"Good morning, Don John," Benedick chirps, his grin growing as the scowl forms on the other man's face.

Don John pauses in his duties mucking out the stables to give him a freezing glare.

"Brrr," Benedick mimes a shiver, "Is there a frost in the air or — no, that is just you."

Don John looks at him then the pitchfork he wields in his hands. Benedick acknowledges the implied threat but is assured the man's self-interest outweighs his temper. In the month since Don John was handed over to him, Benedick has learned how far he can poke the beast before it bites. But the baring of teeth instils little fear when one holds the leash.

"Your brother has written asking how you fare in our service, if you are abiding us as you should and not causing trouble." He watches Don John for a reaction but the man refuses to take the bait. "I shall inform him what a capable shoveller of shit you have proven." Don John's face twitches but remains impassive, accustomed to Benedick's goading. "Is there any message you would like me to send back to him?"

"Nothing polite enough for parchment."

Benedick's grin widens. It is becoming less and less disconcerting to realise that, were their circumstances different, he might like this man. "Very well. I shall leave you to carry on with your work and disturb you no longer."

Don John mutters something under his breath that sounds like "If only."

Benedick pauses in his departure, pretending as if he has just remembered. "Oh, and I have a letter for you too."

Don John's eyes narrow, seeing straight-through Benedick's pantomime. "Burn it."

"If that is how you feel…" Benedick withdraws the letter from his pocket and fans himself with it. "I shall tell my sweet cousin not to waste her ink."

Don John tenses, eyes snapping to the letter like a starved dog being shown a steak. Benedick watches in fascination as the internal struggle plays out on his face, fighting (and failing) to conceal how badly he wants it.

They might have remained in this stand-off the whole morning if a gust of wind didn't snatch the letter from Benedick's hand. "Blast!"

Don John lunges, catching it before it can land in the dung pile. He clutches it to his chest before noticing Benedick and going rigid.

Benedick flashes him a smile and — in an act of true benevolence that Beatrice should commend him for — does not comment, shrugging his shoulders. "Ah well, that is all. You have your duties to attend to and I… have a wife to adore." He takes his leave, calling over his shoulder, "I shall give your love to your brother."

He receives a grunt in response. Benedick isn't convinced he hasn't taken a wild animal into his service the way the other man communicates in grunts and snarls. But his chipper disposition aside, Don John has not been the trouble Benedick thought he would be. The other staff report him withdrawn but not uncivil. Though he is assigned the grottiest, most menial tasks that Benedick and Beatrice can devise, they do not receive the objections expected of someone called a prince (in some parts). There are, of course, a few snide remarks but Benedick receives the worst of his insolence; Don John's supervisors are quite complementary of his performance. Benedick has nothing truly bad to report to Don Pedro.

When he proposed to the Prince that he give his half-brother over into his service, Don Pedro had raised an eyebrow but made no protest. He seemed relieved to be rid of the conniving — uh, well — trusting Benedick to be his warden and exact a fair punishment. Thus, Benedick had returned to his estate in Padua with both a wife and a prince in tow. (It is difficult to say what shocked the staff more).

The Prince had warned Benedick to watch his half-brother closely and not to trust his word ("Duh."), but Don John has been no cause of discontent nor attempted an escape. Benedick might go as far as to call him "boring" if he were not conscious of letting his guard down. They have had their sport with him but, as Beatrice says, it has begun to feel like kicking a sad dog. It seems Don John has lost his appetite for evildoing and Benedick has his suspicions for the cause of that but he will share them with none save his wife.

Speaking of, Beatrice greets him as he reaches the house, halting all other thoughts with the smile which lights across her face — Prometheus would gnaw his own liver in envy for there is no fire that can outshine her.

"So, have you given him the letter?"

Her words stall Benedick in admiring her. "What is that, my sweet belladonna?"

Beatrice rolls her eyes but she looks amused, fingers hooking in the lapels of his coat. "Did you deliver dear Hero's letter to Don John?"

