The Troika Dolls - Miranda Darling [66]
He nodded gravely. ‘Of course.’
Stevie put out her cigarette. ‘How was Istanbul?’
‘Foggy.’
‘I want to hear more about this secret language of flowers,’ she said brightly. ‘All I can see in my mind is blood seeping through snow.’
‘Well,’ Henning considered where to begin, ‘flowers are the opposite of indifference. Lovers and mourners all over the world have figured this out. If you want to show something matters to you, you give flowers. In nature, flowers are expressions of fertility, of the order of the natural world. They lie like unread books in a library. It is once they’re picked and given to someone—or laid down in their memory—that they become messages, manifestations of desire and emotions and unspoken words. And yet,’ his eyes twinkled with mischief, ‘the flowery messages remain indecipherable to those who aren’t meant to read them.’ Henning’s whisky arrived in a crystal glass and he raised it silently to Stevie.
‘You can see how flowers lent themselves perfectly to the job of lovers’ codes in the Turkish harem.’
‘What about these flowers then, the ones on our table?’ Stevie gestured to the small vase with its spray of uninspiring hothouse flowers. ‘What are they saying?’
‘Ah, but you see, those flowers haven’t been given to us.’ Henning picked a piece of fern from the arrangement. ‘If the waiter had come over and handed you the vase with the flowers, it would be different.
There would have been a message, an intention. Flowers are offered instead of words. They say the unspoken. That is what is beautiful about them, the subtlety of the message.’
‘People send flowers with cards,’ Stevie reminded him.
‘They do.’ Henning nodded. ‘But the cards may not convey the intention of the flowers at all; words are clumsy, people are timid, they say less rather than more.’ Henning put his glass down on the table. ‘Think of the man who will send flowers to a woman he is pining for. It’s her birthday. He sends an enormous arrangement of roses. The card reads simply, “Happy Birthday. John.” Which message is the true one? “Happy Birthday. John” or the passion of three dozen red roses?’
‘But surely it can’t have been that obvious?’ Stevie remained sceptical. ‘The sultan and his eunuchs would get a bit suspicious if bunches of elaborate red roses were being delivered to some harem beauty on a regular basis.’
Henning’s lips twitched with amusement. ‘They had many, many different flowers and each one was given a meaning, or a narrow range of meanings. The lovers would arrange small posies, bouquets, that conveyed a particular message: “I burn for you”, or “meet me”, or “we are being watched”, or—’ here, Henning’s voice softened—‘ “I admire you from afar”.’
‘What if,’ Stevie’s green eyes narrowed, ‘you wanted to declare that you were suspicious of someone’s intentions?’
Henning’s face split into a grin. ‘Then you would send mushrooms.’
Stevie laughed. ‘How elegant.’
‘The beauty of the secret language of flowers lies in utter deniability.’ Henning picked a small white rose from the table vase and held it out to Stevie. ‘You see? It’s just a rose. It’s pretty. Lightly scented. I thought it might please you. Nothing more.’
Stevie examined Henning. There was no denying his amusement. Was she falling into a trap? She took the rose without saying a word. Laid it on the table.
She paused. ‘Henning, what would a primrose mean, in this code?’
Henning gave it some thought. ‘If I’m not mistaken, it declares inconstancy.’
So. It was simple. Stevie had failed to read the signs. Joss Carey’s intentions had been telegraphed well ahead of time, even unbeknownst to him. Well, she knew better now than to give anyone the chance to make a fool of her heart again. No matter how charming, nor how tall.
Stevie and Henning stepped outside into the icy night.
‘I still think we should have taken a hotel car, Stevie.’
‘It would hardly be discreet, turning up at a seedy bar in a chauffeured Mercedes.