Twenty-four hours. She had been home for twenty-four hours and this is what she came back to! The shop had been in her mother's very capable hands while she was away and so it was in pristine condition, which Daff expected no less, but to read this garbage less than halfway through her first day back as beyond infuriating. It was not often, rare even, for her to get this riled up about something but for Witch Weekly to continue to drag her poor sister and the Greengrasses through the mud was something Daff had never thought she would read! The rumor mill was bad enough, but for it to be put into print! If she had a subscription, she would have cancelled it immediately, no matter how flattering a portrait they painted of her.

And so Daffodil stalked back to the greenhouse, wand out and whipping around, summoning her revenge fodder with ease while she muttered under her breath about people needing to mind their own business. She was not naturally good at these things, but she was Laurel Potts' daughter and she knew very well how to say fuck you in flowers.

Yellow, lots of yellow. One of her favorite colors and therefore a delightful detail in her desire to give them a piece of her mind without expressly doing and putting it to words. Daff started with a base of yellow carnations, another lovely perk; her favorite flowers could so very well say what she wanted to start with; disdain and disappointment. She then pulled a few stalks of lavender (sorrow) from their bucket, and despite inhaling the normally calming scent, she was too angry to let it work its magic. She stuck them in, taller than the carnations and therefore adding some more character to the bouquet. It would say what she wanted it to, but it would still be lovely; because Daff could be both petty and pretty. The dichotomy of the purple and yellow was very springy and typically not a color combination she got to do too often. Purple hyacinths came next, distrust clear in their proud placements.

The tansy was the most straightforward of the bunch, dotted in around the edges; there was no alternative meaning, no misreading the declaration of war on the gossip rag. For good measure she added some borage, careful to use her wand and not her ungloved hands lest she get jabbed with the prickly hairs and earn herself a nasty rash in the process.

She was huffing and puffing, mostly from being fired up and less from he exertion of making the bouquet. Daff stepped back to admire her work and a spark of inspiration struck her. She plucked a lone daffodil from a nearby bucket, enlarged it and stuck it right in the center. There would be no doubt about where it came from. "Take that." She said triumphantly to herself, brushing her hair from her face, without realizing there was someone standing in the doorway of the greenhouse from the shop surveying her madness.