pansies

five faces in a teacup, no two the same. one velvet, one yellow with a violet brow, one almost white at the edge, one in plain purple, one the colour of a bruise that hasn't decided what it is yet. each face looks at a different corner of the letter propped against the sugar bowl.

the cup is from the second-best set — a fine gold rim, a small floral on its side, a chip just behind the handle. the maid set it on the breakfast tray with the toast and the boiled egg and carried it up the back stairs to the room with the diary, where it is still untouched.

they will last three days. they are the shortest flower in the house and the most loved while they last.

field-note — a pansy will look at you. that is the thing about pansies. you can turn the cup around, and the face that was looking at the window will be looking at the door, and this is not your imagination.

see also: violets · iris · a birthday bouquet · the tearoom wing