"He has it now. What he shall do with it is for him to decide." Her lips purse and he reads the disquiet in her perfect features. "You are perturbed, my love. I need not have given him the letter."

She shakes her head as if tossing away a bad thought. "Hero asked that he receive it and I would never refuse her. But… I am unsure what will come of it."

"Have you any clue as to the letter's contents?"

"No. But… he is her soulmate…"

This is not news to Benedick, who was there when Claudio recoiled from Hero and refused to accept the tainted fruit despite Leonato's entreaties. That she shared a soul-bond with another man was no issue; everyone knows the bond between husband and wife is greater. But that her soul is tied with one as polluted and hateful as Don John the Bastard was intolerable to Claudio. He gave his pardon but he could not — would not — knit himself to her, to them.

In flustered desperation, Leonato had called upon the vow he swore before the Friar to marry Hero and even Don Pedro seemed inclined to command Claudio to honour his word when the lady herself intervened. She was huddled in her cousin's arms, a bedraggled thing in her sodden wedding gown. Yet though her skin was wet and pale, she did not shiver as she spoke.

"If Count Claudio's heart is unwilling, I shall not demand it of him. He has restored me my honour and in return I shall absolve him of his vow."

"NO. Daughter." Her father scurried to her side, but Beatrice positioned herself between them.

Hero did not glance at him but fixed her gaze on Claudio. "I trust, my lord, that being a man of honour, though you do not take me for your wife, you will speak of me with kindness and defend my virtue to any who question it. As I shall do for you."

"Uh — Of course!" Claudio was quick to seize on an escape, remembering courtesy in the process. "Lady, you are a… a true pearl. I shall always treasure the time we have had together bu-but you would not want a soldier for a husband. I—I would oft be gone on long campaigns and I… I fear the separation would… wear on your spirit. You would… long for a… uh… companion whose allegiance was to no higher cause than yourself. And so you deserve."

Remarkable that Claudio thought of this then but Hero returned a polite smile and the matter was resolved. Leonato stooped defeated and might have slunk off to the wine cellar if Benedick hadn't chosen then to propose to Beatrice, re-enlivening the cheer until everyone forgot they had come for another wedding.

Benedick himself had been so swept-up in the euphoria of Beatrice agreeing to be his wife, he had not reflected on the fate of Don John — who had been hauled away and likely imprisoned somewhere. Only when Hero approached him, rubbing her rue-speckled wrists, did he remember. It was owing to her soft-spoken plea that he asked for Don John to be given over to him. She trusted him to be merciful in his punishment and how could he refuse her with the blue flush of hyacinths still evident on her face.

"Whatever the letter's contents, it is between them," Benedick tells his wife, arms circling her waist. "Little harm can come of it when he is here and she is in Messina. Ease your mind or allow me to distract it."

He leans down, kissing the side of her jaw.

She laughs, hands folding around his neck. "You speak wisdom, husband."

Benedick pulls back. "That is worrisome."

Beatrice grins and nips his lips before taking his hand and tugging him into the house. "Come, let us see what distractions we can devise."

:-x-:

Don John waits until Benedick is gone then shoves the letter into his pocket in spite of the voice urging him to read it now. He carries on with his work, hoping he will forget about it.

He does not. The letter burns in his pocket the whole day, but it is not until the sun has set that he allows himself to take it out. He settles inside the stables — he shares quarters with the other servants and he does not want them inquiring after the letter — and unseals the wax.

He hesitates. He has tried to put Hero out of his mind this past month even as he checks his skin daily for new marks. He knows she didn't marry Claudio but she never sought him out afterwards and then he was sent-off to Padua with Benedick and his formidable bride (who has not forgiven his role in her cousin's downfall). This is their first exchange since the prison.

He clenches his jaw and opens the letter. From it falls a press of lavender and chamomile. Surprised, he collects the dried stems from the straw-strewn floor, gathering them in his hand before looking at the letter. The parchment carries on it the fragrance of the flowers… and something else, evocative of its author. Hero's handwriting echoes her voice in its neat lettering and elegant curls, and as he reads he hears her.

