I spent the last fortnight in a back room off the Grote Markt, listening as sober men priced a bulb still asleep in frozen soil. The Semper account was passed from hand to hand like a prayer book; each flourish of red on parchment promised a flower no buyer had seen that season.
Contracts bloomed faster than gardens
By Candlemas the talk had changed from cultivation to obligation. A weaver from Alkmaar knew the weight of his looms, the rent of his house, and the promise of one narrow bulb, yet only the promise made him speak like a prince.
A rare stripe is never merely color; it is a rumor given petals.