Pursuit of Diligence: Chapter One

Hyacinth knelt gracefully on the pristine marble pathway of the greenhouse garden, his gloved hands poised over a shallow depression in the rich soil. Around him, the air was heavy with the perfume of the Embassy's flowers—notes of sweetness mingling with a hint of something otherworldly, though, then again to him, they were. The faint, ethereal glow of the blossoms cast a soft luminescence over the scene, and every petal seemed to shimmer with a life of its own.

He’d never seen the ambrosia flowers before today. At least, not in person. Conall had offhandedly mentioned them to him some time ago around when the Heavenly Embassy had first begun implementing their greenhouses, pointing to a clipping on one of the local papers advertising some lessons—as Conall swore off using a phone for anything besides calling.

Conall had mentioned it in his usual manner, that being the way that a gruff and not outwardly affectionate man would begrudgingly indicate that yes, he did, in fact, care for his partner’s interests. Hyacinth had pounced on the opportunity like a wulven on leftover dinner scraps.

Though when Hyacinth learned that the series of tasks that would follow might lead him to encountering a diligentia, he knew that Conall’s mentioning of the flowers wasn’t entirely innocent, given the man’s affinity for Burrowgatory’s rarer little creatures.

Regardless, being somewhat of a horticulturalist himself, Hyacinth had been dying to know more about the ambrosia flowers. Though admittedly, despite his enthusiasm, it had taken quite a while for an opportunity to get a lesson on them, as the cherubun he’d been saddled with—Primrose—was apparently quite the busy bun indeed.

“Careful, Mister Hyacinth,” came a clipped, slightly nasal voice from behind him. Primrose, the cherubun in question, loomed over Hyacinth like a stern schoolmaster watching a wayward pupil, even fit with the faint, barely disguised air of disapproval. His immaculately pressed suit and spotless cravat were as stiff and precise as his expression. “You’re holding the seed incorrectly. A flower of this quality demands respect, delicacy, and—if I may say so—finesse.”

Hyacinth turned slightly, offering the other man a small, affable smile. “Of course, Mister Primrose. My apologies if my technique is lacking,” he said, attempting to keep the vague disdain out of his tone at the criticism. He had enough finesse, thank you very much. “Would you kindly show me again?” His tone affected warm and he tried to keep his expression deferential enough, though there was a faint gleam of annoyance in his eyes.

He could see himself in Primrose clear as day, and if his relationship with Conall was evidence enough, opposites attracted wildly well. That being said, as much as he respected Primrose for being able to cultivate such fine flowers, he could see himself butting heads with him in the future.

Primrose sniffed, seeming satisfied by the display of humility. “Watch closely, then.” He plucked a single seed from the box at his side, holding it up between two slender fingers. It caught the light like a droplet of liquid gold, and Hyacinth was momentarily taken by just how gorgeous it looked. “The seeds must be cradled as you would an egg. They are notoriously sensitive to pressure.”

Hyacinth nodded, his gaze attentive, and mimicked the gesture as Primrose set the seed into the shallow soil. The moment it touched the earth, Primrose held a hand over Hyacinth’s seed.

“Now, cover it gently—gently, Mister Hyacinth, I cannot stress that enough. A harsh touch and too much soil will negatively affect the growth of the seed.” Primrose adjusted the cuff of his sleeve as though the very thought of distressing a plant offended his evident delicate sensibilities.

Suppressing a huff, Hyacinth complied, his hands moving with a careful precision born of years of practice in his own gardens. He covered it lightly, trying to gauge the difference between his own small mound of soil compared to Primrose’s.

Primrose straightened, his expression softening—if you could even call it that. “Adequate,” he declared, though the hint of a smile betrayed his satisfaction. “For a novice, you show… potential.”

“Novice?” Hyacinth blurted hotly, then, containing his outburst, began to grumble beneath his breath, “Why I never…”

Hyacinth rose to his feet, brushing the soil from his knees with practiced ease. “Your guidance is invaluable, Mister Primrose,” he said through his teeth, ever the expert on maintaining social niceties, genuine or otherwise. “I’m sure that I couldn’t have done it without your… expertise.”

