Orchid stood in the makeshift kitchen of the cellar, stirring a pot of watery soup over the small portable stove. The air was thick with humidity, and the faint scent of rot clung to the room no matter how much The Gardener insisted they clean. Her hands trembled as she moved the spoon in slow, deliberate circles.
The lavender dress she wore scratched at her skin, its lace collar too tight around her neck. The Gardener had chosen it for her, saying it matched her “essence.” Her hair, dyed a pale white-blonde, was tightly braided down her back, the style leaving her scalp sore.
Across the room, Azalea moved with calm precision, arranging mismatched dishes on the warped wooden table. “He likes everything to look perfect,” Azalea said softly, glancing at Orchid with a faint, almost pitying smile. “It’s important we keep him happy.”
From her seat in the corner, Camellia let out a bitter laugh. She was mending a torn dress, her scarred hands working clumsily with the needle and thread. “You mean keep him distracted,” she muttered. “So he doesn’t turn us into fertilizer.”
Orchid swallowed hard, focusing on the soup in front of her. The Gardener’s footsteps echoed down the hall before his tall figure appeared in the doorway. His boots clomped heavily against the concrete floor, the sound making Orchid’s grip on the spoon tighten.
“Ah, my beautiful flowers,” he said with a wide smile, his eyes sweeping the room. His gaze lingered on Orchid, sending a shiver down her spine. “Dinner smells wonderful, Orchid.”
She forced herself to meet his eyes and nodded stiffly. “Thank you,” she murmured, her voice quiet.
He clapped his hands together, his grin growing. “Let’s sit as a family tonight. I’ve had such a productive day, and I’d like to celebrate.” He gestured toward the table, and the girls exchanged wary glances before moving to obey.
As they sat, The Gardener placed a hand on Azalea’s shoulder, letting his fingers linger too long. “Azalea has been so cooperative,” he said, his tone filled with pride. “She understands what it means to truly thrive in the garden.”
Azalea beamed at his praise, her face glowing with something unsettlingly close to joy. Across from her, Camellia gripped her fork tightly, her knuckles turning white.
Later, as Orchid stood at the sink washing dishes, her mind churned with dread. Her hands trembled as she scrubbed a chipped plate, the soapy water stinging the cuts on her fingers.
Camellia appeared beside her, her voice low and urgent. “Listen to me, Orchid,” she said, her words sharp and fast. “You need to stop thinking this is just about playing his twisted little game.”
Orchid glanced at her, her pulse quickening. “What are you talking about?” she whispered.
Camellia leaned in closer, her scar catching the dim light. Her voice dropped lower, trembling with suppressed rage. “He doesn’t just want us to be his ‘flowers,’” she hissed. “He’ll break you, Orchid. He’ll… take you. Like he did to the others.”
Orchid froze, the plate slipping from her hands and shattering on the floor. The sound echoed through the room, making Azalea glance up from the corner. Her expression was unreadable, but her eyes followed them like a hawk.
“He hasn’t touched you yet because he likes to build his flowers first,” Camellia continued, her voice shaking. “But he will. You need to be ready.”
The Gardener’s voice called from the other room, cheerful and oblivious. “Orchid, what’s taking so long?”
Her hands trembling, Orchid bent down to pick up the shards of the broken plate. She forced herself to respond, her voice steady. “Coming!” she called, swallowing the lump in her throat.