The farmer's market was already bustling by mid-morning, a sea of canvas tents and muddied boots, buzzing with the scent of fresh herbs, rain-damp wood, and citrus soap.
Esme adjusted the woven bag over her shoulder and slipped between two vendors with practiced ease. A polite smile here, a distracted nod there. She wasn't here to be noticed.
She was here to source.
A man was selling potted aconitum, its purple petals soft as silk, deadly as secrets. She made a mental note. It wasn't what she needed today, but she liked knowing who carried it.
Three stalls down, she found the real prize.
A woman in a rust-colored shawl stood behind rows of rare medicinal herbs—white snakeroot, horehound, even dried gloriosa seeds in tiny glass vials. The kind of plants that whispered to those who knew how to listen.
Esme's fingertips brushed the vials as she examined them, eyes half-lidded, careful not to linger too long on any one item. Her goal today was quiet procurement—supplies for two new projects. One blend to numb. One to forget.
"Careful with those," the vendor said. "Not for amateurs."
"I'm not," Esme said softly, without looking up.
The woman blinked, as if recognizing something unspoken. She didn't press further.
Esme selected a few cuttings—innocuous enough to the untrained eye—and passed over folded cash. The transaction was swift. Efficient.
Then something shifted in the air. A subtle chill threaded through the late autumn breeze.
Esme's posture stiffened.
She didn't look immediately. She knew better. But she felt it—a presence. A familiar gait. A weight in the silence.
Liam Miller.
She caught a reflection of him in the mirrored side of a food truck. He was standing by a vendor not ten feet away, hands tucked in his pockets, brows drawn low as he murmured a question.
Not to her.
To the vendor.
Still, Esme's pulse flickered.
He was likely on a lead—asking questions about someone else entirely. The thought of that still spooked her. But the last time someone in uniform had spoken to that vendor, a man was arrested dats later. Quietly. With enough evidence to put him behind bars for years.
Esme turned her body slightly, shielding her face behind her scarf, and adjusted the bag over her shoulder with unhurried calm. She wasn't running. She wasn't hiding.
She was simply... exiting.
From the corner of her eye, she saw Liam glance toward the herb stall. His eyes passed over the vendor. Over the vials.
Over her.
She didn't think he recognized her. She had her hair pinned differently today, her clothes more muted than usual. No gloves. No trace of the poised florist he knew from Everflora.
Still, his eyes lingered a second too long.
Esme turned casually and stepped behind a honey stand, ducking between a pair of young mothers comparing beeswax candles. Her breath caught—not from panic, but calibration. She couldn't afford a conversation with Liam in this setting. Not when she was carrying materials that could be construed... unfavorably.
She paused by a table of elderberry tinctures, pretending to browse. Her hands were steady. Her pulse wasn't.
She needed to leave. Not quickly. Just cleanly.
"Esme?"
The voice wasn't Liam's.
She turned.
An older man—a former customer from the flower shop, Mr. Kettering—stood beside a crate of basil plants, smiling warmly. He was harmless. But loud. And familiar.
Her eyes flicked toward Liam.
He had turned now. Was watching.
Esme's lips curved into a polite, neutral smile. "Mr. Kettering. Lovely to see you. I didn't know you shopped here."
"Oh, every Saturday!" he said brightly, oblivious to the heat creeping up her neck. "Still running the flower shop?"
"I am," she said smoothly. "Business is blooming."
She could feel Liam watching.
Kettering chatted on, but his words blurred. Esme nodded, responded when necessary, and after a few moments, excused herself with a gentle lie about a lunch appointment.
As she walked away—slow, deliberate steps through the maze of scents and shadows—she allowed herself a final glance.
Liam hadn't moved. But he was no longer watching Kettering.
He was watching her.
His head tilted slightly, like a dog scenting something just out of reach.
She disappeared into the crowd before he could follow.
---
Later That Evening – Everflora's Greenhouse
The rare cuttings were trimmed and sorted. Esme cleaned her tools in silence, watching dusk fall across the greenhouse ceiling.
A quiet knock at the back door startled her.
She rarely received visitors here.
She approached cautiously, wiped her hands on a cloth, and opened the door—
—but there was no one there.
Only a single object, left on the stoop.
A folded note. Cream-colored.
No stamp. No seal.
Just a single pressed gloriosa petal inside.
And a line of text:
"You're not the only one who knows what these flowers mean."
Esme stood frozen.
Then, slowly, she closed the door. Locked it. And turned out the lights.