Don John,

Beatrice tells me you are well. No, in truth, she tells me you are morose but given that is much your nature she assures me I need not be afeard. I trust my cousins are causing you no great melancholy and though they may amuse themselves at your expense, they are not cruel.

It is quiet in Messina. All our guests are gone. We have had no more visitors and no excitement, which is a relief in some ways and a bane in others. Though I am sure you must resent your circumstance, I confess, I am envious. You are amongst the best of people while I have only my own company to occupy myself. Walking has become my main pastime. Did you get the chance to appreciate the views while you were here? The landscape is beautiful. It was on such an outing that I picked these flowers.

What flowers grow in Padua? If perchance you choose to read this and if perchance you decide to respond, I would like to know.

With regards,

Hero

He reads it through twice more. It is an odd, rambling letter with an abrupt end and no reason given for why she has written it. He folds it, slipping it back into his pocket, and stares at the flowers in his hands, trying to divine their meaning.

It occurs to him, on his trudge back to the servants' lodgings that this may be a prank by the lord and lady of the house. Hero has never written to him before, why should she now?

He reads the letter again, trying to find proof of this theory, but all he hears is her. He can see her walking along a grass path, pausing to admire the wildflowers, her fingers reaching out to stroke their petals — and what about this stirred her to send them to him?

He folds the lavender and chamomile into the letter, then hides it in the trunk at the foot of his bed where he keeps his few belongings. He shuts the lid and shoves it from his mind. But when he drops his head upon his pillow, the smell of lavender chases him into his dreams.

The next day, as Don John is walking from the stables, his gaze catches on the thornbush which winds around the fence, roses blooming amongst its tangle of briars. He curses as he scratches himself upon the thorns and wishes his knife had not been confiscated as he snaps the stem of a rose, pulling it free from the thicket.

He steals back to the stables, acquiring a tool to cut the thorns until the stem is smooth and no risk to anyone. He holds it out, considering the pretty, pink bud.

His other hand closes around it, ripping off its petals and scattering them across the ground.

"Hell!" He throws the stem aside and slumps to the ground, pressing his fists to his eyes.

His head thunks against the wooden post behind him and he exhales, opening his eyes. He stares at the tattered petals strewn across the floor, gaze landing on the broken stem with a single petal still clinging to it.

"Damn me."

There are more scratches on his hand by the time he sits down to write.

:-x-:

Hero has almost forgotten the pricks of lavender that have appeared and faded from her hand when the letter arrives with the pressed rose inside. She draws it out, looking it over in wonder, its pale petals rumpled and browning.

Her stomach has shrivelled like an overripe citrus fruit in the fortnight since she sent her letter to Don John. Now she feels the oversweet juices trickling through her veins to her pounding heart as she observes the unfamiliar scrawl.

"How is our dear Beatrice?" Antonio asks, looking at the letter in her hand with an expectant smile.

Hero freezes and looks at her uncle, stashing the rose and letter in her lap. "Well."

"Did you not receive a letter from her the other day?" Her father inquires from the other end of the table.

"Yes," Hero's eyes widen and she tries to hide her nerves behind a pastry. "But you know Beatrice, she cannot wait for my reply to share with me the latest gossip. The words build-up and up in her head until her skull is liable to explode if she does not put her thoughts to paper."

As she speaks, she squeezes the pastry causing jam to dribble out as if to reinforce her point. Her father hums his acceptance and returns to reading his own correspondence. Hero stuffs the rest of her breakfast into her mouth, chewing quickly.

When she is finished, she jumps from her chair, excusing herself as casually as she can manage then scurries outside into the garden. She walks through the hedgerows, the letter and rose clutched in her hand, settling on a bench out of sight. Her lungs flutter with the hitch of her breath as she unfolds the letter.

Hero,

You are full of surprises. I assumed I would hear no more from you. Be assured, your cousin does not lie. I am alive and in health. She has not left me to rot in a dungeon where I can torment her sweet cousin no longer. Though if Benedick's jests inflicted the same anguish upon the body that they do on the ear, I would have dropped dead long before I reached Padua.

