Today is the day. The damnable day. Were I crowned only a month and a half sooner, I could have forestalled this vile mockery of my late mother. For years now my errant father has been taking increasingly frequent trips up to the lunar palace but never did I expect the ox to find himself a bride. Not one of royal lineage, mind you, but a palace handmaiden. Even now as I commit these words to mental record, I find myself holding down bile. I have not met this mysterious maiden who seems to have bewitched my undeserving paternal steward, but I know well that she is young. Far younger than he, a solar cycle behind even myself or so I've heard. Long have I asked myself what he could be thinking, how oblivious he could be to the fact that any young maiden would leap at the opportunity to marry into our royal line, but I have since learnt not to place so much faith into the last of my kin. He does not want to think, I'd wager. Does not want to see what stands in front of him. To his credit, I'll concede, the man has been alone far too long. 

I've had the pyramid to myself this long morning, giving ample time to reflect on how this new addition to our happy family will affect the proceeding year. Surely my dolesome dear daddy does not expect me to relinquish my throne to this off-world commoner. Should it come to that my pity for him and his reign will vanish completely. I'll have his head divorced from his neck before his farcical marriage is made legitimate... as for his would-be widow, she could earn her keep as my well trained maid, everything returned to its rightful place. I take the scenic route through the sun garden back to my chambers and disrobe with aid of servant. The picture in the mirror is one of elegance, status, a body shaped by 9.80 m/s² and combat practise for Martian invasion that would never come. The Red Colonies were a failure and while their militia once stood strong, it was equally volatile and that might turned inwards. I stare at my naked form and admire the gifts I have been given. As my maidservant adorns me with golden bands and wispy veil and bronze blusher, I think about bloodying the sands at my doorstep like the red soil of that distant graveyard, 140 million miles away. 

My body is wrapped in bone white cloth inscribed with the words of a long forgotten ancestry, a customary garb meant to be seen by those welcomed into our land. Such traditions are wasted on this moonbred parasite, but I daresay that I'll relish in the rift between myself and the lunar frump. While this moon child will without a doubt be taller than anybody else to walk these halls due to their unique environment, I will loom over her. She will be made to bow wherever she may wander in this great pyramid, the low ceilings will be sure of that. 

I trace the shape of two shadows creeping over the combed sand through the ornate window in my chambers, a pair of royal guards identifiable by their expensive burgundy shrouds and retracted silver hilts. Following closely behind is an oafish man bereft of his eyebrows and sporting a withered goatee, his arm aloft to accompany his maiden bride. The opportunist has obscured herself in a platinum cocoon of clothing, as though she and I are equal not a slither of her skin is shown to the common folk who keep watch and play protector to our spoilt little lives. Unlike my own concealment, hers even leaves the form of her body to great speculation, the only obvious factor being her immense height. Even under the harsh gravity of this world for one such as herself, I can see plainly that she does not hunch. Each print left in the sand unveiled by that overflowing, lustrous mantle is perfectly uniform, before it is swept away by the comb of the rear guard. If I am to greet them before that garish cloak of hers no longer threatens to blind all of those that should catch its glare, I need make my way downstairs immediately. 

"My daughter forgets herself on occasion, dear... I pray the two of you get along as mother and daughter should, but if you fear her blade at your back in the long hours of night I can have her relocated to your former lady's palace as ambassador of Earth, or ah... whatever convenient excuse should arise." The man I would call father were I looking to degrade myself speaks on about me as though I cannot hear, while knowing full well that my ear catches his threats. He should know that I am not to be intimidated, he wields power like a neutered animal, empty words are all he has left to keep the knives at bay. "You wouldn't be the first mother she's killed." 

My hand moves to the dagger that hugs the outer thigh beneath cloth coverings, clutching it in a sort of murderous prayer. Such venom from a man who dared not look me in the eye last time we were under the same roof. I still myself from the rise he almost gets from using the word mother to describe this lucky whore, it would seem that his grudge against a helpless new born has softened none, and now he has become emboldened. I want to laugh at the juvenile gambit of his, or take mocking pity at the attempt in any case, does he really think that he can hold power over me with a political marriage that threatens the legitimacy of my coronation? Does he really not think I have it in me to end his miserable life? I silenced one parent coming into this world, kicking and screaming as the viscera left its stain. It should come even easier to me at 26. 

