Chapter Text
The Language of Flowers
The first time Wednesday Addams entered Belladonna & Bloom, she did so because someone had died.
Not recently.
Not anyone she knew.
The deceased was a nineteenth-century poet whose skeletal remains had been discovered beneath the floorboards of a house involved in a contested inheritance case. Wednesday had spent three satisfying weeks proving that the corpse had no legal bearing whatsoever on the property dispute, despite the opposing solicitor’s desperate attempt to turn it into one.
She won.
The judge praised her meticulous research.
Her client cried with relief.
The opposing solicitor called her an unfeeling little vulture in the corridor outside the courtroom.
Wednesday considered the day productive.
On her way back to the office, she noticed the florist.
It occupied a narrow corner shop between a bakery that believed cinnamon could compensate for mediocrity and a stationery shop whose window displays were aggressively beige. The florist, however, was painted a deep forest green. Gold lettering curled across the glass.
BELLADONNA & BLOOM
Beneath it, in smaller letters:
Flowers for every sentiment, including the complicated ones.
Wednesday stopped.
The window contained no cheerful ranks of identical roses. Instead, twisted branches rose from tarnished brass urns. White anemones floated above dark foliage. Burgundy dahlias crowded around black calla lilies, and small handwritten cards identified several poisonous plants with an enthusiasm Wednesday respected.
She entered.
A bell chimed overhead.
The air smelled of damp earth, cut stems, and something sweet that had not yet become cloying.
Behind the counter stood a tall young woman with sleek black hair, round sunglasses, and the expression of someone who had seen several disasters that morning and was hoping for a more interesting one.
At a worktable near the window, another woman was arranging pale pink flowers into a ceramic vase.
She looked up.
Colour seemed to happen all at once.
Blonde hair streaked with pink and blue. A yellow cardigan embroidered with tiny daisies. Rings on nearly every finger. Bright eyes that widened when they landed on Wednesday.
“Hi,” she said.
Wednesday regarded her.
The florist’s smile faltered only slightly.
“Welcome to Belladonna and Bloom. Are you looking for something for a special occasion?”
“Yes.”
The woman waited.
Wednesday offered no further information.
“Okay,” she said brightly. “Birthday? Anniversary? Apology? Congratulations? Secret crush? Public enemy?”
“Death.”
The woman blinked.
Behind the counter, the dark-haired woman slowly lowered the mug she had been drinking from.
“Oh,” the blonde said. “I’m sorry.”
“You misunderstand. I am celebrating.”
The dark-haired woman choked.
The blonde stared at Wednesday for three seconds.
Then her smile returned, brighter and far more genuine.
“Got it. What exactly are we celebrating about the death?”
“The legal irrelevance of it.”
There was a silence.
The woman set down her pruning shears.
“I’m Enid.”
“Wednesday Addams.”
“Of course you are.”
Wednesday narrowed her eyes.
Enid’s cheeks turned pink.
“I mean, it suits you. In a good way. A very cool and completely non-ominous way.”
“Your recovery is poor.”
“Yeah, I heard it halfway through.”
The dark-haired woman leaned against the counter.
“I’m Yoko. Enid’s business partner. I don’t usually interrupt her while she’s dazzling customers with her professionalism, but I need to know more about the irrelevant corpse.”
“You do not.”
“Fair.”
Enid wiped her hands on her apron and came around the table.
“So. You want flowers for your desk to commemorate winning a case involving a dead person?”
“A dead poet.”
“That changes things.”
“It does?”
“No. But it makes the bouquet more dramatic.”
Wednesday looked at her properly then.
Enid’s eyes were blue. Not the washed-out blue of a cloudless sky or the ornamental blue favoured by sentimental painters. They were vivid, alert, and slightly dangerous beneath all that warmth.
“What do you want the flowers to say?” Enid asked.
Wednesday glanced around the shop.
“They are flowers. They are incapable of speech.”
Yoko made a sound suspiciously close to a laugh.
Enid did not.
“Flowers have meanings,” she said. “Or they can. Different flowers have been used to represent different feelings for centuries. Grief, remembrance, devotion, jealousy, hope, suspicion, rejection. You can build a whole message without saying a word.”
Wednesday’s interest sharpened.
“A botanical cipher.”
“Exactly.”
“What would you suggest?”
