“Now, let’s see,” came the low grunt of an old man. He said the words in French as he swished under the willow’s veil.
Floralie squeezed her eyes shut as Mr. Tullier’s footsteps came closer, closer. Branches snapped, and Floralie knew the only thing separating her from Mr. Tullier—and his wrath—was the willow’s trunk.
“I wanted to tell you about her, darling,” whispered Mr. Tullier. At first Floralie was confused; was Mr. Tullier talking to her? But as he kept speaking, she realized he wasn’t talking to her at all . . . It was as if Mr. Tullier were having a conversation with the tree. “About the little girl who came to see me today,” continued Mr. Tullier, a trace of laughter in his voice. He sounded younger somehow. “She had her mother’s eyes, my God, I couldn’t believe she had her mother’s eyes.”
Floralie peeked around the tree ever so slightly. Mr. Tullier was kneeling at the foot of the willow where a patch of pale pink flowers grew. He patted the dirt around them, stroked their petals. “I don’t know if you remember her or not—Viscaria,” he went on. He looked up, and Floralie snapped her head back around the tree.
“She would have wanted you to remember her,” continued Mr. Tullier to the flowers. “Anyway, the girl—Floralie—she’s her daughter. Imagine that. She’s my . . . never mind. Well, this Floralie—she wants me to help find her. Viscaria, I mean. I’ve wondered about Viscaria for a long time . . . And I—” His voice snagged. “I regret everything I said to her that last day. I suppose I’m just an old man now,” he chuckled. “You’re lucky you don’t have to take care of me . . . You wouldn’t like me now, darling.”
Mr. Tullier sighed and blew his nose into a handkerchief.
“I’ve grown fearful over the years. I don’t know if I could stomach to see Viscaria in whatever state she’s become. The memories—” His voice broke off to a sob. “The memories are lovely. I don’t—I don’t want them to become tainted.”
Floralie listened as Mr. Tullier wept. There was just something about the willow tree—perhaps the way its leaves swayed the same way Miss Clairoux nodded when Floralie spoke to her, or the way its branches twisted up to the night sky, crooked—like the way Nino smiled when Floralie wrote to him—that made Floralie feel as if the tree were listening.
As Mr. Tullier’s breathing calmed, so did the wind that had crept through the cracks in the dome above. Floralie competed with the silence, holding her breath. But Mr. Tullier stood. “How . . . ,” he whispered, and then louder, colder, “Who’s there? I know you’re there.”
Floralie held her breath tighter. Surely, surely, Mr. Tullier could hear her heart, thump, thump, thump . . .
Something squeaked. No, please, no, thought Floralie, as she spotted Philomenos scurrying around her foot. She scooped up the mouse and whispered, “Shh,” but he just kept squeaking.
“You!” Mr. Tullier whipped around the tree.
Floralie stumbled back, holding Philomenos in one hand. Her foot caught on a root, and she fell to the ground. She gazed up into Mr. Tullier’s forget-me-not eyes; they were sparked with rage. Against his heart, he clutched Viscaria’s pointe shoe, flecked with dirt.
“I told you not to come in here!” His face went poppy red, out of anger or embarrassment, Floralie wasn’t sure. The wrinkles on his face seemed even more pronounced, and his mouth was twisted into a grimace.
“I—I just—”
“I have shown you nothing but kindness, and this is how you repay me? Je déteste les enfants!”
“But, Mr. Tullier, who were you—”
“Get out! Now! SORTEZ, EGLANTINE!”
The name hung in the air, ringing like one of Mama’s laughs. Eglantine. Mr. Tullier’s anger wilted away. His face grew ashen, and his eyes lost their fire. He staggered back, as if slipping into memory.
Time stopped; the moon stood still.
“Eglantine?” said Floralie. “Who’s Eglantine?”
Mr. Tullier slackened his grip on the pointe shoe, and it fell to the ground. A cloud of dirt puffed around it, settled into the scuffed peach silk.
And then Mr. Tullier hissed, “You are no longer welcome in this house.”
“No, please—I was just—I came all this way—I—I’ll pay you. Until we can find Viscaria, I’ll pay you to be here. It’s only right, anyway. I should have offered before.”
“I don’t need money,” grunted Mr. Tullier.
