the rabbit and the daisy room (spring 2025)

Author’s note: This one is rather dark. I wrote this short piece around this time last year. Explore it as you wish! (As for the fictional reference: it is because I read Beatrix Potter as a toddler)

The queen had appointed him to work for Sir Raven. Peter Rabbit was elated to start his new role as the florist for His Majesty. For the flowers were a coveted thing, a hot commodity, a prized possession. And they sat in Sir Raven’s flower shop.

Peter Rabbit awoke and rubbed his eyes. He was sleepy, but looking forward to his daily shift. The daisies were the most expensive in the town, and they meant much. Daisies at a cottage signified power, wealth, and all the things the rabbits wanted. And Raven trusted him.

The rabbits’ responsibilities were varied. One must ensure that only those deserving of a flower received one, that they were to be released in a well-informed, distributed manner, by one who truly understands the rewards and risks that came with. But it was quite a secretive operation, for those who understood, and he knew better than to tell the tricks of the trade to a passerby, especially not to one who could not even understand what a flower was.

So Peter attended to the roses, tulips, wildflowers, and dandelions, and paid special attention to who had their paws on the daisies. By way of customs, any Rabbit who wished for a daisy must go through classified appointments with Peter Rabbit first, and Peter Rabbit must notify his honor Sir Raven, who would make the final judgment call.

Weeks passed by, and Peter Rabbit’s excitement for his role had faded ever so slightly, as one does feel with any old routine settling in. He was overworked to the point of exhaustion, from 9:00 AM to midnight. Yet he mostly did not mind, as he was learning much and voluntarily sacrificing much, for it was an honor to serve, to be entrusted with such a grand responsibility.

From the eyes of the beholder, what else could a rabbit want than a beautiful job in a beautiful shop with His Majesty himself? Oh, but Sir Raven had his flaws, as did any rabbit. He was demanding of Peter Rabbit. He was quick to anger, and the lesser rabbits and dissenters resented him.

These problems were not as important as this: the daisies were disappearing at an alarming rate. Such pressing matters came through Peter Rabbit, who vowed for utmost integrity and objectivity. He was tired, and he would think to himself that perhaps he could spend more time bookkeeping and carefully triple-checking the numbers and guarantors, the recipients of the flowers. He made sure nobody but him and the absent Sir knew the whereabouts of the many locks for the daisy room. But why did the flowers go quicker than they arrived? Surely he had made a mistake.

One of the later days, Peter Rabbit called it quits and headed home from his shift early. So the next day he sat straight in the AM, red-eyed and yawning slightly less from the days prior. He arrived at the flower shop a quarter before seven — a little earlier than usual — to make up for his self-imposed guilt from leaving early the day before.

And behold, he saw a crack in the door to the daisy room. Why was there a whisper? Perhaps a client was there. But Peter Rabbit knew his appointments and protocols like the back of his paws. There were no upcoming appointments for the day. And what about Sir Raven? What was going on? Quietly he tiptoed through the cracks to peek into the room.

Peter Rabbit held his breath. Sir Raven stood at the center of the daisy room, speaking in low, smooth tones to a rabbit Peter had never seen before. The stranger wore no appointment tag, and yet Sir Raven was pressing a generous bundle of daisies into his paws. A heavy key ring glinted in the room. Peter recognized the largest key — the one he alone was meant to carry.

“You were never here,” Sir Raven murmured. The stranger nodded, tucked the daisies under his coat, and slipped out through the back. Sir Raven turned, straightened himself, and reached for another bundle. He did not look like a rabbit doing something wrong.

Sir Raven watched him go with something resembling satisfaction — the look of a rabbit who believed, wholly, that he was the good one in the room.

Sir Raven was performing a covert operation. The reason why the daisies had been quickly disappearing was due to the fact that behind closed doors, His Majesty had been distributing daisies to unvetted rabbits, perhaps not those who had worked to deserve one by the queen’s rules, but rather those who found favor in the eyes of the one Sir Raven. And thus this became a violation of policy. And had the queen found out, it would not be Sir Raven who answered for it. Peter Rabbit would be the one burned at the stake.

Peter Rabbit scurried out of the flower shop frantically.

He arrived home at half past eight.