“Thirty-two. You have collected thirty-two roses for me by hand. It must have a rather… unpleasant experience doing that, wasn’t it?”
“Yes… Madam Rouge.”
The porcelain skinned woman carefully looks down at the pile of plucked roses in front of her throne and picks one out, examining it all round, starting with each individual petal. Her fingers seem to absorb the rose’s velvet red color, leaving behind whittled, dry petals. Its lush green stem shrivels up and breaks apart in her hand.
“I assume you were cut while collecting these, right?” the woman asks. She takes the remnants of the rose and crushes it in the palm of her hand, dust slipping out from between her slender fingers, “I still find it somewhat hilarious that such a small plant can harm a human just from touch, Why would humans allow such a weak object to bloom and cause damage? Your species may be much more idiotic than I thought.”
As the woman continues her question of the human race as a whole, she shifts her gaze from the resting flowers at her feet and notices a small trail of blood trickling down from her maid’s hands and staining her snow white apron. Disappointed, the woman shakes her head.
“Perhaps you humans are the weak objects.”