Enid considered her.
“White chrysanthemums for truth. Purple iris for wisdom and admiration. A little rosemary for remembrance, obviously. And maybe some dark red dahlias.”
“What do those signify?”
“Strength. Commitment. Sometimes standing out from the crowd.”
“And the combination?”
Enid’s mouth curved.
“Truth survives death. Wisdom wins. The dead are remembered, but the living get the last word.”
Wednesday stared at her.
Yoko stared at Enid.
Enid’s confidence began to fray.
“Unless that’s too much.”
“It is acceptable.”
“Wow. Glowing review.”
“I rarely give them.”
Enid built the bouquet while Wednesday watched.
Her hands moved quickly, choosing each stem with an ease that suggested intimacy rather than habit. She stripped leaves, angled flowers, added dark greenery, then wrapped the arrangement in charcoal paper and tied it with a narrow black ribbon.
At the last moment, she selected a tiny sprig bearing delicate white flowers and tucked it beside the chrysanthemums.
“I did not request that,” Wednesday said.
“Nope.”
“Then remove it.”
“It’s free.”
“I don’t accept unexplained gifts.”
Enid smiled.
“That’s my flower note.”
Wednesday looked at the small white blossoms.
“And what does it say?”
“I can’t tell you. That ruins the point.”
“Then the point is poorly constructed.”
“Maybe you’ll work it out.”
Wednesday took the bouquet.
She did not ask Enid to remove the flowers again.
On Wednesday’s desk, the bouquet caused immediate disruption.
Her assistant, Tyler Galpin, looked up from a stack of witness statements and immediately noticed the vase.
“Ooh,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “Flowers. Someone’s branching out emotionally.”
“No.”
Tyler pointed dramatically at the white flowers.
“What are those?”
“I do not know what they mean.”
“You bought mystery flowers?” Tyler pressed a hand to his chest. “Wednesday, I’m so proud of your personal growth.”
“I did not ask her.”
His grin widened.
“You didn’t ask?”
“She refused to tell me.”
Tyler stared at her for a moment before laughing.
“She gave you a puzzle and you walked away? That florist is either fearless or deeply confused.”
Wednesday opened the next case file.
“They are irrelevant.”
“Sure they are.”
Tyler rested his chin on his hand, visibly amused.
“Whatever helps you sleep at night, boss.”
They were not irrelevant.
At nine seventeen that evening, Wednesday searched for the flower.
The task took eleven minutes.
Sweet alyssum.
Meaning: sweetness of soul. Beauty beyond appearance. Worth beyond estimation.
Wednesday stared at the screen.
Then she closed the tab.
Enid had selected it randomly.
Florists possessed loose stems. Loose stems had to go somewhere.
There was no evidence of intent.
Wednesday opened her case file again.
Four minutes later, she reopened the tab.
She returned to Belladonna & Bloom the following Monday.
Yoko was behind the counter.
Enid was standing on a small ladder, attempting to hang ivy from a ceiling hook.
“Wednesday!” she said, turning too quickly.
The ladder wobbled.
Wednesday caught it with one hand.
Enid froze.
“You should avoid reacting to familiar customers with such enthusiasm,” Wednesday said. “It appears hazardous.”
“Right. Definitely. Very calm greetings from now on.”
“You will forget.”
“Almost immediately.”
Yoko looked between them.
“You came back.”
“I require flowers.”
“Sure,” Yoko said. “That’s clearly why.”
Enid descended the ladder and brushed soil from her cardigan.
“What do you want them to say?”
Wednesday had considered this on the walk from court.
“Victory without mercy.”
Enid’s grin appeared.
“Oh, I can work with that.”
The bouquet contained red gladioli for strength, amaranth for immortality, yellow tansy for hostile thoughts, and black tulips, which Enid admitted did not possess a universally agreed meaning but “looked like they had successfully buried an enemy.”
Before wrapping them, she added a single stem of fern.
“That is the note?” Wednesday asked.
“Yep.”
“It is merely a fern.”
Enid gasped.
“Don’t insult her. She’s doing her best.”
“The fern is female?”
“This one is.”
Wednesday paid and left.
At her office, she looked up the meaning before removing her coat.
Fern.
Sincerity. Secret bonds. Fascination.
She wrote the definitions in the margin of a legal pad.