I compose myself and then motion to make my presence known, as performative a gesture that is by this point. "Come now, I can hardly hope to make a positive first impression of the new lady of the house with you whispering words of imagined treachery into her poor ear. Ignore my father, smitten with him as I'm sure you are. It is he who forgets himself in the autumn of his days, ah, may you remind me your age?" Despite my insistence on elegance and formality, I could not bring myself to state my name and courtesy, perhaps I still lack a measure of maturity in these matters of polite adversity. 

As the recipient of my dour inquiry steps into the shade to relieve us all that reflective assault, I watch as two slender hands remove themselves from their folded position at her sternum and trail up to her cowl. Long nails painted in the colours of the cosmos disappear into the deep hood and remove it swiftly, revealing a slender face as pale as the moon itself. The woman's lips are curled in such a way to suggest unbothered amusement at our familial dispute, which admittedly catches me wholly off guard. Though I recover quickly, her eyes seem to catch my expression through the thin slip of veil between our gazes. Shrewd for a house pet... 

"We do not use the same calendar system on the surface of Selene, but in yours I would be 25 years young. I do hope you manage to remember it in the future, but should you want reminding you need but ask again. My presence here does not trouble you, does it? I mean no threat to your reign, in fact I would very much be honoured to play a part in... shepherding it? I am still learning your turns of phrase."

This daughter of Sin may have a noticeably extraterrestrial twinge to her accent, but I believe she chooses her words with the utmost care. Shepherd me, was it? Am I her good little sheep in this delusional woman's daydream? I suspect my father doesn't care a whit so long as his whistle is wet. If anything, he'll be more than happy to entertain any childish fantasies in which he holds dominion over my life in any meaningful way. I made sure he knew who the staff here works for when I prepared for them that pitiful escort from their shuttle to the door, three royal guards was three more than they're worth. 

"You look tense, silva, and that outfit... I'm impressed you can breathe." The woman from the moon steps forward with a distinct clack on our well polished marble entryway, is the giant wearing heels? Any taller and she'd be halfway home, my best guess would be approaching 7ft which only makes me wonder what their men are like. 

"Look daddy I've impressed her." I reply without thinking, my tone drier than the surrounding desert. "May I be excused now? I have a hemisphere to govern. It cannot oversee itself and evidently neither can its king. Do have fun with your new toy, but keep the political roleplay in the bedroom from here on." With my piece spoken, albeit more directly than I had planned to, I turn on my heels to let the man respond to my back if he decides to speak at all. To nobody's surprise, his lips stay dry. 

To mine, her lips do not. 

"May I accompany you, silva? I have yet to tour your lovely home but I confess that your duties interest me greatly, your father has painted such a storied picture of his little monarch in training. A first hand account would colour that canvas beautifully." Those perfectly curved lips of her do not betray any intent other than that which they admit to freely, a coating of black as dark as space with a twinkle of star white in between. She wishes to assess my true colours? Very well then, I muster every hating bone in my body into perfect submission as I ignore the infantilising words of a woman a year my junior. I know that my father has never spoken once about my 'training', nor would he paint any picture of me that didn't portray me as stillborn. I'm no stranger to fighting words, the best way to disarm your opponent is a show of indifference. 

"I must ask you to refer to me with a formal title, I'm not familiar with this name that you've taken to calling me by. You may follow, but I ask that you remove your outdoor clothing now that we are enclosed. I fear you may be mistaken for a performer wearing what you are."

My adversary nods amicably, her expression remaining as intact as a ballroom mask. Perfect porcelain smile, an impressive poker face I suppose she learnt under strict guide of the head maid in the Lunar Palace. I've heard the stories at least. "Naturally, though I assure you my state of dress was purely practical. We come from very different places, yourself and I." More doublespeak, is she still attempting to incense me? "Is the name not to your liking, princess? It means daughter if you were curious. Though commonly used as a term of endearment even removed from it's original use, your father suggested it was appropriate, was he mistaken?" 

Of course, my father is a phantom in his own home. The fleeting show of fight he had felt emboldened to put us through lasted as long as a raindrop's descent and was not nearly as appreciated. He knows better than to interject here, becoming tantamount to a patchy piece of wallpaper in this grand pyramid of ours. 

