The Dragon Man - Brian Stableford [40]
She re-entered the house to find all eight of her parents lingering in the communal area. They weren’t arguing. In fact, they were so busy pretending that they were there purely by chance, rather than because they were waiting anxiously to see what Sara had done to herself, that they seemed to be in closer harmony than they had achieved for at least seven years. That was good, because it meant that no one was in a bad mood that might be taken out on Sara’s rose.
“The stem’s wound around quite artfully,” Mother Verena observed. “Linda’s done a good job. The foliage will spread very nicely. More than adequate to protect your modesty.” The last remark was accompanied by a sideways glance at Mother Quilla.
“I don’t doubt it,” Mother Quilla said, “but you’d have looked even lovelier—and better endowed—in a nice pair of shells.”
Sara blushed at that, although there was no need.
“Considering the position of that bud,” Father Gustave put in, “I think you’ll be more comfortable if you don’t grow too rapidly in that department.”
Sara was conscious that her blush must be deepening even further. The bud was very small at present, but it was positioned above her breastbone, in what would one day be her cleavage.
“It’s not going to get in the way when you sleep, is it?” asked Mother Jolene.
“Of course not,” Mother Verena answered for her. “Even when the bloom’s fully extended it’ll fold up flat into the smartsuit if Sara smoothes it down with her hand and hold it in position for a few moments. You ought to do that when you take a shower as well as when you go to sleep, Sara, and you’ll have to do it if you ever need to wear a spacesuit or a deep-diving surskin.”
Sara didn’t think there was any possibility of her taking an excursion into space or the remote depths of the sea in the near future, but she nodded anyway to show that she appreciated the flower’s potential discretion.
“Well, I hope you like it,” Father Aubrey said. “It’ll be an expensive decision if you want something else in six months’ time.”
“It is detachable,” Sara told him. “Ms. Chatrian told me that she can remove it and put it into storage any time—and that I could even do it myself if I followed the instructions very carefully. It can be stored warm for up to three years if the right provisions are made for its nutrition, or frozen down indefinitely.”
Mother Maryelle leaned over her to inspect the tips of the petals that were peeping out of the bud. She sniffed ostentatiously, although Sara was fairly sure that there wouldn’t be enough nectar in the flower to emit a perceptible scent for at least a week.
“Purple’s a terrible color for a rose,” Mother Maryelle opined. “At a distance, it’ll look as if you’re wearing a geranium.”
“It’s a bit dark,” Mother Quilla said, placing her face beside Mother Maryelle’s so that she too could inspect the tip of the bloom-to-be. “Imperial purple’s all very well in broad daylight, but it won’t show up well in less kindly light. You should have gone for a lighter shade. Mauve, perhaps.”
“White, perhaps,” Father Lemuel put in, a trifle mischievously. “All girls your age should wear white.”
“Except that she was born on the wrong side of the Pennines,” Father Stephen said, eager to show off his supposed expertise on the subject of pre-Crash culture, although there couldn’t have been anyone present who didn’t know that Lancashire’s emblem was a red rose and Yorkshire’s a white one. “She could hardly wear red, though, considering the kind of signals that would have given out—not to mention the fact that it would look as if she’d been shot in the chest. Or maybe in the back, given that it would look more like an exit-wound.”
“It’s not going to have thorns, is it?” Father Aubrey asked. “You’re spiky enough without, these days.” The last remark was sufficiently unfair