Détente
What was once Sunday's Gardens were now reserved for him, the New Architect, and their Times. Rarely were there any visitors. It was a place of solace, for him to reflect on bitter failures, and the flowers' tranquility.
He was trimming a bush of blue roses. He'd bred this particular variety years- no, centuries- no, millennia- ago, as a present, back when Lord Sunday still gave them out. Now he knew no one deserved a gift from him.
Who had it been for? He couldn't remember.
"That's a beautiful flower."
He turned.
She smiled and waved. "The New Architect sent me by to deliver some papers to a certain Denizen, but I can't find him. Would you mind delivering this to him, please?" She held up a bound document. "Court summons."
"Oh. Have we met?"
She studied him for a moment, eyes inquisitive and bright blue, like his rose. He studied her in return, drinking in her long, electric, azure hair falling past her hips, the yellow umbrella she clutched in her other hand, and he recognized her. Since he'd shut himself in the Gardens, after the Will was broken, he'd only seen her twice- to curse Wednesday, and before she died.
Her face twisted as she, no doubt, realized who he was.
Sunday tore his gaze from Saturday and forced himself to look at the legal document. "Court Summons?"
"Yes, I suppose they're for you. They're for crimes against the Rightful Heir. The New Architect said-"
Sunday curled his lip. "Even after all this, you're still just an errand boy, nothing more. To Mother, to me, and now to Art…"
She scowled. "I am not an errand boy."
Sunday smirked. "Forgive me, O Supreme Sorcerer."
Saturday shoved the documents at him, forcing him to drop the clippers and grab them. Then she pivoted and began to stride away, long hair trailing out behind her.
Despite himself, Sunday cried, "Stop!"
She did, not because she wanted to- he wouldn't delude himself into believing that- but because he was still her superior, and he still had some remnant power in his voice.
Now he knew he had to be careful with his words, to make her turn around with any expression other than anger or disdain, which he knew she still harbored. For the first time in millennia, his tongue failed him, and he blurted, "Your hair's grown!"
"Hair does that."
"But… I mean, it used to be a bob, but not it's long. It suits you." He felt like a complete and total imbecile, something he'd never felt before.
He didn't like the feeling at all.
"What have I done to deserve compliments from the generous Lord Sunday?" she asked, mocking, not even turning her head.
"Why does anyone deserve anything?" he retorted.
"Oh, please. Spare me, philosopher." Now she turned, but only to glare at him. "May I go now?"
"Wait just a moment." On impulse, he set down the documents, picked up the clippers, and cut a rose. He handed it to her. "Here."
She plucked it from his fingers, and sniffed it. A peculiar expression flitted across her face, and she resumed walking away. "Thank you," she added over her shoulder. The words were subdued, half-strangled.
She didn't look back again.
Watching her walk away, clutching the clippers, memories of breeding the rose assailed Sunday. He'd bred them as a present…
But it can't have been for her, he thought. Surely, it was for someone else- anyone else! Surely, surely…
He was no longer certain.