The ambitious maiden of the stars shrugs off her dazzling overcoat and the ghost behind her moves to catch it, if I didn't feel sick before I certainly do after that display. The jester does not customarily decorate his balding head with a crown, what a strange court we keep here in the sands of the Sahara. Now with an emissary of Thoth to bring about our reckoning. A story whose scribe has a sick sense of humour. I look upon my self proclaimed step-mother, now dressed down in asymmetric black dress studded with various constellations, with thigh high boots that nearly reach my midriff; each adorned with a silver lace across the back.

"This place is exquisite." The woman remarks, seeing no need to wait for my response to her jab of a question. "It reminds me of the louvre, specifically it's majestic centrepiece. That was more glass than I have ever dared lay eyes upon I must say." She takes to following me when I begin to walk away, I had permitted her to do so but even so I find her presence looming over me. I had underestimated the sway that simple physicality can have. "Of course I had never visited the original, I hear that one is much smaller but I suppose that has its charms too." I was content to let her spin this verbal yarn interrupted, but must she constantly speak in snide metaphor... "Though I surmise this home of yours was not based on Pyramide du Louvre, but those of Giza. Externally, at the very least, I'm rather grateful you decided to go a different direction with its interior." Each clack of her heels seem to accentuate her words, almost in rhythm. This woman must practice the way she carries herself extensively, daily, unerringly. It has my own composure at a distinct disadvantage, loathe as I am to concede this. 

"Do mind your head, won't you? These halls were not designed with your people in mind." I mutter calmly as we spill out into the central atrium, a white tree stood in the centre which was grown and pruned in homage to Axel Erlandson's basket trees. Another relic of a dead woman, two ghosts roam these halls and I'd wager the wrong one yet draws breath. 

The woman behind stifles her laughter, which makes my shoulders tense up. When was the last time I had somebody so bold walk beside me? It's almost preferable to the indifference of those in servitude, but the unflinching acceptance from those you control is all I really know, if I cannot control this woman then I simply do not understand her. A flaw of being so terribly sheltered and raised by no less than a coward. "My people? Oh darling, don't you think you're trying just a little too hard to... oh I don't know, is it intimidation you're seeking? I can shiver for you if it would set you at ease. We are not so unalike really, you needn't feel threatened by my physique. In fact, our muscle mass is rather pitiful compared to yours, I suppose you could overpower me quite easily were things to suddenly get violent! I'm not going to instigate such an encounter myself, so the onus is yours. Not only am I a little jealous of your musculature, but I'm utterly enthralled by your complexion. You'd never think we shared the same sun, but our cities are shrouded in shadow... and so our two worlds, our respective people as you so delicately put it, have homogenized in very different directions." I feel a fingernail scrape down the cloth covering at my shoulder and I turn to glare in wordless warning. "If you're constantly wrapping up like a mummy, perhaps you're just as pale as I am in all but your face? That would certainly be a fascinating contrast!" 

"You're awfully talkative... and verbose. Tell me again that you're still learning our language. You even spoke a dead tongue, trying to impress me?" We exit the atrium from the other side and enter the decrepit war room, not even my father bothers to play strategy against a phantom force from the other hemisphere anymore. It's nothing but radiation now with a half-life that will make the most patient of people blush.

I make note the shift of her eyes as I slowly turn and rest my hands on the circular table at my back, her trying to figure out why I've led us into this museum of a bygone era, obsolete by the time they had finished building it. "Oh no, are you going to ambush me?" She smiles still. The implication of danger by itself does not break her, she must be good at reading people too. "Language is constantly evolving, silva, and so we are always learning. Before everything began to meld together on this dear planet of yours, there were many different languages. Hundreds, even. What we're speaking now is an amalgamation of cultures that refused to be left behind and forgotten, including that aforementioned dead language. I could point out several words and phrases we've employed in the past ten minutes that originate from l'Hexagone."

"La-what-now?" I make the mistake of entertaining her conversation, handing over the reigns, some power play this is. Damn her hexing words. Vexing, I mean... her talk of hexagons has even disrupted my flow of thought. 

Despite initially quirking an eyebrow in the first slip of genuine emotion I've caught from that impenetrable poker face of hers, the woman then appears to be rather pleased with my lack of understanding, is she about to play teacher? How maternal. 

