Madame Desrosiers’s Flower Shop

CW: Contains mentions of dismemberment.

The crush of bodies pressed in on Julia from all sides, threatening to sweep her down the city streets on and on forever like a leaf in a current. 

It could be worse she thought, negotiating around another puddle and nearly crashing into a man with a leather briefcase. The smell of wet pavement was better than the odor of sickness that infiltrated every nook of their flat. Likewise the light patter of rain was musical compared to her mother’s wet coughing. 

She rounded the corner and came face to face with the shop. Though the rain was soaking through her dress, she found herself momentarily rooted to the spot. It was a small, one-story building, painted blue with clear iconography, Madame Desrosiers’s Flower Shop. It was an innocuous structure by all accounts, dwarfed by larger businesses on either side. All the same, it made Julia's heart stutter.

She collected herself, retrieved the key from a chain around her neck, and unlocked the door. The natural perfume of flora broke over her and for a moment she felt at peace. The colors of the plants were so vibrant and beautiful that Queen Victoria herself might have been amused by it. It was a miracle of botany and hard-work. 

Julia removed the green apron from the hook by the flower seeds and fastened the strings around her waist. She sensed a presence from deep within the shop, behind the rows of colorful roses, tulips, and daisies, patient and waiting.

“Good morning, Madame,” Julia said. 

No answer as usual. 

Julia wiped her sweaty palms upon her apron and attempted to distract herself with her work. 

She swept the floor clean of petals. She watered the plants. She set up the scaffolding on the pavement out of doors and arranged the plants under the awning so they might attempt passersby to enter and purchase their fine wares. A flower for a wife, a bouquet for a mistress, a wreath for an ailing mother. 

Julia peeked surreptitiously through the frosted window as labored looking for signs of movement within. Yet everything remained—seed packets, unused pots, and papers—completely undisturbed. 

“Excuse me.” 

Julia whirled around, nearly sending a potted geranium crashing to the pavement. 

The man took a step back, surprised by her reaction to his presence. Julia placed a hand over her galloping heart. “I’m sorry, sir. You frightened me.” 

The man removed his dripping beaver skin top hat apologetically. “Forgive me. I didn’t mean to startle you.” He indicated to the shop. “Do you work here?”

I have no choice. 

“I do. How might I help you?” she said.

“Um,” the man said, fondling the brim of his hat. “I’m a bit out of my depth.” He licked his lips and gave Julia a self-deprecating smile. “What sort of flower in your professional interest might best interest a young girl?”

“It depends on the girl, sir,” she replied. 

“Right. Of course. Yes.” 

He was nervous. Unrequited love, perhaps. Or nervous affection. Delicate enough that one wrong blossom could kill any tender feelings the recipient might posses. 

Judging by the faded color of his waistcoat, he had little other prospects that might entice a young woman. 

“I, myself, have always been fond of blue salvia,” she supplied. 

It would be an innocent enough statement, blue salvia. The recipient, if versed in floriography, would take it as a token of obvious affection without being offending by the giver’s abrasiveness. I think of you. Not to be confused with red salvia which meant forever mine. Julia’s stomach turned and she wiped her sweaty palms upon her apron yet again. 

If the man noticed her discomfort he didn’t remark on it. 

“Salvia! Of course! Lovely! Do you…do you have any?”

Tell him no. Tell him to go away. 

“Of course,” Julia said. “This way.” 

She opened the door, admitting him inside. 

They passed rows of flowers—grape hyacinth, morning glory, Love in a Mist, lobelia. The man peered around the vast array of colors in awe (and terror) of their beauty. Julia could hardly blame him. Compared to the industrial, feces-ridden streets of the city, Madam’s flower shop was like entering Eden. 

“I’m perfectly rubbish at this,” the gentleman said, still gazing about at the natural beauty around him. “I merely…I want her to have a small token, you understand.” 

“I’m sure if she is a lady of quality, she will be touched by your affections, sir,” she said meaningfully.

“What? Oh! No. It isn’t—she’s my daughter.” 

Julia colored with embarrassment. “Oh, I apologize. I thought—”

“She’s been ever so brave,” he said, oblivious to her brush with self-consciousness.“Her mother—my wife—she died less than two months ago. I do all I can but…she truly has risen to the occasion. I couldn’t ask for a more resilient girl.” 

The look of pride and love on his face could have melted the iciest of hearts. Julia’s was nearly a puddle at her feet. 

“I don’t know where she gets her strength,” he went on. “Certainly not from me. I fell to pieces if I’m honest with you.” 

“She is fortunate to have a father who cares for her as much as you,” she said. “Other girls are not quite so lucky.”

Julia could hardly remember her own father. The only recollection she had was of him sitting before the hearth, industrious hands whittling a small cat figurine from silver birch. That was before her mother whisked her away and crammed the two of them into a shabby flat in the unfashionable side of town that smelled of cigar smoke and gin. 

“I—oh.” The man’s cheeked rouged. “Thank you.”