You call me morose. I own it. For what reason have I to smile? Banished as I am into another's service. If you envy my position, I would gladly trade, for Messina's quiet shores seem infinitely preferable to my new master's crowing. Even more so now my most noble half-brother has departed them. But I doubt I will receive another welcome. I regret that I failed to appreciate all Messina had to offer when I was there.

Thank you for the lavender and chamomile. Their fragrance covers the onslaught of fetid smells I am subjected to working in the stables. As for Padua, the count has neglected his garden and it is overrun with weeds. But I have enclosed a wild rose. Its beauty you may enjoy without fear of the thorns.

Don John

Hero lays the letter in her lap and looks ahead. The garden is bathed in the summer-glow, the flowerbeds bursting with colour; reds, yellows, purples. Her fingers smooth along the letter's sides, tracing the creases in the parchment, and she bites her lip.

:-x-:

When the second letter is delivered, Don John's pulse stumbles as he recognises the handwriting on the outside and something he hadn't noticed was clinched in his chest now unravels. He berates himself for it and almost tosses the letter in the water-trough out of spite. But he doesn't.

Once again he shoves it into his pocket, ignoring it for as long as he is able. But after he has shared his supper with the other servants, he excuses himself back to the stables. The horses lift their heads at his approach, some whinnying as if hoping for a second feeding, but all he does is pet their noses. Despite his griping in Benedick's presence, Don John enjoys working in the stables. He has always preferred animals to people; horses don't care what blood is in your veins. As long as you respect them and bring them fresh oats, you will be their favourite.

He lights a candle, the stables dark though the scarlet sun still crests the horizon. He sits on a stool and withdraws the letter. A hundred barbed thoughts rake through his mind, imagining what offence she may have taken from his response, from the rose, and what repulse she will give him now. His hands tremor and he grits his jaw. He never used to be a coward. (But then he never used to be the sort of villain who would besmirch an innocent lady).

He tears open the letter with a force he is almost made to regret and out from it something falls. He picks up the pressed flower from his lap, admiring its purple petals. He tries to recollect a flower that looked like this in the old book he used to study. It is not a violet. An iris perhaps?

He reads the letter.

Dear Don John,

His pulse hammers.

I have enclosed a sprig of larkspur for joy. I hope it may alleviate some of your moroseness. Though not all, as the sudden loss may be shock enough to kill you.

He bites the inside of his cheek.

I am pleased you are in health. You work in the stables, how is it? I confess horses frighten me. When I was a child, my uncle took me to feed them. They are such huge creatures, I was afraid they would bite off my fingers. My fear unsettled them and one nipped me.

Don John touches his fingers, stretching his mind back in an effort to recall a time when flowers sprouted there. He has a murky recollection of such a mark appearing the same time as his mother's illness became serious — he shuts that red-hot memory out of his head and re-focuses on the letter.

After that, I never dared go near a horse again. Beatrice is fearless and loves to ride, but I refused to learn. It was one of the few things we did not share. At least with my feet on the ground I am better placed to appreciate the flowers.

Do not be so quick to dismiss those blooms that others call weeds merely because they are wild and defiant. I find there is much to be admired in their resilience. To rise again after one's destruction is a strength I wish I possessed.

I thank you for the rose but please be assured I have no fear of the thorns. They are part of the charm.

With kindness,

Hero

Don John's brow is puckered as he reaches the end of the letter and remains so after he has read it again. This time he does not wait to respond, his fingers twitching for parchment and ink as he tucks the letter and larkspur into his breast pocket.

:-x-:

Hero stifles a smile as she spies Don John's handwriting on the letter given to her alongside her latest correspondence from Beatrice. She waits until she is seated at her bedroom window to read it. The sunlight pours onto the parchment, making the ink shimmer.

Hero,

You were considerate to send the larkspur. I did feel a twinge of mirth. But fear not, it has not proved fatal.