Then she tore off the page, shredded it, and placed the fragments in separate bins.
Tyler watched the entire operation from across the office.
“You know,” he said, “most people just admit they’re intrigued.”
“Silence.”
Wednesday returned on Wednesday.
She told herself the recurrence was practical.
Flowers decayed. Vases emptied. Offices became sterile.
More importantly, the previous arrangement had been removed by a junior solicitor who claimed the tansy was aggravating his allergies.
Wednesday had reassigned him to archive review.
Enid was helping an elderly man choose flowers for his wife.
“She says she doesn’t want anything extravagant,” he explained.
“Which usually means she doesn’t want you to spend too much,” Enid said, “not that she wants you to bring home something you picked up beside a petrol station.”
“That happened once.”
“And she remembers.”
“Every anniversary.”
“She’ll stop mentioning it when one of you dies.”
The man laughed.
Wednesday waited near a display of potted herbs.
Enid glanced over twice while assembling the bouquet. The first time, she smiled. The second time, she nearly put a rose into the arrangement thorn-first.
Yoko noticed.
Yoko appeared to notice everything.
When the man had gone, Enid leaned both hands on the counter.
“Three days. I’m honoured.”
“Your flowers expired prematurely.”
Yoko inspected a perfectly healthy arrangement visible through the open top of Wednesday’s bag.
“Tragic.”
Wednesday ignored her.
“What do you want them to say today?” Enid asked.
Wednesday had won another case that morning, but victory seemed repetitive.
“Leave me alone.”
Enid laughed.
Wednesday did not.
“Oh. You’re serious.”
“My colleagues have decided success makes me approachable.”
“Terrible.”
“It is.”
Enid chose lavender for silence, white roses for secrecy, and thistle for protection.
She added a small cluster of pink heather.
“My flower note,” she said before Wednesday could ask.
Wednesday looked at it.
Pink heather.
Good luck. Admiration. A wish for solitude shared with someone beloved.
The final definition appeared only on the fourth source Wednesday consulted.
She closed her laptop.
Then she opened the black notebook she used for witness contradictions and wrote:
Monday: sweet alyssum. Worth beyond estimation.
Monday: fern. Fascination. Secret bond.
Wednesday: pink heather. Admiration.
She paused.
Beneath it she added:
Pattern not yet established.
The pattern established itself.
Friday brought a bouquet intended to say, I have survived this week and resent everyone responsible.
Enid used snapdragons for strength, basil for hatred, and striped carnations for refusal.
Her note was a sprig of apple blossom.
Preference.
Promise.
Enid watched Wednesday notice it.
“Another note,” Wednesday said.
“Another note.”
“You realise I could determine the meaning.”
“Maybe I’m counting on it.”
Wednesday’s pulse changed.
Only slightly.
Enough to be annoying.
The following Monday, Wednesday arrived at eight fifteen.
The shop had only just opened. Enid was carrying buckets to the front display while Yoko stood behind the counter in sunglasses, despite the weak morning light.
“You’re early,” Enid said.
“I have court.”
“Big case?”
“They are all big to the people paying me.”
Enid smiled.
“What do you need today?”
“Flowers that communicate patience to an idiot.”
“Are they for the idiot?”
“They are for me.”
Yoko lifted her coffee cup in salute.
Enid considered the request.
“Chamomile for patience. Aster for wisdom. Maybe eucalyptus for clarity.”
“Add nettles.”
Enid stared.
“Those mean cruelty.”
“I know.”
“You’ve been researching.”
“I dislike incomplete information.”
Yoko leaned forward.
“Do you have a flower dictionary now?”
“No.”
Tyler had ordered three.
Enid hid a smile and began arranging the flowers.
Her note that morning was heliotrope.
Wednesday found three common meanings.
Devotion.
Eternal love.
I turn toward you.
She read them twice.
Then she spent the first ten minutes before court imagining Enid’s hands selecting the purple flowers.
The barrister for the other side objected to her opening submissions.
Wednesday dismantled his argument so thoroughly that the judge adjourned the hearing for ten minutes.
Monday, Wednesday, Friday.
The rhythm became fixed.
Wednesday entered at varying times, but never missed a day.
