Flower power

They all swarm around Mignonne – cousins, in-laws, pulsing spouses. It’s that time of evening when I wish I hadn’t come. I only know PY, and he is drawn to Cousine Mignonne like the rest. Look at PY’s grandmother, grinning gummily at her beautiful relation.
Mignonne is sultry in white, her swathe of black hair pinned to perfection by a single, virginal orchid. I feel huge and ridiculous in my dress. Grandmère ordained that the ball would be flower-themed, and the delicate buds that graced the silk in the shop seem to have bloomed into brown and yellow cabbages, rotting against my skin.
Later. I can’t sleep – I need PY. We must have separate rooms, he said. We’re not married; Grandmère would disapprove.
Regardless, I lumber down the corridor, and just avoid stepping on a white orchid outside his door. I pick it up and realise it is silk, after all – exquisite, but lifeless.