On the Twelfth Day of Christmas

A dawn wind blew a white pear flower on the marble windowsill. The blossom fluttered to the oak floorboards.

Florian complained.

"The flower is wrong, my dear fellow. For Christmas, I need a scarlet bouquet, not a pear.”

The wind was his friend, but even friends made mistakes. Wiping the fragrant pollen from his cheeks, Florian leaned out of the window. The streets galloped to the azure harbor, and whitewashed houses climbed onto the hills. The ochre roofs gleamed in the winter sun. Crystal streams of fountains gushed in tiny squares.

Townsfolk painted their galleries and balconies in delicate colors. Wooden carvings concealed shady shelters with scattered woven pillows. It was ever so sweet to swing in hammocks, among clay pots with lush trees.

A brass plaque at his door announced that the greenhouse opened at dawn and closed at dusk. The wind brought Florian news from other towns and even from the distant lands. Elegant envelopes, inscribed in calligraphic handwriting, fell on his windowsill.

Mister Florian could grow any flower just by looking at its drawing. The future brides sent him outlandish sketches. Florian smiled, tending to silver lilac or a bush shimmering with sunset orange. The flowers chimed to the beat of the harpsichord in the greenhouse. Florian played it, believing plants enjoyed the music.

Hanging out of the window, he said to the pair of partridges nesting on the tree.

 “Take you, for example. I asked you to be quiet, but you still mutter. I value my sleep,” the gardener stretched. “Yesterday, you stopped chattering only at midnight.”

The pear rustled the emerald leaves. A wave of gentle scent engulfed Florian.

“On the first day of Christmas, my true love sent to me,” sang the birds. “A partridge in a pear tree.” Florian rolled his eyes.

“Find yourself a new entertainment,” advised he. “I have to take care of Christmas flowers.”

“Oh!” cried the pear.

“What is the matter with you?” asked Florian.

“I am in love,” giggled the tree.

Florian sarcastically replied, “I wish you quit the ancient jokes. With whom?”

“With the gardener,” answered the pear.

The wind again brushed pollen on his cheek. Florian could fly to the harbor on a winged bike, but the sea was not far away, and he decided to walk.

Delicate Christmas trees of ornate silver appeared in the town squares. Fountains gushed with ruby ​​mulled wine. Luminous letters shimmered over the stone arches of the narrow streets, “Merry Christmas!”

Bells chimed over the rooftops. Bronze dragons with wings the color of a ripe pomegranate tumbled in the morning sky. The friendly creatures always descended from the mountains before Christmas to celebrate the holiday with the townsfolk. Florian grew flowers resembling their fluttering wings, crowned with scarlet inflorescences.

The red sails of the Santa ship had already appeared on the horizon. Dragons scattered colorful confetti over the town.

Catching one, Florian said, “You are also magical.” Confetti whirled in his fingers. “You probably will turn into my favorite sweet?”

The confetti became a golden honeycomb. Florian decided to have a cup of coffee before going to the harbor. The dragons overhead blew their brass trumpets. Santa always came to the town with pomp. Two turtle doves brought his coffee.

“On the second day of Christmas, my true love sent to me,” sang the birds. “Two turtle doves, and a partridge in a pear tree.”

Florian had dealt with the honeycomb in no time.

“You are also singing this, “he complained to the birds. “It is some conspiracy.”

At the corner table sat a redhead. White confetti rained down on her, turning into marshmallows. Florian unexpectedly wondered about the color of her eyes.

“I wish they would be green,” thought the gardener. “Then everything will turn out fine."

Florian did not know what should turn out fine but tried to look closer at the girl. Her eyes were indeed the color of an emerald. A lace dress spilled over the ancient cobblestones of the square.

Doves flew between the tables, pouring scarlet wine from the fountains. Scattering the last confetti, the dragons returned to the harbor. The girl had disappeared somewhere.

“I did not ask her name,” said the gardener to the wind, “Now whom should I look for? A girl with the hair of molten gold and eyes of grass in my greenhouse?”

The wind whispered something in his ear.

Florian replied grumpily, “There is no such name. It is a plant and not a girl. You are fooling me.”

Shaking the pear blossom from the dark curls, the gardener ran down the warm granite steps leading to the harbor. The dragons hovered around the illuminated lighthouse. A rainbow stretched from the ship sails to the town rooftops. The crowd waved their magic wands, and the fireworks flashed in the bright sky. Florian decided that Santa would be delighted with an early gift.

“Could you bring me one flower, please,” he asked the wind. “The greenhouse is open.”

