Page 6 of Raising the Sun

The room itself was small, but I’d made do. The owner of the building had given me free rein with the decor, and a discount on rent since it had been in such a state of disrepair. He was a decent guy, never had any complaints, and he just seemed grateful to have someone occupying the place after it had been empty for so long. In the beginning, I’d taken out a small loan to get me started, using most of it to spruce things up and turn a derelict corner shop into a florist’s I was chuffed to own.

More could probably have been done, but with such a modest budget, it wasn’t too shabby. The walls were white and the carpets grey to keep the space as open and airy as possible. There was one tall window with a display nook beside the door, and the current showpiece was a peacock made from artificial flowers and gems. Drapes of fabric were bunchedaround its feet, and lights hung above its head to illuminate the pretty array of colours. It had gotten a lot of compliments.

Mostly because it had been up there for so long.

The large, three-tiered oval stand in the middle of the room was the main event. It was where the flowers sat in buckets on full display—greenery around the bottom, taller blooms in the middle, and everything else on top. It was high enough to be impressive, but still allowed me to reach every flower without stretching onto my tiptoes. I couldn’t say the same for the shelves along the walls—they needed a stepping stool if anyone wanted the candles, picture frames, or cute little ornaments that lined them.

Not that they ever did.

At the back of the room was the counter, with the till sitting to one side, and a wooden frame of celebration cards angled at the other, collecting dust. It was where I tended to do most of my arrangements as it let me workandwatch the people strolling past without so much as a curious glance in—clearly, I was a glutton for punishment.

Behind the bench was an archway that led to a smaller room, closed off from the public. It was my break room, mostly, or where I worked after hours. Nothing special, just a small cubicle in the corner with a toilet and a sink, and two wooden workbenches lining the walls. It was where I kept spare buckets and any supplies—ribbons, floral foam, stands—that I didn’t want cluttering up the shop floor. Wasn’t as if there’d be much room for them, anyway.

Anothermeow, somehow more impatient than the last, demanded my full attention yet again. Could a man no longer appreciate his surroundings and lament his misfortunes in peace?

Hell’s teeth.

“Alright, you greedy little thing,” I said, stepping over her to dump the spell ingredients on one of the workbenches before fetching a carton of kitty milk from the mini fridge in the corner. There was a small dish already washed out after her last visit, so I poured just enough to fill the bottom and set it on the floor, giving her a cursory pet as she got stuck in.

Leaving her to it and deciding I’d already wasted enough of my morning, I tugged on my apron, more than ready to forget about the whole interaction at The Magic Shop, and actually make my living. Last night, I’d received a last-minute order for pick-up today before closing, and though I had eight hours to perfect it, I had nothing else on my books, so was eager to start.

It was for a seventieth birthday party. Three centrepieces with sweet avalanche roses, gyp, and laurel—a simple arrangement that was so popular I had it listed as a specialty on my website. No matter how many times it was asked for, I always loved doing it. I could lose myself in the motions as easily as brushing my teeth, my fingers moving of their own accord without much direction. It was peaceful, a waltz, and whether sliding stems into the crunchy floral foam, peeling off excess leaves, or snipping the ends of stalks, it felt incredibly therapeutic.

By the time I finished up, a few hours after lunch, it was as if only minutes had passed. There had been no interruptions from needy cats, no setbacks, no stray self-deprecating thoughts, just me getting lost in the art, basking in the reminder of exactly why floristry was my sole passion.

Stepping back to admire my work wasn’t as much of a necessary evil as it sometimes felt. Not to toot my own horn, but the arrangement looked beautiful, elegant, and fresh. The pink blush on the roses nestled nicely among clusters of tiny star-like florets and stalks of rounded blue-green leaves. It was the same as always, a combination I’d put together a hundred times, but somehow, the placement of each flower looked especially perfect today.

I, for one, would be pleased as punch if I got them for my birthday. I only hoped the customer thought so, too.

There wasn’t much else for me to do, except wait for their arrival and potter around doing some housekeeping. Two people popped in within an hour of each other for bouquets—one for their father’s graveside and the other for a friend’s baby shower—but besides that, it was just another slow day. It wasn’t until ten minutes to closing, while I stood by the door spraying the flowers with water, that a middle-aged woman walked in, dressed in a purple suit and with a bright grin plastered over her face.

“Hello there,” she said, her mouth and brows twisting into a bit of a wince. “Sorry I’m so late. Traffic was anightmare.”

“Don’t worry! We’re still open.” I set down my sprayer and dried my hands on the hem of my apron. “Order for Melissa Johnson?”

“That’s me!” The energy she gave off was infectious. It was obvious to anyone that she was excited—for the flowers or the party, I couldn’t say, but it felt easy to mirror her smile. “Well, they’re for Mum, but yes.”

“Perfect! Follow me.” I led her over to the counter—where the three arrangements had sat all afternoon—and did a weird little hand-flourish in their direction. I scrubbed the back of my neck and cringed almost immediately afterward. “Here you go. If you want to just check them over, make sure everything’s dandy, then I’ll give you a hand to your car.”

She smiled in thanks, and stepped closer to study the arrangements, but after barely a tick, her keen expression began to fade. “What are those?”

I looked where she pointed, trying my best to pretend my heart hadn’t just collapsed straight to my arse from the abrupt shift in mood. “The… roses?” She nodded. “Oh, they’re sweet avalanches. Beautiful, aren’t they? They smell even better—”

“They’re dead.”

“No, they’re…” I blinked, my brow furrowing. “They were delivered fresh yesterday.”

“Look at the state of them,” she snapped, making me flinch as she plucked a petal from one of the blooms and held it up. “They’re withering at the edges! I’m sorry, but I didn’t pay all that money for dead flowers.”

Ah.

Dejection settled on my shoulders like a lead weight.

She wasn’t exactly wrong, theydidhave a slight tinge to them, but that was the style of the rose. The petals were green at the tips, and faintly crinkled, but that added to their appeal and uniqueness. She clearly didn’t agree—and hadn’t done an ounce of research—and it was obvious from her tone that nothing would appease her.

I tried anyway.

“The roses do have an antique look to them, but that’s just how they are,” I explained, keeping my voice gentle and apologetic, even though retaliation would’ve felt more natural. “I’m sorry, I thought you were aware of that when you placed the order as there are pictures on my website, but I should have double-checked. Would you like me to replace them? I have other pink roses.”

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