“But you’ll use it in next year’s competition, won’t you?” she countered, eyebrows arching.
Of course he would. The small quirk at the corner of his mouth said as much. He shrugged. “Can’t blame a man for trying. Anything for a large squash, yeah?”
“Actually,” Ren said, interjecting at last, their voice softened by their lingering hesitance, “I don’t mind telling you – thoughyou’ll probably have trouble finding most of the ingredients. They’re—”
A sudden swell of music, trumpets and drums punching through the festival din with a near-manic fervor drowned out the rest of their answer. They didn’t bother trying a second time. By that point, the dark-haired halfling’s attention had swiveled away, resting instead on center stage and the other halfling that now occupied it.
“Hell-ooo, Halvenshire!” declared the halfling, nothing short of bombastic in his delivery, from the volume of his voice to the breadth of his motions. “I certainly hope you’re all enjoying this year’s Harvest Festival!”
The cheer that rose from the crowd, punctuated by a handful of startled shrieks thanks to a too-swiftly-lifted tankard of ale sloshing everywhere, indicated that yes, everyone was enjoying themselves rather well actually.
The halfling on stage let out a chuckle. “Looks likesomeonehas already gotten too deep in their tankard,” he said to another rousing chorus of cheers – and a few more slops of jostled ale. “But never fear, the moment we’ve all been waiting for is here! That’s right. It’s time to announce the winner of this year’s Crop Competition!”
“Oh, gods,” Pansy breathed, gripping Ren ever-tighter – now with both hands. “Do you think it’ll be us? I sure hope it’s us…”
Looking at Pansy, the way she watched the halfling on stage flick open the folded piece of paper he’d been handed with a tremendous flourish, seemingly unable to tear her eyes away, not even for a moment, Ren couldn’t help but smile. “And you were so certain of our victory earlier.” They chuckled.
“That was different!” Pansy protested, still clutching Ren’s hand tightly in hers. “Oh, please, please,pleaselet us win. I mean,we should, right? Horace said it themself! The biggest pumpkin they’d ever seen! Not to mention that other halfling seemed pretty impressed too. He was even asking you for tips!”
Ren gave her hand a steadying pat. “I know, darling.”
Pansy’s head jerked towards them, the halfling on stage somehow forgotten as her voice caught in her throat. “Dar—?” she started to ask, repeating the first syllable of a word Ren couldn’t rightly say they’d meant to use but had slipped out all the same; nor could they bring themself to regret it, seeing the rush of color that surged into her cheeks thereafter.
Yes, they imagined themself saying, doubling down with a grin just a fraction shy of a smirk. Darling.
No doubt that would’ve swept the very last of Pansy’s breath away. Too bad the halfling on stage had started to speak again, and against these words Ren had no hope of winning.
“I’m pleased to announce the winners of this year’s annual Halvenshire Crop Competition – and yes, you heard me correctly: that’swinners, plural, because we have two. Let’s give a big congratulations to Pansy Underburrow and Ren Woodward!”
If there were any cheers or even polite clapping from the other attendees, Ren couldn’t say. They heard nothing beyond the high-pitched squeal Pansy let out, practically jumping up and down with excitement at the news. But more than that, if there were any sounds of disapproval at what came next, Ren didn’t hear those either – because Pansy had thrown her arms around their neck and with one last cry of delight, pressed her mouth against theirs, firmly and without restraint.
In that moment, there was nothing beyond the warmth of her lips, the softness of her body as it curled around them. Everything else had fallen away, the world contracting to thatsingle, brilliant point where intelligent thought ceased to exist. Ren’s mind had turned in on itself, caught in an endless litany ofPansy is kissing me! Pansy is kissing me!– uttered with all the devoted fervency of a fresh-faced acolyte’s prayers. And, in a way, perhaps that’s what it was, because what was a prayer if not a wish, and Ren would give anything,everything, to stay like this for ever.
But eventually Pansy pulled away, her face flushed in the same way Ren’s own doubtless mirrored. She smiled, shyly, the wet gleam on her lower lip as beautiful as a diamond’s shine.
Nature’s mercy. Ren wanted to kiss her again. Their lips tingled with desire, goading them on. But before they could bend their head, angling their chin so they could kiss her all the more thoroughly – their audience be damned! – a voice Ren had rapidly come toloatherang out across the surrounding area.
“I’m afraid I’m going to have to step in here,” said Agvaldir, striding onto the stage with an elderly halfling woman trailing not too far behind, forced to take three quick steps for every one of his.
“Oh no,” whispered Pansy, every ounce of her earlier elation sweeping out of her on that one breath as her expression fell to pieces. “It’s Councilor Millwood.”
The miserable, old busybody?Ren nearly asked, in a voice rough with want and frustration, only to think better of it at the last possible moment.
“It has come to my attention,” said Agvaldir, enunciating each word with pointed precision, as if the air itself could be flayed apart by his voice, “that the winning entry was cultivated using… unorthodox methods, which Miss Underburrow went out of her way to obfuscate during the registration process.”
“A deplorable act of deceit – one no doubt owing to her recentchoice of company,” declared Mrs. Millwood, who having finally caught up with Agvaldir, took her place on the stage beside him, her hands clasped gravely at her front.
“What are you talking about?” Pansy demanded, striding forward. “We grew that pumpkin fairly! Just like everyone else who entered!”
“You used magic!” Mrs. Millwood jabbed an accusatory finger towards her. “And magic, may I remind you, not only contravenes the rules established for this competition but also runs contrary to the whole spirit of it!”
“Granted,” cut in Agvaldir, his tone infuriatingly staid, “it’s rather insulting to equate something as crude as a goblin growth potion to proper magic—”
“It’s not magic!” Ren snapped, now stepping forward as well, their anger a sizzling ember in their throat. “The potion I made is no different from any sort of halfling fertilizer!”
“So, you admit it then?” said Mrs. Millwood, her chin lifting a touch higher. She stared down her nose at them, her lips pressing together in a hard, unflinching line. “Very well. It seems we have no choice. Miss Underburrow and her”– she sniffed – “companionare hereby disqualified. Their entry is null and void.”
“You can’t do that!” Pansy cried, the first crack splitting through her voice. “Just because you’re upset that Ren and I won fair and square—”
