{{conveniently forget it's___ N O V E M B E R

[bunny]

It was an absolutely wonderful day to garden since it was much warmer than the previous ones. Unfortunately, no matter how much Natalya willed it, nature refused to make November the random spring month stuck in the middle of fall and winter for no reason whatsoever. She supposed it was being a tad selfish to want the flowers to continue into existance when they obviously needed the sleep. For more than six months out of the year, the poor little things have to suffer through torrential rains, ravaging heat, blistering winds, treading feet and hungry insects. Flowers did need their rest.

However, just because the flowers had withered didn't mean gardening was over for the year. Not at all. The school still had uses for her plant knowledge, sending her to work loosening up the soil to plant flowers that required it to be well past summer in order for them to plant properly. In a way, they reminded her of a phoenix. They were flowers that thrived from the death of others. It was a stretch, but Natalya wasn't that familiar with the phoenix symbolism anyways.

It felt really nice to be outside doing work again. The winter months positively forced her inside the building to work. When the snow hits, she'll be mopping non-stop to prevent water from warping the wooden items and areas. It was only the emergence of spring and the need for beautifully kempt gardens that allowed Natalya to leave the confines of the school which was entirely too stuffy and crowded for her taste. The walls were decorated with gaudy wallpapers that hindered the beauty of the rooms instead of accenting it. At camp, each tent only seemed to draw your attention to how lively and vibrant the woods can be.

"Come little children; I'll take thee away. Here in my land of enchantment," Natalya hummed happily, driving the spade into the dirt and shiftly it gently to avoid disturbing the worms. When she first started working at Florence's, Natalya didn't realize how many people were utterly terrified by the poor dears. Really, who fears a handless, footless three inch being? "Come little children; it's time now to play..."

[inspectorjavs]

Frances Crawford had insisted upon bringing her own watering can from home. It was not that she harbored any resentment or prejudice toward other watering cans; she was quite certain that they were perfectly lovely. Hers, however, was large and a sunny yellow in hue, the paint chipped in areas, and various words and names and phrases were engraved in it to reveal the original silver coloring. Hers held not only water, but memories.

The preferred watering can held in both hands, Fran trudged to the gardens, endeavoring to keep the can from colliding with her shins. Despite the padding of petticoats and the pale salmon skirt of her dress, she sitll would bruise easily. Only one of the many horrors of being a red head. Another, she thought as she squinted up at the November heavens, was that her skin was already burning to a crisp, and that a fresh dusting of freckles would be appearing soon across her nose. For as much as she was outside, Fran's skin remained alternating between snow-white and an angry red year-round; she was waiting to become a leathery tan overnight, like her father, but she forlornly assumed that it was never going to happen.

As she drew closer to the gardens, sunlight coaxing strands of gold into her red hair, her gaze--more blue than gray in the abundant sunshine--trailed down to the watering can. For a moment, she paused, and ran the pad of her forefinger across a set of initials. JC was large in the middle, along with a pair of OCs in different handwritings, PEC, FLC--her own--, and, lastly, HW. She breathed something that may orm ay not have been a name, a two syllable something that tasted bittersweet. She couldn't help but smile, but it quivered, indecisive upon her lips.

Lately, however, she'd had a reason to smile more genuinely.

At the thought, Fran's grin became more sure, the pink upon her cheeks caused not only by the sun, and she lifted her gaze and entered the gardens. Her patch was still the lonely brown of soil, dotted by shoots of green and a few yellow and pink buds. "Good morning, darlings,"murmured Fran as she set the can down and set herself beside it, probing the soil with careful hands, gauging the moisture or lack of it. At a soft song not disrupting but accenting the silence, enhancing it, complementing it, Fran looked up and noticed among the myriad vibrant colors a head of dark brown. Smiling, she stood and considered waving, before deciding to simply stand and delight in the November day and the girl's sweet melody.