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On the same day every week, Lae’zel found herself in the habit of buying flowers.
It was not a habit she’d ever had before, but she appreciated the colour and character they lent to her flat, which was plainly decorated aside from her sword collection. The flowers fit well in the centre of the display, complementing her gleaming medals and favourite silver blade, given to her on retirement to celebrate her service, her honour, and her respect for tradition and authority. She found it to be a fitting juxtaposition: symbols of death and war centred around a symbol of life and beauty—the very things that had inspired her to fight in the first place.
Yet, if Lae’zel was truthful with herself, she could admit that the flowers were but a consequence of her true habit. What she loved most of all—what had her buying flowers every week even though many of them survived much longer than that—was the woman who sold them to her.
Jenevelle Hallowleaf.
It was true that Lae’zel had never cared for florists before, but something about this particular shop had caught her eye. It had only taken one step through the front door for her to fall in far too deep. Now, ever since that day, simply walking to the shop caused an explosion of butterflies within her, and her palms would sweat as she saw the door come into view, signified by a gorgeous wooden sign that said simply: “Hallowleaf’s.”
In truth, Lae’zel was a bit of an adrenaline junkie who lived for the feelings Jenevelle inspired, but more and more she wished her pounding heart would creep into a soft and steady beat of familiarity instead. Her strength, confidence and assurance in all things came to an abrupt end whenever Jenevelle was involved. Suddenly, she found an opponent she did not feel she could best; suddenly, she had to search for courage, rather than letting it find her.
Today, like every other day, those feelings came to Lae’zel as she approached the florist. She could see Jenevelle in the window, arranging flowers at the counter with a sweet and small smile on her face. Lae’zel so loved the dimples of her cheek when she smiled, the way her white hair cascaded down her back. She’d been positively smitten the moment she’d first seen her, that harmless day spent walking through town with her friend, Wyll. The shop was a dainty little place, filled with so many flowers it was difficult to see through the window, and Lae’zel sometimes felt it was fate that had let her see Jenevelle that day, despite the obscured view.
That first glimpse had positively taken her breath away. Now, every time she met with her, she found herself having to reclaim it to offer some semblance of conversation.
The little bell at the door sounded as Lae’zel entered, smiling at its familiar chime. As always, the shop was as beautiful as the woman who owned it, but this time there was a Halloween flair: cobwebs and spiders hung between the hanging flowers and trellises overhead, and on the countertop was a pumpkin that had a swirl of flowers carved into it. Oftentimes, Lae’zel couldn’t help but wonder how cluttered Jen’s little flat above the shop must be, given her love for knick-knacks…
At the sound of the bell, Jenevelle looked up from her counter and smiled.
“I was just thinking about you,” she said.
Those damn butterflies descended upon Lae’zel, same as always. Perhaps, like her, they had been drawn in by the flowers.
“About me?” Lae’zel queried. “I should not think I am so interesting.”
“Oh? The mysterious stranger who buys flowers each week? You underestimate yourself, I think, considering my flowers certainly live longer than that—or I should hope they do, given I source only the best.” Jenevelle leaned forward and, with a sly smile that pulled in the direction of her cocked head, said: “One might think you were coming for me.”
Lae’zel, as she always did, approached the desk with a cautious excitement. She should not be so worried anymore: by all means and definitions, the two of them were friends, but her concerns arose from cluelessness. How was Lae’zel supposed to cross the boundary beyond friendship, when she didn’t even know how to see Jenevelle outside of her shop? For now, it was difficult enough to stop herself from giving away the game—and her silly little crush—entirely, considering how Jen’s teasing invited just that. So, she ignored the jest altogether.
“What flowers do you have for me this week?” she asked instead, and delighted in the way Jenevelle’s face lit up.
“I went with something classic! Give me a moment, I’ll go grab them.”
One of the things Lae’zel so loved about Jenevelle was that her beauty and character were seen most brightly in her faults, and they made her all the more stunning. She was just like her flowers, Lae’zel supposed, the beauty of them amplified by the uniqueness of every petal, every stem.