A set of succinct clacks describe the woman's journey to the corner of the room and I follow despite my better judgement, out of sheer curiosity. Have I fallen for her trap? "Here, look." Her long, slender digits softly move over the surface of my father's ornate globe, which I fear he only touches to retrieve the whisky stored inside, turning it to centre Europe and tracing a finger over the shape of France's borders. "See, it's a hexagon. More or less, it's not a nickname I would have come up with, but I do rather like it despite its imperfections."  

"Oh... huh." 

"You do know geometry, I assume? Polygons and such?"

"Yes! I... I just didn't know where France was." 

"Ah, I suppose there'd be no cause to label most of these countries anymore. A pity, you should still learn this sort of think don't you think? Those who forget history are d-"

"Yes yes I'm very aware, if you're offering to become my teacher I'd be inclined to decline."

"Is that so? Well I think you'd be making a mistake in that case. I could teach you a great many things, do you know what my main duties were in the Lunar Palace? I read old books to the mistress, how I came to learn the languages they were written with is another story, much older."

"You're younger than me..."

"And yet, I know so much that you do not. Is it not ignorance, or maybe hubris, for a leader to shy away from educating themselves? Or are you the sort to rule by restricting knowledge? Are we to burn libraries in your name, silva?"

"Stop calling me that."

"Are we avoiding the question?"

"No, I just... you're not holding this over me."

"You need to relax. I know you're tempted, or this conversation would be over."

"This conversation is over." 

Before I can react, I am caught off guard by the tugging of the ribbon at my waist. The long silence of my weak proclamation is disrupted by a yelp that surely doesn't come from my own mouth. I am spun around, startled and flustered, as the woman towering over me beside this antique globe unravels my wrappings, the customary garb I wear formed by single long band of bone white fabric, wrapped expertly by my most skilled of handmaidens. The dress shows that you possess dominion over others by the mere fact that the wearer could not possibly dress themselves. Any who would be present to flip that on it's head and suggest you incapable of dressing yourself would be beheaded with the shit eating grin still plastered over their poor face. Benevolent rulers died out long ago with the bombs my ancestors used to erase them. Now we live in times of peace.

Snapping back into my senses, I see my new houseguest standing further away from me, a stretch of cloth between us and a draft of cool air against my bare midriff. I've been spun around, figuratively and literally, too taken a back to react as I rightly should. 

"As I've been saying, silva, I can teach you many wonderful things. You only need to ask, and I'm yours." She pulls gently and I am unwrapped like a present, I'd hate to seem willing and yet I do not stop her from undressing me so inappropriately, the diagonal wrap that held my chest pulling free and becoming taut between us. My breasts are bare and not a word leaves my mouth, all catching in my throat like flies to a zapper. Electrifying. 

I feel my heartbeat racing to a finish I cannot predict, how far does this strange maiden intend to humiliate me in my vulnerable, shocked state? I'm paralysed by her brazen action, her challenging words, confidence so sharp it can draw blood. What... what's happening here?

"So easily unwound, so eager to be undone. You just needed someone to give you a little push, hm? Or should I say pull?" Her hand tugs as she spins me like ballerina into her arms with the beginnings of my lightly trimmed pubic hair peeking out from the ever unwrapping cloth. A display of power turned into a show of submission in a single pull. "I was told you don't know what it's like to have a mother, no maternal figure in your life since day one? You poor thing."

I'm not a poor thing. 

I'm not a poor thing... 

I'm not-

"Is that why you're so afraid of me?"

I'm not a-

"Don't worry, I can tell, it'll be our secret. You're scared not just of the threat I could be..."

I'm not scared... 

I just... the words aren't coming out. 

"...you're also scared of how tempted you are by me. My lessons, my stature, my unique allure."

This is wrong, but I can't move, I can barely even breathe. It's as though her aura is suffocating me, wrapped up in a new kind of cloth. A different fashion... which represents a different person's power. 

"You're tempted to allow yourself a mother."

...

"I... what?"

I feel a hand on my cheek, it's cold, or perhaps my cheek is overheating. 

"Shhhh, shhhh it's okay. I'm very good at keeping secrets, you can be honest with me. Lay everything bare." With ease, her fingers slip the fabric up and it slithers up my legs until I feel my body suddenly give. I hear the distinct clank of metal as my dagger clatters onto the floor, signifying the end of my fight in some distant part of my overactive imagination. Oh, I'm completely naked, in another woman's arms... an enemy... And she said she wasn't strong. 

