstorm, several months ago. The thunder had woken her up from a dream – a dream about Anthony. It had been the first time she had dreamt about him since she had told him to let her go.
It had been a rather sweet dream – and suddenly, she had felt incredibly lonely.
The wooden flower in her hand, she had decided to pluck two petals that night.
It had been her own fault. She should have not allowed him to break her heart repeatedly. After he had left her so unexpectedly that one day, she had not even thought about plucking a petal as she had felt too angry and restless to even think about that silly flower. Perhaps, she would have plucked it eventually – if he had simply let her be; if he had granted her the time to move on; if she had been stronger.
But instead, she had returned to him – allowing him to break her heart another time.
Though, perhaps she had broken it herself. Yet she had no regrets.
Now, Siena was standing inside the bedroom, staring at the flower on the shelf in front of her. There was one petal remaining.
Siena knew it had been a sham. And yet, the flower almost felt like a gift. Because it made her remember.
When she looked at it now, she remembered her grandmother’s reassuring touch on her shoulder, telling her that she would become the town’s most beloved prima donna. She remembered her mother’s soft kiss on her forehead as she told her how much she loved her. She remembered Thomas’s eyes, glistening with excitement as he brushed across her cheek, talking about his plans for their future. She remembered Isabella’s bright smile as she told her about that boy she was so in love with. She remembered Anthony’s laughter, his arm wrapped around her as he shared some silly anecdote about his siblings.
Her eyes wandered to the paper in her hand then, which was declaring the wonderful news of yesterday’s ceremony – the wonderful news of the newlywed Lord and Lady Bridgerton.
Siena had walked into this room with the intention to pluck the last petal – to finally throw this flower away. She had been certain that this was it. He had married for love, not duty. He had found himself a woman that could be all he ever needed – that could give him all Siena had been unable to give him. Her heart should be broken.
And yet she could not feel it. Her heart felt fine – content. She felt happy for him. And for some odd reason, she was almost relieved that one last petal remained. It was not over yet. Her heart was still allowed to break. And she felt glad. Because a heart could only be broken, when it had loved.