A sudden clattering brought Lae’zel back to her senses, just in time to witness Jen accidentally knock a pot off one of the narrow shelves. Her clumsiness was met only by her reaction time: quickly, Jen caught the plant before it fell, a little soil spilling onto the floor. She gave a little chuckle and lifted it in Lae’zel’s direction.
“Caught it!” she said with a blush, placing it back on the side.
God, Lae’zel was enamoured with her and her clumsiness. After all, Jen knew her shop like the back of her hand, but she collected trinkets and flowers like a goblin collected gold, and it made her shop a bit of a squeeze to navigate. Moreover, Jen’s clumsiness was part and parcel of her kindness. Often, Lae’zel struggled to find the right analogy to describe her: she wasn’t unsteady like a newborn fawn—nor did she lumber around like a bear—and she certainly wasn’t like a bull in a china shop. Every week, Lae’zel tried to think of what Jenevelle’s excitable and clumsy nature reminded her of, and each week she felt as if she were a little closer to finally nailing it, like a sneeze that only came after looking long enough into the light.
Jen disappeared out the back of the shop to fetch the bouquet while Lae’zel shuffled awkwardly on her feet, waiting for her return. The anticipation of the reveal always made her heart pound, and this time was no different. Having Jen pick out the flowers had at first been a necessity—Lae’zel, after all, knew nothing of floristry—but it had since become something more. Something special.
It took only moments for Jenevelle to return, her face obscured by a bloom of yellow, orange, pink, and blue. As she approached, the flowers came into view, and even Lae’zel understood the significance.
“...Roses,” she mumbled, her face flush with heat.
“Roses!” Jen exclaimed in reply, placing them on the counter. “You’ve not bought any yet, and I do so love them.”
“Yes. They are beautiful.” Hard though it was, Lae’zel tried to focus on the flowers and their soft curves, rather than the sharp but kind features of the face that stuck out above them, smiling gently. “The colours are striking. Do they have meaning?”
When Lae’zel had first found the florist, she’d been in a daze. She’d stumbled into the shop and stumbled into her words, and then stumbled again into buying a bouquet just so she had an excuse to be there. She’d given them to Wyll who had, thankfully, really loved them. But as time went on and Lae’zel continued to go back, she’d grown the courage to ask questions, and Jenevelle had been all too pleased to have someone to teach—someone to gush to, really. Her enthusiasm and knowledge were a bottomless well, and Lae’zel was content to drink from it for the rest of her life.
“All flowers have meaning,” Jenevelle replied. If Lae’zel did not know any better, she would have thought there was a coyness to Jen’s words—delicacy between the sharp syllables. “But more so in the colours, this time, as is typical with roses.”
Sometime during their time together—which was a little over a year now—Lae’zel had made their appointments weekly, and Jen took it upon herself to begin surprising her with bouquets in advance. Although the surprise was delightful, and made Lae’zel feel very seen and very warm, her favourite part was Jen’s own excitement: the way she taught Lae’zel all about the flowers she’d used, their history, their colours and their symbolism.
Gently, Lae’zel reached out and let her fingers glide across the velvety petal of one of the yellow roses. “Tell me about the yellow first,” she said. Her eyes flickered to meet Jen’s, only to catch her looking at Lae’zel with the serenity of autumn leaves blowing in the breeze. It inspired a softness in her, a provocation of honesty. “I do so love yellow, orange… Any colour of the sunset. I think there is no greater reflection of joy, or the cyclical nature of life.”
Jen gave the smallest of chuckles, low in her throat, and the sound of it tingled on Lae’zel’s skin. “Each week you surprise me, Lae’zel, but one of the things that continues to delight me is your romanticism.”
Wyll has said such things before, but hearing it from Jenevelle made Lae’zel’s heart melt, despite the stone that encaged it. She was still working on chiselling that away, having lived a life that conditioned stoicism and hardness. So, while she tried to say something sweet like, ‘You inspire it in me,’ or ‘Your kindness delights me in turn,’ what came out instead was a tutting, “So what do the flowers mean, Jenevelle?”
