"Listen," said the swallow, "Don't marry him. You don't even know him."
"He's a prince," she said, tugging a lock of her hair uncertainly. The minute crown sat on her head like it had grown there. Like a tumor of gold and tiny gems. The wings, he thought, looked more natural, gossamer outpourings of her soul. She was made for the air. For wind. For flight.
"I know," he went on, "and I know he's…shaped like you, and your size, but what else has he got? Do you really love him, Thumbelina, or is he just your best offer so far?"
"I don't know." She sat on the twig next to him. "He's handsome, and kind."
"But you don't love him."
She fidgeted. "I guess not."
"I thought that was important to two-legs. Love. You all talk about it enough." He turned and preened a wing, restless and annoyed.
"Honestly," she said, "I kind of miss my mother. I never asked to be taken away from her."
He looked at her with a bright black eye. "I could take you back to her. Or…or anywhere else in the world! The mountains, the desert. The sea. I could make you a nest and line it with down and flower petals, and bring you nectar and berries. You'd never want for anything."
She felt herself turning pink. "You never told me you felt that way."
He ducked his head, embarrassed. "I didn't know how to. But I'm not a prince. I'm only a bird."
"Oh, Swallow," she put a tiny hand on his wing. "I like you as a bird."
"I like you, too." He leaned against her, mournfully.
She was quiet for a long moment. When she spoke again, she almost whispered, "There'd never be any eggs, you know. No babies."
His heart fluttered just a little. "I can live with that."
She hugged him around the neck. "Love does matter to two-legs."
Tentatively, he closed his beak around the crown she wore, pulled it loose, and dropped it on the dry leaves. She smiled and clambered up onto the sleek, feathery back. "Where will we go?"
Suddenly light, he spread his wings and laughed. "Everywhere!"
Catching a friendly breeze, they rose into the air and soared off through the summer sky.