Gemotions

"Well, now," Beatrice muttered, tapping her chin with a fingernail. She’d been enjoying a rainy afternoon, browsing a collection of poetry. “A Gathering of Whispers,” it was titled. Inside, wedged between two sonnets, she’d discovered a small, pressed flower, a faded bluebell.

She brushed away a fleck of dried petal. Attached to the flower was a tiny note, barely bigger than a postage stamp, folded with extreme precision. It simply read, “Meet me by the weeping willow, dusk.”

Beatrice had a sudden urge to check her locks. She glanced at the clock. Dusk was approaching. Her tea felt cold against her tongue. Why the secrecy? Who was this mysterious person?