As you express a fondness for weeds, I have included a press of wild violets, the fairest of pariahs. I too respect a fellow rebel. However, your cousin does not share our sentiments and has declared war on the garden. For all their resilience, I wager the weeds shall succumb to your cousin's will. Were she a man, she would have made an excellent General.

Work in the stables is dirty and taxing, but I am no stranger to this labour. It will not astonish you to learn that my devilish doings date back to my misspent youth, when I often served in the palace stables as punishment for my misconduct. I am comfortable with horses and find their company more agreeable than most people's.

It surprises me you are frightened of them, though I understand your reasons. You seem as if you could enchant all manner of beasts to your will, like a fair maiden in a tapestry, calling lions, wolves, and unicorns to your side. Horses are loyal, gentle creatures and I believe one would bring you joy. I hope you overcome this fear. I know you have the courage. You confronted the villainous Don John the Bastard, what cannot you do?

Sincerely,

Don John

Hero's hands are trembling as she finishes the letter. She floats across to her bed and falls back onto it, clutching the letter and violets to her chest. She sighs and inside her the leaves of a creeping vine shiver.

:-x-:

Dear Don John,

I thank you for the violets. They will be treasured here if not in Padua. Alas, poor weeds. If it is a match of their stubborn wills then you are correct and dear Beatrice will conquer. But you should share your praise with her, I know she would be pleased to be called General, and perhaps she would be open to your battle strategies.

It does not surprise me to discover the mischief of your youth and I am more amazed no trouble has been reported in the two months since you have been in service to my cousins. I am teasing, of course, but I wonder if perhaps you have found a contentment in Padua that you could not elsewhere? I hope this is so. I wish it could have found you sooner. I have sent you jasmine, whose sweet scent will be a comfort. I wish I had known you in your youth.

Lions? Wolves? You describe me like the sorceress Circe from the ancient myths. I assure you, I am no enchantress. Though you would believe I could turn men into pigs from how people now avoid me and whisper as I pass. You praise my courage but I do not feel it is earned. Perhaps I shall take to horses, for these days I too would rather be in their company than most people's. Tell me, what are the horses in your stable called?

Warm regards,

Hero

:-x-:

Dear Hero,

Content is far from what I feel and yet the malice I once glutted myself on is now loathsome to my appetite. Like an assassin, who has built his immunity to poison with careful doses over numerous years, only to undo his hard-work in one careless night by drinking too much and making himself sick so that he can no longer stomach a drop. There is still much anger in me, but I do not have to feed it.

You knew this. When you visited me in the prison, I urged you to unleash the full torrent of your rage upon me but you refused. You said cruelty would give you no satisfaction, however rightly I had earned your scorn. I could not understand it then and still your kindness bewilders me, but that is your strength, Hero. Those of us who drink our poison are weaker for it. Do not allow the narrow minds of fools to batter your courage. You who rose from the dead and proclaimed your innocence before all. You are more resilient than you believe and lovelier than they see.

As for the claim that you are not an enchantress, in this too you underestimate yourself. Though, I concede you do not turn men into pigs. I did that well enough myself. I too wish I could have known you sooner, I would have been better for it.

Here, I have provided an account of all our horses and their names. There is Petruchio, a great chestnut stallion named after the late count's father and said to share his shrewish temperament. The only person he allows to ride him is your cousin, whose will is equal to his own. Then we have a sleek black mare named Queen Mab…

Hero smiles as she reads through all of Don John's descriptions, laughing when she reaches the section about Bottom the donkey. She can sense his genuine affection for the animals from the depth of detail he goes into and a soft pleasure flourishes inside her.

There is a dried peony enclosed in the letter and she cradles it, fingers running over its pink petals as she reads again his words. It is strange how her slanderer has since become one of her closest advocates. As if there is some transforming magic in the flowers they exchange.

