“Ahh,” Endymion murmured curiously, studying the flowers in question intently and then peering back at her. They were out of place indeed. “Well, they intended to give them to someone, I expect, and then – lost their nerve, perhaps,” he suggested. A gentleman who had hoped to press his suit, maybe. Or someone who had received the flowers awkwardly and had tried their best to be rid of them before anyone saw them and read between the lines.

He didn’t know how much he cared for the truth and how much he just liked inventing the story, but it would be interesting to know whose it had been, and whom intended for. (Endymion was as much invested in everyone else’s pursuit of love as he was his own.)

“Is that a blackthorn blossom? For difficulty.”*

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