“I read in the book the warden sent to my tablet that it is customary for a bride to have a bouquet,” he said. “A bouquet of… grass?” I asked, taking the jar from him. Oaken looked confused, then crestfallen. “Blast. Is that not right? The translation was not very clear. It only mentioned a bouquet of plant matter.” My heart was going to crumple into a tiny, papery ball if he kept looking so sad about my weird little wedding bouquet.
