The Witching Hour

Chapter Twelve

"Lucien, what is taking so long? I need you to be ready now, mon chérie."

Lucien smoothed down his black suit, tucking a black dahlia boutonniere into his pocket. The dahlias were an ugly color, and he knew they did not bring out his good looks, but if all the guests arrived as planned his appearance would not make a difference.

He had organized the occasion, and had chosen the bouquets. The bouquets were aconite, black dahlia, begonias, white camellias, and white tulips. Not an attractive combination or color scheme. No doubt the important guests would find them appallingly out of taste. But they were not chosen for the color. Lucien dabbed blush onto his cheeks and left the tent.

"Je suis désolé, Mother," he apologized. "I'm ready."

His mother was a short woman with her bleached hair in a tight bun. She wore a fetching black dress for the occasion, and sprigs of baby's breath were scattered in her hair. Lucien had insisted she wear them. After today he couldn't allow her to follow him.

The iron knocker sounded at the gate, and Lucien's mother ushered him to open it and escort the guests in.

He unlatched the gate and found himself facing a tall, handsome man and two women, the women lurking behind him shyly.

"Good to see you, Sir," Lucien said with a bow, gesturing for the guests to enter the garden. The man pushed past him and the older of the two women followed. The younger, dark-haired and dark-eyed like a doll, stood still at the door.

"Emma," Lucien said. "I have something for you."

He pulled from behind his back a single rose, drawn out of thin air.

"Oh, Lucien," she breathed. "Thank you!"

He knelt down to kiss her gloved hand. She, like the other guests, wore black, but in his opinion she looked far finer in the silky ruffles and lace than anyone else attending.

He left her standing with the rose between her hands. It was a red rose, and if she had received his letter she would know its meaning.

Emma was swept into a conversation with a red-haired lady at the other end of the garden, and Lucien smiled as he invited another party of guests in.

The attire was formal, and all black, but not because it was a funeral. Quite the opposite. Today was a beginning, a birth of something new and different, a long-awaited change.

As the last of the guests swept into the garden, Lucien weaved from group to group, making small talk and giving out personalized compliments. Be a good host, he thought. And also, make sure they like you.

"Mr. Lucien Fournier?" said a deep voice.

"C'est moi," Lucien replied, as a theatrical announcer might.

"I see," the man said. "And you organized this event? Were you in charge of decoration?"

"I was," Lucien said proudly, prepared for a rude remark on the flower arrangements.

The man flicked his wrist, and with his fingers he climbed up in the air as if on a diagonal piano, then pulled from nothing a red fuchsia flower.

Lucien thought back to when he read and reread The Secret Language of Flowers. Red fuchsia...

I like your taste.

A secret message within a secret message within another. Most others attending the event would see only a flower. Those who knew the language would see the message–I like your taste–but few other than Lucien would understand that it was even more than this message.

It did not mean this man truly found the flower arrangements attractive. It meant he knew the language, and he had read the words written out in invisible ink along the petals.

And the last hidden thing was that this man had read the message, and by calling it in good taste, had asked for a part in it. He supported Lucien's plan.

The man came closer to Lucien, and leaned forward to whisper in his ear.

"I will do it," the man said.

"No," Lucien said, jolting back. He had to do it.

"I will do it or–" He pulled another flower from the air, this time a black rose. Death.

"Fine," Lucien said. "Not my mother. She's the one beside the fountain, standing alone."

"Very well," the man said.

Lucien walked to the center of the garden and cleared his throat. The guests turned to look at him. He spread his arms wide and closed his eyes, feeling the deep, pulsing heartbeat of the roots beneath the ground. His fingertips tingled and in his mind, he reached out to grab the heartbeat.

He strangled the heart, clenching it between his hands, digging deep into it. He felt as it gave out, and opened his eyes to see the flowers all dying, all crumbling and cracking, broken, to the soil.

The guests around him gasped. He caught Emma's eye and saw the horror on her face. He didn't look at his mother, for he knew what he would see. Fury and disappointment.

Don't worry, he wanted to tell them. The demonstration isn't over.

He closed his eyes and was brought back to the now rotting heart of the garden, as though his unconscious hadn't left. He let a single seed enter the heart, the seed of a white tulip.

He fed it and helped it bloom, then sent hundreds of tiny shimmering golden seeds all about the garden. He raised and lowered his outstretched arms, going higher each time. He breathed in time with it, bringing the heart back to life. The dead plants and flowers sunk into the earth to feed the new growth.

Lovely white tulips sprung up from the empty beds, all around the garden. The guests gasped again, this time in delight.

Lucien bowed to Emma.

"I'm enchanted," he said.

He left through the back gate, while the guests were still admiring his magic. He felt energized and alive. Like he had any amount of power on his side.

I'm sorry, the tulips whispered around the garden in quiet succession, met with ears that did not listen. I'm sorry.

Someone screamed from inside the gated garden of guests in black. Lucien did not turn.

A discarded flower arrangement fell to his feet.

Aconite. Black Dahlia. Begonia. White Camellia. White Tulips.

Danger. Betrayal. Caution. Adoration. Respect.

Regret.