“Oh, there are many more books about flowers. Have you read Balzac’s novel The Lily of the Valley? Or do you know Goethe’s marvelous flower poems?”
Flora shook her head and laughed. “You were always the big reader in the family. To be honest, for a long time I thought the book about the language of flowers that Mother gave me was the only one of its kind.” This could not be happening, she suddenly thought—here she was on her wedding night, sitting with Seraphine and blathering away about flower books. Was this Seraphine’s attempt at distracting her from all her fears? If that was the case, Flora could not say for certain that her aunt would have any success.
Seraphine raised her eyebrows dubiously. “It doesn’t look as if you’re as interested in the topic as I thought. Just a few months ago you couldn’t talk about anything else. I remember clearly how you constantly told us about the meaning of this or that flower.”
“That’s true, but . . .” Flora could only shrug. What did her aunt expect of her?
“I, for one, have not been able to get the subject out of my head,” said Seraphine, her voice heavy with disappointment. “But here in the village, no one has any interest in painting or flower poems. I thought you, at least—”
Flora raised her hands defensively. “Don’t look at me like that! Believe it or not, I was so busy with all my work that I hardly had a moment to spare for the language of flowers. You say there are more books about it? Then I definitely want to read them.”
At Flora’s words, Seraphine’s expression immediately grew more positive again. “If you ask me, the symbolism of flowers will appeal greatly to the Russians—people say they are a particularly Romantic people. And while it’s true that you can buy flowers anywhere, flowers that tell stories or that appear in poetry, well, that would be something out of the ordinary, I’m sure of it.”
“You may be right,” said Flora, but she sounded skeptical. “I had the same idea not long after I went to Baden-Baden, but my dear father-in-law has no interest in the language of flowers. Actually, it was the opposite: he made it very clear to me that he did not appreciate me bothering the customers with it. He thinks that the language of flowers is too ambiguous altogether, and misunderstandings happen.”
“He’s not wrong, of course. Flowers have a very different symbolic meaning in the Orient than they do here in Europe, and the connotations are probably different in every country. I have, however, discovered that the symbolism attached to a particular plant is also connected to the time in which a writer lived. The ancient Egyptians, for example—” Seraphine stopped abruptly. “I don’t want to bore you. It was just an idea. It’s just that, since you came home with that little book . . . for me, it was like the key to a new world. Dealing with seeds all the time can be a little monotonous.”
Flora laughed. “You don’t have to tell me!”
Seraphine leaned closer. “Right now, I’m reading a wonderful French book about the language of flowers. It’s over fifty years old. For the first time in a long time, I’m glad I learned French.” The corners of her mouth crept into a smile.
“When I told Friedrich that they teach French and even English in our village school, he didn’t want to believe it. I explained to him that it’s because we go off to sell our seeds all over the world.” Flora shook her head. “I did not think that you would also be interested in the language of flowers.”
Seraphine laughed. “There are simply a lot of people who love flowers more than anything else, although most of them can’t live out their love the way you can.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
At some point in the evening, it had begun to snow. Flora and Friedrich stamped hand in hand through the snow-covered streets to The Sun, and in the light of the occasional streetlamp, falling flakes danced, silvery, through the air.
“As if we’re the only two people on God’s earth,” Flora whispered, looking back at their footprints in the snow.
“Whoops! Careful,” said Friedrich when Flora slipped and almost fell. He let go of her hand and held on to her arm firmly. “It’s not a good night to break a leg, after all. The teasing would never stop.”
Friedrich carried Flora over the threshold of The Sun. He had heard somewhere that it was supposed to bring good fortune to the marriage. No sooner were they inside than he put her down and leaned back against the closed door.
“Well, that’s behind us,” he said, and puffed his cheeks. “I would not have thought it would be such a strain.”
Flora gave him a playful push. “Do you mean the carrying, the party, or slipping and sliding all the way here?” she asked, and both of them broke into laughter.
She was happy to see that the room that had been reserved for them was warm. Candles stood ready, and beside them a box of matches. K?the had also put out a plate of cookies and a carafe of wine on the small table by the window.
Everything looked cozy, and Flora sighed. Perhaps it would not be so bad after all.
“As if we hadn’t already had enough to eat and drink tonight,” said Friedrich, shaking his head.
“But you’ll still drink a little wine with me, won’t you?” Flora held up the carafe inquiringly. When Friedrich shrugged, she said, “It’s silly, really, but you and I have seen less of each other today than everyone else. There was always someone wanting something of us. But that’s over now . . .” As she poured two fingers of wine into each glass, Friedrich wrapped her in his arms.
“What a marvelous party that was! Flora, you know, I’m the happiest man in the world. And so . . . here, for you.”
Flora frowned and looked at the small packet that lay on Friedrich’s open palm. “Another present?”
“What do you mean, another? I haven’t given you anything at all yet. Open it!”
In the candlelight, Flora pulled at the thin paper until a small container appeared. Carefully, she opened the lid. Inside, on pale tissue paper, lay a silver brooch in the form of a letter F, studded with small sparkling stones.
“They’re marcasites,” Friedrich explained. “Not as valuable as diamonds, to be sure, but they shine very prettily. I know you love to wear flowers on your dress. Well, now you can pin them in place with the brooch.
“How beautiful. Thank you,” Flora whispered. She had never seen a brooch quite like it. While she moved it back and forth in the candlelight, studying the way the stones glittered, she suddenly noticed the silence that had forced its way between her and her husband.
“I think we should slowly be . . .” Friedrich began after a long moment.
Flora laughed, feeling embarrassed. “You’re probably right. Maybe you could undo the loops?” She turned her back to him.
Friedrich went to work awkwardly. “You’re so beautiful,” he said, when Flora stood before him in her underdress. “Honestly, I’m a little excited. It . . . it’s the first time for me, too. I didn’t want to . . . do it with just any . . . I wanted to wait for the right one.”
“Oh, Friedrich,” Flora said hoarsely. The first time for him, too? Was that good or bad? It won’t be so difficult, she told herself bravely. But how was she supposed to get into her delicate pink nightdress without Friedrich watching her?
The next moment, Friedrich drew her toward the bed.
“You would not believe how much I’ve been looking forward to this moment,” he whispered as he took off his trousers. “I don’t want to hurt you. You have to tell me if I am, all right?” He lay on top of her cautiously.
Flora was unable to say anything. In the candlelight, their bodies formed one large, moving shadow on the wall.
“How lovely you are . . . so beautiful . . .” Friedrich’s breathing was warm with red wine, and it tickled her ear. His lips were firm, and for a brief second Flora thought she felt his tongue, but then the moment passed.