Read Online Her Every Wish by Courtney Milan - Free Book Online Page A

had only to fall from there.
    Daisy had been instructed to shoo women like this away when she first started.
    â€œThey’re trying to poach our heat,” Mr. Trigard, the owner of the shop had grumbled. “They know we must warm the place for our flowers, and they’re looking for a handout. They’ll never purchase a thing.”
    For the first month, Daisy had done as Mr. Trigard said. Then he’d started trusting her, and he’d stopped coming in.
    It turned out that inhospitality was not one of her talents. She’d given up and started making them bouquets in her spare moments. Not the exquisitely put-together sprays of baby’s breath and rosebuds that she constructed for the gentility. Instead, she made little things, pretty things, with left over bits: flowers cut too short, extra sprigs of leaves, scraps of ribbon that would otherwise have been discarded.
    Her creations could be purchased for a halfpenny.
    The woman looked from bucket to bucket, her lips pursed.
    That was the thing about working in a flower shop. One learned to assess customers. A maid in crisp, brown livery buying for an entire household didn’t want to dilly-dally over her purchase. She wanted Daisy to tell her what was available right away.
    A woman who wandered in, glancing about timidly, was exactly the opposite. If Daisy launched herself in her direction the instant she entered the room, she’d disclaim all interest and slink away.
    Give a customer a little time to start imagining a flower in her life, though, and she’d take it.
    The woman stopped at the violets in a little metal tray filled with water, brushing the velvety green leaves with a single finger, before biting her lip and moving on.
    It was November; the wares were much denuded. But then again, it was November, and so was the world. A single forced tulip could bring color to any room these days.
    Daisy concentrated on tying ribbons and watched her customer beneath her lashes. The woman removed knit gloves carefully. She glanced at the hothouse rosebuds, looked at the golden lilies with wonder in her eyes, and then gave her head a little shake.
    Time now for Daisy to intervene.
    â€œAre you looking for a buttonhole or a bouquet?” she asked cheerily.
    The woman jumped. “Oh. I hadn’t thought.”
    Daisy pointed to her own buttonhole—a bright pink dahlia, smaller than usual, just over her right breast.
    â€œMe personally, I prefer a buttonhole. They’re not so expensive as a bouquet, but I can carry one around with me all day. That way I always have a little beauty close by.”
    The woman looked away. “Pardon me for saying so, but it seems extravagant. Flowers are for…” She gestured outside, at the rest of London. “Not really for someone like me.”
    Someone like her.
    Maybe it was her conversation with her mother, but Daisy felt a kinship with the woman. This was who she would be in ten years if she didn’t marry. Alone. Cloistered in a backroom, thinking that a halfpenny expenditure was too extravagant.
    â€œNonsense,” Daisy said a little too sharply. “Whoever said that flowers aren’t for you?”
    The woman blinked.
    Daisy knew the answer to that question. Everyone said that flowers weren’t for her. The woman wasn’t married and likely wasn’t going to be. She worked for a living. She didn’t have servants. She was supposed to be satisfied living a drab little life, just because everyone thought she was a drab little woman.
    Drab women didn’t get flowers. They didn’t deserve beauty.
    The woman glanced down. “It’s such a luxury. I don’t see…”
    She had stopped in front of the yellow flowers. Daisy reached out and picked out a creation she’d made of a forced tulip that had snapped off its stem—nothing more than the brilliant yellow bud and a spray of green leaves.
    â€œHere,” Daisy said, holding it out.