I need to do something, anything, to regain control of the situation. Wait, did I ever even have control? Was I dancing to her tune this entire time? Some manner of Thoth sorcery? No, now I'm being ridiculous. I feel exhausted spinning this mental wheel to justify my own weakness here, why am I letting her do any of this? Am I dreaming? That would be comforting, I could just be sleeping... yeah, sleeping safe and alone...

"Ah, don't yawn, you'll have me starting up too. They're contagious you know, the idea just gets stuck in your head and then you simply can't help but comply. Even if you don't want to yawn, it's impossible to resist once the idea worms into your head. The more you try to fight it, the harder it becomes not to yawn. Consider that your first lesson."

Of course I yawn, I don't even put up a noble effort to resist. The more she said the word, the more it stuck. I begin to wonder what else she can make me do with such ease, her tongue is a lethal dagger in glossy black sheathe. Its poison has already entered my bloodstream, probably too late to treat.

"You've had a hard day, haven't you?" She nods my head and as stupid as I feel to admit this here, the assistance had me fooled. It was like I had myself agreed before I could remember she had moved me. I was still too distracted, lamenting on the hows and whys of this situation even occurring to begin with. So out of the blue, she had me in the palm of her hand, yet it did not at all feel sudden if I am to be honest. Again I'm too busy thinking in my head and not paying attention to the scene in the war room, every time I distract myself in circular thoughts this woman whose name I have yet to even learn has free reign to suggest to me whatever nonsense she so pleases. Filling my erring mind with words I am unable to adequately defend myself from. 

"You're still struggling so much aren't you? I can see it in your eyes, they're moving so much, that must be tiring them out. Getting strained, heavy, needing to yawn again and then heavier they become. Again and again and again. Mind heavy, eyes heavy, yawn. Rinse and repeat, silva, until you struggle no more. Until the struggle is forgotten. What were we talking about? What were you thinking about? All meaningless questions, because your mind needs sleep."

My mind... needs sleep?

That may be true, as much as I hate to give her another victory. I'm starting to develop a light headache as I fight to stay awake, as I think non stop about things I no longer remember. Something about a hexagon? Teaching? Yawning. Oh, there I go again. I can't help it, once you think about yawning you can't help but do the deed. And then what? I uh, I think a lot... that's true. Ah shit my eyes are starting to... to droop. I blink heavy, like I'm clearing away cobwebs. Like my lashes are covered in glue. My eyes slam shut and the headache subsides, I pry them open and the strain floods back. 

"I can teach you about hypnosis, if you would like? It helps when you're tired like this, in fact, because you're already relaxed and recipient. Open, suggestible. All things conducive to an effective induction."

I don't really understand what she's talking about anymore, I'm nearly limp in her arms at this point, only a handful of jewellery adorning the scene of sepia across my slumped form. If I can't understand I can't really contest her words. I can only listen. 

"You're doing so well, my good girl." A hand strokes through my hair and I shudder. My fingers grip tightly onto something, at first I assume it to be my dress but then I remember how that was taken from me. Am I clinging to her? Surely nothing so embarrassing. I choose not to know, so I start thinking even less than I had been. The headache subsides as I do, I let my eyes rest and no longer bother to listen to her words. If I don't listen, they won't affect me anymore... 

"Thaaaaat's riiiight, just let your mind go to sleep. Falling into a much needed slumber for me now, open and recipient. No defences needed, you're not under threat. Oh no, quite the opposite. You're safe in my arms now, my silva." 

I feel arms embrace me and instinctively reciprocate them gladly in my slumbering state. My suggestive stupor. I've never felt so safe before, is this what having a mother feels like? Is this the feeling I've been missing out on all this time? I could get too used to this. Dependent, addicted. 

Her hooks pierce me and never let me go, lest they pull me apart. If they did, how would she deign to piece me back together. However she likes... 

Hushed whispers tickle my ear as we slide down against the wall and she cradles me in her lap. I feel coddled and it feels good. I can't resist the smile that paints my face, not enough of me is there to question where it came from: me or her? 

That poison sting of her sharp tongue works its sorcery on me unrestricted, my ear a funnel for suggestion. Now the true education can begin. A long and arduous re-education. 

And who am I to resist her teachings? Am I really going to fight against my own mother?

