Because there it was.
The seed.
“I was thinking,” she rushed on, misreading my silence, “that if they’ve been displaced, they might not have had time to pack properly. And if we’re trying to build something cooperative, maybe we should start with gift baskets.”
My throat tightened unexpectedly.
Before I could respond, Twobble appeared at her elbow like he’d been summoned by the word food.
“I approve,” he announced grandly. “With terms.”
Matale blinked. “Terms?”
“Yes. If there are care packages, there must be sweets. This is basic morale science. Also, I will require the official position of Head Taste Tester.”
A ripple of laughter ran through the room.
“You just want early access,” someone called.
Twobble looked personally wounded. “Quality control is a burden, not a privilege.”
Matale laughed. Really laughed. The tension she’d been carrying earlier cracked clean through.
“Fine,” she said. “Within reason.”
“Define reason.”
“Two bites.”
“Four.”
“Three.”
He stuck out his hand. “Agreed.”
They shook on it like they were negotiating a treaty.
Something warm moved through my chest. It caught me off guard how fast it happened.
More women were standing now.
“I’ve got jars of blackberry preserves.”
“I can brew immune-support tea.”
“My sister has extra wool she’s been trying to sell.”
“Let’s ask what they actually need,” someone said practically. “Not just assume.”
“Yes,” Matale agreed immediately. “We can send someone to ask.”
Twobble had his clipboard out and was scribbling like we were planning a festival. “Volunteers. Baking shifts. Basket acquisition. We require baskets. Presentation matters.”
“You’re unbelievable,” someone muttered affectionately.
I stepped aside as the conversation gathered momentum. I didn’t need to lead it. It was leading itself.
“Wait. Where’d Cindy go?” Twobble squeaked. “Everyone, stop moving. I have a snail on the run.”
