[ white old garden roses, with hoary stock and touches of pale lavenders. the queen helaena bounds up to steve with what he first thought of as a wreath, this ring of flowers woven together – but it's a crown, isn't it? a flower crown, if he remembers ephemeral culture trends correctly. he'd seen teenagers and young adults wear them out in parks, sometimes freshly made, sometimes entirely plastic.

it's just that the flowers are peggy's. the same ones they'd decorated her coffin, their scent lingering even hours after the funeral service, and steve's face crumples once he realises it. ]

It's a kind gift, Your Majesty, [ steve says with more evenness than he feels. ] But you really needn't have bothered. I don't know if I can look after this crown all too well.