A completely different bouquet appeared in his hands. The holly, full of red berries, smelled of frosty sweetness.

“What should I do with a holly?” Florian shrugged. “The wind is not in good shape today, again confusing everything. Probably, the weather will change.”

On such days the wind was always preoccupied with its affairs. Florian again noticed the familiar girl in a fluffy gauze dress. Bees fluttered around her red curls.

A gentle voice rang nearby, “They will not sting you, Mister Florian. You have a beautiful bouquet.”

The bees immediately took upon the holly.

Florian was surprised, “You know me?”

A smile played on her pink lips. Her voice sounded like harpsichord music.

“All girls know you,” she replied. “You grow bouquets for the brides, and I ...”

Florian handed her the holly, “Hold on. The wind has made a mistake. These flowers do not suit Santa, but they are very fitting for you. Sorry,” the gardener blushed. “I rudely interrupted you. I grow bouquets for the brides, and you..."

Bees adorned her braids with red berries. The wind played with the hem of her lace train.

“I sew dresses,” she explained. “For Santa, I made a robe of pomegranate silk, decorated with bronze bells. I can create any dress, Mister Florian. The bride sends me a drawing, and the outfit is ready for her arrival ...”.

Her emerald eyes looked up at him.

“I keep the atelier, Mister Florian, as wonderful as your greenhouse. Bees and butterflies are my friends. They embroider and weave lace.” The gardener nodded.

“We can also become friends, but what is your name?”

Santa’s ship was docking at a pier decorated with flowers and ribbons. The rainbow turned into a walkway, and nine dragons landed on the gray stones.

A majestic bouquet appeared in Florian’s hands. The crimson petals fluttered, the gardener helplessly looked around.

“Now everything is all right,” he assured the wind. “You have done well, but where is the girl with green eyes?”

The gardener again pulled out a red berry from his dark hair.

“And what is her name?”

The wind did not answer, billowing the red sails and the scarlet mantle of Santa. The dragons were taking her to the main square.

Making his way through the crowd, Florian realized that Santa must first collect the festive dress. It was inconvenient to ask the guest about such matters, but Florian had to find this girl. The wind whirled red berries around him.

“Were you to follow us,” the wind said instructively. “You would have found the girl a long time ago.”

“On the ninth day of Christmas, “he sang, “my true love sent to me nine ladies dancing…”

Florian no longer listened to him. Santa and her nine court ladies sat on the dragons. Florian, bowing, held out the flower. The wind tossed her black curls. Santa gasped, “You must be Mister Florian? What a wonder!” The dragons screeched in agreement. “The main bouquet is probably even more stunning?”

          One of the ladies assured her, “By all means, since we are among wizards. The sketch of your festive gown was delivered to us by bees.” The tower clock stroke twelve times. Santa said, “We need to pick up the outfit before we go to the main square.”

Florian asked, “And where does the seamstress live?”

Santa smiled, “On Holly Street.”

Florian managed to mutter an apology.

“I will return in time for the festivities,” he promised. “Sorry, I have a business to attend to.”

The town squares lay hot stones under his feet. The fountains gushed the pomegranate wine and scarlet foam of cherry pop. The ochre roofs drowned in the midday haze, birds and dragons echoed among the light clouds. He ran under the low arches and turned into the tiny streets. The sellers of magic potions and manuscripts were laying out their wares. Florian almost bumped into a stall with rings and bracelets.

The old man in the mantle of a jeweler said squeakily, “Take this,” under his magic wand grew the stack of five rings. “They will fit her as your flowers do.”

The golden dust showered the gray steps. Florian heard a busy chirping from afar. Lace spilled out of the window, and a delicate veil enveloped the antique carved frames. The pear blossom slipped into his hands. Florian leaned against the windowsill.

“On the first day of Christmas, my true love sent me a partridge in a pear tree...”

She wielded a magic wand over the beautiful bouquets blossoming on the white silk. Bees and butterflies carried back and forth threads and sequins.

The girl raised her green eyes, “Oh!”

Florian swung over the windowsill, “What is the matter?”

The girl stopped in front of him, “I am in love.”

The bees listened with interest. The trees outside the window paused their rustling, and the wind died down. A melodic ringing floated over the bell towers.

Florian opened his palm with five rings, “With whom?”

“With the gardener,” the girl smiled, “and for a long time, dear.”

Her lips smelled like Christmas. Bees buzzed busily around, sprinkling fragrant pollen on her cheeks.

Florian kissed her, “Merry Christmas, my true love, my Holly.”