I groan as the light hits my eyes from the highest window in my chambers, the one leg not covered my sheet now drenched in sunlight. A handmaid is already rifling through my wardrobe to find my formalwear, we must have a guest. At least it isn't that traditional one cloth garb, I do so loathe having to wear that one. It's far too tight and takes far too long to wrap. As I sit up, I have to clutch my head from the sudden headrush. I feel so sluggish this morning, did I find cause to delve into my father's liquor globe last night? My memory is spottier than I'd care for it to be, which is to say that any gaps are cause for concern. 

Not only that, but I feel as though I had experienced the strangest dream. It was not entirely unpleasant, so far as I can remember at least, but it was one that I may need a session with Dr. Olm to discuss in better detail. I remember feeling weak, conquered... and worst of all, relieved for it. Not the dreams of a world leader, so as my coronation swiftly peeks over the horizon I must quell any weaknesses with promethean foresight and herculean might.

With a contagious early morning yawn, I stretch out my arms and kick my legs over the side of my bed to get up for the day. I do not intend to join my father for breakfast despite him giving me the courtesy of an invitation each morning via maid, but I at least need to dress myself properly should any actually important business arise. I'm sure to shake off this groggy haze I find myself in once I've properly woken up. 

"Ma'am, would you like me to clean that up?"

Why is my maid staring at me with an expression I've never seen the servants give in all my years here? I always bathe at night, so I should be perfectly clean, I prefer to slip straight into my clothes first thing as part of my waking ritual. I step over with a surprising heaviness in my legs and inspect myself in the mirror, eye's widening as an unexpected sight comes into view, too explicit to ignore. 

A midnight black mark in the curve of my neck, made by a pair of lips. The shape is undeniable, it's such a perfect impression of a kiss that it could be a tattoo. I thank my blushing face that it isn't one as I swiftly rub away the mortifying mark and snap back into reality in an instant. She was not in my dream, or at the very least, not only in my dream. Where reality ceased and dream began is not something I am all too clear on, but it is clear this harlot seeks to humiliate me. Is her plan to overthrow me by tanking my reputation with the people? This is hardly a diplomatic situation we have fallen into as a society, but even still, were I shown to be so... toyed with... it could ruin me. If not in the eyes of others, then in those that stare back from the mirror. It's a little hard to look myself in the eye right now, so I let them flick over to the card in my handmaiden's delicate fingers. Draped over her other arm is a dress I would not be caught dead wearing. A sleeveless dress with a floral design and skirt that only reaches to the knee. I do not recognise the flower, a rich red blossom that my mother would surely identify with ease given her knowledge on the subject. 

The card I hold is certainly not written by my father, his handwriting is as bad as his hairline. As I flick over the words written in that pretty silver cursive, my eyes slowly begin to glaze and I suddenly feel compelled to wear the dress after all. It's like having my eyes opened and suddenly I can't think of a single good reason why I didn't want to wear the damn thing. It's... pretty. I like wearing pretty things. When I wear pretty clothes, I feel... wait, what's... ugh, headache again. I'm just going to put the dress on and then-

"Uhm, my lady, the back of the card has writing too."

Right, right. I wave her away like I'm swatting a fly, turning the card and reading the words written there. As I do, I reach a sort of epiphany. Maybe just this once I should join my father for breakfast, after all, it could be useful to keep an eye on him and let him know who is really in charge here.

Who is really in charge, yeah. I smile a little as my fingers run through the dress, looking forward to being pretty again. 

A little while later I reach the private dining area which is larger than it has any right to be, feeling a little timid as I bare my shoulders and legs in the halls so casually. Sat at the table is my father... and next to him... is mother. 

"Good morning, silva. I prayed to Selene that you would sleep well. Did it work?" 

I close my eyes for a moment... and then I pry them open. 

A smile creeps onto my face as I approach the table, the smell of freshly cooked pastry assaulting my nostrils. 

Did it work? That was her question. When mother asks me a question... I should... 

"Oh, yes! Quite well, actually... but uh... I felt a little strange when I got out of bed. Perhaps you should pray more cautiously in future."

The woman stifles her laughter, placing a piece of sliced apple into her mouth as she observes me closely. Is it something I'm wearing? Oh, that's right, I had a question for her.

"By the way, mother, could you tell me what the name of this flower on my dress is?"