Magnolia

Magnolia made her flowers for beetles, before bees existed. The southern magnolia's great white cups — waxy, lemon-scented, the size of a hand — evolved when the pollinators were armored crawlers, a hundred million years ago, and she has kept the old romance ever since: tough petals the beetles cannot shred, perfume instead of nectar. "The bees came later," she says, with the tolerance of the truly ancient. "They are lovely. They were not the first." The Flowering Court treats her as its elder stateswoman — dinosaur-era blooms, Cretaceous perfume — and she accepts the honor the way she accepts everything: slowly, fragrantly, without surprise. Her evergreen leaves polish the winter; her seed cones flame red in fall. Asked about the Missing Ring, she only opens one more white cup. Some questions, she believes, are answered by continuing to bloom.