"Passion." A whispered caress of a word, the deep red petals pulsing faintly. "Jealousy." Sharper, the yellow almost harsh. Delia tilts her head, raising one of her delicate brows.
"Who are you jealous of, Squire Alan?" She asks quietly. "Jon? Me?" a gentle pause.
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"Who are you jealous of, Squire Alan?" She asks quietly. "Jon? Me?" a gentle pause.
"Who?"