Chapter Text
There is something to be said about rain. Fact is, the darker the clouds and the louder the thunder, the larger the bountiful harvest in the fields. Rain falls best when it is savage, when it threatens to overwhelm, some might say. It makes the sun after much fuller, rounder, warmer. It creates puddles that mirror the clear blue overhead, ever intent to turn that which is skyward into that which is visible from below. It brings life with its drenching song of drowning.
You enjoy listening to it, love it fully when the spring winds knock on the windows to be let in while a cup of tea warms your chilled fingers. Outside, as is custom of this time of year, the mother of all things natural forgets to ask to participate, and sneaks through the gaps in-between doors instead. She howls, a soft trill of high pitched wailing, for she intends to tear up before long and no tissue or soft word could make her stop. So you listen to her instead, raise your chipped porcelain set in greeting, and sip the hot broth of herbs. Chamomile and vanilla, calming and pleasant on your tongue, then warm in your throat and belly. Days such as these make even the branches of tall oak trees bend as if bowing before the might of the elements. Garments hung up on clotheslines hang on for dear life, or drift away in shame. The animals that seek shelter underneath the awning of your cottage snuggle for warmth.
It is a dreadful day, and those are best spent inside. So you do. Inside, there is not only safety and the opportunity to stay dry, but the blended scent of flowers of the spring variety. They stretch their necks to look outside the windows with their chipped paint on old wood, stuck in their new vases and pots. The tulips, red and orange and pink and glowing, hold their cup-shaped blooms up with elegance. The lilacs, purple and white in colour, resent their status as shrubs and lovingly present their soft petals in defiance. The pansies, whom you remembered to give a bigger vase and a spot in the center of your small shop, let their multicolored yellow and blue heads stand in stark contrast to the flowers around them. There is pruning to be done if you want the primroses and all their shades from white to purple to be eye catchers for the common folk, but they can wait until the sun shines once more. It is a slow day, after all, one where it is customary for customers to arrive with wet clothes and wetter hair, where only the desperate would make their way to your faraway place - those that have to mend mistakes, those that need gifts for graduations, those that seek answers for anniversaries. The last man that left your shop did so with a bouquet of roses for his beloved, lest he be chewed out for forgetting her day of birth. The crinkled smile on his chapped lips had been worth the trek to your cottage, and he warmed up and made decent conversation in the meantime while you packed seeds into tiny bags. But he had left two hours prior, and no man or woman or person had taken his place. So you sip tea out of a chipped cup, watch the flowers bloom under your knowing gaze, and still as the door to your flower shop opens with the very telling, gentle sound of the mounted brass bell and the contrasting harsh winds that bring in the spring chill.
You eye the customer that steps inside, wait for the telltale puddle underneath drenched boots, but the pointed hat and dry cloth speak of a journey well traveled with little discomfort. "Witch", you find yourself thinking as you sip the last of your lukewarm tea. There is poise in his step, and the floorboards creak as he walks towards your counter. His hair, as white as fluffy clouds on a rainless day, looks pristine and untouched by the elements, and yet one of his eyes remains hidden from your curiosity. The other finds the chip in your teacup with ease, and his fingers twitch as though yearning to fix it, before his attention is taken up by the arrangement of bouquets and flowers within your walls. He eyes them all the way an artist would eye ink, precise and with an awe for colours. Then a gentle smile settles upon his lips, though it rests there forlorn in the atmosphere of your disturbed peace. You sit the cup down on its saucer. The clinking sound grinds in your ears.
"A fine day for a cup of tea", he quips. His tone is not unkind, but his words are false. You can tell from the way he carries himself that there is reason for him to shelter himself from the rain by way of magic, though you know not why that is safe for the comfort of dry clothes. "What blend is it?"
"Vanilla", you reply. "Chamomile. It calms the mind and soul."
"That it does", he agrees idly. His fingers find one of the rose petals of a soft pink bouquet, and he visibly delights at how velvety it rests within his hold. Your customer is gentle with it, barely brushes it, and you begin to wonder which flower would suit him best. Perhaps a lily of the valley for the association with his hair, or a more common dandelion given his wish to visit during a heavy storm.
"What are you here for?" You point towards the flowers in vases, the bouquets ready for purchase, then the satches of seeds on the counter and the dried herbs that are used as remedies for common ailments. "I have a larger variety than the common stores in villages near you, I am sure."
"That you must have", he agrees. Most of your regulars recommend you by word of mouth, and so your customers are largely made up of the same faces mixed with the occasional traveler and rare Witch that seeks you out mostly for your flower knowledge. He seems to be the latter, given his garments. You do not turn paying folk away regardless of the state of their headwear or lack thereof.