She arranged the bouquet with skilled hands, selecting white mums and babies breath to complement the stocks of salvia. The patron spoke of his daughter Penelope while Julia worked and listened with a smile.

Then, like a dream, it ended. 

The man’s voice faded to a murmur. The fragrance of flowers was replaced by the stink of rot. She glanced up from her handiwork and saw a chrysanthemum’s head, which had previously faced the door, was now turned so that it was eyes level with her. 

 Julia’s flesh prickled. 

“Ma’am?” 

Julia started but quickly recovered. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”

“I asked you how much for the flowers. ” 

Julia gave him a sum, quickly wrapping the flowers in paper and accepting the coin with as much speed as her limbs would allow. 

She all but thrusted the bundle into his arms, nearly crushing the head on one of the mums. The patron stared in confusion, ill prepared for her sudden change in attitude. 

“I, um, thank you.” 

Julia plastered on a smile. “Of course. Have a wonderful day.” 

He nodded politely and made for the door. 

Good. Leave. Never return. 

Let him go home to his daughter and show her what beautiful flowers he’s bought for her. Let him embrace her and tell her how much he truly cares for her. 

Plop.

Julia turned her head to the source of the sound. It was the head of the chrysanthemum. Though it had been fresh and vibrant moments ago, it was now blackened and wilted. Her throat went dry as she spied the other flowers shed their petals, curling in on themselves until they likewise drooped and collapsed like bodies. The stench of rotting grew suffocating in her nostrils. 

Julia shut her stinging eyes. “Sir, wait,” she croaked. 

The gentleman turned in surprised at the address. He would take no notice of the despoiled plants. She knew they were for her benefit alone. 

Julia clasped her sweaty hands together.

“I had forgotten. There is something else your daughter might enjoy. It is a special plant. We don’t permit just anyone to look. It is incredibly rare, you see. But you told me how wonderful your daughter is…” 

The gentleman’s face softened, touched by her consideration. “Of course. Yes. I would love to see it.” 

Julia forced a smile and crossed to the front of the store. She turned the placard hanging from the window so it read CLOSED then locked the door tight. Without looking at him, she retrieved a tarnished key from underneath a pot of rhododendrons. “Just at the end of the hall.” 

The man followed her to the back of the shop to the door hemmed in by shadow. She turned the key in the lock and peered over her shoulder. “It only grows in the dark.” 

Hands trembling, she pushed in the door. The gentleman entered the darkened room with cautious steps. 

“Oh my,” he breathed. He pointed across the room. “Is that it? Growing on the walls there? Why that’s extraordinary. I’ve never seen anything—“ 

Julia slammed the door shut and locked him in. 

The crash of furniture. A cry of dismay. Julia clenched her eyes shut as the din of panic and pain rose to a clamor. The mewling of agony died away and one last wet thud rang out before silence replaced it. Julia peeled herself away from the door and made for the front of the store. 

Sitting on the desk, gleaming in the wane lantern light was an emerald green vial. 

She stood in place for what seemed like ages. 

She could see herself smashing it. She could see the explosion of glass and the black sludge smearing against the opposite wall, dripping to the painted wooden floors like blood. 

The image made her euphoric and sick in equal measure. She crossed over to the desk and retrieved the glass from the desk with trembling hands. Trembling as her mother did under the influence of her sickness. 

The door to Madame’s office creaked open. There was no stench of blood or mottled flesh. Only a great earthy smell that made her gag. 

It was as close as Madame ever came to saying Thank You. 

________________________________

Julia returned home that night to find her mother reclined upon a pillow, scarcely able to open her eyes. The vines that grew from the older woman’s arms held her rooted to the mattress. In the wane lamp light, Julia could see the green hue of her face like flesh gone to rot. Spores leapt from her lips as she exhaled laboriously. 

Julia uncorked the vial and pressed it to the woman’s lips. The roots withered as she drank deep of the medicine, retreating back into her fingertips and up the veins in her arms. Julia’s mother sighed blissfully Green eyes opened full of affection. It pained Julia to look upon them. 

A gentle hand rose to cup Julia’s cheek. “I dreamt of your father,” the pitiful creature rasped. “I dreamt we still lived in that old home in the country. You had a little brother.” 

Julia pried the hand away and crossed over to the corner of the room to curl up on here cot, the one she had slept on since her mother stole the till from Madame Desrosiers’s Flower Shop. 

She shut her eyes, trying to forget the screams she heard so many times before. The horrible, ubiquitous presence that was nowhere and everywhere at once.

You could be free. It could all be over. 

It would be simple enough. She could go to her mother as she slept and hold the pillow before her face. She was a slender woman grown even more slim by the toll the curse had taken upon her body. It would not be a long struggle. 

Tears beaded and streamed down her face. She cuffed a hand over her mouth to stifle her sobs. She could never. No matter how much she hated her, she could never do it. 

Instead she would toil for hours every day in the Madame’s floral shop, luring in the unsuspecting patron to their doom until her mother’s debt was payed.