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The bright, cheerful expression on her face doesn't change as he holds out the hydrangea.

She's still smiling when she takes it from him -- though there might be a different sort of brightness and cheerfulness in her eyes, as the tips of her fingers trace the cut edge of the flower's stem.

Then, softly, with that cool darkness just below the surface of her voice:

"Can it mean all three at once?"

Autor shivers at her tone, at her gaze, at her bearing. His answering grin is sharper than the blades in his hand. "All languages are open to translation. Shall we expand your vocabulary?"

He bends a little, keeping his eyes on her, and plucks up a few long-stemmed flowers featuring closed purple balls. "Lavender," he says smoothly as he nestles them in her little bouquet. "Devotion. Distrust."

"And then there's belvedere," he says, and clips off a bloom with white spiked petals which he has to bring to his nose--of course he does--because it's wild licorice.

"I declare war against you," he whispers, inching his shears towards the chain on her Princess Rod.

Edited 2013-04-29 04:52 (UTC)

He would get a very nasty surprise if he tried anything of that nature -- and she doesn't want to spoil the moment over something so trivial as that. So she brings the flowers (now more like a bouquet, of sorts) close to her chest, in what might easily be construed as a demure and sentimental gesture.

"It's a very fine language to give so many meanings to the flowers." The green of her eyes seems to sparkle against the purple and white blossoms below them. "And is the person who receives them supposed to reply with flowers as well?"

Clever, Autor thinks. He knows all about the use of demure and sentimental shields. Happily thwarted, he clasps the shears behind his back and straightens.

Then the boy hesitates, because he doesn't know. "I do not believe the receiver is obligated to reply in the same manner," he says, stealing a peek at her, "but the flowers are often used in conversations between parties."

Still holding the precious bouquet close, Punie turns a little to look around the flowerbeds. Her search does not take long before she bends down to carefully pluck a single stem. "I don't know if it means anything special in the flower-language you know," she says, as she straightens up, "but I've always liked this one."

The plant she is holding out to him has a cluster of slender, pinkish-purple flowers hanging down like a string of bells, with flat leaves that look very much like fresh sage. It might be an illustration in a botany book for how well it represents its genus and species: digitalis purpurea, the common foxglove.

"Oh, a fingerhut," Autor says, adjusting his glasses. "Those are homes for faeries, the stories say. But in real life, these flowers leech toxins into the water of the vases which hold them."

He lays his shears down on the ground near his foot and calls The Language of Flowers into being from his sylladex. After a few seconds of paging through his book, he chuckles softly.

"Insincerity," he says, pointing out the illustration--which, oddly, isn't as pretty as the blooms she holds. "But sometimes a wish."

Edited 2013-04-29 07:24 (UTC)

"One of the first things I learned about it, when I was little, was that it is useful as well as pretty." The little flowers sway as she holds the stem, bells swinging in silence. "It can be made into a good medicine that can make the heart beat faster, and stronger."

The color in her cheeks is a delicate pink, a few shades lighter than that of the foxglove flowers.

"It can also make the heart stop beating entirely."

The boy's gaze tracks the motion of the bells until he follows to her cheeks, at which he turns his head, hiding his own bloom. He focuses on her fingers when he speaks again. "Beautiful things often hold sway over the heart," he says softly, tucking his book under his arm. "But this flower's ability to both harm and heal appeals to me."

He glances up at her face, blush be damned. "There's one more I think you might like, Miss Tanaka," he says, and crouches down to snatch up a long strand of grass. When he stands again, he offers to tie it around her wrist like a bracelet. "Grass is fairly versatile. It can mean utility, usefulness, or"--and again, if she allows, he'll pluck one of the foxglove bells and tie it up with the strand--"submission."

Grasses are wont to bend with the wind, instead of breaking under it. And they spring back when they're stepped on, instead of being crushed and broken like a flower trodden underfoot. But the tallest blades of grass are often the first to feel the edge of the scythe.

Punie is beginning to like this flower-language more than she had ever expected.

"I'm glad you like it." Curiosity, as much as his offer, prompts her to tilt the foxglove toward him and offer him a flower from the stem in her hand. "I always look out for these, when they're blooming in the spring and summer."

Where Autor is from, grasses were presented to the conquering by the conquered, who gave up their rights live on and be interred in their homeland. He's not about to tell her that, and he'll never give her grass again. I declare war on you, he thinks. I will fight you every step of the way.

"I do," he says, accepting one of the bells. "Very much so. And I'm happy to have met with one in the early spring."

Then he grins at her. "I'm glad you like the greenhouse."

"If I'd known it was open to everyone, I'd have suggested that we come here sooner." There's real warmth in the smile she gives him. "Flowers are so much nicer when you have someone else to share them with. Especially someone who appreciates them, and knows so much about them."

Flattery? Yes, perhaps, from the way it sounds. But like her delight in the flowers, it doesn't ring false at all.

And now he's unsure if she's just sped up his heartbeat or plans to stop it entirely. The boy is certainly overcome by the former effect, which happens to be directing blood straight to his cheeks.

