In Paris, it had been drilled by Mehmet’s parents that they needed to perfect the local accent. But by the time they reached Whitby, such were notions of a past life.

He wasn’t sure what to make of the … boy? Before him. His accent, specifically. As he spoke full sentences, it brought him back to past times, past standards. Not quite Parisian, and not especially trying to be.

It galled Mehmet at first, but the feeling dampened quick as London sun’s retreat to clouds. Something for a hat, or a lady’s dress – that this fellow wanted to keep alive once they were cut for it?

Mehmet laid thick, calloused hands down on the counter as he looked down in thought. How did he break it to him …? It was harder when he looked so excitable.

“Here’s the thing,” he launched in, with rapid French. “I can sell you flowers. I could even pot a plant for you. But once you—” habitually, he made a scissor motion with his fingers, “– cut the flower for the dress or the hat, it no longer has its roots to stay alive.” He laid his hands back down on the counter. “Sometimes, a cutting can create new roots, but most are as good as dead at this point. Beauty is a risky business.”

He would know. He sold women the poison they put in their eyes for that perfect, wanton gaze.

Faced with the mortal coil of flowers, Mehmet stroked his goatee.

“Have you considered cloth flowers?”