My entry for the Flower Language Challenge at Writers Anonymous. I got the dandelion, which represents happiness and cheerfulness (among other things) and make a small appearance in this story. Also inspired by my own disastrous encounter with poison ivy earlier this year.
To the anonymous reviewer who asked for a chapter where Miss Peregrine and Abe talk about Jake after he's born, I hope you can be patient, but I am planning to write it!
Fiona pursed her lips and shifted where she sat on the floor of Hugh and Millard's room. She'd suggested all sorts of games to Hugh – jacks, go fish, I spy – and each time, she offered to let him go first, but he only scowled and shook his head, still grouchy. He had been grouchy, in fact, ever since he went for a walk yesterday, looking for a new spot to air out his bees, and inadvertently wandered right through a patch of poison ivy. Later that day, the red rash blossomed across his legs like a weed, and before Miss Peregrine could stop him, Hugh scratched it up and made it worse.
He scratched the sores again now, and even though Miss Peregrine had told the other children to stop him if they saw him doing that, Fiona didn't have the heart. Hugh was one of her favorite playmates, and she'd never seen him so miserable. Unhappiness was a rare emotion for children living in a time-loop, where nothing really bad ever happened – nothing that Miss Peregrine couldn't fix.
Hugh scratched his legs a moment longer, then relaxed his hand and rubbed instead, like Miss Peregrine had told him to. He looked over his bare legs – clothes made him itch worse, so he wasn't wearing shoes or socks – and sighed again. Fiona was pleasantly surprised when he suddenly smiled for the first time all day, but her spirits fell when he spoke.
"Fiona, once my rash is all gone," he told her brightly, as if he were delivering good news, "I'll take you out to where the poison ivy was, so you can kill it."
It hadn't occurred to Fiona that Hugh would want her to kill the poison ivy, and she froze for a moment, considering this... but she dismissed it right away. "I can't kill plants, Hugh," she explained, shaking her head at him. "My peculiarity only works for growing them."
"You've never even tried it," Hugh huffed, his brief good mood blown out like a candle in the wind. "You could do it if you tried."
Fiona knew that she probably could do it, but she would never bring herself to. Growing plants was second nature to her, and no matter how often she did it – and she did it every day – it always gave her a little thrill of excitement, like a part of her was growing along with the plant. She loved making leaves stretch up towards the sun, making colorful flowers burst open, making delicate seedlings poke up through the dark soil. It made her feel like a magician or the leader of an orchestra, ushering something new and beautiful into the world.
But it was hard to explain that feeling to Hugh, whose peculiarity was so different. "I couldn't kill a plant, Hugh," she said slowly. "I just c–"
"But poison ivy deserves to die!" Hugh burst out angrily, interrupting her. "Just look what it did!" He gestured to his legs, to the spots where the rash was at its worst, oozing puss and covered in blisters. "Besides," he added, smirking triumphantly at her, "Miss P will make you do it, and then you'll have to."
Fiona chewed on the end of her braid, worrying now. What if Hugh was right, and Miss Peregrine did want her to kill the poison ivy? She tried to imagine forcing the green vines wither, rather than flourish. What would that feel like? Would she be able to sense the life seeping out of the ivy as it died? Would she hear it begging her for mercy?
"She will not," Fiona said quickly, trying to convince herself more than Hugh.
"Sure she will," Hugh sneered. "She won't want anyone else getting into it, will she? So she'll make you kill it."
A cold, clammy feeling crept across Fiona's skin, and she took a deep breath, trying to quell it. The very first, most important rule of living in Miss Peregrine's house was that you had to do what she told you. Disobeying her was almost unthinkable... but so was killing a plant.
Just thinking about it unsettled her so much that she got up from the floor and ran out of Hugh and Millard's room. She started downstairs – and nearly collided with Miss Peregrine, who was coming up with another bottle of calamine lotion to check on Hugh. The tall, dark shape of her seemed even darker in the dim light of the hall, and for a moment, Fiona thought she could understand why some of the village children were scared of Miss Peregrine. But in the next moment, it was gone again; after all, being scared of Miss Peregrine was too silly for words.
"Miss P, do I have to kill that poison ivy? I don't have to, do I?" Fiona's words tumbled out of her in a rush. "Hugh said I'd have to. He said I could do it if I tried, and maybe I could, but I really can't – I mean, I don't–"
Miss Peregrine put one hand on her shoulder, cutting her off. "Now, Fiona," she said firmly, "don't work yourself up over nothing. I would never expect you to use your peculiarity in a way you didn't want to."
Fiona let out a huge breath that she didn't realize she'd been holding, and her legs wobbled, nearly going out from under her. She wrapped both arms around Miss Peregrine's waist and leaned heavily against her, weak with relief. She could keep on growing plants, and she would never find out what it felt like to kill one.
