Chapter 2: Whispers Between Petals

The following morning arrived cloaked in mist and chill. London’s streets remained damp, the cobblestones slick with yesterday’s rain, and the air carried the scent of iron and chimney soot. Alfred Seymour stood at the edge of a narrow alleyway in Whitechapel, gloved hands tucked into his coat pockets, eyes scanning the street like a hawk watching for the faintest flicker of movement.

The conversation with Esther Thorne had left a quiet imprint in his mind. There had been nothing overtly criminal about the man’s account, no tangible evidence—just a lingering unease, a peculiar encounter, and a florist’s eye for detail. Yet, something about it continued to press gently at the edge of his thoughts, like a poem half-remembered.

There was also the scent—the subtle trace that had lingered in the shop. Sweet, Refined, clean, with a faint note of lilac beneath the perfume of blossoms. It wasn’t overwhelming; Esther carried it like a whisper rather than a declaration. Alfred had been trained to notice such things, though he rarely let them cloud his judgment. Still, it lingered.

“Detective Seymour!” a voice called from behind.

Striding up through the damp morning mist came Francis Ashford—Alfred’s assistant, sharp-featured and always immaculately dressed, with an understated sense of propriety that Alfred found both mildly amusing and occasionally grating

“Message from the station, sir. We’ve another report—not far from Harrow Street.”

Alfred arched a brow. “Another?”

“Yes, sir. Same description—tall man, gloves, fine coat. Seen loitering near St. Alden’s Lane. Disappeared before anyone could speak to him.”

Alfred’s jaw tensed subtly. “Where exactly?”

“Corner of Alden and Firth. A schoolmistress saw him from her window.”

Alfred gave a small nod. “Send word to keep eyes on that corner. No need to make a fuss—just quiet observation.”

“Yes, sir.”

As Francis disappeared into the haze again, Alfred glanced down the lane, expression unreadable. He didn’t like coincidences—especially not ones that came wrapped in poetic notes and gentle voices.

Later that day, the bell above The Blossom & Verse chimed again.

Esther looked up from a pot of freshly cut roses, brushing pollen from his fingers. A faint trace of warmth bloomed in his scent—an instinctive shift, barely perceptible but unmistakable to an Alpha with Alfred 's sharpened senses.

“Detective Seymour,” he greeted, voice soft with recognition. “You’re back.”

“Hope I’m not intruding,” Alfred replied, stepping inside and brushing droplets from his coat sleeves.

“Not in the least. Come in.” Esther gestured to the now-familiar seating corner, already set with a new pot of tea. “Chamomile today. I thought it might suit the mood better.”

“You’ve a fine instinct for tea,” Alfred said with faint amusement as he took his seat.

Esther smiled and poured quietly, his graceful hands steady. There was something in the way he moved—a calm elegance that reminded Raihan of finely bound poetry, all softness on the surface but with depth beneath.

“I wanted to ask,” Alfred began, “about something you said yesterday. The way you described the man—waiting, yet composed. I’ve received another report. Same appearance, same strange mannerisms.”

Esther’s brow lifted slightly, but he didn’t look surprised. “So I wasn’t merely imagining him.”

“No, you weren’t. And I’d like to know—if you can remember anything else. Any detail, however slight.”

Esther leaned back in thought. “Well… there was one thing.”

“Yes?”

“He wore a ring,” Esther said softly, eyes narrowing faintly in recollection. “Not on his ring finger, oddly—on his index. Silver, I believe, though I only caught a glint of it.”

“A crest?”

“I think so. It caught the light when he adjusted his gloves.” Esther’s fingers mimed the movement, precise and thoughtful. “It wasn’t overly ornate, but it had a shape—perhaps a sigil, though I couldn’t make it out clearly.”

“That’s more than useful,” Alfred murmured. “Most people wouldn’t have noticed.”

Esther gave a modest shrug. “Perhaps most people aren’t used to arranging bouquets by candlelight. You learn to notice small things—the curve of a stem, a bruise on a petal. I suppose a ring glinting in the dark isn’t all that different.”

Alfred studied him a moment longer. “You’ve a very particular way of looking at the world, Mr. Thorne.”

Esther’s lips curved in a smile. “I suppose I do.”

There was a brief, warm silence between them, broken only by the quiet clink of porcelain as Alfred set down his teacup.

“Would you be willing,” he asked finally, “to let me know if you see him again? Or anything else that feels… off?”

“Of course,” Esther said without hesitation. “I’d rather not see trouble walk past my window again.”

“And if it does,” Alfred said, rising slowly, “you’ll have more than flowers at your side this time.”

Esther looked amused. “I feel safer already.”

Alfred gave the faintest smile. “Take care, Mr. Thorne.”

As the bell chimed once more and the detective disappeared into the London mist, Esther stood quietly behind his counter, gaze lingering on the door. His heart was steady, his scent calm—but beneath that surface, there was a quiet flicker of something unfamiliar. Curiosity… or perhaps, something deeper.

And for a man who spent his days arranging Flowers, it was oddly comforting...

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