White

It should have been acacia.
 
Muse stares into the fire, watching it flicker and dance in the hearth. The flames are beginning to fall low. They will need to add more wood to keep it burning until morning, but they can't convince themself to back away from its inviting glow just yet.
 
Most of the guests are still asleep. Nita has been up and down, checking on them, making sure they are still warm. She has checked on Muse as well, but Muse has been silent, their attention fixed on the fire. Its low, swirling flicker is hypnotic. But not as hypnotic as the swirl of white skirts had been, a brilliant burst of movement as it vanished into the dark.
 
Muse gives their head a slight jerk and turns away from the fireplace. They take a few logs from the pile and add them to the fire. Snap some twigs loose for kindling. Arrange them carefully, stacking them so the fire has room to breathe and stretch. Then they settle at the edge of the hearth again, leaning forward slightly, their knees drawn up to their chest.
 
The night had been cold, but the blankets had staved off the worst of winter's bite. The air had been full of the scent of woodsmoke and pastries. Full of murmured voices, of conversation, of laughter. Full of a warmth deeper than any the rays of the sun could provide. And into that warmth had stepped a beacon of white, and and for a moment, the rest of the world had vanished.
 
Marzanna had spoken of nobility. Responsibility. Tradition. These were words Muse had heard hundreds of times before, from more people than they had ever thought they would know. But they had only been words. Not this image of duty and love made manifest, far greater than Muse's humble work could ever aspire to. So why, knowing the vast difference between those worlds, had they not given her acacia? Why had it been a rose?
 
Muse scrapes at the fire with their poker, sweeping the ashes out from underneath the stack of wood. They feed a little more kindling in and stack another log atop the pile. The fire breathes and swells upward, its light casting a flicker of shadow across their unmoving visor.
 
Weird, she had said. Such a beautiful thing, considered weird. But it suited her perfectly. A woman who had gone to a ball as a snow leopard in a tiara, who ran a store full of delicate teas and once-dangerous pets, who raised domestic and deadly animals both, whose grace and groundedness seemed too large to exist in the same body at once. Marzanna had been elegant and uncertain. Open, but guarded. And Muse should have given her a sprig of white acacia, just like all the others, except…
 
Not long ago, Muse had spent a full day poring over the books Nita owned on the languages of flowers. While they had yet to memorize everything, some symbols were too obvious to forget. Still, even still, despite their best intentions, when they opened their hand, they had found single white rose. They'd considered throwing it away. Considered stopping there, backing off before they made a fool of themself. But Marzanna had put herself before them all wearing little except her own devotion. Would it have been fair for Muse not to do the same?
 
They reach up to their face. Hesitate. Pull their visor off completely and set it to the side of the hearth. They run their fingers down the contours of their face, then scrub at it with both hands. But despite their best efforts to warm themself, the spot of buzzing warmth against their forehead refuses to fade.
 
Roses, then. Muse lets out a huff and secures their visor over their face once more. They glance at the clock on the mantle as it counts out the hours until dawn. And they tend the hearth - careful, patient, nurturing its warmth, making sure it has all the room it needs to grow.