The language of peonies

🌸 ✿ ✾ Chapter 3 ✾ ✿ 🌸

Ollie was starting to suspect that being a royal page was less about assisting the king and more about suffering through whatever fresh hell the palace decided to throw at her. Case in point: paperwork.

Stacks upon stacks of parchment, overflowing on every available surface, loomed over her like a particularly vengeful mountain. She wasn't even sure how she ended up here, but now there was no escape.

"Right," she muttered to herself, picking up the nearest scroll. "Let's get this over with."

That's when the door creaked open, and in stumbled a frazzled-looking man in his early twenties, his dark hair sticking out at odd angles and his jacket slightly askew. He looked as though he hadn't slept in a week.

"Thomas Foxcote," he introduced himself, though it sounded more like a groan than actual words. "I'm... uh... supposed to help."

Ollie arched an eyebrow. "Help with what?"

Thomas waved vaguely at the chaos around them. "This. Probably. Maybe. I don't know. I just... I was told to be here."

Oh, good. Reinforcements. If reinforcements came in the form of someone who looked ready to pass out standing up.

Twenty something minutes later

It turned out Thomas was terrible at paperwork. He stared at the documents like they were written in another language (they weren't) and sighed every five seconds like his soul was physically leaving his body.

"I think I'm gonna die," he declared dramatically, dropping his quill for the fourth time.

"Me too," Ollie replied without looking up, her hand moving at lightning speed as she copied out another report with disturbingly perfect penmanship.

Thomas leaned back in his chair, arms dangling limply at his sides. "How are you so good at this?"

"I grew up organizing my father's estate," Ollie said simply. "You get good at paperwork when your livelihood depends on not losing a hundred sheep."

Thomas stared at her. "You're telling me this"—he gestured wildly at the pile of parchment—"is easier than sheep?"

"Yes."

He groaned and slumped forward, his head hitting the table with a loud thunk. "I hate this."

"Same."

Somewhere Else in the Palace, like the ballroom or something

Meanwhile, George was thriving.

The king had no idea what his page and butler were up to, nor did he particularly care. He was in the great hall, spinning in circles to a tune only he could hear, occasionally flinging his arms out dramatically.

"Oooooooooooooh!" he sang, twirling on his heel like a deranged ballerina.

If anyone had walked in, they might've been concerned. But George? George was having a great time.

Back in the Office with the Paperwork

Thomas was half-asleep, his head drooping dangerously close to the inkwell. Ollie, despite her best efforts, was starting to nod off too. The words on the parchment blurred together, and before she knew it, she was out like a light, her snores echoing through the room.

Thomas, startled by the noise, tipped too far back in his chair and fell with a crash, landing in a heap on the floor.

George chose that exact moment to stroll past, still humming to himself. He peeked inside, taking in the scene: Ollie snoring loud enough to wake the dead, Thomas sprawled on the floor, and paperwork everywhere.

"Well," he said to no one in particular. "Isn't this delightful."

With a mischievous grin, he crept into the room, carefully pulled a single peony from his pocket, and tucked it into Ollie's stack of papers. Then he stood back, admiring his work.

"Perfect," he muttered, before skipping out of the room with an evil little chuckle.

---

Ollie woke up first, groggy and confused, her face stuck to a piece of parchment. She blinked blearily at the peony sticking out of her paperwork and frowned.

"Where did you come from?" she mumbled, holding it up to inspect it. "Weird."

Behind her, Thomas groaned as he pulled himself off the floor. "What happened?"

"You fell, asleep." Ollie said flatly.

"Oh." He paused. "And you snore."

Ollie rolled her eyes. "Thanks for the update."

They stared at each other for a moment before bursting into tired laughter, the kind that only comes when you've been awake for far too long and everything seems absurd.

And somewhere in the distance, George was still dancing.