Avery
Tipple-Tossing Tatterdemalion
The garden had become something of a motley panoply of flora over the last ten years, the late Van Haver assured as much. In favor of a more eastern style, the flower beds were dug up and replaced with blossoming trees, rocks hauled in to make winnowing paths ‘round, and mirrors installed to engender capacious depth. All an illusion to give the enclosure a sense of yawning, tamed wilderness. Meditative, Edmund recalled, though he never felt as much there.
Despite efforts to thoroughly deracinate the western flora, some prevailed. The daffodils seemed especially tenacious, popping among feathery peonies and lazing in the wisteria shade. That was, when the wisteria was in bloom, they did. It was still too early in the spring to relish the weighty burden of their pulchritude. But not so for the magnolias, wintersweet, and merciful forsythia.
Every benediction and blessing to that yellow, riotous shrub. It allowed for a modicum of privacy in the northern corner, fortunately away from the late Van Haver’s “exotic” carrion flowers. Fat, leathery bastards thrumming with flies. Their fetid scent was almost forgivable compared to the company they attracted.
So, in that northern nook, beneath the dappled shade of a magnolia tree, Edmund began setting the table. Tea for one. For Oliver. A single cup juxtaposed by a tiered tray, surfeit with noon-time edibles. Edmund fingered them. For quality, of course.
The bread of the cucumber sandwiches felt stale, or was rustic bread in fashion now? The tartlet crust seemed a touch undercooked, too wet in the middle, as Edmund discovered, popping one in his mouth and rearranging the rest to hide the absence. The fig pastry, with honey and mascarpone, he didn’t even bother with.
The pantry had figs coming out the ass, and yet, in a few weeks, Peter would be out, paintbrush in hand, pollinating the fig trees for, what else- more figs. Bless Agnes for hiding them in everything so well.
Edmund checked the tea pot, wondering if she had the audacity to drop one in for good measure. She hadn’t and he helped himself to a cup. Fingers crabbed around the lip, he threw it back like plebeian liquor. No point savoring something one can’t taste the subtleties of. And never mind how much time he’d wasted.
Oliver would be ready soon. It was time Edmund went to him. He wiped down the cup, returned it to its saucer, and folded the napkin so as to hide the faint, damp spot. Everything was set, imperfect, but set. And… he tarried.
Something in his nerves, something ineffable between anxious and eager. Edmund scoffed it up to uncertainty. He was fumbling to follow through with his original plan, to propitiate the royal. Everything came to founder on a poignant desire to be genuine, the quixotic notion that maybe-
He needed to go. There wasn’t time. Edmund forced his mind present and left to wait for Oliver, to escort him to the garden. Vacillation be damned.
Despite efforts to thoroughly deracinate the western flora, some prevailed. The daffodils seemed especially tenacious, popping among feathery peonies and lazing in the wisteria shade. That was, when the wisteria was in bloom, they did. It was still too early in the spring to relish the weighty burden of their pulchritude. But not so for the magnolias, wintersweet, and merciful forsythia.
Every benediction and blessing to that yellow, riotous shrub. It allowed for a modicum of privacy in the northern corner, fortunately away from the late Van Haver’s “exotic” carrion flowers. Fat, leathery bastards thrumming with flies. Their fetid scent was almost forgivable compared to the company they attracted.
So, in that northern nook, beneath the dappled shade of a magnolia tree, Edmund began setting the table. Tea for one. For Oliver. A single cup juxtaposed by a tiered tray, surfeit with noon-time edibles. Edmund fingered them. For quality, of course.
The bread of the cucumber sandwiches felt stale, or was rustic bread in fashion now? The tartlet crust seemed a touch undercooked, too wet in the middle, as Edmund discovered, popping one in his mouth and rearranging the rest to hide the absence. The fig pastry, with honey and mascarpone, he didn’t even bother with.
The pantry had figs coming out the ass, and yet, in a few weeks, Peter would be out, paintbrush in hand, pollinating the fig trees for, what else- more figs. Bless Agnes for hiding them in everything so well.
Edmund checked the tea pot, wondering if she had the audacity to drop one in for good measure. She hadn’t and he helped himself to a cup. Fingers crabbed around the lip, he threw it back like plebeian liquor. No point savoring something one can’t taste the subtleties of. And never mind how much time he’d wasted.
Oliver would be ready soon. It was time Edmund went to him. He wiped down the cup, returned it to its saucer, and folded the napkin so as to hide the faint, damp spot. Everything was set, imperfect, but set. And… he tarried.
Something in his nerves, something ineffable between anxious and eager. Edmund scoffed it up to uncertainty. He was fumbling to follow through with his original plan, to propitiate the royal. Everything came to founder on a poignant desire to be genuine, the quixotic notion that maybe-
He needed to go. There wasn’t time. Edmund forced his mind present and left to wait for Oliver, to escort him to the garden. Vacillation be damned.
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