Daffodils and a Choice

After the summery warmth of Moss Bottom, the autumn chill felt unbearable. The few nobles out and about in Magisbury were bundled up in hats and fur-trimmed coats. The weather seemed to have affected everyone’s spirits, because all Airi heard were complaints.

“My joints are simply aching.”

“My best shoes were ruined by that rain yesterday.”

“What’s with the waterways lately? I say, I haven’t received any letters in a week. I shall write to the mages, see if I won’t.”

The last noble had a point, though. Of the numerous waterways that their carriage rolled past, most were no longer moving, stranding paper boats in place. The remaining waterways moved at a sluggish pace, and the water mages were few and far between.

“I wonder if something happened,” Airi said to Marianne.

Marianne looked out the window. “We’ll find out soon enough.”

The next day, Marianne summoned Airi to her office. She seemed to have gone back into work mode again, and her frilly clothes hid any sign that she’d been injured from the battle against Katabasis.

“I would like you to visit Mage Narcissus,” Marianne said. As she spoke, she dipped her quill into a pot of ink and drew a red X on the map.

Airi frowned. “Again? Why?”

“One of my... friends in the Upper Palace informed me that His Majesty has invited Narcissus to tea.”

“Isn’t that normal?”

“On the contrary, it’s unusual. His Majesty hasn’t invited anyone else. Just Narcissus.”

“What’s so unusual about that?”

“This morning, we received word that Lady Worthington, Narcissus’s mother, has sleep sickness. What better a time to kill her son, than when they’re still in a panic about her?”

Airi remembered what Narcissus had called himself. A convenient weapon to leverage against the king. “Once Narcissus is gone, the king will be able to attack us.”

Marianne nodded. “After he dies, Narcissus won’t be a mage anymore. He’ll only be known as the late Lord Oliver, eldest son of Lord Worthington. He hasn’t written any spellbooks or killed any monsters. It won’t be an affront to their family if His Majesty attacks the mages after he’s dead.”

Airi stood. “What should I say to him?”

“Warn him of the king’s plot. Tell him to decline the invitation, if he can. And one more thing. Give him this.” Marianne handed a large bouquet of daffodils to Airi.

“You bought these for him?” The bouquet was untouched by frost, as if the daffodils had basked in balmy sun all year round.

“I picked them from the Sunroom,” Marianne said. “Daffodils don’t grow naturally at this time of year.”

“But you never go down there.”

“A long time ago, he told me they were his favorite flower.”

The path leading to Worthington Manor was nearly bare. The remaining ones drooped, their petals bitten by frost.

The same maid answered the door and led Airi to Narcissus’s room.

“It’s Airi,” Airi said into the trumpet-shaped knob. “I have to talk to you.”

“...You don’t know when to give up, do you?” said Narcissus’s voice. The door swung open.

Today, trays of fruit covered the table—peaches, oranges, and exotic fruits that Airi didn’t recognize. Narcissus was dressed in a black suit with trailing sleeves, perhaps in mourning for his mother.

“How’s your mom?” she asked him.

“Asleep. I rarely saw her anyways.” Narcissus tossed a grape into the air and caught it in his mouth.

When Airi shifted her weight, something rustled. The bouquet! “Oh, oops. Here.”

“Daffodils. This is a gift from Marianne, isn’t it?” Narcissus took it, eyeing the crushed petals.

“How did you know?”

“She sends one every year for my birthday.” He set the bouquet aside. “What was it you wanted to talk about?”

“The king wants to kill you.”

“What?”

“He invited you to tea, right? He’s planning to kill you during that tea party. He’ll make it look like an accident.”

Narcissus was silent, rolling a grape over and over in his hand. “I see. I appreciate you letting me know.” He met her eyes, briefly. “You should go now.”

Airi caught the resigned look in his eyes. “You’re not still planning to go, are you? You know, you have a choice. You can just tell him you’re not feeling well.”

“I know.”

“You... you do? And you’re going anyways? You’ll be killed.”

“This is my choice.”

“You can’t be serious,” Airi said. “If you die, there’ll be nothing stopping the king from attacking the Lower Palace.”

Amused, Narcissus said, “So that’s what I am to you. A shield to prevent the wrath of the king from falling on you. And to my father, I was the perfect sword, cutting down his political opponents.”

“You don’t care that everyone’s going to die because of you,” Airi said.

“You won’t die. The king is a delusional old fool for thinking he can defeat the mages. At most, he’ll take down a few of the students.”

“I don’t get it,” Airi said. “Why don’t you—”

“Enough! Don’t you see?” Narcissus’s violet eyes were dull. “There’s nothing I can do for you. As I mentioned last time, I’m a useless mage. My only job is to stay still and keep my mouth shut, and I can do that after I’m dead, too.”

“Does that mean the daffodils from Marianne are also useless? Should I throw them away?” Airi asked angrily.

Narcissus said nothing. In his black mourning clothes, he looked like he was ready for his own funeral.

“Fine.” Airi picked up the bouquet. She hated the idea of giving up, but she didn’t think anything she said would make a difference in his mind. “I’ll give these flowers back to Marianne, then. I’m sure she’ll be thrilled to place them on your grave.”

There was a soft intake of breath. “Wait.” Narcissus held out his hand. “Give them here.”

Airi slipped the bouquet into his hand. Ridiculous. Tomorrow, he’d probably be dead. What on earth was she going to tell Marianne now?

The king sat in the Throne Room, waiting. Any minute now, his guest would arrive for tea.

The tea table had been carefully prepared for its noble guest—pastries and scones, sandwich cookies and cups of sweet tea. Every one was poisoned, of course. The king hadn’t taken any chances.

Except...

“Where is he?” the king grumbled, resting his chin on his hand.

“He’ll be here.” Another figure emerged from behind a pillar, dressed in mourning black.

“Lord Worthington, if you have deceived me...” the king said.

“Your Majesty, I have no reason to do that. Oliver has always obeyed your summons. Besides, you have given me your word on our bargain.”

“Of course,” the king promised. “As soon as the mages are gone, I will grant you one of the lower floors of the palace.” He paused. “You certainly don’t sound very sad that you will soon lose your eldest son.”

Lord Worthington grunted. “The boy is useless to me. Just make sure he doesn’t suffer too much.”

A maid entered the room, curtsying before the king. “Your Majesty.”

“Is he here?” the king said, rising to his feet.

“No, Your Majesty. Lord Oliver has sent a message, though. He explicitly ordered that I give it to Your Majesty.”

And the maid presented a large, glorious bouquet of daffodils, untouched by frost. The king took it, utterly bewildered. Beside him, Lord Worthington seemed to have lost the ability to speak.

Attached to the bouquet was a note in fancy handwriting. ‘To His Majesty. My deepest apologies, but I’ve decided that I no longer like tea.’