Jen’s chin lifted. “Well, you were quite astute in your observation. I’ve tried to emulate the colours of the sunset but, more so, you were right to mention joy. Yellow roses represent joy and friendship… Two things you inspire in me.”
Lae’zel hoped to inspire more, but certainly, the mere idea that Jenevelle was as happy to see her as she was to see Jen brought a smile to her face she had no hope of stopping. For a long moment, they simply looked at one another. Then, Jen continued on.“Orange roses are representative of enthusiasm and energy.” She pointed to the orange, and then to the pink. “And pink roses mean gratitude and admiration.”
“I am sensing a theme.”
With a coy smile, Jen looked up at her through her lashes. “Yes. I made this bouquet about you, Lae’zel. All things you inspire in me. All things I think about you.”
A dryness in her throat. A twitch in her fingers. Lae’zel dared not to speak but she found the courage to do so anyway. “...What about the blue?”
“Oh, the blue…” Jenevelle hummed lightly, reaching for the blue rose. It was the only single flower in the bunch, and she plucked it free with care. “These aren’t natural flowers, so they’re very hard to obtain. I usually prefer those that occur in nature, but it just so happens I had someone request a bouquet of blue roses last week, and I felt it worked well for your surprise. Blue roses, well…” Jen brought the flower to her nose and sniffed it gently. Her eyes fluttered as she breathed, and as her eyes opened, they met Lae’zel’s own, dark and full. “Blue roses represent mystery or unattainability, as rare as they are. And I do find you ever so mysterious, Lae’zel. But I hope… not unattainable.”
Lae’zel could only blink at Jen when the butterflies in her stomach exploded into a mad flurry. Though she smiled, she could feel her hands shaking with nerves, her throat growing dry. All the while, Jen watched her patiently, her smile shifting from one of tenderness to one of joy and amusement.
Lae'zel loved her smile; loved the creases of the fat on her chin that framed her face. She was so soft and gentle. So excitable and happy. Of course, it didn’t help Lae’zel’s speechlessness. Stuck for words, she could only blink again and stutter, certain that a blush was burning up her face and ears, though she couldn’t feel it through the shock. Jen's words bounced around in her brain but never settled, and Lae’zel could not slow them to think of any response. Did Jenevelle mean what Lae’zel thought she did, or was she being presumptuous? She would hate to ruin her favourite weekly tradition by pushing the boundaries.
In the end, she could only point a finger at herself: “Me?” she asked.
A laugh. “Yes, you, dummy.”
“Oh, I—” Lae’zel cleaned her throat and scraped her hair back, just trying to feel a little less seen. “Oh, I—well, I—”
By God, she was ruining it! This was the moment she’d waited for, the opportunity she’d yearned for, and she was squandering it!
“So, uh, how much do I owe you?”
Oh, she hated herself. How could she fumble this? She’d been trying to work up the courage for so long that she hadn’t anticipated Jenevelle making the first move. It threw her off completely. And yet, thankfully, Jen did not seem put off by her absolute idiocy.
“These are on the house. Well, as long as you show up again next week.”
“If I do not show up then you may presume I have died.”
To her surprise, Jenevelle chuckled lowly, though Lae’zel wasn’t really joking. She placed the flower back into the centre of the bouquet and pushed it towards Lae’zel, then took her chin in hand, her moon eyes watching Lae’zel with fondness. Again, Lae’zel could only think of how much she adored the soft curves of her; the dark hair that adorned her arms; the scar on her cheek that Lae’zel had always wanted to trace. Jen was soft and sharp and warm and beautiful, and Lae’zel was simply an idiot.
“I’ll keep that in mind, Lae’zel. Keep my gift in mind, too, alright? I want to know if my blue rose is more attainable than the flower.”
❀༉
Nerves.
That was all Lae’zel felt walking into the shop: nerves, sickness, anxiety. She’d made the last minute decision that this would be the day she asked Jenevelle out, feeling confident now that Jen had invited her to do so last week. Yet as confident as Lae’zel felt, she could not help but doubt. They’d known each other a year now, and Lae’zel did not want to ruin the blossoming relationship they had by cutting the head from the stem with something as thoughtless as a date.