Miss Peregrine smiled and cupped the back of her head, then moved one hand to her shoulder and picked up the end of Fiona's braid, which was still damp from being in her mouth. "Hmm, Hugh must've gotten to you, I think, for you to be chewing on your hair."
"Well, he was awfully cranky. He said I had to kill the poison ivy."
Miss Peregrine pursed her lips, considering. Ordinarily, she would punish Hugh for making such a comment – her children all knew very well that she was the only one who gave orders in their house – but ordinarily, he wouldn't have said it at all. That rash was getting to the poor boy's head. She had checked on him regularly last night, to put more lotion on his legs and make sure he didn't scratch himself bloody in his sleep.
"He's probably going to stay cranky until his rash clears up," she said, rubbing Fiona's back, "but he doesn't mean any of it. It's just because he's so uncomfortable. I want you to be patient with him, all right?"
Fiona nodded. "I will, Miss P," she said, cheerful again. "I'll go grow some dandelions for his bees. They like those." And she skipped downstairs and outside to her garden.
In Hugh's room, Miss Peregrine had him sit beside her on his bed, and she drew his bare legs into her lap. She looked them over closely – closer than she really needed to, but she knew it made Hugh feel better that if he had to have poison ivy, at least it meant getting more attention from Miss Peregrine.
"Hugh, I know you want Fiona to kill that poison ivy," she said as she opened the bottle and started applying the lotion to his legs. She kept it in the ice-box in the kitchen when they weren't using it, so that it would feel cooling against his skin. "And it probably is a good idea to get rid of it before somebody else steps in it."
"Will she do it, Miss P?" he asked eagerly.
Her black eyes gave him a quick glance – one of her falcon motions – then looked back down at his legs. "No, she doesn't want to." Hugh let out an exasperated sigh, but before he could complain, she went on, "Hugh, listen to me. I would never ask any of you to use your peculiarity in a way you didn't want. Now, if you want that poison ivy gone, I don't see any reason why you can't do it yourself – once this rash has cleared up."
Hugh tilted his head at her, brow furrowed. "But... but plants are Fiona's peculiarity, Miss P, not mine."
"Yes, and fire is Olive's, but if she ever didn't want to start a fire for us, I'm sure you could use a match and start one yourself, just as well as she could."
Hugh blinked, considering this. He could strike a match or a lighter just like anyone else, of course, but he'd been living with Olive for so long that this had never really occurred to him before.
"I remember reading a recipe for weed-killer in the newspaper," Miss Peregrine went on, her voice brisk again. "It was... ah, dish soap, vinegar, and salt, I think. I'm sure you could make some."
She paused, then chuckled a bit at the smile spreading across Hugh's face. "Well, I'm glad to see you found your smile again, Hugh," she teased him, ruffling his brown hair. "Here I was starting to think you must've dropped it in that poison ivy patch."
"I could make that!" Hugh exclaimed. He suddenly felt silly for ever thinking that only Fiona could kill a plant. He could make weed-killer himself, and he would ask Millard to help him, and it would even be fun – like getting revenge on the poison ivy. "I'll make it as soon as my rash gets better. How much longer till it gets better, Miss P?" He looked up at her, more convinced than ever that his ymbryne knew everything.
Miss Peregrine was wiping calamine lotion from her hands with a handkerchief. "It varies for different people," she said, studying his legs again, "but you're only in for two or three more days of it, I think. I know that feels like a long time right now, but it'll be over soon." She rubbed his back, and he looked reassured – almost himself again.
Miss Peregrine never said so, of course, but privately, she was grateful for these little storms of trouble that passed through their loop sometimes. They were never anything serious – an occasional sprain when one of them played too rough or fell while tree-climbing, the ingrown toenail that Hugh got now and then, the ear infection that Emma was prone to. When Fiona caught head-lice eight years ago, Miss Peregrine had known right away, but she'd pretended not to notice until it worsened and spread to a few of the other children. It was uncomfortable for them – and a lot of work for her, who had to carefully comb out their hair and wash it in the kitchen sink with special shampoo – but it was worth it to get them to that sweet afterglow period. Happiness that the trouble was over always lasted longer than the trouble itself, and that helped break up the monotony of living in a time-loop. Miss Peregrine was grateful for anything that made her children feel content instead of bored, rested instead of restless. It could be dangerous if children grew too bored with a loop and became reckless. Victor's death had proven that in the worst way.
Miss Peregrine looked at Hugh's red-splotched skin, and she knew that what she'd said was true, that it would clear up in a few days. But she wished in her heart that it would last a little longer.