“Then I’ll work—I’ll help you,” offered Floralie.
“I don’t need help.”
“I could water the plants.”
“Plants are sensitive.”
“Or—or organize your things, clean up around the place, cook for you, wash the dishes—you must need help washing the dishes—no offense. I’ll run errands; You’ll barely notice me, promise. I’ll do anything.”
“You can stay the night,” said Mr. Tullier. “But then you’re gone.”
Floralie’s stomach twisted in knots. She had to stay, simply had to. What could she offer Mr. Tullier? She had failed her French and grammar classes at Mrs. Coffrey’s, had always forgotten an ingredient or two in her cooking classes, and had twisted up numbers in arithmetic. She could do nothing but paint flowers. Oh yes, she knew how to paint flowers. But that was just about all. So, simply, she said, “I’ll paint for you.”
“What?” breathed Mr. Tullier.
“I’ll paint your flowers. Like Monet did. I can paint. Honest, I can.”
Mr. Tullier stared at her for what felt like hours, and then, to Floralie’s utter surprise, he grunted, “You start in the morning. Now away with you.”
Floralie couldn’t believe it! She scuttled all the way through the garden, down the winding corridors and past the Gare Saint-Lazare painting until she reached her room, mind racing.
When the dusty morning light filtered in through the window and the sparrows began to sing, Floralie sat up in her bed, head aching and eyelids heavy. One word reverberated around her brain: Nino. Nino, Nino, Nino . . . She had to find Nino. Floralie crawled out of bed and skittered through the ivy-walled corridors until she reached Nino’s door. She paused, heart pulsing in her ears. Her fingers trembled. Then, slowly, she cracked open the door. “Nino?” she whispered.
Silence.
Floralie neared the bed and pulled back Nino’s sheets; the bed was empty. “Nino?” Floralie shouted this time. Blood rushed through her ears, across her cheeks. She placed Philomenos on the bed and darted to the wardrobe. She threw open the doors, but Nino was not inside. She checked under the bed, in the corners, behind the curtains, but Nino was nowhere to be found. Floralie felt her heart plummet into her stomach.
“Nino?” she called, even louder now. “Nino, it’s not funny. Come out!” But Nino would not come out. Nino had disappeared.
Floralie was three the first time she picked up a paintbrush. Her first painting was a blob of red and a line of green that she called a rose. Mama framed it on her vanity table and said, “Come with me, my wildflower. This rose will need water soon.”
And the whole day long, Floralie and Mama painted blobs and lines. Together in the garden, just them two, they were happy, hands painting more colors than Floralie could name.
Nino’s bed smelled like him. Old books, mouse droppings, Indian ink, and the faintest aroma of honey. Floralie lay swathed in the sheets, trying to fall asleep in those early morning hours. She felt tangled up in despair and euphoria—despair for Nino’s disappearance, euphoria for Mr. Tullier’s willingness to let Floralie stay. The possibility of finding Mama sent lightning down her spine, and her heart chanted, Mama, Mama, Mama, but then lamented, Nino, Nino, Nino.
Floralie simply could not sleep. So instead, she flew to her forest. It was as if it were the first time flying to her wonderland. Just like that first time, that lovely, awful first time. It had been the day Mama left. And now Nino . . . the sorrow carried her away.
It was nighttime in her wonderland, and Floralie watched the beautiful things bloom around her. Beautiful trees, b
eautiful animals, beautiful flowers. She lay in a patch of green, green grass, running her hands and feet along each and every silken blade as if she were making snow angels without the snow. Circles of mushrooms popped up around her; they belonged to the fairies.
A hawk cawed from above and swooped down beside her. Floralie climbed upon its back and up she soared, over treetops, among the stars. She gazed down upon the beautiful things, how happy they all looked. Happy trees, happy animals, happy flowers. But she wasn’t happy. For the first time ever in her forest, Floralie felt sad. Because now it dawned on her that among all the pretty things in her forest, she was the only ugly thing there. Perhaps she had always felt this, but before had lived with hope that some of the beauty would rub off on her; perhaps some of it even had . . . but tonight all that beauty got whisked away by the wind tearing at her skin.
As the hawk plunged, Floralie held tight to the feathers, and when it grazed the ground, Floralie slid off onto the grass with a thud. The hawk soared off, and Floralie was alone.
