These? Not really. Just picking them for myself.

[Not even a lie! Maybe they'll weave them into a crown, rest them over their own feverish brow. Try to take the edge off how utterly gross they'll actually look by the end of the day. Or just lie down clutching them over their cold, unbeating heart.]

I'm not even taking them back to the mansion. They're just gonna wither here, a few feet away from the place they got picked.