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"Was anything damaged on your side of the wall?" Willoughby asks as he puts on the kettle and pulls out two bone china plates with acorns around the edges.

"No, I think your garden took the brunt of the debris," I say casually. Willoughby freezes, his face going strangely blank before he delicately places the plates in front of me.

"How lucky."

"Yes, quite," I concede. I notice Willoughby isn't smiling. Maybe he can't manage false joviality either.

Tea is served, and the conversation lapses into silence. I can practically feel us both searching for acceptable topics to broach.

I'd rather enjoy the silence, but I've been told it's more polite to initiate conversation.

"So, your pumpkin patch..." Which is evidently the wrong topic to bring up. Willoughby immediately covers his mouth and tries to cover a short, strangled sob. His eyes fix pointedly on the murky depths of his teacup, wet around the edges.

"No. Oh, I'm sorry, Willoughby. I'm sorry," I say, handing him a white handkerchief embroidered with green clovers from my pocket. “Surely...” I start, trying for delicacy given his distress, “the garden will grow back.”

He nods furiously and he dabs tears from his eyes. "Next year. Yes, next year I can plant again and put in the work. But this year..." He hiccups. "This year is lost. Things that survived will grow but it’s too late in the season to start over. The festival—" At this last declaration, he bites the edge of one knuckle, his gaze shooting toward the window overlooking the rubble.

"The autumn festival?" I ask. Moonfall Isle is never short of festivals. With so many species living here, each with their own traditions, there seems to be one every week.

"It'll be the first year that I don't have a pumpkin for the growing contest. The first year my family—" He cuts himself off with another small sob, apparently still unable to pull himself together.

"Ah, I see. I understand family tradition." I come from a proud lineage of pure leprechauns. Tradition is everything. How distressing for Willoughby. "Well, you have that one last pumpkin, right? Its vine seemed healthy enough."

Willoughby glances out into his garden again. From here, I can barely make out the round little squash. It's only about as big as my head and an unfortunate shade of orange. I suppress a grimace.

"The runt of the patch," Willoughby mutters uncharitably at the gourd. "I can't imagine it amounting to anything but an ordinary carving pumpkin." I have no idea why that's a problem, but Willoughby's tone suggests it is.

"Who knows. It could surprise you." To my great shock, I reach across the small breakfast table and take Willoughby's hand in mine. If the townsfolk could see me, their jaws would drop. I want to tell him it’ll be all right, or offer another meaningless platitude people recite for encouragement. But the words and breath are snatched from my mouth when an orange and green spark snaps between us.

My senses are overwhelmed. I feel the warmth of a fire on a rainy night, taste apples baked in cinnamon on my tongue, and hear dried leaves skittering across stony steps. It's the essence of Willoughby's soul. His soul that is now bound to mine: my mate.

Willoughby's deep brown eyes go wide. I snatch my hand back more sharply than I intended. Willoughby's hand stays exactly where it was as he stares at it. I wonder what he feels, hears, smells, and tastes about me when the mating bond snapped into place for him. "Willoughby, I..." I start, but his eyes flash to mine as though he forgot I was in the room.

Suddenly, his grin appears, and my heart lifts. He's accepting the mating bond. He's...

"Well, these were delicious scones, Randy," he says with false brightness. I tilt my head, befuddled. Why are we talking about scones? "I shouldn’t keep you, though. Being on the council, you must have so much work to do." Dirty dishes are whisked away in the blink of an eye, and I find myself following Willoughby to the exit.

"But we just..." I start, only to be cut off again.

"With the town’s recent events and the new wards, I'm sure you’re very busy," he continues, somehow ushering me through the entry and toward the front door without ever actually touching me. He opens it, and I automatically step outside.

"But Willoughby, I..." I try again, only to be thwarted in my attempt to address the most monumental moment in my life. Is he confused? Is this a gnome custom I don't understand?

Before I can find out, Willoughby gives a little bow and shuts the door with a brisk slam.

I'm left alone on the stoop of my mate's pumpkin-shaped house, wondering how on earth I'm supposed to navigate my new reality.

Willoughby

The force with which I snap the door shut in Randy’s face is undeniably rude, but I cannot possibly bring myself to care. I turn briskly and fall back, bracing myself. My hands tangle in the curly fluff of my white gnome hair.

“No, no, no, no,” is all I can manage. My eyes flick to the window, where I’m greeted by the terrible juxtaposition of my ruined garden and the neighbor I’ve quietly disliked for years as he strolls toward his side of the low stone wall separating our yards.

My right hand shakes as I hold it in front of my face and glare at the traitorous limb, the mating bond quietly devastating me. Randy’s soul came through like a light spring breeze. It was the scent of old books, the taste of fresh water, and the sound of a fiddle, snapping into place with a finality that rang through my cottage and possibly the entire universe.

Randy is my mate.

Randy.