“Here,” he said.
He offered a slice of pear. I took it; he didn’t take his hand back right away. I glanced from his hand to his eyes. There was neither a smile nor frost. He remained unreadable.
“Thank you,” I said flatly.
Mav lingered a breath, then stood and began to walk away.Say something. The impulse to throw the fruit in my hand at the back of his retreating head became increasingly appealing. Instead, I drew a long breath, counted to five, and rose. If he meant to run from truth, very well—he would not do so without hearing what he left behind. I marched toward him.
“Mav, I do not understand what you meant last night. Are you in this or not?”That is what I meant to say, except that is not what emerged.
What I ended up saying was, “I thought we were aligned; now I feel declined.”
I blinked. Heat crawled up my neck. Why had the words I spoke not been those I intended?
Mav’s brows rose. “What?”
I tried again. “You seemed to care, then pulled away, leaving me in confusion and dismay.”
He opened his mouth and frowned. “I didn’t mean to make you doubt. That’s not what this is all about.”
We stared at one another.
“That’s not what I meant to say, but the words can’t seem to find their way,” Mav added.
“Did either of you eat those pears?” Thistle called from the stream. “Because this is not how normal fairs.”
Vesper, drowsy on his branch: “You all sound cursed. But in verse.”
Branrir exhaled hard through his nose. “I know what’s happening here. Perhaps I can make things clear.” Turning an apple over in his hand as he explained, “We’ve stumbled uponThe Grove of Wurless—its fruit compels one’s thoughts to confess. Each bite will loosen truth and rhyme, till heart and mouth keep perfect time.”
Placing her hands on her hips, Thistle’s brows crowded. “This fruit does not produce delirium, but is some kind of truth-baring serum?”
“In essence,” Branrir sighed. “The orchard feeds on spoken hearts; it twists one’s logic into arts. A poet’s trap. A lover’s test. A snare disguised as nature’s jest.”
Vesper scoffed. “Ugh, just when I thought we were out of trouble, this fruit increases my suffering by double.”
Thistle turned to Branrir. “How long can its effects last? When can we expect this rhyming to pass?”
“The texts claim until the fruit can digest or until all truths can manifest,” Branrir answered.
“Not to drag this into light, but I think we’re about to witness a fight,” Vesper added, green eyes darting between Mav and me.
Mav looked at me. I looked at him, and fury cracked through.
“You kissed me like you meant it—then froze like you resent it. Now you are quiet and I am unsure—am I meant simply to endure?”
Mav raised his hands, palms forward. “In my defense, I never meant to make things tense.” His voice broke on the rhyme; he grimaced.
Thistle snorted.
I took another step closer. “So was it fever? Battle trance? Do I warrant only a chance, when death is near and knives insist—but not on ordinary days we kiss?”
“I do want you,” he blurted. “Saints, I do. I’m such a mess—I wish you knew.” He clapped a hand over his mouth, eyes wild. “It isn’t you. You’re…radiant. I panic when things feel…permanent.”
Thistle groaned. “I tire of these rhymes so dire.”
Branrir massaged his temples. “We require a cure or warding charm; that couplet did us actual harm.”
I meant to reply, but the grove betrayed me. “You make me want to rage and yell, but you play my heartstrings too well.”
