Despite everything there was something that kept Gerrit moving: duty. He had a duty to be there for the Freehold. He had a duty to protect and help his friends and most importantly his Motley- and Court-mates. He had a duty to keep his new shop running. If he could just focus on those things, ignore his personal wants and emotions he would get through this. A rolling stone gathered no moss, after all.

Working at his job hurt the most. He intended it to be a place of warmth and hope, a monument to how you could achieve your dreams if you fought hard enough for it. True, he had always wished to make his living with this, but lately Rosie's Roses just reminded him constantly of the two women he'd lost: first his wife, who had taught him to be happy and careless, his wife that always smelled a bit like blueberries and enjoyed the beauty in the smallest of things. Then Vivian, who saw beyond his flaws, who loved flowers and wanted to make the whole world beautiful.

Now there was just this middle-aged, sad, broken man providing naive humans with gifts to all their joyous occasions.

Take this husband, for instance. He wanted to surprise his wife for their tenth anniversary. Gerrit asked him about their history, about the wife's taste in general and flowers specifically. He made them an arrangement of Roses and Tulips and greens, and the man's Glamour tasted like pinkish infatuation, like sweet hope and giddiness. It made Gerrit sick.

Or this teenage girl, dressed to make her seem much older than she was. She called herself an old-fashioned romantic and wanted to get her girlfriend something. Just because.
Just because their life was so uncomplicated and perfect. Gerrit smiled and listened and asked the right questions, and the teenager left with a bouquet of Sweet Williams and Strawflower and Scabiosa. It looked really 'vintage' and when he took some of the excitement radiating from his costumer he could feel the sepia air of longing, the idea of being invulnerable and young and ready to take on the world.

There was a woman, about to visit her mother in the hospital. She wanted to bring a little light in the drab room, so Gerrit took out some bright, colorful flowers to bind them into a bundle of sunlight and joy. While working he asked about the mother and the costumer gladly took the opportunity to talk about the whole miserable story. This was a feast fit for a Winter Courtier: grey and salty like tears, an overwhelming flood of sadness that has been building up behind a wall of composure. Gerrit could imagine how she must feel, but the compassion he expressed was false. Lately he wasn't really in the mood to pity strangers.

A silver lining: he felt like he was getting pretty good at faking emotions, at hiding how he truly felt. Part of it was that people wanted to be lied to - they didn't care what the guy selling them flowers thought. They had their story and wanted him to react appropriately.

Plus, it was kind of his duty to keep working - be it at the shop or for the Freehold.
So really, it was his duty to hide how he felt. He could work with that idea.