Work Text:
Marcy finds the book when she’s eleven years old.
The three of them had gone to the bookstore together that day; Anne immediately drifting off to the manga section, Sasha standing by the collection of poetry, looking blatantly disinterested but reading through them.
Marcy herself had been hoping to find the new Cynthia Coven novel. But no luck – the small, underfunded bookstore that stood near her house would not be receiving any new shipments for weeks to come.
Trying not to feel too disappointed and failing miserably, she wandered into the far corners of the store, one hand trailing over the spines of the books on display. None of them caught her eye, none until –
It stood alone, perched oddly on top of a stack of other, less important books. It seemed to be the most colourful thing in the entire place.
The Complete Language Of Flowers: A Definitive And Illustrated History.
Breath catching in her throat, Marcy walked towards the book. She pulled it down with a small oof – it was heavy, big enough that she struggled to open it. But she managed, and was greeted with the most beautiful illustrations. All of flowers – so many flowers! Did each one really have a meaning of its own? Was there really an entire language stored here? One that was beyond words, beyond those complicated sentences and clunky adjectives that never quite came out right when she tried to – ?
“Hey Marmar!” Sasha called out, interrupting her rushing thoughts. “Are you done? C’mon, we wanna get to the park before dark!”
“Oh, right!” Marcy answered. “Okay, just – I want to buy this book first.”
“Alright, hurry up.”
Marcy nodded, but Sasha had already slipped away to find Anne. Almost stumbling due to her excitement, she made her way to the stony faced cashier, who rung up her purchase with no comment.
Later on, in the park, while Sasha and Anne sat on swings and talked about whether or not they should buy skateboards, Marcy sat on a wooden bench, already poring over the book. She felt almost like someone had given her a voice after she’d spent her entire life silent. Like she could finally find the right things to say. Except – the best part – she wouldn’t have to say them at all.
***
Marcy finishes reading The Complete Language Of Flowers two days later, under the cover of darkness and her blanket, flashlight in hand. This was how it had been yesterday and before yesterday too, and yet there had still been more to read, to learn.
Her eyes are burning, almost glazed over, by the time she reaches the final flowers.
Yarrow: Healing and love, inspiration.
Ylang-Ylang: Never-ending love.
Zinnia: Thinking of you, endurance, goodness, remembering absent friends.
Blinking sleepily, Marcy turned off her flashlight, surprised to realize she has reached the end. With a yawn, she pushes the blanket off herself, finally allowing her heavy head to rest on the pillow. She curls up with the book against her chest.
The last thing she remembers thinking of is how awful it must be, to remember friends who aren’t there anymore.
***
Throughout the years, Marcy reads The Complete Language Of Flowers no less than thirty times. She ends up buying a couple of other books on flower symbolism, but none hold the special place in her heart that the original does. Even when she has the entirety of it memorized, she revisits it, always with the same sense of wonderment, of finding something she didn’t even know she lost.
***
Anne reminds her of sunflowers.
Sunflower: happiness, optimism, pure and lofty thoughts, adoration, longevity, devotion, loyalty.
Maybe it’s because of the way she makes every room she walks into brighter. Maybe it’s because Anne is to Marcy the embodiment of happiness, of loyalty. Maybe it’s because she spent most of their childhood decked out in the brightest yellow.
Marcy had almost told her, once. They had been doing homework, sitting in Anne’s backyard, a patch of sunlight surrounding Anne like a halo. You remind me of sunflowers. It had been on the tip of her tongue.
But then Anne had looked up from her math notebook, frustrated, asking Marcy how on earth she was supposed to solve this. And the words had dissolved, become nothing, as Marcy leaned over to help her.
When Marcy had gone home that evening, though, she had drawn sunflowers in her notebook, turning towards the sun, their yellow petals like a halo.
***
Sasha reminds her of snapdragons.
Snapdragons: Graciousness, virtue, strength, deception.
It’s mostly because of the ferocity that the flower carries in its name, its meaning. The book’s description of snapdragons could’ve easily been about Sasha, too.
Their stalk-shaped stems stand up straight to the sky as though they carry themselves with excellent posture, poise, and confidence. They are a fitting blooms to give someone you respect and admire, particularly for their grace in difficult situations.
When the three of them of them had been brainstorming names for their band, Marcy suggested Snapdragons, offhandedly, hesitant. Sasha winced, almost imperceptible, quick to brush it off with some excuse. Quick to snap Marcy’s idea into nothingness, with grace.
***
The first time Marcy writes a letter using petals is when Anne sprains her wrist.
She’d gotten the injury in one of her tennis matches, when she had fallen and landed wrong. The match was called off, and the Boonchuys had hurried to take their daughter to the hospital. Marcy had watched from the side-lines, hand on her chest, concern blooming there.
Anne had texted her later that night, awkward and one handed (I cnata typoe!!!), reassuring Marcy that she was fine, just with a right hand out of commission for a few weeks.
