Page 102 of Demon and the Raven

I could own that, and had earlier in the evening with Father Dennis.

“The birds, the deer, the bunnies, all frickin’ love your garden, but it’s more of an open buffet than anything you’re doing something with.”

I said nothing, instead watched his face as he spoke.

“It all works so beautifully. You get honey, eggs, and beeswax candles from Troy, and Troy gives the same things to the Wingates. They give Troy fruits and vegetables, his bees pollinate their crops, and then his chickens—and the geese that don’t actually belong to them—eat anything that would normally be thrown away. The Wingates give you goat milk—it’s crazy that none of you people eat meat, just a lot of salad and…ugh. And Troy with that mead he’s making now from the honey, and what the hell was with that cherry wine Charles brought over, and salsa with those amazing habaneros, and⁠—”

“You are so tired,” I said, laughing at him. “You’re babbling.”

“No, I know, but…between all the people who live on this lovely little street in this tiny town, you are all completely covered. There’s no food the Wingate Farm, the Johnson Apiary, and Corvus don’t provide for each other. I mean, you deliver so much bread and rolls, regular and cinnamon, and muffins and cookies. And as I’ve said a million times, the house smells so good every Sunday when you make the sourdough. I like to nap on the couch so I can fall asleep breathing it in.”

“That makes me deliriously happy every single time you say it.”

“And that lavender cake with the lemon icing. I…” He grabbed me suddenly, and I was crushed to his chest. “I love you and my life and this cottage and the land so much.”

I wrapped my arms around his neck. “I love you too. And so does the land. Because for you, and only for you, there are stupid pomegranates growing next to the hydrangeas along the fence line between us and the apiary. Troy reports they’re beautiful and enormous.”

He froze, which was adorable. “There are?”

I nodded. “I have no lemons, which I need, or oranges, which I also need, but you⁠—”

“The land knows you get those from Troy. It doesn’t need to provide them,” he said matter-of-factly. “Don’t try and fool the land.”

“Really?”

“There are pomegranates? Just for me?”

“Apparently so, and all because you mentioned in passing one day—when you were out there in early spring, checking on birds’ nests with me, and that everyone has enough to eat, even the annoying squirrels—how much you love pomegranates, which, with their symbolism, is very problematic, but whatever. And so now, suddenly, we have⁠—”

“What problematic symbolism?”

“Fruit of death,” I barked at him, enjoying that quite a bit. It was petty, but I was jealous.

“No.”

“Yes, look it up. It’s true.”

“I’ll bet you there’s a lot of good stuff too,” he goaded.

There was. Pomegranates also symbolized life and regeneration, resurrection and fertility, but I was annoyed, so he didn’t get to hear all that. “No,” I lied.

“Yeah, there is,” he said with a rakish grin. “You know it.”

I rolled my eyes, grabbed my brush, and left him on the bed. He appeared quite bemused. Dropping the brush in the bathroom, I returned to find him gone and the bedroom door open. Looking around, I walked carefully through the living room, into the sunroom, then into the greenhouse, and saw Lorne outside, kneeling on a towel, his hands in the dirt like he’d seen me do a hundred times. He was thanking the land.

Insane person.

Putting my clogs on, I walked over to him and put my hand on his shoulder. “What are we doing?” I asked, though I knew.

“I wanted to say thank you and say how much I appreciate that.”

I noticed then that he had a pomegranate beside him. “Did you run there?”

“Yeah.”

Carding my fingers through his short, glossy hair, pushing it out of his eyes, I crouched down in the wet grass and sank my fingers into a bit of mud.

The man gives you his thanks, I said.