If so, they are both caught in the spell as she is compelled to write letter after letter, her floor littered with crumpled drafts, ink staining her fingers black, pleading with Ursula for more supplies, the daylight fading as she scribbles her response, searching for the right words, shadows flickering across the parchment, candles burning down to their wicks, dripping wax as her eyes ache from the strain. Then the sending and the waiting and the worrying, watching every day for the post even though it is too soon, too soon. Then as the week drags on and the moon wanes so do her spirits, a trembling building through her veins, lungs clenching as if something were squeezing them, and she wonders if this time there will be no reply.

Then, at last, a response and it is all she can do to stifle her excitement as she hides it in the folds of her skirt to be read later, away from curious eyes. How her heart beats faster in those moments, racing the seconds until she is alone and unfolding the parchment and there are his words written in that familiar refined yet rebellious scrawl. She traces the letters, lingers on the way he shapes her name, Hero. But more than that, Dear Hero. The ink is darker here, as if he pressed his quill to the parchment with force.

She places the peony with the rest of her collection and hides the letters in a box she keeps under her bed, separated from the rest of her correspondence, where no one else will find them, and she can easily reach for them at night. She has told no one of her communications with Don John. Not even Beatrice, since she asked her to play pigeon for that first letter. Now, she posts her letters direct to Don John, pretending they too are for her cousin and no one is the wiser (except for the messenger boy, who is too fond of sweets from the kitchen to spread rumours about her). Sometimes she thinks Beatrice suspects, hinting at Don John in her own letters. But, in this, Hero will not satisfy her.

She doesn't know how she would explain herself; why she keeps writing to Don John, again and again, or the smile that forms on her face when she reads his letters. How she pauses on her walks to consider each new flower she passes, imagining his reaction. The glow that warms her chest when her thoughts stray to him, how her pulse quickens and her stomach flutters. As much as she misses Beatrice, she is relieved her shrewd cousin is not around to inquire at her odd behaviour. Hero cannot explain it to herself.

Don John's letters, and those from Beatrice, are amongst the few things that bring her a real smile these days. Though summer's warmth still lingers, Messina feels barren, bereft, as if it were already winter. Sitting on the hillside, as the long grass tickles her calves, watching as the cerulean waves break against the rocks below in white-foam bursts, the smell of sea and salt wafting up to her as the cormorants crow overhead, it is the loneliest she has ever felt. Even when her mother died, she had Beatrice to wrap her in her arms. Now her sister-cousin is far-away in Padua and Hero is happy for her, so happy for her. But she misses her too.

Margaret was dismissed from the household despite being an unwitting pawn in Don John and Borachio's scheming. Antonio ensured she received respectable employment elsewhere but Hero misses her companion. It is not the same with just Ursula; Hero loves the gentlewoman but she is more of a chaperone than a friend. She doesn't make the sort of jokes that Beatrice and Margaret used to and will chastise Hero if she attempts them.

Her uncle is ever jovial and does all he can to make her laugh, but he has his duties that keep him occupied and Hero is glad for it. She doesn't want him to notice how false her cheer has become.

As for her father, there is a distance between them that wasn't there before. He is not cold or unkind, but she can sense his disappointment — with her, with circumstance. They remain well-respected in Messina but their favour is not sought as it once was. They no longer receive callers or invites in the numbers that they used to and when they do attend there are murmurings and furtive stares.

Claudio's true reason for refusing her is known only to a few, for which she is grateful; even if it does leave her open to speculation. This bond between her and Don John is private (sacred), not for the world and their whispering tongues.

She traces the speckled blossoms across her palms. When she discovered he was her soulmate, she had not welcomed it, distraught as she was. But now?

She bunches her hands in her skirt, trapping them between her knees as she looks down the cliffside to the crashing surf, hearing again his words as if they were a caress against her ear — "...that is your strength, Hero… you are more resilient than you believe… and lovelier than they see…"

Now, he is her only tether in a tumultuous sea. A fixed light, guiding her through the violent, dark waters. He is the only one who understands. And she understands him better for it. When they do meet again, she will not fear to approach him as she did before. When they do meet again, she will tell him everything she cannot write.

