It is at the edge of a petal that love waits. - William Carlos Williams

She smelled them before they ever arrived at her shuttle door, their fragrance sparking a thousand memories that flashed through her mind in three seconds: spring, the House gardens, the Louyang Peony Festival, dancing with flowers pinned in her hair, lanterns, dragons, fireworks - Sihnon ablaze with light and color and music and laughter.

Curiosity almost had her jumping to her feet to investigate but Companion training wasn’t shed just because one chose to work on a disreputable cargo ship.

Zoë, the second in command, had mentioned in one of Serenity’s impromptu, around-the-supper-table meetings that they needed to stock up when they landed on a planet that had the ability to grow them. Something about harvesting the bulbs for a vaguely mysterious home remedy. Serenity’s captain walked in without knocking, an alarming habit he’d formed of late, his arms full of the huge blooms on sturdy stems, defensive casualness draped all over him. “Brought you some of those flowers you set such store by. Was gonna throw 'em away, but seem to recall you likin' the smell or some such thing.” She opened her mouth to berate his appalling lack of manners, but on seeing what he cradled in his arms she sprang up instead to bury her nose in the large blossom that he held out to her. Pinks. Reds. Whites. Heaven. Her favorites. He remembered that she loved peonies? It had been months since the layover when she’d found some wilted specimens at a market stall: she’d laughed with delight and bought them just the same. Had he been watching? The thought gave her a small, illicit thrill that she completely ignored. He smiled a little when he thought she couldn’t see him, seemingly pleased at her reaction, which charmed her in a convoluted way. When she made a show of looking up he was stern again - all manner of couldn’t-care-less. It was an odd little dance they’d recently begun to perform. “You don’t want or need ‘em - just pitch ‘em out I reckon. No harm done. We buy ‘em for the roots, not the flowery parts.” His voice conveyed boredom and lack of interest, but his eyes gave away the lie. She took the whole bundle from his arms after hearing the alarming words. “I’ll take them. Thank you.” She deftly produced a vase from a laquered cabinet and began to sort them by stem size and color, her fingers caressing the silken petals lovingly. “So what is it you do with the bulbs?” She looked up after a moment of silence to find him staring at her hands with a faraway look as she worked on the bouquet of peonies. “Captain?” she asked, her voice a little softer than it usually was when she dealt with him. His eyes moved back to her face. “We make a tea with 'em after they’re dried. Cures all kinds of sickness. My, uh, my mother used to do that. Sort those flowers out just like you’re doing there. Those are -were- her favorites. She liked the red ones the best.” Careful. No eye contact. Keep your hands moving. Those were her thoughts as she struggled to hold on to the moment. Learning about the captain’s past was a subtle game she played with herself when she had time to while away - and a surprisingly difficult one. In her short stay on board Serenity she’d uncovered facts on all of the crew members, most glad to talk expansively of their pasts. Even Zoë would open up about her life before the war, her romance, and her marriage if she chose just the right time to ask. However, she’d found discovering his history to be incredibly challenging. “They’re mine as well.” Don’t scare him away. Easy. “Yeah? I always liked ‘em cause they form little balls right before they bloom. Made perfect ammunition for a sling shot.” He huffed a little laugh at that. “I remember once when I was about ten I clipped the whole crop and had ‘em in a pouch to shoot. My momma caught me and…well.” He suddenly straightened and absently scratched his cheek as if surprised at what he’d almost divulged. “I’d best be gettin’ back down there to help Zoë or she’ll skin me. She hates doin’ kitchen work.” And it was gone. The moment would not be back - but they were coming more and more frequently, as were his lackadaisical visits to her shuttle. He broke off a small red blossom and tucked it behind her ear before she realized his intention. She didn't know which of them was the more suprised by the unexpected gesture. “Suits you,” he said, looking over his shoulder at her from the hatch, leaving the shuttle as quietly as he’d entered. Inara watched him go, smoothing her fingers over the bloom in her hair, quieting the erratic beating of her heart, pretending that she wouldn't press it later. She filed away the new pieces of information, adding them to her growing profile on the mysterious Malcolm Reynolds. She turned back to her artful arrangement of the fragrant flowers, completely disregarding the little voice of warning that asked her why she cared.