Chapter 2 Language of Flowers
The palace gardens were Angela’s sanctuary. While council chambers pressed upon her with rules and expectations, the gardens whispered freedom. Roses from the northern provinces climbed trellises in fragrant clusters, while lilies from the southern marshes swayed beside fountains carved in marble. Each bloom told the story of a land her father ruled, but to Angela, they were more than symbols—they were living reminders that beauty could flourish even beneath the shadow of politics.
That morning, she wandered the winding paths in a gown of soft green, her hair unbound, her crown left behind. Here, she was not the princess with the world’s eyes upon her. She was simply Angela, a young woman who loved the rustle of leaves and the laughter of birds more than the clink of goblets in a banquet hall.
Nahim Jane accompanied her at a distance. The King often assigned him to her as a shadow, though Angela sometimes wondered if her father understood how much she enjoyed his quiet company. Nahim did not chatter like courtiers, nor drown her in praise like the men who sought her hand. He observed. He listened. In that silence, Angela felt less like a jewel to be displayed and more like a person to be understood.
She stopped beside the fountain of silver dolphins and dipped her fingers into the cool water. “Sometimes I think the gardens know me better than anyone,” she said, not turning as she spoke.
Nahim’s voice was low, steady. “Perhaps that is because you let them. You speak to them more honestly than you do to people.”
Angela smiled faintly, her reflection rippling across the fountain’s surface. “And if I told you I speak to you in the same way?”
He hesitated. “Then I would be honored, Princess. And wary of what you may confess.”
Her laugh rang light through the garden, scattering a pair of doves into the air. She did not explain further, and Nahim did not press.
But their peace was soon interrupted by the arrival of another.
Lord Raymond of Durness, the son of a powerful duke, strode across the garden path with the confidence of a man who believed he had already won. His golden hair glimmered in the sun, and his cloak bore the crest of his family—two black hounds against a crimson field.
“Your Highness,” Raymond bowed, though his eyes lingered too boldly on Angela’s face. “I searched for you in the council halls, only to find you hidden among roses. I must say, the flowers pale beside you.”
Angela schooled her features into polite serenity. Compliments such as these were as common as the petals beneath her feet. “Lord Raymond. I trust your morning has been well?”
“Better, now that I’ve found you.” His smile was practiced, his words polished. He glanced briefly at Nahim, dismissing him as one might dismiss a shadow, then returned his attention fully to the heiress. “May I join you for a walk?”
Angela inclined her head. “If you wish.”
As they strolled, Raymond filled the air with tales of his family’s lands, of victories in tournaments, of the splendor he believed his house could bring to the crown if joined with hers. Angela listened, offering occasional nods, but her mind wandered.
She thought of freedom, of laughter that was not rehearsed, of hands held not because of alliance but because of choice. Raymond’s words clattered against her heart like coins in a chest—valuable, perhaps, but devoid of warmth.
Nahim followed at a distance, his gaze unreadable. He knew his place, but a storm churned quietly in his chest.
By midday, Angela excused herself with grace. “Lord Raymond, it has been a pleasure. But duty calls me to my father’s side.”
He bowed again, though frustration flickered in his eyes. “Until next time, Princess.”
When he was gone, Angela let out a long breath. She turned to Nahim, her composure slipping just enough to reveal the truth. “Do you ever tire of men who speak only to win, not to know?”
Nahim’s lips curved, just barely. “I tire of little else.”
Angela studied him, searching his face for the meaning beneath his words. For the briefest of moments, she imagined a world where such honesty was not forbidden, where she could choose without the weight of a kingdom upon her shoulders.
But the bells soon rang from the tower, summoning her to council once more. She gathered her skirts and straightened her spine. The mask of the princess slipped back into place.
As she walked away, Nahim lingered among the roses, his hand brushing against a thorned stem. A bead of blood welled upon his finger, sharp and fleeting, yet it reminded him of something inevitable.
The world around Angela Hills was not as serene as the gardens she loved. Shadows stretched longer with each passing day, and though she could not yet see it, the tide was already moving.
One day, those tides would sweep her far beyond roses and suitors, into the arms of something wild, something forbidden.
But not yet. For now, Angela’s story still belonged to gardens, laughter, and the delicate ache of longing.
