“It’s 8:55.”
“We know,” Emma added. “Dad’s negotiating Melly out of her princess costume.”
Honey was about to slip another coin into her computer when both kids crowded around the screen.
“What’re you doing?” Brooke asked.
“Cataloging all the wishes that should’ve been denied.”
“Why should they have been denied?” Emma asked.
“A proper wish is formatted precisely,” she began. “Inwishing, someone should consider not just what they want, but why they want it, what it might cost, and who else it might affect. Wishing is power, and power without intention is just chaos wrapped in glitter.”
“Maybe you can show me how to wish right,” Emma said, brightening suddenly. She ripped a piece of paper from Honey’s notebook and clicked her pen open with purpose. “Then, I can keep the orchard running.”
“While I respect your enthusiasm,” Honey said, carefully plucking the paper from her hand, “no.”
“But why?” Emma whined, dragging the word out in that exaggerated teenage tone, but in that single syllable, Honey didn’t hear sixteen. She heard six. She saw it, too. The little girl still curled up behind the taller frame, the child who had watched too many things fall apart and decided she would hold the pieces together herself. And just like that, Honey’s resolve sharpened.
Because it was wildly inappropriate—cruel, even—for a girl this young to carry so much responsibility.
“Because,” Honey said, soft but firm, “they’re not meant to be Band-Aids for a broken farm or a hurting heart. Wishes have consequences. And more than that”—she crouched slightly, leveling her eyes with Emma’s—“it is not your job to take care of your family.”
Emma deflated.
“I wish Dad would be happier,” Brooke whispered, so softly Honey almost missed it. But her heart heard it, staggering in her chest with the sudden ache of it.
“No,” Emma said quickly, as she snatched the coin from Brooke’s hand before she could toss it in. “She said it has to be precise.” She turned to the well, eyes narrowed in concentration. “I wish Dad would laugh. For real. Just once today. Preferably before noon.”
She glanced at Honey as if asking whether she’d gotten it right, then flicked the coin into the well with a small plink.
It wasn’t a perfect wish—not by any technical standard—and the well was already brimming with years of unreviewed coins, wishes buried beneath wishes.
But Honey looked at Emma, at the crisp, quiet nod she gave herself like she’d finally done something right, and whispered, “Better.”
The crunch of gravel made them all turn.
Ethan was coming down the path with Melly propped on his hip, still in her princess costume, tulle skirt smushed to one side and a plastic tiara slightly askew on her head. She was eating dry cereal out of a measuring cup like it was a chalice.
“She refused to wear anything else,” Ethan said, clearly mid-surrender. “Apparently, royalty doesn’t take orders from commoners.”
“Indeed,” Honey said, brushing imaginary lint from her pants. “This is how most uprisings begin. First, it’s a sparkly coup, then the livestock unionize.”
Ethan stared at her for half a second, then let out a sharp, genuine laugh. The kind that surprised even him.
“Funny, Ms. Baxter,” he said softly, as if it were just the two of them.
Honey’s gaze darted to the well. Emma’s coin was still resting there unapproved. She knew that for certain. And yet the laugh had the unmistakable feel of a wish granted. A dangerous little thought curled through her: perhaps this one, just this once, she could have stamped yes.
She pressed her lips together until the notion quieted.
“Girls, let’s get you to school before Ms. Marrow hex—”he paused, glancing back at Honey, then amended, “Before we get in trouble.”
As they walked off, he leaned slightly toward the girls and muttered, just loud enough to carry on the breeze, “I, for one, welcome our goat overlords.”
Honey caught it, and though she didn’t laugh, her lips twitched.
He laughed again—deeper this time—and the girls bubbled with their own giggles as they walked into the orchard. Emma glanced at Honey, the smallest flicker of a smile on her lips.
