Soon, a field of flower opened before her eyes, releasing her breath outward. Flowers, stacked with care, drowning her sight in the moment. She couldn't explain the sight, the contrast. Hidden beneath the manor was a beauty that could rival a grand palace. Red flower brushing her ankle, while the white one perking around her fingers.
She couldn't help but take a deep breath, feeling the air entered her lungs along with the sweet scent. Rose? Or maybe Tulips? She was no expert on flowers.
But looking at the garden, she realized…
The memory of previous garden was gone from her mind
"Why?" She glanced pass the flower, looking at the boy with hair black as night "Why flower field?"
"My mother told me…" His body turned, pointing at her "… that girl loves flowers"
His mother—the words lingered. What kind of woman was she, exactly?
"Your moth…"
Before she could finish…
"Anway, Violet. The maid already prepared the tea. Let's enjoy it"
That was when she noticed. In the middle of the garden, a tree stood. Orange leaves hung around, dropping like autumn with a big almond trunk as wide as her body. Beside it, a small table of white, circled by two small frail, white chairs—ivy coiling around the them. She stepped forward, glancing at the tea brimming with white smoke.
A perfect setup
Bowed—she sat, following Altaris cue. Her back leaned against the cold iron, letting the ivy slip between them. She hadn't touched the tea cups, not until she was ready to talk
And it didn't take long, her curiosity burned brighter than the giant star above
"Altaris…" She started, her tone composed.
"Hmm?"
"Your moth…" No, she huffed, holding her words. The topic was too personal "…the Opera. Do you like it?"
"A little bit…"
"A little bit?"
"Yes. I used to like it, until I remember every story. What about you?"
The question entered her ear. Slow, deliberate. She asked herself, whether she like opera—or not. She tossed her vision to the flower, hearing a faint sound of crowds, that memory, that fullness—she smiled
"Yes"
"Yes, what?"
"I like it…"
Her words hung, taking the boy attention. She could smell his curiosity even from the place she sat. Waiting. For her next sentence to come. But, was she to answer? to tell her story for the strange boy in front of her?
"You said you know every story?"
She deflected instead. Truthfully, she was not ready
"The way you talk…just like my mother"
"What do you mean by that?"
"The way you change the topic—with question"
She halted, letting the white smoke brushed around her face. Sloppy, too sloppy—her attempt was. All of her lesson in tea party was drowned, just by looking at right eyes of his.
How used is he to read people?
Could she even try again? To peer, but what if he read her instead?
"Enjoy the tea. My mother brew it herself… I will answer your question after"
Even with low tone, not a single word of him was calming her down. She stared at her own reflection, smelling the tea in the meantime. Cinnamon. Again, the same smell.
She wouldn't even be shocked to find out their entire home would smell like cinnamon.
Well, she was his wife by then
She clenched the cup, sensing the warm porcelain. It was time—to taste the tea. One step closer to peer about the boy's mother.
As the warm liquid slip down her throat, her pinky trembled. Bunch of flavors wrapped around her tongue, one she had never tasted before. It was a mix of sweet and salty, a bit of bitterness following after. She hadn't noticed at first…until the cup touch the base of tray. The bitterness—It lingered, longer than she anticipated
"What… what is this?"
She asked, holding her tongue inside
"Nice question. It was a tea mixed with inkswell, no sugar. That's why its bitter"
"Inkswell?"
"Yes, inkswell… see that patch of flowers?"
He pointed his hand, a path for her eyes to follow. In the edge of the field, a bunch of pitch- black flower sat across, hidden by the blue and red colours. A contrast. She was too focused on the light to the point where she entirely ignored the dark.
"It was my mother favourites. Black, just like her dress…"
When she glanced back at him, he was sipping his own tea
"…now you can continue asking about my mother. It's okay"
It's not
She murmured, tasting the lingering bitterness. By far, the worst tea she had ever tasted. Yet, she had no heart to tell it straight to him
"You always talking about your mother…" She lowered the glass "…what about your father?"
"My father?" He stared, pausing for a second "He was rarely home"
He shrugged the question
"What about you?"
"My father?"
"Yes"
She traced a circle around her gown
"He was…he was always home. Only sometimes, he didn't let me to enter the study room"
"Was he…kind?"
"Very, He always take me…Oh…" Her hand stopped, closing her mouth "…I'm sorry"
"For what?"
For some reason, a smile bloomed around his face—he sipped his tea again
"Don't worry, I just want to know your story"
"My story?"
"Yes… anyway, do you want to find it? the flower thing?"
"Oh…You mean…"
"Yes" With a creak, Altaris rose, pushing his seat.
"Let's go"
She followed him—this time, without his finger circling around her wrist. A small path stretched across the garden, her shoes clacking against the pebble. Yet, only her shoes made a sound, and somehow, Altaris strolled with silence
How?
She rose her eyebrows