:-x-:

Dear Don John,

I am pleased you no longer drink of that poisoned chalice. Now the healing can begin…

:-x-:

The letters go back-and-forth between them, passing from north to south, carried in messengers' satchels, and placed into eagerly awaiting hands.

Dear Don John…

Dear Hero…

...I forget Italian is not your first language, your writing is very natural. My Spanish is far from as good but I have attempted some here. I hope it does not offend your eyes…

In fact, my mother was Italian, and so it is in all senses my mother-tongue. I have made some notes of improvement, but it is a good start. Write more if you desire practice, I will assist…

...Then you are one of us. Where in Italy did your mother hail from?…

If you can ask me in the proper Spanish, I will tell you…

...Were your own tutors as patient with your mistakes as you are with mine?…

No…

They continue to send each other flowers. Honeysuckles, cornflowers, zinnias, orchids, and sweet peas are all exchanged until autumn comes and the bright bulbs disappear under the warm leaf-scattered earth to sleep until spring.

Their letters continue.

I will spare you what I caught your cousin and her husband doing against the stables but know that I, and the horses, are scarred…

...Your poor abused eyes. But though I beg no details, I am pleased my cousin remains happily in love. She almost refused him to stay with me in Messina and I could not have forgiven myself if she had…

I have never known a married couple more sickeningly in love. They adore each other with as much ardour as they once scorned one another. But I understand your cousin's plight. To leave you would be no easy choice…

...Their love has faced its trials but overcame in the end. I think that must be the mark of true love, one that can endure strife and struggle, to know each other's deepest flaws and still love, still trust. I am glad Beatrice has it. I miss her greatly, as I know she misses me, but she shone too bright to remain in quiet Messina, and it is not as if we will ne'er see each other again…

Have you plans to visit your cousin?…

...Once the winter passes and the conditions are better for travel, I have been invited to see my cousin's new home. Do you remain in Padua? Has Aragon no need of you?...

Aragon has never had need of me and Don Pedro will not desire my return. I remain in Padua indefinitely…

...Then I will see you in the spring. Perhaps you can introduce me to your horses?…

They wait in anticipation…

...Faithfully, Hero

Yours, Don John

:-x-:

Hero stirs from the warm embrace of dreaming as Ursula enters to relight the fire. A morning shower pitter-patters at the windows and Hero draws the thick blankets around her to ward off the cold. She had fallen asleep reading Don John's latest letter last night and she can feel the parchment crinkling beneath her fingers next to her pillow.

She starts into waking, slipping the letter beneath her pillow lest Ursula spy it. She sits up, hugging a blanket around her shoulders as the fire flickers into life.

"Good morrow, Ursula."

"Good morrow, lady." Her gentlewoman rises from the fire, approaching the bed. Her smile fractures. "Lady, what is that?"

At her fretful tone, Hero tenses. "What do you mean?"

Her pulse drums as Ursula approaches, pulling down the blanket. Hero glimpses a mottling of red and pink as Ursula gasps. "Oh my! A rash?"

Hero leaps from the bed, blood-pounding too fast to feel the cold as she darts over to the full-length mirror, snatching up the candle Ursula had carried in to better see her reflection and freezes. Oleanders flare across her collarbone, licking up the nape of her neck to her jaw and crowding her shoulder, coiling down her right arm to her hand.

Hero stares at their bloody petals and screams.


Flower Meanings:

Belladonna – silence, death, poisonous plant

Lavender – happiness, love, devotion, peace, distrust

Chamomile – energy in adversity

Rose (Pink) – grace, elegance, admiration

Larkspur – levity, lightness

Violet – faithfulness, modesty

Jasmine – amiability, cheerfulness, unconditional and eternal love

Peony – love, bashfulness, shame, seeking forgiveness

Honeysuckles – devotion, affection

Cornflowers – hope in love

Zinnias – thinking of you, remembering absent friends

Orchids – strength, peace, love, beauty, elegance

Sweet Pea – gratitude, tenderness

Oleander – desire, beware; see also the myth of Hero & Leander