Primrose cleared his throat, his cheeks coloring faintly at the compliment. “Yes, well… just ensure you maintain this level of care. The Embassy cannot tolerate anything less than perfection.”

“Perfection, naturally,” Hyacinth agreed with a slight bow, his smile growing as he turned back to the garden bed, setting aside his minor grief at Primroses probably unintentional slights. It was a small moment, but one that filled him with a quiet joy. To be having the chance to nurture something so rare and beautiful—it was a privilege he didn’t take lightly.

Hyacinth lingered idly over the small plot of dirt for a moment longer, gazing down at the freshly planted seed as if he could already see the vibrant bloom it would become within a few weeks' time. The soil, which was already dark and rich despite not being watered, had no immediate sign of transformation, which was admittedly a little disappointing to him. What with it being made out to be such a precious and magical sounding flower, he might have thought that there would be some sort of… heavenly aura, or instant sprouting, or something.

He folded his hands behind his back and exhaled softly, allowing the tranquility of the greenhouse to settle over him.

“Patience,” Primrose hummed, stepping forward to inspect it with a critical eye. “The ambrosia flower is not some common daisy to spring up overnight. Its growth is measured, deliberate, and only for those with the discipline to tend it properly.”

“I would expect nothing less,” Hyacinth replied, his voice light but sincere. He turned his head slightly, his gaze flitting to the rows of thriving ambrosia blooms further down the greenhouse path. Each flower seemed suspended between reality and dream, their petals almost shifting with every subtle breeze. “Something so extraordinary should require extraordinary care.”

Primrose tilted his chin upward, his lips pursed as if weighing whether Hyacinth’s response was sufficiently reverent. After a pause, he nodded. “Right. And while your enthusiasm is… commendable, we are far from finished.” He gestured toward a watering can perched on the edge of a nearby table.

“You’ll need to water it, naturally, but that will be the main focus of the next time you come to tend to the garden,” Primrose explained. “Precision with the watering process is paramount, so it will require its own separate lesson entirely.”

Hyacinth, though surprised, nodded in agreement. “I’ll try my best to meet your exacting standards, then.”

Honestly, he had assumed that such a vast little greenhouse garden had its own sprinkler system, given the sheer amount of flowers it held, but to know that they seemed to need to be watered individually...

He was a patient man, as far as he was concerned, but even he didn't go so far as to individually water his plants at home—not all of them, at least.

Primrose’s chest puffed slightly, his frosty demeanor thawing just enough to betray a flicker of pride. “Few outside the Embassy are given this privilege. I would hope you understand the significance of your presence here.” He clasped his hands behind his back. “Now repeat the process for the remaining seeds. And do mind your posture—one’s bearing reflects one’s devotion to the craft.”

“Of course,” Hyacinth said, though the faintest downward twitch at the corner of his mouth suggested he found the remark a bit demeaning. He crouched once more, setting himself to the meticulous task of planting the remaining seeds. With each one, he repeated the process exactly as instructed: the depth of the hole, the placement of the seed, the right amount of dirt.

As he worked, the greenhouse seemed to grow quieter, the soft rustling of his movements and the occasional admonishment from Primrose the only sounds. Yet Hyacinth found the near silence comforting, even meditative. There was a serenity in this labor, in knowing that he was cultivating something rare and precious, like the satisfaction he got in caring for some of his more temperamental seasonal plants.

When the final seed was nestled in the soil, Hyacinth rose to his feet, brushing his gloved hands together lightly to dust them off. “There,” he said with a firm, satisfied nod, and turned to Primrose expectantly.

Primrose stepped forward, inspecting the row. He leaned in close, squinting as if searching for even the smallest flaw. After a long pause, he straightened with an air of grudging satisfaction. “Acceptable,” he declared, his tone sounding a little gentler than it had been before. “For your first attempt,” he added, then gestured toward the path leading deeper into the greenhouse.

“Come along then. There are additional techniques you must learn, and I have a task for you.”

“A task?” Hyacinth asked, raising an eyebrow at him, but followed along regardless. “What sort of task?”

“It’s a matter of tea leaves. We don’t just grow ambrosia flowers, you know.”

Great, Hyacinth thought flatly. He was already being used as an errand boy.