"My lady." Souma's low-ass rumbly voice sounded from behind, uncomfortably close because he had no sense of the right way to do personal space in modern western culture. He was standing there, dressed in a black kimono and straw sandals, and holding Peace's parasol above his head as if it was completely normal for him. His drawstring money-pouch hung from his obi, and his swords as well.

In his hand was a small bouquet of pink and purple lupines, tied with a bright rose ribbon. This he held out to Peace with a courtly bow, hand to his chest.