Fern felt at peace. She had known as soon as she spotted the queen palms that this would be a good place, full of lush green things and lively sprouts for the taking. She'd been to other such places, boasting of their expertise and wide selections, only to find sickly brown stems and drooping leaves throughout, sending her into a rage. Plants were hardy; they could survive with even a speck of soil and a drop of water, on their own. But put them in a pot and they depend on you. For anyplace to hold them captive and then deny them basic care was enough to send her into a fit.
This place was good; everything looked bright and green and healthy. Inwardly, she wondered if the Lady had known, and then admonished herself for daring to think it. Of course She had known; the Lady would not send Fern to a place that would make her angry, or hurt her.
She stopped at a display of brightly colored roses, shades of yellow and orange and red mingling together on the delicate petals. Joseph's Coat, they were called, if she remembered correctly. Climbing roses that did well in a pot, but were known for wickedly barbed thorns. She ran her fingers over the soft petals and down the stem, letting the tip of her index finger catch against a particularly nasty little thorn. A drop of blood quickly appeared and Fern let it fall, sliding down the waxy green stem and disappearing into the leaves.
A little gift, she thought. Even an offering. Payment for the beauty of the flower.