But it wasn’t actually thoughtless, was it? It was all she’d been able to think about doing since the moment she had met Jenevelle. Now, the idea was built up in her head to such an extent that she could barely even feel excited amongst the fear of it all.
At the door of Hallowleaf’s, Lae’zel took a deep breath. It was shaky and uncertain and did very little to quell the nerves rising within her, especially considering she could see Jenevelle through the glass pane. As always, she was at the counter, her chin resting on her palm as she read from a book that was held open at the corners by various knick-knacks. She’d opted for a long, beautiful braid today, as opposed to leaving it untied. Honestly, Lae’zel never could decide which hairstyle she loved more: the free-flowing hair looked so soft that it had Lae’zel wishing she could run her fingers through it, whilst Jen’s ponytail—reserved for her busiest moments—was often accompanied by a little sweat and red cheeks, which Lae’zel found adorable. But her braid? Her braid was the essence of elegance, and it framed her face so beautifully. It swung over her shoulder as she turned to look when Lae’zel entered the shop, greeted again by the little bell above the door.
“Good morning, Jen,” Lae’zel said.
But as she approached, she felt something was wrong—a gut punch deep within. At first, it wasn’t obvious what was wrong, but the closer she got the more she saw: Jenevelle was sweating, her skin a blotchy red, and she had dark shadows under her eyes that appeared to be more than a simple lack of sleep.
“Oh, hi, Lae’zel.”
Even her voice was pained, a high-noted pitch that indicated she was trying her best to seem normal. But she wasn’t normal, and it didn’t take someone in love with her to see that.
“Jen…. Are you well?” Lae’zel quickly closed the distance and examined her closely, forgetting the boundaries of customer/worker that were supposed to separate them. She placed the back of her hand against Jen’s forehead and tutted. “You are boiling. Do you have the flu?”
With a wince, Jenevelle nodded slowly. “Something like that,” she mumbled, and Lae’zel did not miss the way she gripped at the counter, nails digging into the wood. “I’m out of my medication and the side effects are… Well, deeply unpleasant.”
“I can go and pick it up from the pharmacy if that would be helpful.”
The offer came without any thought. After all, Lae’zel had never seen Jenevelle in such a state; she loved her flowers so much that she often worked through illness, but never one as debilitating as this. Even now, despite her attempts to appear normal, Jenevelle was slumped on her stool, and it was clear that she was expending a lot of effort just to keep herself upright.
“Thanks, Lae’zel. That’s sweet, but I can’t get this medication at a pharmacy—I make it myself from a certain flower. My shipment was cancelled last minute, and I’ve not been able to find even a small amount at the other florists.”
“It is a flower you require?”
Even talking seemed an effort for Jen. With a sharp exhale from her nose, she simply nodded.
“Then, I will get it for you. I will try every florist in the area.”
“Oh, no, Lae’zel, I can’t ask you to—”
“—You can barely walk, Jen. Am I correct in assuming the symptoms will not subside until you have this flower?”
Another nod.
“Then I will find it. What is it called?”
“It’s a night orchid. I only need a couple.”
“Then I go. I will find it as soon as possible.”
It wasn’t until Lae’zel was at the door, the bell ringing as she pulled it to, that Jenevelle spoke again.
“Lae’zel?” she said, and Lae’zel turned around to meet her eyes. Though she was weak, she was smiling. “Thank you. Truly.”
With a tight nod, Lae’zel left.
❀༉
As promised, Lae’zel searched high and low.
She started with the closest florist and worked her way out, travelling the length of the entire city. Unfortunately, none of them bore fruit: every shop had either sold out, never heard of the flower, or simply could not obtain it. One florist had even laughed in her face. Nonetheless, she spent the entire day looking, and her last stop was a quaint little herbalist shop on the edges of the city, just before everywhere closed for the night. Rare as herbalists were these days, Lae’zel figured that, if Jenevelle needed to make the flower into a potion, an herbalist might be her best bet to find it.
