It had been a chance discovery in a story she had read while bored and wanting amusement. There, in an Agatha Christie novel, Rogue had discovered that flowers meant much more than she had ever thought - they were a means of communication. Researching into the subject, she found Victorian era romances had literally grown, thrived, and died on the vine, depending on what flowers were sent to whom and how they were delivered. And it had opened her eyes to a drama she had not known was happening right under her very nose.

The question was, did Logan really understand what he was sending?

It had started simply enough: anonymous deliveries made to her from the local florist. She suspected Logan immediately, though she never could explain why. Intrigued, she had kept notes of all the pretty plants and flowers he had sent in her diary, even asking Ms. Munroe the names of the unfamiliar ones for fun, not being an expert on horticulture. She was happy Logan sent her flowers, for whatever reason. She didn't expect anything more was in the arrangement. This was Logan, after all. Now, as she poured over the sentiments flowers represented, she began to see a pattern in the gifts over the past two years.

The nosegay of Sweet Peas delivered every time he left the mansion on a mission for the Professor translated into 'I am sorry, I must leave.' The juniper, while lilies, and red rosebuds he had sent for the most part that first summer before she turned nineteen were messages of 'I will protect you,' 'you are sweet and pure,' and 'you are young and lovely' respectively. Then, and she double-checked this with her diary, things began to change one day when she caught him staring at her as she sat in the garden studying for her first college exam. The next flowers had been orchids, stating 'you are beautiful.'

As if embarrassed, he hadn't sent anything for a long while, until a few months later when she caught him in the kitchen late one night and shared a snack and some lively and lovely conversation with him, something he wouldn't do with anyone else in the mansion, she was sure. Not a week went by before a lovely purple lilac was delivered, meaning he felt the first emotions of love. Then a strange bouquet had arrived, filled with honeysuckle and deep red carnations. Now, to her joy, she found the honeysuckle spoke of boundless affection. But to her sorrow the carnations represented heartache. He had traveled after that, gone for a few long, aching months. One small flower arrangement had been shipped during that time: a small showing of pansies, meaning he was thinking of her.

She tore through the Victorian notes, eager to translate the rest of the deliveries she had written down so long ago. The bluebells, sent after her twentieth birthday, had meant his love was constant. The small white bell flowers given after she had spent a night talking to him when he didn't want to close his eyes in dreaded sleep told her he was grateful. Even the silly little cactus he had sent her from some desert somewhere had a meaning: love would endure.

On and on the messages he had sent florally became clear: he had fallen for her a long time ago. And she had never known, because he had never said anything out loud. Finally, she looked up his last gift: a single yellow iris surrounded by a few cuttings of fern. The fern meant he was sincere, the iris - and this made her swallow hard - meant his love was passionate, something the other messages of love had avoided mentioning. She closed her eyes in excitement.

The next afternoon the florist made one last delivery, and this time it wasn't to Rogue. Logan briefly looked over the small bouquet of garden daisies surrounded by baby's breath posies and small sprigs of chickweed, and stared at her with a curious expression of surprise on his face. She smiled as she remembered the message she had sent: garden daisies - "I share your sentiments,' baby's breath posies - 'ours is an everlasting love,' and chickweed - 'will you meet me?'

Later that night, in the garden, he did.