"Ah, I had help," he says, indicating the book under his arm, "and an interest. Had I known you liked flowers"--he didn't know, but he'd guessed--"I would have liked to come with you. They are indeed lovely with lovely company."

After encoding the book back into his sylladex, he scoops up his shears. "I am pleased you seem to appreciate their language as well. There isn't one in Magical Land, correct?"

Punie shakes her head. "Not for sending messages, no. Except for some of the messages that are probably the same almost anywhere, like the ones for roses. Pink roses for someone you like, red and white roses for someone you love." She glances down at the bouquet in her hand. "But everyone thinks roses are pretty -- and there are other plants I like much more, even though they're not so popular."

Belladonna, for one. Aconite. Strychnine. Castor. Not so pretty, but far more useful.

Still holding her bouquet, she takes a few steps to one side, admiring a small trellis with a young climbing plant twisted around its latticework. "There are a few plants that I've seen on Earth that are a little like the ones I know from home, but they're not quite the same -- like the mandrake." She looks back at Autor. "You don't have to wear earplugs to collect mandrake root where you come from, do you?"

"I'd like to hear about which ones you favor sometime," Autor says quietly, toying with his shears. Probably ones specific to Magical Land.

He keeps a respectful distance from her, encouraging her to enjoy the scenery. "No, our Alraune only shrieks in stories, all of which are fairly detailed with regards to collecting the plant," he says, smiling at her question. "The root can look like a little person, though, and I've heard that it has hallucinogenic properties."

Her attentiveness to the blossoms amuses him. "I suspect I'll find you here as often as you'll find me in the library?"

Punie sighs, a little enviously. "That sounds so much simpler, even if it isn't magical. Digging up mandrakes, hunting for the best matsutake mushrooms...magic doesn't always make things easier."

She cheers up, though, at the thought of returning to the greenhouse. "But yes, I'll certainly be coming out here whenever I can. Everyone needs a place to hide away -- and a place where they can be found."

"Some things are easier, true," he says, tapping his chin. "But a lot of the magic I've found in Milliways and elsewhere has been terribly convenient. I'm looking forward to having more of my own to experiment with."

Autor grins at her statement. "But if the greenhouse is your hideaway and the place I can find you, doesn't that defeat the point?"

The library used to be that way for him, but now people are predicting his patterns. It's a little unnerving.

"You might know where to look for me, but you'll still have to find me." There's a twinkle in her eye, gently teasing. "And that will depend on how good you are at locating me -- and, for that matter, whether I want to be found."

Fortunately for him, she's not often one for hiding.

"Oho!" Autor says, pleasantly surprised. "Is that a challenge? My first guess would be nowhere near the roses."

The boy is fairly certain that he wouldn't be able to find her if she didn't want to be found, though that's part of the game, too.

He sets the shears down on a shelf and steps a little closer, inclining his head. "I look forward to meeting you via happy accident or otherwise, of course."

And quite possibly startling her.

"It's only a challenge if you're willing to accept it," she replies, with a small but gracious nod of her own head in kind. "But I don't mind happy accidents, either. I'm sure there will be plenty of opportunities for those as well."

Though considering their relationship, any sort of accident is liable to require a broad definition of the term "happy".

Autor narrows his eyes, and his smirk is nearly predatory. "A lady's challenge is the only way to earn her favor, is it not?"

His stride is smooth as he approaches her, though he does stand back just far enough to bow. "I appreciate your spending the day with me, Miss Tanaka," he says softly, and turns his split knuckles down, offering his fingers to catch her own.

"It's been lovely here. And I did interrupt your work, after all -- taking you away from those poor damaged books. I hope you're able to find what you're looking for in them."

She switches the little collection of flowers, foxglove and all, to her left hand, as she holds out her right hand for him to take.

He sighs, wistful. "Thank you. I hope so, too. Though this interruption was well worth it."

Ever the gentlemen, lifts her hand from below and brushes his lips against her knuckles, feather-light, but quite possibly lingering a little longer than etiquette deems proper. If her skin tingles when he pulls away, well. That would be Lunarian giga wasp venom he applied while she was absorbed in the trellis.

It's a very courtly gesture. Enough to make her wonder if he's been practicing in his spare time.

When the odd feeling on her hand doesn't fade after he lets go, she lifts her hand and flexes her fingers carefully. Her eyes narrow a bit, puzzled but not (as yet) alarmed.

"Had you anything else in mind here, before we go back inside?" She flexes her hand again, more slowly this time.

"I'll have to return the shears eventually," he says, stepping back to lift them from the shelf. Once armed, he notes the movement of her fingers--he was looking for it, after all--and starts counting down the minutes in his head.

"Were there any other flowers that interested you?" he asks politely, and tucks the foxglove bell she gave him in his breast pocket, to free up his other hand. He still has grenades, but he'd rather not use them due to the glass.

"Nothing in particular," she says, with a slight shake of her head. "I'd rather not pick too many all at once, you know -- there'll be plenty of time for that later."

She hasn't moved to follow him. She's standing quite still, as a matter of fact.

Then, quietly:

"Did you pick something else beforehand, without telling me about it?"