Still, Marcy had been restless, the expression of pain that had been on Anne’s face flashing in her mind over and over again.
So, she made up her mind.
The next morning, Marcy woke up early and headed towards her favourite place in the world; a modest, lovely flower shop tucked away in a neighbourhood a few blocks from hers. It was owned by a kind, young woman – appropriately named Tanya Flowerday.
Marcy had discovered the shop by complete accident, on a day where things had been particularly overwhelming, and her father had been particularly overbearing. She’d only meant to go out into the yard for a breath of fresh air, and somehow winded up on the other side of town. Where she’d walked aimlessly until she’d seen the shop, in a moment much like when she had first seen the book.
Without thinking, she went in. She’d seen plenty of flower shops, of course, but there was something about Flowerday's that brought back that sense of wonderment, of finding.
Even now, weeks later, her heart filled with joy as she opened the door and heard the familiar shopkeeper’s bell ring.
Tanya, leaning over the counter, gave her a bright smile when she saw her. “Hey-a Marcy! Come to see our new batch?”
She said this with complete genuineness; she’d told Marcy that it was great to have found someone just as passionate about flowers to talk to. It had made Marcy feel less guilty about the number of times she’d left the store without buying anything.
“Actually, Miss Flowerday...” Marcy mumbled. “I was thinking – could you maybe help me put a bouquet together?”
Tanya raised her eyebrows, surprised. “Oh – of course!” Then, inquiring, “What’s the occasion?”
Marcy felt herself blush, tried to ignore it. “Well, my best friend – Anne – she got hurt yesterday. Sports injury. And I wanted to...to get her something nice.”
“Aw, Marce, that’s so sweet!” Tanya gushed. “Now, normally I take charge and choose the flowers, but knowing you, you probably have something in mind. Don’t you?”
As a matter of fact, Marcy did.
She stood back and watched Tanya grab the flowers she asked for, bundling them up together.
Baby’s breath: Innocence, purity of heart.
White carnation: Sweet and lovely, good luck, pure love.
Jasmine: Unconditional and eternal love, beauty, wealth.
Daffodils: Hope, rebirth, uncertainty, chivalry, respect, return my affection, new beginnings.
Yellow tulips: Cheerful thoughts, happiness, sunshine.
The bouquet didn’t look very...conventional. But each flower said something Marcy couldn’t, and that was all that mattered.
Holding it close to her heart, Marcy thanked Tanya and left the store. She felt somewhat ridiculous walking in the street with a bundle of flowers, but no one paid her much attention.
Twenty minutes later, she stood in front of Anne’s house, nerves rising. Trying to swallow them down, she knocked, twice.
The door was opened by Mrs. Boonchuy, looking distracted until her gaze landed on Marcy – and the flowers.
“Oh, hello Marcy! Come in, come in.”
Marcy did, smiling nervously. “Hey, Miss Boonchuy. I – um – just came to see how Anne is.”
On Boonchuy returned her smile warmly. “Of course. She’s upstairs.”
Marcy murmured a thank you and skipped up the stairs, careful not to trip. The door to Anne’s room stood open, but Marcy knocked on the doorframe anyways.
Anne lay in her bed, holding her phone in her left hand, her right hand in a cast. She glanced up at Marcy’s knocking. Her eyes grew wide at the sight of the flowers.
“Marcy, you didn’t!”
Laughing a little anxiously, Marcy walked in. “Hey, Anne. How are you?”
Anne had tossed her phone aside and was reaching out for the bouquet. Marcy handed it over to her, butterflies in her stomach.
“Oh, Marmar, they’re beautiful!”
You're beautiful, Marcy thought, then internally reeled.
Where on Earth had that come from?
“What do they mean?” Anne asked, ignorant to Marcy’s sudden turmoil.
“Uh,” Marcy tapped her fingers against Anne’s bed, focusing. “You know – just a general ‘get well soon’.”
Liar.
But Anne grinned, trusting. “I love them. Thank you.”
I love you.
“No problem,” Marcy replied, heart in her throat.
***
Tears still drying on her face, Marcy dug.
The soil clung to her hands, burrowed under her nails. She didn’t care. Sniffling, she pushed the kid-shovel harder into the ground.
This past week had been horrid. Exam week – which meant her father breathing down her neck constantly, always reminding her to study hard, work hard, get better and better and better.
She’d studied until the words blurred. Written till her wrist ached. And it paid off – none of her test scores were below an A.
Yet, when her marks had been given back and she placed the report on the kitchen table, her father had barely reacted, only nodding.
He might as well have ripped the report in half, for all the interest he showed.
Marcy had kept her composure until he left. And then the tears came.
She’d run all the way to Flowerday's, angry and determined. Her tears had ebbed by the time she made it, but Tanya had still looked at her with concern. Marcy ignored it, grabbing what she came for and rushing out with only a brief goodbye.
And now, she was back home, out in the tiny, unkempt garden. A packet of dandelion seeds rested against her dirt-stained legs.
Dandelion: Symbol of growth, healing, hope, overcoming hardships.
