“Child, we have to get on to—”
“Just for a minute? Look, there’s a woman going in. She’s so elegant.”
“Maison Kuttner, hmm . . .” Hannah shook her head. “Certainly not one of our customers. They probably have their flowers delivered rather than grow them themselves.” She looked from Flora to the flower shop and up to the large clock on the church tower on the other side of the street.
“All right, then. As long as you don’t drag your feet too much when we come out.”
“Oh, thank you, thank you!” After a quick kiss to Hannah’s cheek, Flora was already halfway through the door.
The saleswoman’s eyes roamed from Hannah’s seed sack and shawl down to her heavy boots. Her expression tightened as if she were looking at something a dog had left behind. She pointed her finger toward the door.
“The delivery entrance is around the back.”
Her two colleagues behind the counter also eyed Flora and her mother with disdain.
Flora was admiring the exotic flowers and plants in wide-eyed wonder and did not immediately realize the women behind the counter were addressing them. Passionflower, hollyhock, white myrtle . . .
“We just want to look at your flowers.” Hannah’s reply, spoken flatly, jolted Flora out of her reverie. She turned in confusion to her mother, who went on, “But I’m afraid that roses in winter are not really to our taste. We prefer . . . natural things.” With her nose held higher than any of the women in the store, Hannah stalked out into the cold.
Flora followed, her head held high.
“What a bunch of sour old lemons,” Flora hissed the moment they were outside. “And did you see those ridiculous ruffled dresses they were wearing? They might be just the thing for a confectioner but not a florist.” With every word, a little white cloud puffed from Flora’s mouth and hovered momentarily in the cold air before dissipating.
“And the roses! Forcing roses might be all the rage in Paris or Hamburg, but personally I find it terrible. Roses in winter is like Christmas in August!” Hannah scoffed. A horse passing by just then turned its head to them and whinnied enthusiastically.
Both women laughed.
Flora was surprised at how surely her mother navigated through the streets of the town. At the end of the Promenade they crossed a small square and reached Sophienstrasse, from where they had to keep their eyes open not to miss the turn into Stephanienstrasse.
“Look there. Grand Duchess Stéphanie from France had it built as her summer palace,” said Hannah, pointing off to the right at a building that, despite its size and extensive lawns and garden beds, radiated nothing but charm. “I’m sure the street itself is also named after her. The gardener is also one of our customers.”
Flora nodded, clearly impressed.
The farther they went along the street, the more its character changed. Here, too, the facades of the buildings were painted white, but the houses were taller and not as wide. The elegant show windows were gone, and the wares the shops sold—brooms, baskets, barrels, and more—were displayed on the sidewalk. This was no place to buy clothes or hats, but they passed a smithy, a tobacconist, and a grocery store. Beside the grocery was a bookshop, with its front window stuffed to overflowing with old books.
Flora frowned. “They could certainly make those lovely books look better than that.”
Hannah gave her daughter a gentle nudge. “You and your attractive presentation. Come on.”
Flora pressed her nose to the windowpane. “The Language of Flowers—what’s that?” She pointed to the topmost book of a high pile.
“If you think we’re going to spend time in this shop now, my dear, then you’re mistaken,” said Hannah emphatically. “Maybe we’ll find a little time in the next few days.”
Flora’s annoyance at her mother did not last for long. So many different shops—were they the reason the coachman had called the street “Tausend-Seelen-Gass,” “Thousand Souls Alley”? Or was it because so many people lived and worked there? One could feel very much at home in this street, Flora thought. It brought together city style with the kind of cozy familiarity she knew from G?nningen.
The end of the street—and with it, their guesthouse—was not much farther, Hannah informed her, and she grasped Flora’s arm firmly as they approached another flower shop. This one was much smaller than Maison Kuttner had been. There were also no pretty potted fir trees outside, just an old man doing his best with a worn-out broom to sweep the snow off the front steps.
Flora gave the man a quick smile and glanced in the window as they went past. Apart from a vase of carnations and a few yellowing handbills, there was nothing to look at.
Hannah tugged at her sleeve. “The Gilded Rose guesthouse is just up ahead. Finally, I—”
Suddenly, they heard a dull thud followed by a cry of pain.
“Good heavens!” Hannah dropped their traveling case.
The old man was lying half on the sidewalk, half on the steps, the broom strangely wedged between his legs. Blood trickled from his nose and from the right side of his mouth. His tongue was protruding and looked as if it were starting to swell. Had he bitten it when he fell? He groaned.
“Can you hear me? Can we carry you inside?” Hannah shook the injured man’s arm, looking over her shoulder for help, but the street was empty.
Flora could only stand and gape at the blood that was dripping onto the snow.
“Hello? Can you hear me?” Hannah repeated.
With an effort, the man lifted his head one more time and groaned. Then he did not move anymore.
Finally, Flora spoke. “He’s dying! Mother, for heaven’s sake, do something!”
Chapter Three
“And if you were thinking of something more modern, then may I suggest our beautiful zinnias?” Hannah opened a small linen sack and carefully shook a small pile of the seeds onto the table.
A fire roared in the wood-burning stove in the workshop at Flumm’s Nursery. After the cold outside, the warmth was at first a welcome change, but both women soon began to sweat inside their woolen clothes. The earthy smell of the seeds—samples for the customers, with the delivery to take place later—mixed with the odors of sweating bodies and the dog that dozed in its basket by the door, its paws occasionally twitching.
For a moment, Flora felt herself transported back to the packing room at home, which had a similar smell. Not that she had any desire to be back there . . . weighing seeds all day, packing them into little sacks, stamping or writing on the packets, and then tying all of it into parcels that had to be carted off to the train station—it was always the same work, over and over.
Flora yawned. If only it weren’t so stuffy. She could not stop her thoughts from wandering out through the misted window and away. She wondered how the old man was after his fall. He had been so weak, and at the same time so agitated! He had been weepy for a moment, too, for “causing so much trouble.” Hannah and Flora had been relieved when he came to his senses. Someone had sent word to his son—had he taken his father to the hospital, or at least called a doctor? Flora and her mother had left the two men alone before that had been decided.
“Best quality, vigorous, and hardy.” As Hannah spoke, she opened her price list and pointed to the zinnia line. “And the price speaks for itself.”
Droplets of sweat trickled between Flora’s breasts as she stood silently and watched her mother sell one type of flower after another to the grower. With every line that Hannah filled on the order sheet, her face relaxed more. But when it came to the zinnias, the man was undecided.