"Here," she says, jamming something onto his head and then conjures a mirror because they both know that he'd take whatever it is off his head if he can't examine it soon.

A ring of giant wine red roses, delicate cherry pink blossoms, dark dahlias, and even a few sprigs of cypress (his plant) rests on his brow--it is a work of excellent handicraft and a labor of love.

It is wilting already on his head, as does every plant he ever touches.

He purses his lips and touches the blossoms, smiling to himself as he hears her gasp as the blossoms crystallize from plants to gems. "These," he murmurs as she laughs in delight at the sparkling crown, "will last longer."

She beams; he reminds himself to make her a matching one before she goes home this spring.