Gritting her teeth, Marcy turned the soil over one last time. Then she ripped open the packet.
She planted the seeds with a careful care that contrasted with her aggressive digging. Slowly, with each one, she began to feel calmer.
Because she was planting them for herself. Not her father. Not her mother. Not her friends. No one, but herself.
***
In Amphibia, the wonders never cease.
Sometime during her first month there, lying in bed but too excited to sleep – wouldn't have even been trying to sleep, in fact, if not for Lady Olivia – Marcy thinks, This is it. This is what I’ve been looking for my entire life.
Quests. Ancient libraries. Adventure. Creatures. A place to be, to belong.
And the flowers – god, the flowers!
Her discovery of them seemed almost endless – most of them were completely and utterly alien, some of them too dangerous to even study! She’d asked Lady Olivia, on the second week of her arrival – still bedridden due to her broken leg, a vase of flowers next to her – did Amphibians give meaning to their plants? Did they have a book on it, maybe?
Lady Olivia, looking confused, had shook her head. “I doubt anyone has ever considered giving flowers meanings, much less writing a book about it. No, it’s hard enough to name them.”
Marcy vowed, then and there, to be the one who changed that.
It’d been a painfully slow progress – but it had been progress nonetheless. She’d found a large, blank journal that reminded her of The Complete Language Of Flowers. There wasn’t much she missed on Earth, but that book was an exception. She wished she had been carrying it the day they found the box.
Just the same, Marcy didn’t really need it. Every page of it was imprinted in her mind, and it felt rewarding to fill the empty pages with her knowledge.
And besides, not all the flowers were unfamiliar. The castle itself was surrounded by datura, which struck Marcy as a bit odd, considering they were poisonous. But perhaps they were there for protection. Or as a warning.
Datura: Disguise, power, caution.
Whatever the reason, Marcy made sure to steer clear of them.
***
On the day she reunites with Anne, Marcy takes her to all her favourite places.
She has so many of them, now, in Amphibia. The fountain in the middle of the city, the castle’s vast balconies, the huge library by the aquarium. And the gardens. Especially the gardens.
“Come on!” Marcy said, laughing, dragging Anne along. Marcy was glad to see that Anne seemed to actually be impressed by the gardens. They were nothing to scoff at, after all – acres and acres of land filled with exotic plants and flowers and trees, the scent of nature thick in the air. Even at night, they were a sight to behold.
“Wow,” Anne observed. “being someone with pollen allergies would suck right now.”
Marcy hummed, agreeing. “I spend a lot of my free time here. It’s so...”
“Nature-y?” Anne suggested.
“Otherworldly.” Marcy decided. “But – here, let me show you. Not everything here is strange.”
They strolled, hand in hand, to a batch of one of Marcy’s favourite flowers.
“Oh!” Anne exclaimed, delighted. “What are they?”
Marcy smiled at her. “Honeysuckle.”
Honeysuckle: Symbol of pure happiness, devoted affection, tenderness for love that has been lost.
Not lost, Marcy mused. Not anymore.
***
Liar. Liar. Liar.
Marcy dug her nails into the earth. No. No, I’m doing this for us. For us.
In the distance, she could still hear Anne and the Plantars preparing for the dinner. They’d succeeded with charging the gems! They’d found Sasha! Things were okay, they would be okay –
Except.
Selfish. Liar.
Marcy shook her head in an attempt to clear it. With the box charged, it was one step closer to her plan – her plan with the King. But...
She still hasn’t brought it up with either Sasha or Anne. And it was beginning to wear at her nerves.
It’ll be okay, she repeated. Okay. Okay.
She was in the woods of Wartwood, needing a break from all the commotion. They were lovely woods, filled with so much to find, to explore. And she had found something, beautiful purple bellflowers, growing in a sheltered area near a river.
Bellflower: Gratitude, humility, everlasting love. Associated with death, often planted on graves.
They were flowers with so much goodness. Not like her. Like...
Like Anne.
Deciding, Marcy gently plucked a few of them. They almost seemed to ring in her hands. The thought of ringing bells made Marcy remember Flowerday’s, and a bouquet she’d given to Anne long ago now.
The bellflowers were no bouquet. But Marcy thought they would look quite nice wound around Anne’s hair.
***
The flames of the sword piercing through her were beautiful in their deadliness.
Marigold: Pain and grief, despaired love, death.
Wrong. It had all gone so, so horribly wrong.
Wormwood: Absence, judgement, doom.
She could barely breathe. She could barely breathe, but she had to say it, had to gasp it out with her last breath –
Rue: Regret, sorrow, repentance, the symbol for everlasting suffering.
At least she got them out. At least...
Zephyr Lily: I love you back, I must atone for my sins, I will never forget you, rebirth, new beginnings.
The marble floor of the castle was so cold. So...welcoming.
Forget-me-not: True love, don’t forget me.
Don’t forget me. Don’t forget me. Don’t forget me. Don’t...