#lutece

The afternoon was so appealing that even Rosalind had agreed that being shut indoors with their research was a waste. The sun was bright over the rooftops, a pleasant breeze carrying the occasional cloud across a brilliant blue sky. It was, in short, a perfect day: all the more perfect considering that those rooftops were floating thousands of feet in the air and that she had put them there.

Even the poorly hidden stares from their fellow citizens could not spoil it. She had once scolded a newspaperman who referred to them as “reclusive”, but the Luteces did keep their own company enough that their presence on the street drew notice. Identical twins were notable enough but famous identical twins, responsible for the very streets they walked on - not to mention their impeccable sense of style - gave the citizens of Columbia plenty to stare at.

And, as Robert had said while Rosalind straightened his tie before they left, “Imagine how much more they would stare if they knew how we spent the morning.” He had wrapped his arms around her waist and taken his last opportunity to kiss her until they returned home.

Until then, they had to settle for being arm in arm, Rosalind occasionally holding his elbow a little more firmly, reminding him of her presence. She did not catch his eye because if she did so she was likely to grin and she did not grin in public. Robert meanwhile could glance down at her and assume the detached smile he often did; no one need know the cause.

They slowed as they approached the florists, buckets of flowers filling the pavement outside, their scents mingling to an overwhelming, though not unappealing, perfume. Robert stooped to inspect them, sliding his arm out from Rosalind’s, his fingers grazing the inside of her elbow as he did. He pulled one stem from the display and held it to his lapel.

“Your thoughts please.”

“Not with that tie.” Popular opinion said that always dressed identically, another oversimplification by Columbia’s press that Rosalind had derided over the breakfast table. They dressed to complement each other, the sash around her waist the same green silk as his tie.

“You’re right,” he said, replacing the flower.

“As always.” She turned from the flowers; this decision could not be rushed. His knuckles grazed hers. In return, she flexed her fingers against his. That would have to do.

Across the way, a young couple read a menu outside a bistro. The woman had her arm through the man’s, his hand resting on hers, her head leaning towards his shoulder. Rosalind’s teeth ground against each other like screeching brakes.

“Mr. Lutece!” Rosalind looked back to see who was speaking. “And Madame Lutece too. As one would expect, of course. An honour.” A man stood in the entrance of the shop, a green apron over his clothes.

“My sister and I could not resist such a fine day.” Robert raised the bloom he was assessing. “And I find myself in need of flowers.”

The florist looked at the flower and his eyes disappeared with his smile.

“Now I must say that that is a fascinating choice!” Robert was nonplussed - he looked to Rosalind for explanation but, on this rare occasion, she had none either.

“I thought it brought out–” but the man cut across him.

“Perhaps you are aware of the language of flowers?” The concept was not unfamiliar to either Lutece. In one world, Robert’s fellow students had regularly fallen foul of the messages they had inadvertently sent in bouquets to girls they were courting; in another, Rosalind witnessed those same girls sobbing in the common room over bunches of yellow roses.

“‘There’s rosemary, that’s for remembrance’ and all that?” he offered. Rosalind’s foot tapped impatiently behind a bucket of hyacinths.

“Yes indeed - but this one is much more interesting. Whoever is to receive them - she’s a lucky woman indeed!”

Rosalind’s foot stopped tapping.

“Ah, you mistake –” Robert started but the florist continued, his eyes bright and blinded by his own enthusiasm for the subject.

“After all, Mr. Lutece, you are a very eligible man, no doubt you have your pick of young ladies…and your sister can’t expect to keep you all to herself.”

The stench of the mingled flowers caught in the back of Rosalind’s throat. Robert’s jovial tone dropped away.

“And what does this flower mean precisely?”

“That Mr. Lutece is a red gardenia - for secret love.” The florist had the audacity to wink at him. Rosalind had thought it was a rather pleasing plant until this moment when she realised it was the ugliest flower she had ever seen. The inner corners of her eyes prickled, no doubt from being next to all these awful flowers.

The back of Robert’s hand pressed against hers.

“And what would not secret love be?”

“Beg your pardon?” The florist’s smile faltered.

“If this love were not a secret?” Robert continued. Rosalind dared to look up at him. He still had his easy, relaxed expression but the sharp, serious eyes she usually saw looking back at her from the mirror.

“Well” –the man exhaled– “anything red. Roses, of course, but that’s rather old hat - a red camellia, that’s ‘you’re a flame in my heart’. Carnations are ‘deep love’, tulips, ‘passion’. And baby’s breath is ‘everlasting love.’”

“I shall take them.”

“Excuse me?”

“Put that together as a bouquet. All the most unsecret loves you have.”

“Robert,” murmured Rosalind.

“Who knew, dear sister, that one could say with flowers what one cannot say out loud?”

The florist, in his obliviousness, put together a terrific display. After all, he was the first in the city to know that Mr. Robert Lutece had a mysterious paramour and that was gossip one could dine out on. He presented the flowers to Robert for his approval.

“Almost as beautiful as the woman they are for.” Robert took them from the florist, who was already thinking of a shortlist of plausible recipients. “Perhaps my sister would assist me in carrying them home?” He looked deep into her eyes, blue like the skies she had put a city in, blue like his own, and handed her the bouquet.

“I shall keep an eye out for the lady who receives them,” said the florist.

“You won’t have to look hard, I’m sure.”

The sun was beginning to dip beneath the clouds they walked among. Rosalind had one arm around her brother’s, the other, holding her flowers. 

“People will think that these are for me.”

“Good. They are.”

“I mean that people will wonder who gave them to me.” Robert stopped and faced his not-twin. The street was quiet. He dared to stroke her cheek.

“Well. Your brother can’t expect to keep you all to himself.”