DISCLAIMER: Yggdra Union © Sting. I seek to gain no monetary profit from this writing.
Yggdra had always liked flowers in a passive sort of way. Floriography was something she had learned and mostly forgotten as part of her training to be a good noblewoman, and even if the meanings that went with shape and color had mostly fled her head, she enjoyed the scent of flowers and liked them as unobtrusive decoration. She had learned a few things from her mother about how to put them to practical use—petals from these in teas, a dab of nectar from those at the base of the jaw to use in place of perfume. Flowers were good things. Tigerlilies, posies, chrysanthemums, hydrangeas. Roses.
She wonders if she will ever be able to see roses as anything but garish and overdone again as she gingerly takes the fat wreath of pink and white and red ones, then hands them off to Durant and buries her face in her hands. Her cheeks and the tips of her ears are burning.
Either Rosary mostly ignored her floriography lessons as a child or she just will not be deterred as easily as a politely sent yellow rose, which ought to have brought these extravagant proposals to a halt. But then, Rosary is an incredibly stubborn girl. She does not give up so easily when she wants something, and having fought beside her in the war Yggdra knows this very well.
She has prepared herself for a long, entrenched fight, but really this is getting to be ridiculous. It is embarrassing. It is happening every day.
(But Yggdra is stubborn as well, and she has a little more moral fiber than to just let this thing happen out of exhaustion; if Rosary wants to win her over she will have to get a bit more sophisticated.)
"Put it with the others," she says wearily to Durant, who bows with a "yes milady" and goes to do so.