She had to find the gardener. Through trees she searched, over hills and across streams, but the gardener was nowhere to be found. Floralie lay in the grass, waiting for her breath to catch up to her. As she gazed up to the trees, however, she spotted the figure. It sat alone, the same fuzzy, ethereal shadow, perched atop the tallest oak tree in the forest, chin on fist, elbow on knee.
But where was its watering can? Out of the corner of her eye, Floralie spotted it—at the bottom of the oak tree. The gardener needed it. Floralie raced over to the watering can, but as soon as she got close enough to see it properly, it disappeared, and so Floralie called up to the gardener. “Hey,” she shouted. “Hey, come down! You’ve forgotten your watering can!” But the gardener could not hear her. Floralie called and called, but still, the gardener simply sat atop the oak tree, surveying the forest. Floralie hollered until her throat grew scratchy and her voice went hoarse.
As she turned around, however, something had changed. A hint of orange tinted the trees; by her foot, a rose withered before her eyes. She knelt down in the grass, and the patch shriveled to coarse, brown blades. No, she wanted to scream, but found she could no longer speak. No, no, no. And she wept for the grass, and she wept for the trees, and she wept for the rose, and all the while, the gardener stayed atop her tree, stoic as ever.
And then Floralie was asleep.
Floralie awoke to a squeaking.
“Who is it?” she murmured, and then her eyes flickered open.
A pale shaft of light filtered in from the window, illuminating the dust. Floralie squinted in the brightness. A grandfather clock by the wardrobe read eight o’clock. “Philomenos!” she exclaimed upon spotting the mouse. “But you should be in Nino’s room!” and then her stomach dropped. “Nino . . .”
For one glorious, fleeting moment, Floralie believed it had all been a dream, but no. He was gone. Floralie shoved back the covers and hopped out of the bed. She scooped up Philomenos and hurried out the door and into the hall. Once there, she began to bang on Miss Clairoux’s door.
“Miss Clairoux,” she called. “Miss Clairoux!” Please be awake. Please, please, please.
Not a moment later, Miss Clairoux appeared at the door, hair frizzed and fear etched in her face.
“What—what is it, ma chérie? Are you hurt? Where’s Nino?” She felt Floralie’s face and hair. “Ma chérie, you’re crying. Oh, mon Dieu, I should not have brought you here!”
“Miss Clairoux, I’m fine, really—but Nino—Nino’s gone.”
Miss Clairoux’s face blanched two shades paler, and for a moment, Floralie feared she might faint. She gritted her teeth, then lowered herself onto the bed.
“I knew this would happen,” Miss Clairoux muttered. “I just knew it. What was it about?”
Floralie narrowed her eyes. “What was what about?”
“The fight, of course, the fight! What did you two fight about last night?”
How Miss Clairoux knew about Floralie’s fight with Nino, Floralie could not fathom. Spooky—witchy, even—as it was, there were just certain things that Miss Clairoux seemed to know.
“It—” started Floralie, but then she wondered, What had it been about? “It was complicated.”
“I’m listening,” said Miss Clairoux.
Floralie sighed, and she told all of what had happened the previous night. And Miss Clairoux nodded the whole time, listening with her entire heart. And when she finished telling about Nino, she told about Mr. Tullier, how he had called her Eglantine, and how strange indeed that was. And she finished with, “And he said we can stay here. All I have to do is paint for him.”
Miss Clairoux shuddered. “Like a ghost.”
Floralie looked up at Miss Clairoux. “Sorry . . . What’s like a ghost?”
“Remember how I told you about the roses?” Miss Clairoux asked. “And how it’s possible to love someone even with their flaws. Not in spite of the flaws . . . just with them.”
Floralie nodded.
“It’s strange, fate. Things disappear one day, and the next, they’re back. The last thing Mr. Tullier told me before he left me was, ‘It’s better this way.’ I didn’t believe it for one second.”
“I will find him,” breathed Floralie. “Nino.”
Miss Clairoux kissed the top of Floralie’s head. “We will.” She sighed and then said, “You focus on your job with Mr. Tullier, and I’ll focus on finding Nino. We’ve got information to get from our Mr. Tullier. And how, of course, will we get that?”
