Though the last few days had been nothing short of an absolute flop, there were bright moments.
Dwindlers stopped by each day—some to chat, some to drop off a gift or food. Hesper and I never had to go into town if we didn’t want to. And I certainly didn’t; there was so much to be done. But whenever folk did pop by, I found myself dropping what I was doing, leaning against the garden gate, and chatting the afternoon away.
There was an ease in Dwindle that I hadn’t felt in Moss—which was my own doing. I had always believed deeply that keeping my hurt in the past and never speaking of it would kill it. Instead, the hurt sank its way into my very bones,poisoning me bit by bit. It thrived in my solitude; the only person who could combat all the pain inside of me was myself.
And then, I’d told Hesper everything that evening in Lore.
Ever since, the fissure in my heart has turned into a waterfall—all the dammed-up memories fighting not just to get out but to be heard.
Dwindle wanted to listen; I wanted to share.
The second afternoon, I met Mabel, a sweet ogre who ran Dwindle’s library. She had a particular penchant for sourcing the best children’s books, she told me.
“The ones that put the children to sleep with the sweetest of dreams and have the caretakers wondering about bits of the story, too,” she told me in her sweet, singsong accent. “Good pictures, of course.”
“That’s a must,” I agreed.
“It’s been quite lonely for me for a long time. No new books have come in ages, and the library can only be open one day a week. Even then, not many people stop in. They’ve already read everything I have, and—well—I’m just lonely for company,” she said, her eyes glassy.
She spoke of the hardships she’d endured before stumbling upon Dwindle. An ogre wasn’t always treated with kindness in Nestryia, but this place offered her a home. My heart ached at her story. I could never understand it in full, but I did understand the feeling of finally finding a home after so long without one.
I learned she was the kind person who had rubbed my back the first day I arrived here, when I had a case of the “the dreads.” I tried to thank her profusely, but she shrugged it away.
“We’re all just trying our best. It is a hard, odd, wonderfulthing to be alive. Everyone needs a bit of dread to have the joy, I s’pose.” She smiled easily, then bowed her head before setting off toward town.
Thus, the days eased by. The garden was dormant, but my heart was certainly not.
Today, just as the sun dipped low in the horizon, the famously private Giddy stopped by. I hadn’t realized she was at the garden gate until I heard the softest clearing of someone’s throat. Thinking it was Hesper, I ignored it at first. But then the clearing turned into a cough, and I looked to see a petite, delicate woman covered in flour and bundled up in a fraying pink sweater.
She had a bun plopped atop her head that reminded me of Sylvie’s, only instead of a honey pot, Giddy’s was shaped like a cinnamon bun. The white streak running through her auburn hair certainly finished off the pastry illusion.
“I thought I should introduce myself,” she said breathily, thrusting a large linen parcel into my arms. It smelled like spices, hazelnuts, and… was that chocolate? My stomach growled. “I’m Giddy,” she chirped. “You’re Clara, I think. And the unseen other must be Hesper.”
“Yes.” I smiled. “She’s currently in the kitchen fixing the sink.” As if on cue, a loud metal clank emanated from the cottage followed by the wordsGoddess damn it!“Thank you for stopping by. These will be gone in a matter of hours, I promise you.”
“I know you’re a gardener so I—well, I took some liberties with the pastry shapes. Been wanting to do something like that for a while but didn’t have a good reason to, so…” She wiped her clean hands on her apron over and over again.
“Do you mind if I look now?” I asked. I often hated people opening the gifts I’d brought themin frontof me. Because if they didn’t like it, then they’d feel quite obliged to say otherwise, so I’d really just prefer if they opened them in peace. But pastries were a time-sensitive matter.
“Please, I’d love your thoughts.” She nodded vigorously.
I opened up the parcel. Inside was an array of biscuits shaped like leaves, buttery pastries that looked like the gardener’s cottage, and delicate swirls of chocolate biscuits fashioned to resemble willow leaves.
“Giddy, these are marvelous.” I beamed.
Her shoulders relaxed, her hazel eyes blown wide.
“I think my baking is best with fresh fruits and vegetables, but we haven’t had any for a long time. So I’m confined to shelf-stable materials and butter. Lots of butter. You like them, though?” she asked as I bit into a chocolate-hazelnut willow tree and sighed contentedly, my eyes fluttering closed at the rich flavor coating my tongue.
She gave the most adorable elated clap and then walked off without another word.
She and Angus would make a good pair. As odd and kind as they come.
Speak of the devil—Angus came down the lane just as Giddy was leaving. They had a stunted, strange conversation where both tried to say hi but accidentally did so simultaneously, and repeated the process twelve times over until Giddy shook her head and left with a strained smile.
Angus—who visited at least three times a day now—turned toward me with a pained smile and then held a tankard of mead high in the air.
Work was officially done for the evening, and we gathered around the hearth, drinking merrily.