The owner was a gruff man made entirely of muscle, and he barely fit in his shop, ducking under the old beams supporting his ceiling. He looked her up and down and, with a dark chuckle, stroked his beard in fascination.
“A night orchid? You’re joking, aren’t you? No idea what you’d need with a thing like that, but they’re harder to find than a black cat in a coal cellar.”
“You do not have any?”
“No,” he replied, “and I’ve no intentions to. Whilst it’s harmless in low doses, having too much of it—even continued low-level ingestion—acts as a poison.”
A poison?
No, that couldn’t be right. Jenevelle was using it to heal herself, was she not? Why would she ingest a poison? Did Jen know she was poisoning herself? Surely, as knowledgeable with flowers and plants as she was, she would know that this flower was indeed a poison. Surely, she would not hurt herself, and send Lae’zel in aid of that?
No.
No. Not the Jen she knew. The Jen she knew did not simply love life, but embodied it. She would not do anything to hurt herself intentionally.
“My friend told me she uses it for medicine.”
For a moment, the man simply watched her. He watched her like he was searching for something within her that she could not see or discern, and she felt all too examined by a man she did not know. When he’d found whatever it was he was searching for, he hummed lowly and sat down in his chair, the wood floor creaking beneath him.
“For certain conditions, it could be used to prevent symptoms. But I would not recommend its use even then.”
Lae’zel felt there was something to his words, a hint of some kind, a warning, but she did not care enough to examine it. Whatever Jenevelle was treating was no business of hers.
“Tell me. I can see plainly that you know where I might find it.”
Despite his reservations, he did so. “Try the moors,” he said. “Travel about an hour out of the city, right where it meets the forest. The wet and dark conditions are perfect for its growth.”
“Thank you,” Lae’zel said. She tossed him a pouch of coins, but he pushed it back to her.
“For this,” he said gravely, “I do not want to be paid. I hope your friend is okay.”
❀༉
It was safe to say that Lae’zel’s shoes were ruined. Perhaps her trousers too.
She was caked in mud from the sticky moors, and by the time she arrived, it had grown dark and the full moon was out and glowing a bewitching yellow. Luckily, she always had a flashlight and some other necessities in her car, but it still meant she was scrambling across squelching mud trying to find a flower she’d only seen on Google. She wasn’t confident in her abilities, but the herbalist had told her it was nearly impossible to confuse them with another flower, and he was right.
Upon falling over for the second time, pure luck meant that a little patch of moss at the trunk of a tree was within her eyeline. In between the mossy green, the brown bark, and the long tufts of grass, she saw it—the flower. It was so dark that the flashlight failed to illuminate it; it was a flower as black as the void of space. It gave off an aura that was not welcoming, but there was something incredibly beautiful about the danger of its look.
After a moment of staring at it, Lae’zel scrambled to her feet, and slipped again in the mud, her legs sliding apart as she sought to steady herself once more. Without wasting another minute, she grabbed the flower and, as quickly as she could, got to her car and raced back to Hallowleaf’s. Despite it being late, the shop door was not locked. Most of the lights were turned off save the lamps dotted around, and the radio, which Jen had playing every day, lay silent. The silence was eerie, and with the poisonous flower in hand, Lae’zel could not help but feel unsettled.
“...Jen?” she called, quieter than she’d meant to. “Are you here?”
A sudden bang out back had Lae’zel flinching. Maybe it was Jen, or maybe someone was here who should not be. Either way, Lae’zel was concerned. Carefully, she crept through the dim light and wedged herself down the aisles. The door to the storage room was slightly ajar, and a light beamed through the gap. She could not see inside. With her free hand, she gently pushed on the door, hand around the frame, and peered inside.
Staring at her—right at her, and growling, too—was a wolf. Bigger than any she had ever seen, with a coat so white it looked as pristine as snow on the mountain peaks. Its face was morphed into a snarl, and as it bared its fangs, Lae’zel fucking panicked.
“Shit!” she yelled, and dropped her orchid. ”Oh, shit. Oh, shit.”
A wolf?! Where was Jenevelle? Had this wolf hurt her? Was she up in her flat right now, injured or bleeding?
