Flora nodded. “She was in yesterday. She was my first ‘real’ customer, so to speak. Her master wanted a pastoral bouquet for a certain picture he’s painting. I could hardly believe it, but Mr. Sonnenschein let me put it together all by myself. I used cornflowers and ears of wheat and red poppies, and it came out very pastoral looking, if I may say so. Mr. Sonnenschein himself had nothing but praise for my work.”
“Well, that’s wonderful. So why do you look so down in the mouth?”
“Oh, it’s silly . . .” Flora wrapped a strand of Sabine’s hair around her finger until it fell in a pretty curl over her cheek. “It’s about the language of flowers.” She pointed with her chin toward her bed, where the book that her mother had given her lay. “Of course, I explained to Greta what the individual flowers stood for. I think it’s fascinating. But when I was alone again with Mr. Sonnenschein, he really gave me a telling off. He said there’s nothing more likely to be misunderstood than the language of flowers. One person will say one thing about a flower, and the next will say something completely different. He said all you do is let yourself in for a lot of trouble.”
“Well? Is that true?” Sabine asked as she probed gingerly at her newly styled hair.
Flora pinned a flower into Sabine’s hair as a finishing touch. Then she gave a little shrug. “I don’t know. I used to think my little book was the only one of its kind, but the master says there are many just like it. Then he told me I shouldn’t say another word in the future about what flowers mean.”
“It’s not so bad. You should be happy that your bouquet is going to be immortalized in an oil painting,” Sabine said, trying to sound consoling. “How do I look?”
“Far too beautiful,” said Flora with a grin. “The boys out on the street will be whistling at you the whole way.”
Sabine looked at her slyly. “Your Friedrich certainly knows how to behave better than that, doesn’t he? The way he dances around you, I’m sure he already sees you as the future Mrs. Sonnenschein.”
“Don’t talk nonsense! Friedrich just wants to show me the town, that’s all. He probably feels obligated because he was the one who brought me here in the first place.” Flora looked dubiously at her cardigan. With its worn sleeves and the darned hole on the back, it no longer looked as pretty as it once had. On the other hand, it was good enough for a stroll.
“And I suppose that’s why he’s always looking at you so rapturously, too? Because he’s obligated,” Sabine said, and grinned. “So tell me, has he tried to kiss you yet?”
“Are you mad?” But at the look of disbelief on Sabine’s face, Flora had to laugh. “I mean, really. You’re starting to sound like Suse in her last letter. She thinks Friedrich is the reason I came to Baden-Baden in the first place.”
“Well, his behavior is not normal, take it from me. Think about it: he has an important position at the Trinkhalle, and he still finds time to help you in the garden and ruin his best trousers in the process. Which I then have to patch up. In all the time I’ve been here, he’s never lifted a finger to help me, and do you think he’s ever offered to take me traipsing around town? I’m telling you, if he’s not in love with you, I’ll eat a broom.”
“Compared to the fantasies blooming in your mind, the garden in the backyard is a desert. Friedrich is a first-class friend, that’s all,” Flora said. But Sabine looked no less skeptical. Flora braced herself for another remark, but her friend simply sighed.
“You’re right. What do I know about men? I don’t even know if Moritz really loves me. He says he does, all the time, but . . .” Sabine gave a little shrug and suddenly looked downright lost.
Flora put her arm around her friend’s shoulders. She could not stay mad at Sabine for long. “Let’s ask the flower oracle!” Without waiting for an answer, Flora plucked a daisy from the little vase on the windowsill.
“He loves you, he loves you not, he loves you, he . . .”
Sabine watched, spellbound, as Flora tugged off one petal after another. The oracle, Flora noted with a practiced eye when there were still a few petals left, was not going to end well.
“He loves you, he loves you not, he . . .” And again, as she had for Suse, she covertly tugged off two petals at once. Now it would work. “He loves you!” Flora looked triumphantly at Sabine. “Rest assured, the flower oracle never lies!”
Sabine sighed with relief.
“If your guide may be so bold . . .” Just after they had turned the first corner, and with a small bow, Friedrich crooked his arm for Flora. And when she took his arm and held it lightly in her hand, he felt her trembling gently.
“My esteemed guide, may I perhaps be permitted one request? I would dearly love to pay a visit to the pferdebad. I have walked past that very building several times already and still don’t have the slightest idea what a ‘horse bath’ is all about.” Flora’s cheeks were red with anticipation.
“I must say, of all the places I could show you, I would not have thought of the pferdebad at all.” Friedrich smiled to himself. That was typical of Flora—other women would have asked about a hat shop, but Flora Kerner was more interested in wet horses.
He sneaked a glance across at her, saw her hair shining in the sunlight, and noted how prettily her brown skirt swayed with every step. For him, Flora was far more beautiful than all the women who were preoccupied with showing off the latest Paris fashions at the Trinkhalle.
As luck would have it, the pferdebad was open, and just as they entered, a brown stallion was being led to the pool inside. Flora watched in astonishment as it stepped into the water-filled stone basin; then she crouched and dipped her fingers in the water. “It’s hot!” she exclaimed, and the stallion whinnied as if in agreement.
Friedrich smiled and handed her his handkerchief.
“The temperatures of our hot springs are all between one hundred thirty-three and one hundred forty-five degrees, and they benefit not only our rich guests’ beautiful horses, but of course the guests themselves,” he explained as they left the pferdebad. “Most of the hotels here have a bathhouse where the guests can enjoy a bath in marble pools. And then we have the steam bath beside the market square. Many years ago, hunters and gatherers used the region’s hot water, and the salt, too, of course. Later, the Romans came. They say that the young emperor Caracalla was the first guest of honor in our city. That was in the year 197. At least, that is the year chiseled into a kind of stone commemorative plaque.”
“Baden-Baden has existed so long? Incredible.”
Friedrich nodded. “It was from Caracalla that our city earned its second name of Aquae Aureliae, which one could loosely translate as ‘Emperor’s bath.’”
Flora sighed. “A real bath in gloriously hot water. Or a sweat bath! I’d like to try both, I think. Are ladies also allowed to use the baths, or are they only for gentlemen?” Flora looked wistfully toward the steam bath at the market.
“The fairer sex are allowed to enter the baths as well, of course. But first we’ll go to the Trinkhalle,” Friedrich replied, though he had noted the direction of her gaze.
As he and Flora made their way toward one of the bridges over the Oos, he continued with his history of the town. “Just a few years ago, they carried out excavations beneath the market square and actually discovered the remains of Roman baths. For archaeologists and people like me who would like to be an archaeologist, it was an exciting find.” He paused for a moment, and was about to tell Flora about the hypocaust heating system they had uncovered, about the sweat rooms and changing rooms, but Flora stopped at the end of the bridge, a stone’s throw from the Conversationshaus. “Could we see that, too?” Flora asked, looking up at the stately building. “Or do they only let rich people in?” She glanced in the direction of three elegantly dressed gentlemen approaching the entrance just then.