In a way, it was somewhat ironic. Pansy had gotten so upset that first night, when she’d woken up to the sensation of Ren’s cold feet wedging between her calves. And now, only a ten-day later, she found herselfwishingthat Ren would hurry up and reach for her already!
What would they even say to that? she wondered, smothering a would-be laugh in her throat as an image of Ren, red and sputtering, surfaced from the well of her thoughts. If that were the result, then perhaps asking them directly might be worth it.
But – no. She couldn’t do that. The real outcome was bound to be far less amusing. Rejection was never funny.
Pansy’s stomach tightened at the prospect, bringing with it the sour burn of bile, working its way up her throat. She pressed a hand against her lips, willing the swell of acid to recede. But a single glance at Ren set loose a new flood, filling her mouth with the bitter taste of the impossible.
“I’m going to go get something to drink,” she said quickly, already turning on her heel. “Do you want me to bring something back for you?”
If not for the slight shake of their head, Pansy would have assumed Ren hadn’t heard her. Their gaze remained fixed on the pumpkins, lips pursing as concentration pulled hard at their brow. The lamp flickered, casting the slim lines of their form in gold and shadow, a burnished halo amid the black of night.
In the dark, goblins were supposed to be terrifying, a flash of claws and equally sharp teeth. And yet, looking at Ren now, all Pansy could think, with a breathless sort of helplessness, was,Gods, they’re gorgeous.
Then came the crash of reality, churning through her anew, a harsh, stinging reminder that what she wanted could never be – so, best not to want at all.
She hurried away, her steps shaky and weak. The cottage closed around her with a welcome coolness, a balm to soothe the ache blooming across her chest. She filled a glass with water, then downed it in seconds. Each gulp hit the bottom of her stomach like oil on a fire, sending the burn shooting ever-higher until even her eyeballs had become wreathed in flame.
She groaned, pressing the heel of her palm into one eye socket. Her head ached – now worse than before – and she felt somiserable, so pitiful and small. Why did her heart always want the least possible of things? Maybe with Haverow, she could winthe competition at the Harvest Festival and convince her fellow halflings that she ought to have a place at their sides. But with Ren? Ha! Think again.
Irony – or, perhaps, shameful desperation – pushed her to lie down not in her bed, where it made sense, but on the dirt floor of the room Ren had filled with vials, alembics and other potion-making implements, all nearly identical to the ones Blossom kept in the flat above her shop. The space, which had once troubled Pansy, the oft-cited dangers of goblin magic rising as swiftly and naturally as the tide, had somehow become a comfort instead. From the cool earth beneath her cheek to the clean-sharp scent of herbs she couldn’t name, it all swept around her like an embrace, bringing forth a singular thought:This room reminds me of Ren.
She smiled, closed her eyes, and exhaled.
Pansy had meant to close her eyes only for a moment, just long enough to drag the pain in her skull to something close to bearable. But the next thing she knew, Ren was shaking her awake, peering down at her with a look of unvarnished concern.
“Are you all right?” they asked, watching as she pushed herself up onto her knees, their palm an impossibly hot brand against her shoulder blades. “You were gone a long time, so I came in to check on you.”
“I’m fine,” Pansy mumbled, her voice thick with sleep. Her mind felt slow, sluggish, unable to move past the question ofIs this really happening?Because Ren wassoclose, their hand still resting against her upper back. They were touching her, something she’d thought an impossibility. And yet…
“I told you we should’ve left the garden for tomorrow,” Rensaid with a shake of their head. They released a frustrated-sounding breath and rose to their feet, their hand falling back to their side – away from her.
Pansy nearly keened at the loss, her shoulder suddenly unbearably cold. Thankfully, the pitiful whine died before it could slip out, strangled into silence by the last remaining vestiges of her pride. “I just have a bit of a headache,” she said, trying not to wince at how weak the words sounded, the vice that had kept her from making a fool of herself still notched around her throat.
“A bit of a headache, huh? Wait there a moment.”
Their expression settling into an inscrutable mask of concentration, Ren began rummaging through a nearby cabinet, its paint chipped and fading. Even in the eerie half-light that pervaded the cottage’s lower level, pale shades of green and blue waning and waxing like the rise and fall of a breath, the halfling-style motifs that swept along the cabinet’s exterior were plain to see. Perhaps it had once belonged to Pansy’s grandmother. Though, by now, Ren had thoroughly made it theirs, stuffing shelves that may once have have displayed plates and bowls as colorful as the patterns imprinted onto the surrounding wood with grasses, flowers and other plants. It was a merging of both goblin and halfling sensibilities – a long-running theme within these walls, it seemed. And looking at it, Pansy couldn’t help but feel a spark of hope flare bright in her chest.
“Found it,” Ren declared after a few seconds of searching, coming away with a fistful of tiny pale blue flowers.
To Pansy’s eye, the flowers looked like nothing more than a ragged tangle of weeds, something that would rapidly find itself beset by the point of a trowel. But what did she know? She wasn’t a gardener, let alone anything like an herbalist. She was a baker, a chef. So, she kept quiet, watching as Ren moved tothe workbench positioned against the far wall.
There, Ren began to fiddle with the complex network of glasswork and tubes sprawled across the workbench’s pitted surface. They worked quickly, their hands barely more than a blur. A bit of bubbling and a long puff of steam later, they turned around, their fingers coiled around a long, narrow-necked vial.
“Here,” they said, holding it out to her. “Drink this. It’ll help.”
Pansy stared at the vial. The liquid inside was crystal clear, tinted greenish blue in the surrounding light. “What is it?” she asked, carefully taking the glass tube between her fingers. To her great surprise, it felt cool rather than hot, as the steam had suggested.
“An old goblin remedy. You should feel better almost immediately.”
“Okay,” Pansy said and swiftly knocked back the vial’s contents, an action that would have doubtless left Mrs. Millwood screeching in horror – and probably her parents, too, for that matter.
She giggled, the thought, for once, filling her with delight rather than hopeless, aching dread. Though, to be fair, that could also just be Ren’s remedy, now settling into her stomach with all the gentleness of a lover’s kiss. It washed over her in a cool, tingling wave, scrubbing away every ache and worry as easily as chalk on a board.
“Oh, wow,” Pansy murmured, one hand coming up to press lightly against her temple. It didn’t even so much as twinge. “You weren’t kidding about it being quick.”
“Cold Flower is a natural anesthetic,” Ren explained, showing her the crushed-up remnants of the tiny blue flowers, still soaking inside an alembic. “It’s usually brewed into a tea, like I just did for you. But our healers will often pack it into their poulticestoo, as a way to provide comfort alongside the healing.”
Pansy’s brow furrowed. “A tea? But the liquid inside the vial was cold.”