Right. Lae’zel needed to scare the wolf away, she knew; she needed to get past it, to check on Jen. There was a candle on the side and, quickly, she reacted. She grabbed it, thinking the wolf might fear the fire. It was a feeble attempt, unlikely to work—and yet, when she thrust it outward, the wolf recoiled. Its growls became whimpers, and all of a sudden Lae’zel felt bad for the creature. When it sat on all fours, belly pressed against the floor, its tail was lifeless behind it. It must be just as scared of being here as she was scared of it. How had it ever gotten into the city?
Watching it now, Lae’zel realised that she had never seen a wolf before—let alone a wolf who looked so sad. It had an exceptionally expressive face, so much so that there was no thought behind her decision to put the candle aside, only a need to show the creature that she meant it no harm. Empathy overtook her fear. She crept a little closer, holding her hand out—maybe if it sniffed her, it would see she was a friend.
“Hi, buddy. Hi… wolf. I will not hurt you.”
Only then did she notice the scar that ran from the top of its nose, down beneath its eye. A scar that had the same depth, the same curvature, the same sharpness as her favourite florist’s. It looked an awful lot like Jen’s scar. It looked too much like Jen’s scar.
And then Lae’zel looked, truly looked, into its eyes: they were green eyes, wet and pouting, and they stared at her with a familiarity she could not ignore. She fell quite suddenly to her knees, struck with shock.
“Jenevelle…” she whispered with a squeeze of her heart.
She moved her hand closer. The wolf—Jenevelle—sniffed it gently, her black nose wet against Lae’zel’s fingers, and then licked her just once. Lae’zel shuffled forward.
“Jenevelle,” she repeated, “Jenevelle. What has happened to you?”
Jenevelle only whimpered at her. And then she remembered the herbalist's words: For certain conditions, it could be used to prevent symptoms. But I would not recommend its use even then.
Abruptly, it made sense. Only desperation could lead Jen to poisoning herself, and what could inspire more desperation than the agony of turning into a wolf; than the terror of being hunted in the city; than the fear of hurting those she loved whilst in wolf form…? Lae’zel could understand going to extreme measures to prevent any one of those things from happening.
“You are a werewolf,” she breathed.
A statement, not a question. It was a logical reason—perhaps the only reason. After all, turning into a wolf on the night of the full moon could hardly be a coincidence.
Shuffling closer now, Lae’zel sighed. Cautiously—not out of fear, but out of care—she let her fingers touch the soft white fur by Jen’s ears. Jen gave a soft woof, and pushed her large head into the contact as Lae’zel looked about the room taking stock. Flowers covered the floor, lying alongside broken vases and ripped-up books. It looked as though there had been a struggle, and it pained Lae’zel to think of Jenevelle desperately fighting the transformation alone.
“I found your flower, Jenevelle. I had to go to the moors, as I’m sure you can tell from the mud. But I found it. For you.”
Another soft woof. Lae’zel grabbed the night orchid forgotten on the floor and carefully reached up to put it on the table. She crushed other flowers under her knees as she leaned over. So many of flowers were absolutely ruined, but it gave Lae’zel an idea.
“I do not know how to prepare the potion for you, Jenevelle, I am sorry. But I will not leave you.” She grabbed a few of the flowers in hand: small bluebells that were preserved enough for her use, and many other larger flowers which she could not name “I’ve noticed that sometimes you weave flowers into your braid. You had none today but I thought—if you like—that I might weave some into your fur.”
Lae’zel stroked Jen gently. She started at the top of her head, scratching between her ears, and was rewarded with a low, contented grumble. As she brushed her way down her neck, Jen flopped on her side, belly revealed, and woofed excitedly. It was a strange situation to be in, giving belly rubs to the woman she had a crush on, but she did it happily. Her belly still had the chub of her human self, Lae’zel realised fondly.