"I come with little knowledge of what to purchase, only the wish from my apprentices to bring something colourful to life with their own hands."
"Ah", you find yourself voicing. The stool you rest on screeches as you push yourself off of it in order to better accommodate him. If he has apprentices, then he must be one of the desperate ones that seek you out in order to prevent mistakes of the empathic kind. "Are they young, then, still?"
"Very much so. Hardy flowers that forgive care mistakes would suffice, though I wish for them to raise something that has value beyond its appearance." He eyes the bouquets as he says so, giving the impression that he finds little importance in the gift of cut flowers. Indeed, he carries himself with the air of a man that is never restful enough to consider a purchase of vanity; what he seeks out must have purpose.
"Something of value...", you murmur. You step over to one of the shelves that present your vast variety of seed bags, and try to find some of the low-maintenance ones that yet have a use beyond their bloom. You suggest one of your favourites the way you would present the sun itself. "These are tagetes, commonly referred to as marigolds. Not only do they rival the morning rays, they can be brewed into tea to help with cramps."
"That sounds quite useful indeed", your customer quips. Then he seems to remember something, and his voice takes on a sharper tone, as though his tongue itself has grown knife-like qualities in a split second. "What else is there to know?"
"What else? Do you speak of properties of the plant, or do you wish to know the language each flower whispers to those who listen?"
"That depends on how well you are at translating their words." The Witch in your shop watches your flowers the way humans would people-watch when they have little else to do. He expects them to do...something. You are unsure what he is waiting for, but he expects with the weight of a burly man that ordered his fifth beer of the night. His gaze is intoxicating when it moves to rest on you.
"I am almost a native", you bristle. He unfolds your vulnerability without a gesture, sows seeds of doubt in your mind until you spill over like a well watered violet. You feel modest despite your words. He could humiliate you if he wanted to, you are sure of it. Not through knowledge, but through connections, and he chooses to indulge you instead. "Humans tell on themselves when they handle flowers. The buds and blossoms barely have to say anything for me to know what they suggest."
"Is that so?"
"Yes."
"In that case", he moves to stand beside you, to thumb through the seed satches with graceful hands, "tell me more about the marigold."
"Some connect them to the divine. Others to the dead." You tell him about their association with the sun, and the many ways people offer them up in order to pray for something larger than themselves. He listens as if the seeds in his hand could tell him otherwise, as if the very petals all around him could call you out if you were lying. "They bring joy...and jealousy."
He stills for a moment. Then shakes his head.
"That will not do."
"I shall suggest a different flower, then. You commented on my cup of tea. Calmness is something you seem to seek, if you find the taste of chamomile an indulgence you gladly repeat often."
Your customer eyes the chipped cup, once more. The gold details on the rim shine in the glow of the candlelight of the lamp on the counter. The teacup could be considered gaudy, with its highly detailed flower motif - zinnias of pink and purple varieties - yet you hold it dear to your heart.
"Tea is gentle on the tastebuds, and a good way to start the day. There are many ways to enjoy it; I take it you appreciate it in much the same way?" He walks over to the saucer and lifts the cup only after a gentle "May I?" that you react to with a nod. Then his pointer finger finds the jagged edge, there where the gold is missing.
"I like tea", you reply. "The cup is a personal favourite of mine, everything tastes...richer from it."
"Memories have that hold on us, do they not", he asks in appreciation. You find yourself protective of your item at once, the way children cling to old stuffed animals. He sets it back down the moment he notices, which you are grateful for, and does not deepen the topic. Witches and their obsession with memories will never not worry your heart and soul. It is the very reason why you steer clear of Kalhn.
"The past is certainly...important. Yet flowers bloom in the future. What ails you in the present that my humble flower shop might try to soothe?"
Your customer, curious as he may be, sees your boundary and accepts it with grace. He steps over to the primroses instead, notices those that need to be given a proper trim, and fixes an area that looks bare by twisting the flowers around. They look towards the windows more, now, and so does he. The sky overhead is yet black and angry, with thunder roaring and lightning striking in the far fields outside. There are words that he wishes to speak, that die on his tongue because too many heads are listening, and so he chooses safer sentences instead.
"Sometimes my apprentices give me a headache, as children are supposed to do. I find it...difficult...to rid myself of the migraines enough to rest well at night. Are there flowers that both hold the value of my students' success as well as giving me a clear head for the next morning to come?"
