Hushed Willows But I make no plans and none can be broken

It was a full day before Reverie could hold to consciousness longer than a few minutes. She had not asked after her husband. Others flitted about the den, but even as the fog began to lift from her, she paid them little mind. Her eyes were only for her daughters.

Three perfect daughters. They were asleep now, and she could do nothing but stare, reminded so fully of Blossom each time her eyes found them. Her daughters knew nothing of the tragedy they'd been born to; they were peaceful, healthy in spite of the trials of their entrance to the world. And now they would need names.

To her firstborn she gave the name Boone had chosen. Jowey-Winnie Dahlia, for the girl who already so resembled her father that Reverie's heart ached at the sight of her.

Rusty Foxglove for the second daughter, who even now raised a small fuss in all her waking moments. Already it seemed she would never be soothed.

And her last daughter, delicate as she was, could only be called Petal. Forsythia Petal, for the flowers that bloomed even before the first glimpse of spring's green.

Reverie murmured their names to each of them, as she had with Blossom. In time they would come to know themselves, their birthright. In time she would teach them to dance, and Everett would teach them to sing. They would never know the fear and fire of The Gilded Sea, no more than they would know the face of their own father. These hurts were hers to carry — and the future belonged only to them.

She glanced up then, anticipating @Kukutux's return.