“What kind of comparison is that? As if we’d put the same kind of demands on you that the old princess makes of Konstantin. She’s almost certainly the reason that he still hasn’t been in today. I’d like to go and give her a piece of my mind.”
I’m starting to think you’ve taken leave of your senses, Sabine thought. Just then, she noticed a shadow by the back door—Ernestine and Alexander.
Flora jumped up, took the child from Ernestine’s arms, and kissed and hugged him. “My little darling.”
Sabine and Ernestine had to smile at the endearing scene. “I’m off now,” said Ernestine. “I’m meeting Gretel in the café. Alexander can stay with you until I’m back.”
Flora abruptly pushed her son back into his grandmother’s arms. “No. I slave away in here all day—is it too much to ask you to look after the child?”
“A baby needs his mother!”
Flora sniffed. “Tell it to the G?nninger seed women! When they go off traveling in autumn, they leave their children with a grandmother or great-aunt. No one cares if it makes their heart break.”
Flora, what is going on? Sabine asked herself silently, while Ernestine slunk away like a whipped dog, holding the baby.
“Do you know our little country place behind the Conversationshaus?” Princess Markova fanned herself gracefully as she spoke. A thunderstorm had struck at midday—now the streets were steaming and it was almost tropically humid.
“Not yet, I’m afraid, but I will stop by this afternoon when I go for a walk,” said Flora. When someone like Princess Sophia Markova talked about a “little country place,” then it was probably an enormous villa.
“There will certainly be some questions asked about why we are not celebrating our daughter’s engagement in one of the hotels.” The princess lowered her fan. “But Elena has expressly requested a more subdued affair. No formal six-course dinner for her, oh no. And we’ll only be serving two or three wines. If it had been up to me . . .”
Flora glanced surreptitiously to Sabine, who rolled her eyes. As the princess droned on about how “meager” the planned engagement party would be, Flora looked out along the street, where passersby dodged the deep puddles.
Still no sign of Konstantin. And it was already three in the afternoon.
“And no red roses, not under any circumstances! Elena’s first fiancé died tragically in a fall from a horse. He crashed into a rose hedge—can you believe it!—and the roses were bright red, the same color as his blood. So it’s no wonder that Elena avoids even the sight of red roses whenever she can.” The princess’s voice, which was already high-pitched, had become shrill as she spoke her last sentences.
The next moment, the shop door was thrown open with such force that the little bell above the door tinkled wildly.
“Konstantin!” As she called his name, a wave of warm joy broke over Flora. She returned her attention quickly to the princess, took her by the hand, and maneuvered her toward the exit. “Let me surprise you. I will come up with something extra special for your daughter’s engagement.”
“My dear Sophia, what’s that I hear?” Konstantin sighed. “The prettiest of all young girls is getting married? Sometimes I wonder what purpose life still has.”
Flora frowned.
“Well, Konstantin Sokerov, you are quite the Prince Charming, aren’t you? But you are right, of course. A pearl like our Elena is truly one of a kind. I hope I’ll be seeing you and Püppi next Sunday, too?”
Konstantin shrugged. “The princess is not at her best. I don’t know if she—”
Sophia Markova patted his hand. “In your good hands, I’m sure Püppi will be up and about again in no time.” Satisfied with herself and her world, the princess strutted out of the shop and away.
Konstantin watched after her for a moment. Then he murmured, “Elena’s dowry must be remarkably high if it keeps her fiancé distracted from her long, pointy nose.”
“Konstantin!” Flora let out an almost hysterical laugh, and instantly felt Sabine’s glare. There was nothing unseemly about a little chat, for God’s sake. Flora really did not understand what Sabine was constantly inferring. She was probably just jealous—especially since her Moritz had left town—because a man like Konstantin had no interest in her.
Who did Sabine think she was? Was she paid for her work, or to stand around gawking?
“Nothing to do?” Flora snapped at her. “Are you just going to let the trash overflow? On the compost heap with it, and make it fast!”
The moment they were alone, Konstantin took Flora’s hand. “I’ve missed you so much! The weekend seemed endless without you.” As he spoke, he stroked the underside of her wrist with one finger. Flora felt her pulse quicken beneath his touch.
“It was a boat cruise on the Rhine. Popo invited the usual crew. I all but died of boredom.” He twisted his face as if he were describing an excursion through hell itself.
“What can I say?” Flora replied. “I spent all of Sunday dealing with my son’s stomachache.” She breathed in the scent of his shaving lotion, headier and spicier than all the flowers and herbs in the shop together.
As usual, when Flora talked about her son and her family, a shadow crossed Konstantin’s face, as if it pained him that Flora lived in a world to which he had no access. Flora chastised herself silently for even mentioning Alexander.
A moment later, Konstantin was beaming again. He took a scarf from his pocket; it was pink and white with long fringe and decorated with flowers.
“The flowers reminded me of you . . . If I was not always thinking about you, my life would be easier.” He moved behind her and tied the scarf, and when he took his hands away, he let his fingers trail over her slender waist.
“You mustn’t do that,” Flora said, her voice hoarse. She turned to face him and touched the silky fabric of the scarf.
“Whether or not I give something to the most beautiful flower girl in the city is up to me,” Konstantin replied, his eyes flashing.
They chatted while Flora tied a bouquet of peonies, and when Konstantin left the shop fifteen minutes later, Flora’s fingers roamed over the fringe of the scarf as she watched him go. For the rest of the day, she was in the best of moods.
“I’m going to come up with something especially nice for Princess Markova,” she said to Sabine, when she returned from the garden. “Or did she already have something special in mind?”
“She said something about red roses. I didn’t hear it exactly, because you shooed me out of the shop,” Sabine replied curtly.
Chapter Forty-Eight
Püppi’s leather-bound diary was in her line of sight. If she was reading the numbers correctly in the low light of the sitting room, today was June 15.
Wasn’t Elena—Sophia and Tabor’s daughter—getting engaged later that day? Konstantin had said something about it.
Püppi felt her head tipping to one side. Don’t fall asleep! She stood up and tottered out onto the balcony. It was three o’clock in the morning. It would not be much longer before the sky began to lighten, the nightingales began to sing, and she could finally go to bed. Püppi loved the summer months, when the nights were so short and the days long and filled with sunshine. She had already changed into her nightdress. Soon she would slide beneath the cool covers. She was so tired.