There are, of course, remedies made from flowers for such ailments. He must know so as well, and yet he talks in vague terms instead of specifics. You find it amusing how easily he shares grievances of child care, as it humanises him in much the same way that some Witches dehumanise Outsiders. Some of the eccentric folk that frequent your store would keep their cards close to themselves the way Witches keep their magic a secrecy. This one is both more open and more closed off than the common customer. You hum to yourself as you step away to locate the purple buds that are the answer to his question. He follows once beckoned with one of your fingers, careful not to hit the hanging pots that hold some wildflowers for decoration with his pointed hat. There, at the edge of the shelf meant to highlight more hardy flowers, sit young plants as though waiting to be called upon. Their scent is fragrant and tickles your nose, and you take a deep breath as you pull out a few bushels of the flower.
"Lavandula angustifolia, then. They will enjoy its scent and look, and you shall be able to use it for your rest. It is not fussy about the soil it rests in, just make sure to let the water drain well to prevent root rot." You touch the small lavender plant that rests in a pot with gentle hands.
Quifrey nods in earnest. "I shall remind the girls that excess water will be harmful to the plant."
"Lavender is forgiving and kind. It soothes whatever worry you might have."
"Worry?"
"Indeed", you answer, "it helps to calm panic much better than chamomile. Whereas chamomile calms, lavender soothes. As a flower, it is the best listener you could ask for."
He steps away from the plant with haste. "I shall hope that you have less keen-eared plants that are up for the task instead."
Whatever prior enthusiasm showed on his face is gone, now, replaced with a denial so deeply rooted that there is no way for you to unearth it. You refrain from trying, and simply note that you mistook your customer's problem for something that lavender could be the solution for. Mayhaps it is the scent, or the wish to be ever vigilant even at night. To smooth things over you decide to go for an old remedy instead, something less vibrant but nonetheless pretty.
The flower you present him with, small and unassuming, is a humble one. Its yellow center is surrounded by countless sharp, white petals. Your chamomile tea seems to come to his mind, as he opens his mouth with a silent question, yet you answer before he can speak.
"It is not chamomile. May I present you - a medicinal beauty, the tanacetum parthenium. Feverfew of the golden moss variety. It is hardy, requires less care than most other medicinal plants, and reduces headaches if taken in small doses over a long period of time."
You hand him a single budding flower, and he sniffs it, seemingly taken by the tiny blossom. The smell is unmistakably not chamomile, yet he seems unbothered by this. His hand cradles the feverfew almost reverently. Unlike lavender, this plant does not care to be loud. That seems to be exactly what he needs, though, something quiet and still. A genuine smile seems to overtake his soft features, and his voice is pleasant the way sunshine pleases the soul when it finds a way to cut through grey clouds to land on skin.
"What a humble flower. I shall buy seeds of it, then. Thank you for your generosity in sharing your knowledge, florist."
As you walk to the counter in order to fetch out a satchel of the seeds, he, for the first time, seems to settle back into a routine he forgot the moment he set foot into your small store. His attitude changes from a guarded wish to seek out help to an open appreciation for the solution you provided. When you hand over the satchel you add a small packet of fertilizer too, as well as a trowel.
"The fertilizer is on the house", you explain as he counts out the coins needed to finalize the purchase. "Your students will have an easier time with the gardening, so success is near guaranteed."
There is joy to be heard in the sound of the coins hitting the counter, in the way he laughs openly at your gift. Somehow you find yourself smiling, too, unguarded and uprooted. You have not seen a single one of the children he shelters, and yet, for but a minute, you are co-conspiring with him to help them with exceeding all expectations. It grants you the gift of his name, something only few customers ever hand over for free when visiting for the first time.
"Qifrey the Witch, master of a small atelier not far from Kalhn. I must offer my gratitude as a stand-in for my apprentices, as well."
You take in his white robes, white hat, black ribbon. Not a speck of mud or dirt paints him in earthen colours. Qifrey is bright the way only those practicing gentle magic can be, the way clouds are after a storm has passed. You look outside and find that the rain has stopped, and the first rays of sunlight peek through the clouds and into your shop just to highlight the bright blue of his eye. He lifts a hand to shield it from the blinding light, and it almost looks like he raises it in greeting.
"Welcome to Zinnia's Nest, Qifrey."
You press your palms together, and pray that his walk back home will be dry without the need for any spells to be cast. When he gathers his purchases, when he steps towards the door to the outside world, even until he opens it and the brass bell signals his leave, you fail to take your eyes off of him.
Before he closes the door he turns, once.
"I shall remember it for the future."
Then he is gone.
The rain does not return for the rest of the day.