Page 15 of Inked in Bloom
“Right?” Cherri agrees, tentatively slipping a hand between my shoulder blades and weaving ahead before a couple of students walk into us: a pale-purple man with a shaved head and a tall sage-green man in a pair of thin frames.
“Excuse us,” he says, voice drenched in unspoken authority.
“Sorry!” I squeak, and his lavender brows bunch together, bright-purple eyes flickering. The two of them veer off in the other direction, but it takes him a few extra moments, whipping his head back to his friend.
“Who’s that?” I ask Cherri, gaze lingering on the inked rose spiraling the back of his hand as it trails the nape of his neck and through his hair, a dark-lavender close-cut fade. His chin shifts over his shoulder, jaw locked tight.
My eyes drop to my bare feet.
“Oh, they’re faculty.” Cherri sighs and there’s so much behind that sound and the way she bites her lip afterward that has my lips parting, ready to go full therapist mode andunpack that look. But before I can, Cherri shakes her head. “Come on.” She loops her arm through mine and drags me forward. “We’d better get to class.”
Walls of greenery line the corridor, budding with roses, peonies, daisies, and baby’s breath. I resist reaching out and run my fingers along the petals. Cherri doesn’t stop herself, though.
“Aren’t they beautiful?” The hand that’s not clasped with mine primps the blossoms, admiring each one. “I can’t believe we will be able to make these soon.”
“I’m sure you will,” I reply, not wanting to give her any false hope that I’m joining her this session. I’m still envisioning that I’ll wake up and find myself strapped to some hospital bed or on the sidewalk next to that busy city street.
At the end of the hallway an arch with giant flowers greets us, hanging above a petite woman with pink irises. She flashes us an infectious grin. “Welcome. Come on in and take a seat.”
I scan over the few rows of desks in the large, circular auditorium. Curving along the space is a wall of white roses, a stunning backdrop to the figures all waiting for us to sit. Cherri picks out a set of empty seats in the second row, right in the center.
Four Blooms walk into the classroom, and the rest of the students go silent.
“Those are the instructors?” I nod toward the line of harbingers in front of an empty long table that has vines hanging around it like a living table cloth. They sway gently as a tall woman with a green bob that hits at her chin reaches under it and draws out a clipboard. She scans over us, scrutinizing whatever is on her paper, taking notes.
“A girl can hope.” Cherri smiles, eyes glittering with something much more mischievous than hope.
The woman’s gaze passes over me. She does a quick scribble and moves on to Cherri.
I’m not even enrolled, what’s she jotting down?
I lean forward in my seat a moment, then rock back. How many times have I done the same thing to my clients? Their curiosity piqued at the things I wrote about their sessions. For all I know she’s just handling attendance and noting that I’m auditing orientation today with Cherri. I glance over at the clock that has two tulips for hands and a smaller one that doesn’t seem to move at all.
That’s odd.
The woman finishes going down her clipboard. She lowers it, and the hanging vines wrap around the wood like tentacles, tugging it beneath the table.
How in the?—
I stop the thought there. This isn’t any world I understand. Why try?
“Welcome to the Bloom Conservatory,” the woman says, her voice firm, and my spine straightens immediately. She addresses us more like military cadets than students for whateverthisis. “My name is Claire, and I’ve been the dean of the school for over two decades.”
She surveys the rows of desks, and I uncross my ankles, recrossing them the other direction.
“Over the coming months, you’ll be learning everything you need to know about your duty as a Bloom and bringing spring to the mortal realm.”
The idea of getting out into the world fills the hollow space in my chest with a slip of renewed hope.
The wall of white roses illuminates and a projector buzzes to life. Claire scrunches her face like she’s going to sneeze, and a video starts playing, different spring scenes flicking across the flowers. People enjoying the warmth ofthe sun, walking through gardens, running through the rain, and having picnics. “While you may go on to specialize in different areas and pursue other afterlife opportunities in your off seasons, it is imperative you all remain dedicated to your Bloom duties.”
A syllabus pops up with a weekly schedule that seems to rotate every other day. I scribble it down into my notebook, not sure what the various titles mean. There’s no rubric or grading system shared as she flips through the slides, only bursts of information about the course load and scheduling. “These benchmarks can take a few months or years. That all depends on you.”
Years? I don’t have time for this to take years. I need to check on everyonenow.
She scans over us once again, and I’m shocked that someone seemingly so cold is aspringharbinger… She’d be much better suited as an ice queen presiding over winter.
“Focus, ask questions, learn as much as you can from our faculty. Once you’re ready, you’ll be sent out to do your work and earn your marks.” She flicks her wrist, showing off the ink spread over her fingers and climbing up beneath her sleeve.