“My job,” said Floralie. “It’s going to give me time. All I need is time.”
When Floralie arrived at the kitchen, Mr. Tullier was already slumped over at the end of the long table sipping black coffee.
“You’re up,” he said.
“Yeah,” said Floralie.
No one said anything for a long while, until Mr. Tullier grunted, “Well, don’t just stand there. Sit.” And Floralie sat.
Her thoughts seemed to flow so fast she couldn’t catch their current, not even a word. “Why are you allowing me to stay?”
“You’re painting my flowers, are you not?”
Floralie nodded vigorously. “Of course, I just meant—”
“I know what you meant.” He paused, then softly replied, “I want to find out about my family just as much as you want to. So, you start at nine.”
The first day Floralie ever sold flowers at the bridge, a beggar came to her and told her how pretty the orange blossoms were. Floralie said, “Yes. Yes, they are pretty,” and she gave one to the beggar.
Tom was not too pleased when he found out, but later that night he said, “I look up to you sometimes, Flory.”
Later that morning, as Floralie approached the aurora borealis door, she heard laughter. The flowers brushed against her fingers as she pushed open the glass. At the edge of the willow, Mr. Tullier and Miss Clairoux sat atop a small boulder, backs to Floralie. They were talking, and though Floralie couldn’t hear the words, she could hear the happiness. Floralie felt as if she were intruding on something private, so she coughed slightly as to announce herself.
Mr. Tullier snapped his head around and barked, “What?”
“Er—you told me to come here for work,” said Floralie.
“Oh.” Mr. Tullier’s shoulders lowered. “So I did.”
Mr. Tullier hopped off the boulder, knees cracking like twigs. His hand found Miss Clairoux’s, and he guided her off the boulder, too. He muttered something in French to her, and she nodded and strode toward the door. Floralie noticed that her cheeks had turned rosy and her lips quivered as if trying to stifle a smile.
“G’morning again, Miss Clairoux,” said Floralie coyly, eyes shifting between her and Mr. Tullier.
Miss Clairoux blushed even redder. “Oh—yes, morning, dear. Floralie, I’ve decided to go looking for Nino. I will be back later today. If you need me, I won’t be far from the house, ” and she hurried out of the garden.
Mr. Tullier be
nt down behind the boulder, then stood and turned to Floralie. When he emerged, he was carrying a large, dark-wood box. “Here,” he said as he approached Floralie, and he shoved the box into Floralie’s arms.
The weight of it made her knees buckle, but she held on tight and said, “What’s all this?”
“Paint.”
“Paint?” Floralie looked from the box to Mr. Tullier.
“Paint. Now come,” and he beckoned for Floralie to follow. Mr. Tullier led Floralie to a bush of peonies and said, “Paint them.”
Floralie bit the inside of her lip. Paint had never made her nervous before, not once. Mr. Tullier stood there waiting, arms crossed and chin tilted. Floralie sat in the dirt before the box. It smelled horrible, as paint did—like gasoline, or vinegar that’s been left in the cupboard for too long. But it was a familiar smell. A smell that felt, in some bizarre way, comforting.
As she opened the latch, a small “whoa” escaped Floralie’s mouth, for Mr. Tullier’s box was filled to the brim with oil paints. There were also a few small canvases, a palette, a bottle of turpentine, and a dozen brushes. Floralie had painted on a real canvas only two, perhaps three, times before. And she had used the same brushes since she was six, even though the bristles had gone prickly years ago. These brushes, though, these felt like silk.
“A little something from Monsieur Monet’s collection,” said Mr. Tullier.
Floralie’s jaw dropped as she pulled a canvas from the box and dug through the paints, curating colors with utmost heed as if they were to be displayed in a museum alongside Monet’s Water Lilies. With so many colors, she could be choosy about them. Alizarin, cadmium orange, crimson, raw sienna, Vandyke brown, viridian green . . . The colors piled up beside Floralie until she was satisfied with the collection.
Floralie then chose a brush, opened the jar of turpentine, and began to build up layer upon layer of color. The paint spread more smoothly on the canvas than on wallpaper. She could not recall ever painting peonies before, which made her feel as if she were wandering through a dark corridor, searching for chaos, searching for fireflies.
The Flourishing of Floralie Laurel Page 12