1. The Hothouse Flower


    Date: 9/14/2015, Categories: Historical, Author: FeliciaGreene, Rating: , Source: LushStories

    'Yes.' I have dreamed of this moment; have dreamed, every night, of walking through the flower gardens of Versailles with pen and paper. 'I have people already harvesting,' he says, looking at the sky, 'and they have several more hours of work ahead of them. Wash yourself with the pump by the stables, and join them. Inspect their work.' He prepares to leave, turning on his heel, before remembering that he hasn't told me how to reach them. 'There are white buildings on the horizon. The Queen's village. Walk south, and you'll reach it.' Before I can reply, he is gone. Presumably this smooth efficiency explains his continued employment at the Palace - with that face, there can be no other explanation. Cleaned and tidied, a lady again, I begin my walk. There is no path, no road; the grass is soft underfoot, and soon I am making my way across parkland. I see the shadows of deer in clumps of carefully planted woodland, with young stags preparing to rut. The noise of the Palace gradually retreats into blessed, joyous silence. The birds can be heard once again, and the wind distorts their chatter into something very much like music. A shadow falls across my face. Clouds are building, the sparse mackerel scatter of the early morning swelling into a storm. My moments of happiness evidently arrive and vanish in abrupt fits and starts. A warm drop of rain falls on the nape of my neck, and I think a word not befitting a lady. Soon I am running, the wet muck of the park smeared on my ...
    shoes, my purple silk now clinging to my body as a weighty second skin. The white buildings Grassonet spoke of are nowhere to be seen; with the weather like this, I am likely to arrive there with a fever or half-drowned. Shelter. There must be shelter somewhere. A patch of woodland lies ahead. It looks strangely untended; there are no topiary sculptures, no wandering peacocks or noblemen's horses tethered to the trees. If anything it resembles a corner of an English forest; through the rain I can identify larches, poplars, the occasional weighty oak. The leaves should provide me with at least some cover. As I enter, passing into the great dark shade thrown by a copper beech, I feel the force of the rain dim considerably. I can raise my head again. The rain continues lashing at the grass beyond the reach of the trees, but in here, a canopy above me, I have sanctuary. I have never been one for talk of spirits, but for a moment, before I clear my eyes of rain, I see something ahead of me. It seems to be a glowing trick of the light. As I wipe my eyes the figure becomes female. I see the curve of her hips, the delicacy of her wrists and ankles. She is fleshy, but well-shaped; a contrast to my own slender figure. She is standing at the edge of a small clearing; the grass is patterned with deep pink cyclamens. The Greeks considered them a funeral flower, the blooms that grew on the banks of the Styx, but as I watch the woman I can't help but be reminded of pink lips, or flushed skin. ...
«12...456...89»