“This is an everflowing, and this is a tamarisk.” She touched first one flower and then another. “This one is colchicum. Amaryllis. Burdock. The language of flowers might seem a frivolous concept to most who live outside of our little part of Ankyo, but it’s an important part of our lives. We asha are always expected to be on our most proper behavior, to never have so much as a hair out of turn. Asha do not cry or scream or make threats. When people cut us, we are expected to do only two things: smile and bleed.”

She busied herself with the bouquet arrangement on the table, taking out a flower at one end, adding a few more in other places. Her finger grazed against the petal of a large pink blossom.

“Our houses are named after flowers for a reason. My house, Valerian, means ‘of an accommodating nature.’ Other asha-ka hold similar meanings. Hawkweed is for quick sightedness. Calla means ‘magnificent beauty.’

“It was only after I learned the language of flowers that I learned how inappropriately my sisters were named. Lilac means ‘the first stirrings of love’—and yet my sister Lilac was a spinster, more comfortable in her own company than in others. Marigold was a happy, bouncy girl, though her name meant ‘despair.’ Rose meant ‘beauty,’ but she was the homeliest of us sisters.

“And as for Daisy—”

The long, slim fingers stilled momentarily against the green leaves.

“There are many different kinds of daisies. A garden daisy means ‘I share in your sentiment.’ A wild daisy means ‘I make no promises.’ A Michaelmas daisy is to be an afterthought. And the common daisy means innocence.

“But Daisy died only a few years after I arrived at Kion.”

Her hands moved again, pale against the vibrant flowers.

“In this regard,” she said softly, “I’d like to believe she was quite common.”