Virgil Carstairs sleeps[1] as still as the dead, lost to dreams of Chopin in the night. A faint rat-at-at-ta at his window rouses him but not quite enough. He remains stubbornly comatose, held by his nest of cloudy sheets as if it were the upturned palm of a patient God. A loud flutter of owl wings beats against his window again and this time he does growl in displeasure.

"Fuck," the blonde mutters, forcing his eyes open slightly and then properly, in surprise.

A bouquet of red flowers[2] confronts the view from his window and he pushes himself up, quickly opening it so that the tired owl could deposit its weighty gift.

And then he is smiling broadly to himself, sitting up in bed with fragrant roses in his lap and surrounded by a scent no perfume - not even magical ones - are able to replicate. These are far less ambiguous than orchids[3] and every bit as desired, stark against white sheets. If only, he thinks, every young man could wake up to blossoms in the morning. They would be invincible.

When he does get up to stretch, to leave the room for coffee (to sing, to rouse his poor flatmates too early) he will find the chocolates on the balcony. But they will be given only a cursory look and tossed aside; they are not chocolates from Cepheus Gamp, only regular treats. Their clever little deception might yet manifest. But not today.

Today was for roses - and just a little bit of good luck.

1.	Virgil's bedroom by Sarah!
2.	Roses do not Bloom Hurriedly
3.	July 16th - An Awfully Big Adventure