the betrothal of the last roses

The salon smelled like salt and cut flowers, even with the windows shut. Liz stood beside the tall fireplace while Henri moved through his own room like it was a board meeting. Rain tapped the glass in small, patient sounds. She held her hands together so tightly her fingers hurt.

Servants floated around the edges, placing tea cups, adjusting a vase, then disappearing before anyone could ask them for anything. Odette Aurel sat straight-backed in her chair, gloves still on, as if she had never learned to relax her grip. Her eyes tracked the room with calm control.

Liz tried to focus on small things. A rose brooch gleamed at Odette’s wrist. Someone had also pinned a small rose on Odette’s dress, close to the collar, made of dark enamel with a pale center. It reminded Liz of the greenhouse where she used to hide as a girl, before the glass was broken and the roses were no longer tame.