"How lovely!"

Rustling her skirts and batting her long, perfectly curled lashes at Simeon Clark, second son of my master, the Duke of Shem, the court lady points a slender finger at the golden flowers in the special cultivating bed.

They are a rich yellow, the hue of the sun's reflection at midday. Every floral part: petal and sepal, perianth and corona, pistil and stamen is a deep gold, without hint of redness or pallor. The corona, or trumpet as it was once called, at the center of each blossom is twice the length of the surrounding segments, of which there are six: three sepals and three petals. All six are identical in every way: spade-shaped, with only a hint of bluntness at the very tip. The stems supporting the blooms are exceptionally long--almost the length of my forearm--and just as sturdy. Were the plants rooted outdoors (Stars forbid!), even the strongest wind would not topple them. And the fragrance...! Five of the blooms together have turned my family's greenhouse into Paradise; even one bloom will certainly send the Emperor reeling with pleasure.

"Their beauty pales in comparison with yours, my love," says the young nobleman to his companion, brushing his hand down her silken sleeve.

"Oh, Simeon. Don't be silly," she giggles. "They are perfect."
"Then let perfection adorn perfection," he replies unctuously, plucking all five of the deep yellow blooms with a flourish and laying them in her arms.

I want to weep. But one does not weep before the nobility.
My name is Odile Swan, and I rank among the third class, as do my parents and all others of my kin. Ours is a lucky position in society. Unlike the nobles and gentles above us, we do not have to send our sons to serve as warriors in the Emperor armies, nor must our daughters follow the strict code of Netri. And of course, we are better off than the lower orders: the servants, slaves, whores, and un-people. We Thirds are the middle folk, the folk of trade and artistry, of small plots of land, smaller purses, and the privilege of choosing our own professions. Our masters provide us with a dwelling and land suitable to our needs, for which we owe them half of our annual profits after the Tax. The Tax, we pay to the Emperor himself.

The Tax. For most Thirds, it consists of money or trade goods. But not for my family; our Tax is truly unique.

Here is the tale of its begetting:
On his way home from the Troff Wars, the present Emperor's grandfather passed through our village of Seldo. Being something of a flirt, my Great-Grandmother ran from her cottage to greet him, offering her finest daffodil bloom as a tribute to his victory. The Emperor was delighted; he'd never seen such a flower. Daffodils are an old Earth plant, very rare among the terraformed planets of the second Exodus. He made a proclamation on the spot: from that time forward, the Swans would pay no other annual Tax, save one perfect blossom of the daffodil plant.

Our noble visitors depart, and I hasten to fetch my parents. Together, we will beat our breasts and mourn. Two days from today is Tax Day. Two days from today, we will become un-people.

"Aaaannh! Aaaannh!" My mother cries when she sees the uninterrupted green of the daffodil leaves. "They're gone! All gone! May the Stars help us!"

My father makes no noise at all. That is because he has fainted on the floor. My mother stoops to mind his head. Frozen inside, I find myself unable to offer comfort. I drop to my knees and run my fingers over the clusters of slender green spears jutting from the black, composted soil, too bereft for either speech or tears. My soul is a vacuum, and such emptiness defies compassion.

Typically, my family manages to raise two or three flowers worthy of the Emperor each season. To have produced five at once was a rare accomplishment. Mine was the hand responsible for the deed, for I had introduced special techniques for fertilization and watering to the family business. When five perfect blossoms first opened, gracing my garden bed with unsurpassed magnificence, my parents had thrown a celebration as grand as any wedding feast. I'd been proud, so very proud.

Alas, never again! Sometimes, the Stars favor you; sometimes they are unimaginably cruel. Today, I curse them with all of my heart. Today, they snatched away my family's future and deposited it in the arms of a nobleman's giggling whore.

I hope she appreciates perfection. It is a thing that I will not see again.