Sometimes she came directly from court in severe black suits, dark hair braided tightly, the sharp points of her collar framing her face. Sometimes she arrived wearing a long black coat dampened by rain. Once, after a negotiation that had lasted eleven hours, she appeared three minutes before closing with shadows beneath her eyes and a small tear in one cuff.
Enid looked at her and did not ask whether she had won.
“What do you want the bouquet to say?” she asked.
Wednesday removed her gloves finger by finger.
“That I am tired, not defeated.”
Enid’s expression softened.
She made the bouquet slowly.
Purple lisianthus for resilience.
Red salvia for strength.
Gladioli for integrity.
White poppies for rest.
Her note was a single blue salvia stem.
Wednesday’s notebook translated it later.
I think of you.
Below it, she added:
Possible coincidence weakened by repetition.
Enid’s notes continued.
A single gardenia tucked between black roses.
Secret love. You’re lovely.
A red tulip hidden among white lilies.
Declaration of love.
A sprig of honeysuckle beside burgundy chrysanthemums.
Bonds of love. Devoted affection.
White jasmine.
Sweet love. Amiability.
Dwarf sunflower.
Adoration.
Each time Enid called it her flower note.
Each time she refused to explain.
Each time Wednesday went home, opened the black notebook, and recorded the evidence.
On the ninth week, Tyler stole it.
Wednesday found him sitting on top of a filing cabinet, flipping through the pages with shameless interest.
“Return that.”
Tyler held up the notebook.
“I’m sorry, are these flower receipts or evidence exhibits?”
“I am not constructing a romantic conspiracy.”
He pointed to the page containing red tulip: declaration of love.
“Right. Totally normal thing to catalogue.”
“Flower meanings are inconsistent across cultures and time periods.”
He pointed to gardenia: secret love.
“She may simply have excess stock.”
He turned several pages and tapped heliotrope: devotion.
“Uh-huh.”
“Circumstantial.”
Tyler dropped the notebook onto her desk.
“So when are you asking her out?”
“No.”
“When are you asking her out?”
“I am not afraid to ask her.”
Tyler folded his arms and waited.
Wednesday stared at him.
“I am waiting until the evidence is conclusive.”
Tyler laughed so hard he nearly fell off the cabinet.
“No competent court would require this much evidence to establish flirting.”
Wednesday threatened to have him reassigned to document review for the rest of his natural life.
At Belladonna & Bloom, Yoko was experiencing a parallel crisis.
“She knows,” Yoko said.
Enid was trimming rose stems.
“She doesn’t know.”
“She comes in three times a week.”
“She likes flowers.”
“She has started requesting bouquets using their meanings.”
“She likes research.”
“She looked at you for forty-three uninterrupted seconds on Friday.”
Enid stopped cutting.
“You counted?”
“It was either that or scream.”
“She was probably thinking.”
“She was looking at your mouth.”
The shears slipped.
Yoko caught them before they hit the floor.
“Forty-three seconds,” Enid repeated weakly.
“Technically forty-two point eight, but I rounded up because I believe in romance.”
Enid took the shears back.
“She hasn’t said anything.”
“You haven’t said anything.”
“I have said plenty.”
“You gave her baby’s breath.”
“Everlasting love.”
“You could give her your phone number.”
“That’s not a flower.”
“You could write it on a flower.”
“That would be sacrilege.”
Yoko stared at her.
“Enid. You’ve spent nearly three months courting a terrifying lawyer through Victorian plant symbolism.”
“It’s romantic.”
“It’s agricultural entrapment.”
Enid turned toward the door as the bell rang.
Wednesday entered.
Her gaze found Enid instantly.
Yoko sighed.
“Forty-four seconds,” she muttered.
By the fourth month, Wednesday knew Enid’s work schedule.
This was not stalking.
It was pattern recognition.
Enid opened the shop on Mondays and Wednesdays. Fridays she worked the late shift. She drank iced coffee regardless of the weather and forgot it existed once it had been placed beside the register. She hummed while wrapping bouquets. She wore cardigans in colours Wednesday had previously assumed were invented to punish the retina.
She also knew Enid volunteered twice a month at a community garden, had strong opinions about imported roses, disliked lilies in houses with cats, and once refused to sell a man an anniversary bouquet after hearing him insult his wife on the phone.
“I’m not supporting that energy,” Enid had said, crossing her arms.
The man had demanded to speak to the manager.
Yoko had looked up from the counter.
“No.”