The sun blinded Alchemilla as she entered the meadow. It was hidden deep in the forest, too deep for anyone to venture in without a reason. She didn’t mind the isolation, and if anything, it made her work easier. After her eyes adjusted, she took off her bag, opened it, and leaned it against a tree so she would have an easier time putting flowers in. The list pinned to her sleeve had gotten wet on the way over, so the last few lines were illegible, which meant she would have to come back for those later. It was inconvenient, but such was the life of a florist.
Hiking up her skirt, she stepped into knee-high grass and began to sift through flowers. Alchemilla had spent years researching each wildflower in the meadow yet was still unable to identify them all. Her sketchbook was filled with charcoal drawings of viper’s buglosses, trailing arbutuses, trout-lilies, and true forget-me-nots. She had experimented with watercolors, but the paint always seeped past the lines, destroying the art’s integrity.
The flowers were scattered all over, so she would have to spend a good portion of her foraging looking for them. Thankfully, this week’s list was short, and she already knew where those flowers were located. Purple bergamots were near the middle, which was a good place to start. On the way over, she could feel the blades of grass slicing her ankles. They never drew much blood, but they took a long time to heal because she would subconsciously scratch the scabs off. She’d tried wearing longer socks, but burrs caught on the fabric and were a hassle to remove. She preferred pain to tedious tasks.
Once she reached the center, she pulled out a petite pair of shears and got to work. She always made sure to cut to the bottom of the stem, so they’d be easier to bundle and bring back. After she finished with that section, she moved to the next flower on her list. She had started gathering mertensia when she sensed a presence nearby. There
