The Taste of Knowledge

Chapter 186

The morning after their profound connection, Myra found herself walking towards the antique shop with a lighter step, the memory of Freya’s touch, her whispered words of love, a warm hum beneath her skin. The world seemed brighter, the birdsong more melodic.

As she neared the familiar cobbled street, her gaze was drawn to the verges of the path and the small, untended patches of earth between buildings. 

Wildflowers bloomed in vibrant profusion – cheerful blues, sunny yellows, delicate whites, a riot of untamed color.

A smile touched Myra’s lips. Perhaps Freya chose this location for her shop because of these, she thought, a sudden conviction blooming in her heart. All these joyful, colorful flowers, so different from the stern roses of her past. Impulsively, she stooped, her fingers deftly gathering a generous bunch, their stems cool and damp against her palm.

Myra entered the antique shop, the scent of old wood, and Freya’s unique, subtle fragrance enveloping her. Freya looked up from a delicate porcelain teacup she was examining, a soft, welcoming smile gracing her lips as Myra approached.

“Good morning, my love,” Myra said, her voice bright. She kept the wildflowers hidden behind her back. “I have a little surprise for you.”

Freya’s crimson eyes sparkled with amusement. Her keen senses, of course, had already registered the earthy, sweet scent of the blooms Myra carried, but she played along, a playful curiosity dancing in her gaze. “A surprise, you say? How intriguing. I do hope it’s not another attempt to teach me a jest of this fleeting era.”

Myra laughed, the sound light and happy. “Nothing so taxing this early, I promise.” With a flourish, she brought the vibrant bouquet from behind her back. “Look what I have!”

A genuine, radiant smile transformed Freya’s face, chasing away any lingering shadows of her ancient weariness. It was a smile that reached deep into her crimson eyes, making them glow with an inner light. “Oh, Myra,” she breathed, her voice soft with pleasure. “They are exquisite.”

“I saw them on my way here,” Myra explained, her own heart swelling at Freya’s delight. “They seemed so… happy. They reminded me of you, or at least, the happiness I wish for you.”

Freya reached out, her cool fingers gently brushing against Myra’s as she took the bouquet. “They are lovely, my heart,” she said, her gaze tender as she met Myra’s. “Truly. But they are made infinitely more precious because they come from you.” She turned, her movements fluid and graceful, and retrieved a simple, elegant crystal vase from a nearby shelf. With care, she arranged the wildflowers, their vibrant hues a stark, beautiful contrast to the muted tones of the shop.

“There,” Freya said, stepping back to admire them. The small bouquet seemed to illuminate the corner where she placed it. “A splash of untamed sunshine.”

Myra watched her, her expression thoughtful. “I’ve noticed, Freya,” she began, tilting her head, “you seem to have a particular fondness for wildflowers. More so than roses, even though your family estate was so famous for them, the red ones especially.”

Freya’s smile softened, a hint of wistfulness touching her eyes as she looked at the bouquet. “The red roses of the Valerius estate…” she murmured, her voice a low thrum. “They were beautiful, yes, in a stark, imperious way. But they were… cultivated for a singular purpose, a singular color. They felt like a uniform, a declaration of something ancient and unyielding, tied to the very soil that… that fed them.” She paused, the unspoken implication of Amelia’s chilling words hanging in the air for a moment.

“Wildflowers, however,” Freya continued, her gaze returning to Myra, warmer now, “they are the essence of resilience, of untamed life. They spring up in unexpected places, a riot of color and form, each one unique. They represent a freedom, a simple, unburdened joy. They remind me of… of brighter days. Of sunshine on an open meadow, of my mother’s laughter, of a life before shadows grew so very long.” 

She reached out, her fingers lightly tracing the petal of a bright blue cornflower. “They are honest flowers, Myra. And in that delightful, untamed honesty, they often remind me of you, my love. You carry their scent with you, a breath of sunshine and wild meadows. And yes, I find I prefer their company greatly.”

Myra’s heart ached with understanding. “That’s a beautiful way to see them, Freya.”

“Indeed.” Freya turned, a gentle smile returning. “And speaking of honest beauty, allow me to prepare some tea. I have a blend with chamomile and lavender, perhaps with a touch of the rosehip you seem to enjoy. It might pair well with continuing our journey into the past, if you are still inclined?”

“Of course, Freya,” Myra said eagerly, settling into her usual chair, her emerald eyes bright with anticipation. “I want to hear everything.” An excitement danced in her chest; she couldn't wait to uncover more layers of the enigmatic woman she loved.

From her seat, Myra leaned forward, resting her chin on her clasped hands, her expression one of an air of playful gravity. “Especially when that ten-year-old girl is you. Every memory, every detail, is a precious piece of the magnificent puzzle that is Freya.” She winked. “Besides, who knows what mischief a young Freya Valerius might have gotten up to? I have a feeling she wasn’t always the picture of composed elegance.”

Freya’s laugh was soft and real. “Mischief? There might have been a spark or two. But ‘composed elegance’?” She chuckled. “That was more of a distant dream than a reality at ten, believe me.” Her head tilted, her playful smile meeting Myra’s. “Alright, my curious little seeker. Since you’re so keen to uncover the stories of my childhood, how could I possibly say no to such… heartfelt curiosity?” 

A pleasant warmth bloomed in Freya’s chest at Myra’s genuine fascination, her desire to explore every layer of Freya’s long existence. This eagerness to open up, to be truly known, was a rare and precious gift.

With the playful banter setting a light, comfortable mood, Freya nodded, her movements graceful as she prepared the tea. The delicate clinking of porcelain was a soothing sound. Soon, the fragrant steam curled upwards, and she handed Myra a cup before settling opposite her, her crimson eyes holding a distant, reflective light.

“Let me bring you to me when I was ten years old,” Freya said softly, her voice a low murmur that seemed to bridge the centuries. “The year that harsh winter finally relented, and spring, however hesitant and muted it always felt within those grey Valerius walls, began to breathe again.”

Myra leaned forward, her own teacup cradled in her hands, her gaze fixed on Freya, ready to be transported.

The antique shop around them seemed to fade, the scent of dust and old wood momentarily replaced by the phantom aroma of damp earth and the faint, persistent sweetness of roses…