Plumeria

Plumeria prays at dusk. The frangipani's flowers — white and gold, waxy as candles — release their perfume strongest after dark, when the temple steps cool and the faithful come. She is the offering itself: leis in Hawaii, temple garlands in Bali, the flower of the graveyards and the gods alike, beautiful in places of grief. "Scent," she says, "is the part of the bloom that stays after the petals fall." The Flowering Court, loud with color, lowers its voice around her — she is its quiet aristocrat, trading not in spectacle but in memory. Her branches are thick and succulent, her leaves simple; everything she has, she put into the perfume. Asked why she blooms hardest in the dark, she answers like a priestess: "Because that is when prayers are said."