Oliver brought his hand up between their bodies, the first of ninety blooms between his fingers. Fingers that Bram wanted to press to his lips, fingers that he ached to feel resting on his cheek or sliding into his hair. And when Oliver rested his forehead against Bram’s, he knew Oliver felt it too.
Oliver tried to give him another book; a small volume of poetry bound in cornflower blue linen, but Bram pushed it away. “My parents are disinclined to allow me pleasures, Oliver. I’ve told you this before.”
“They should be shot.”
He gasped, and Oliver apologised. It was the first uncharitable thing he’d heard Oliver say in seven years. He apologised five times.
“They burned the story I wrote,” Bram said, wondering what other horrors Oliver might wish upon his parents.
“How dare they?” he said, face flustered and eyes wide. Then he bit his lip and quieted.
“I won’t hate you for wishing them ill, Oliver. There is nothing in your head that I have not wished upon them a thousand times. I used to feel guilty, but… why should I feel any love for them when they have done all they can to hurt me?”
“They do not deserve you,” he whispered, taking Bram’s hand in his.
Bram stared down at the parched grass beneath his feet. “Perhaps, I am exactly what they deserve.”
2
Tulip Tales
Every week for almost two years, Oliver presented Bram with a bloom and a story.
“Did you know that Rembrandt never painted a flower, let alone the tulips named after him?”
“I did not know that,” Bram said, twirling the bendy stem of the tulip between his fingers. “It’s rather gory, isn’t it?”
Oliver eyed the tulip in question. “Do you think so?”
“It looks much like someone stabbed a white tulip in the heart until it bled red.”
“Hm, you are right. Do you not like it?”
Bram smiled. “I love it because you brought it to me.”
“Did you know,” Oliver began again, prompting a smile from Bram, “that tulips are not indigenous to Holland?”
“Actually, yes,” Bram said. “They came from the Ottoman empire.”
Oliver’s eyes widened in surprise. “That is quite right. They were a symbol of wealth and power, so revered by one particular sultan that he literally lost his head after spending too much on a tulip festival.”
“Ouch.”
“Indeed. Tulips didn’t arrive in Holland until the end of the sixteenth century when an ambassador to the court of Sultan Suleiman presented some bulbs to a botanist named Carolus Clusius who headed the first botanical garden in Western Europe. He was only interested in the scientific importance, hoping to find a medicinal use for the bulbs, but the Dutch had seen the pretty botanical drawings and wanted to make money from the developing ornamental trade.”
“I suspect my mother would find it difficult to believe there was a time when people didn’t grow flowers merely to prettify their houses and gardens.”
“That is a generous way to call your mother frivolous,” Oliver observed with a smirk. “Now, our man Clusius hoarded those bulbs, but people were ever so daring in those days, stealing the bulbs from his garden, from beneath his bulbous nose.”
“Scoundrels,” Bram blurted.
“As you can imagine, due to the prettiness of the flowers and the scarcity of the bulbs, a veritable frenzy ensued, the prices exploding during the early years of the seventeenth century. The hybrids became more and more glamorous, the limited supply of particular bulbs becoming highly prized by the rich who were willing to pay almost any price. Imagine paying a thousand pounds for a single bulb and throwing in a horse and carriage on top.”
Bram gasped dramatically. “No.”
“Oh, yes. And when the crash came, the rich traders became paupers overnight. The Dutch, however, are nothing if not enterprising. The tulip export business is booming.” Oliver grinned. “Or blooming.”
“Thank you, Oliver.”
“You know what is coming, don’t you?”
“You mean that is not the story?”
“How could it be?”
Bram grimaced. “Silly me. Of course, it is not the story. I should know by now that all flower stories must be heartbreaking tragedies.”
“You should. I confess myself disappointed.”
Bram chuckled under his breath. “Let’s hear it, then.”
“A Persian Prince by the name of Farhad fell in love with one of the palace maids, a beautiful young woman called Shirin. His love for her was pure…perfect. Perfect love is what the tulip represents. Now, Prince Farhad was an excellent bowman, and one day after returning from his hunt, he heard the news—the false news—of Shirin’s death. He immediately swept back outside, where his weary horse had not yet been relieved of its saddle. He rode his horse off a cliff, landing on the rocks below.”
“And wherever the blood landed, so sprung a beautiful red tulip, yes?”
“You are really getting the hang of this,” Oliver praised.