She grabbed the flowers that she’d collected and weaved them carefully through Jen’s white fur. Jenevelle appeared to be extraordinarily happy, a deep sigh slipping out her wet nose. Lae’zel decided to make a flower crown with the bluebells and began to weave them together gently. Jen, seeing her and perhaps figuring out what she was doing (Lae’zel was not sure what level of understanding a werewolf had), woofed softly again, and lazily leaned forward to lick her hands.
“Jen,” Lae’zel laughed, “you must stop so I can finish your crown.”
Lae’zel had quite nimble fingers: though she would not admit it, she had picked up knitting in her free time, and she had gotten quite good quite quickly. She was currently knitting Wyll a red jumper, as he so loved the colour, and the practice aided her weaving attempts. She finished more swiftly than imagined, and at last met the big, soppy wolf eyes that had been watching her all the while, flickering between her hands and her face, broken by the odd woof that, clearly, made the demand for more attention.
The bluebell crown wasn’t her finest work, but it was good enough. When she fitted it carefully on Jenevelle’s head, it rested over her ears quite happily, and stood out magnificently against her white fur. She was a beautiful wolf by all standards, but with the twist of blue atop her head she looked simply regal.
“Beautiful as a woman, and beautiful as a wolf,” Lae’zel whispered. “Thank you for trusting me. I am… pleased to know you, Jen.”
They waited out the night curled together on the floor, and when Lae’zel fell asleep, her back propped against the wall, Jenevelle climbed on top of her. The weight of her warm wolf body had Lae’zel smiling in her sleep, the soft thump of her heart as steady as the wolf-woman who snored on top of her.
❀༉
The next morning, though Jen did not wake alone, it was clear she felt alone and ashamed. She barely made eye contact with Lae’zel, but she thanked her for finding the night orchid, and she made her a brew and some breakfast. They did not talk much at all, and while it saddened Lae’zel, she understood Jen’s reticence. Undoubtedly, she would be the same if put in her shoes—her paws?
All the mud on Lae’zel’s clothes meant Jen was kind enough to lend her something to wear while hers were being washed. It took a long while for them to come out both the washer and dryer, and yet by the time they were done, Lae’zel felt empty. She was not ready to leave. Not only had she not asked Jen out, but she’d not succeeded in comforting her this morning, and she’d not succeeded in preventing Jen’s transformation in the first place. All she could do was hope that the comfort she’d offered, and the orchid she’d found, were enough to make Jen feel safe.
As the time came to leave, Lae’zel made her way to the door with only a quick goodbye to Jen. But Jen followed her cautiously.
“Look, Lae’zel I—” She sighed, and her eyes looked so sad, and Lae’zel wanted only to kiss it all away. “I understand if you want nothing more to do with me, now that you know… what I am. That I am a… monster.”
Lae’zel would have laughed if Jen wasn’t serious.
“A monster?” Lae’zel shook her head and stepped closer. She looked around the shop, a shop made with so much love and life, and tutted. Her thoughts gathered, as did the silence. At last, she said: “You know, Jenevelle, for months now I have been trying to think of what it is you remind me of—of what your clumsiness reminds me of. And it is now that I realise. You are not a bull in a china shop, or a lumbering bear, or a newborn deer. You are a bounding, excitable golden retriever. And I… I very much love that about you, Jen.”
The smile that crept onto Jen’s face was worth a thousand lifetimes, a thousand loves, a thousand kisses. A small, cautious start that ended with a bright, beaming smile, one that lit up her whole face, and shone in such green eyes. The flowers Lae’zel had woven into her fur remained in her hair when she transformed, and the bluebell crown still topped her head. She was a vision so royal Lae’zel felt she ought to have permission to be looking at her.
“You do?” Jen asked.
“I do. And I would like to take you out on a date if you’d be so inclined.”
Jenevelle’s excitement could not be contained. She swayed on the spot as if her tail was wagging, then reached back behind her head to pull free a flower. A red rose.
“I would really love that,” Jen replied, and held the rose out. “This is for you. The final rose I want to give you. The only one not included in your bouquet.”
Lae’zel blushed.
“So, what does this one mean?” she asked, though she was sure she already knew.
“Love, Lae’zel,” Jen whispered, and kissed her cheek gently. “It means love.”