Act One

Beginnings

Chapter Eight: Always

As if emerging from an infinite void—dark and empty—Lashanie awakens to the sound of rain pelting softly against her window. And to pain. A dry pain clutches her throat.

She turns her head, her body only conceding to move ever so slowly. She's in her bed; she can see that now. The small nightstand, carrying that achingly incandescent candle, the mint green walls, and that dressing table adorned with floral ornaments all belong in her room. Thank goodness! She's still at home . . . Tears of joy begin to sting her nose, and her fingers commit to a lethargic motion, feeling the soft fabric of a stuffed toy keeping vigil over her— Sir Brownie ! A giggle attempts to work its way past her lips, but it seems her throat has turned into a dessert that dries out every sound and morphs it into a sore rasp instead.

To that moment, Anne had been gazing out the window in abstraction, apathetically watching the ground greedily quenching its thirst with rainwater. Now she whirls around, her spirits revived by only that quiet sound. Finding Lashanie awake, she rushes over to her side and begins to affectionately stroke her hair, beaming, "Praise be to the sun!—you're awake! We've been so, so worried! How do you feel?"

When Lashanie tries to answer, her voice refuses her anew. She wants to sit up, but her arms are too weak to serve her in this attempt. At least she manages to slowly raise one hand to her throat, still restrained by that dry pain.

Anne's eyes grow wide. "Oh! Of course! You need water—how silly of me!" She hurries to the door. With the handle already clutched between her fingers, she turns around once more and asks, "You could probably do with a bite, too, no?" And without waiting for so much as a nod or shake of Lashanie's head by way of response, she concludes, "Why, you must be starving; I'll rustle up some grub real quick. You stay in bed—I'll be right back!"

Lashanie doesn't feel the slightest desire for food right now. She only needs some water to soothe that sore throat so that she can ask questions and get some answers—that's what she needs urgently! Her memory exhibits a glaring hole, and she must know what happened. Very obviously, she hasn't been taken to an orphanage, and her mom is free as a bird, but beyond that . . . Lashanie's head starts spinning from the effort to organize her thoughts; they're a jumbled mess.

Oh, how she would love to get up and follow her mother into the kitchen. She can't remember having felt this impatient and exhausted at the same time ever before. Unfortunately, it's the exhaustion that seems to keep the upper hand. Her legs don't share the urge to walk anywhere, anyhow. Leaden, they stick to the mattress and leave her no choice but to wait.

.

As she's making her way into the kitchen, Anne runs into Ludwig. He doesn't say anything, and she doesn't expect otherwise—he's not afforded a single word more for her than absolutely necessary these past few days. But from the way he cocks his brow, Anne can tell he's wondering why she left their daughter's side. After all, they had agreed to keep watch by her bed in turns, and her's wasn't over yet.

When they had been acquitted by that royal advisor, Anne had believed it would all be fine between them again. Well, of course, she maintained her silence at first—Ludwig ought to know the weight of his words! But she would have been willing to forgive him if he'd only tried to reassure her, make the first step like he usually did. Indeed, that's what she's been waiting for: for her reticence to spur Ludwig to light a beacon of love . . . or at least come up with an apology worthy of forgiveness considering how much he's hurt her. But nothing like that happened. He just accepted her silence—adapted to it.

Sometimes the ugly question, if he'd still be with her if it weren't for Lashanie, forces its way into Anne's mind, as it does now. She shakes it off and keeps her husband from walking past her by gingerly grabbing his upper arm. "Lashanie's awake. And she seems fine," Anne informs him, pointedly curt and distant. It's one last attempt to let him know how she feels without saying it directly.

Ludwig's face brightens up as he glances toward Lashanie's room, and Anne can hardly deny how it stings her.

She's a good mother—she won't let anyone claim differently! But she hates how everything in her life has to revolve around her daughter. At least for her own husband, she wants to be the most important thing in life. Yet there's always Lashanie, always taking priority . . .

Ludwig's about to rush to their child's side when Anne just manages to still clutch the sleeve of his shirt. Tears of injured pride glisten in her eyes—tears that will serve as a sign of sincere regret.

"Ludwig, I'm sorry—you know I am," she whispers. "Please forgive me. I can't go on like this . . . barely speaking as we avoid each other."

Slowly, Ludwig raises his hand, gently placing it on Anne's cheek. "Needless to say, I forgive you. I love you like my own life. But you must promise me never to be so careless with Lashie ever again."

" . . . I promise."

Satisfied, Ludwig responds by pressing a kiss to Anne's forehead that paints a smile on her face before he leaves to see their daughter while Anne continues her way to the kitchen. This whole affair had a different outcome than she hoped for, but it's one she can accept anyhow.

•●•●•

Rain and fog still envelop the village when Lashanie's body finally answers in the affirmative to her wish to get up. She's a little groggy still, but that shaky feeling inside her legs can't confine her to bed any longer, and in spite of her dad's objections, she finds herself teetering through the imposition the weather decided to embody this day, heading for Varian's house. She must talk to him—tell him about the voice and ask for his opinion on . . . whatever happened when she healed the girl, Amy.

A cold wind steals under her clothes to bite Lashanie's skin, and she wraps her pelerine tighter around her shoulders, snuggling into its warming material while the big hood shelters her from the rain and curious looks alike.

Her legs grudgingly carry her up the stone treads to Varian's threshold, and she doesn't lose a moment to knock, driven by the longing to dive back into the warmth of a dwelling. But instead of Varian, his father, Quirin, opens the door to her. He has a variety of gardening tools tucked under his arm—apparently, Lashanie caught him on the hop.

Surprise flickers across Quirin's face as he blinks at her. "Lashanie?! You're up and about again already?" He's quick to inquire, "Do your parents know you're here?"

"Yes, they know." Lashanie affords a smile, despite the cold gnawing at her. "I think they've got some things they need to talk about . . . without me being within earshot," she adds quietly.

Quirin nods as if he called it, and Lashanie forebears from telling him that she felt like her mother would have carried her here if necessary to get her out of the house.

Silence settles between them; Quirin regards her as if pondering a riddle.

"I was hoping to see Varian," Lashanie eventually says, suppressing the chattering of her teeth.

She's standing there like a beggar, and Quirin's ongoing hesitation prompts insecurity to creep into Lashanie. Wouldn't it be understandable if he didn't want his son to get caught up in her business anymore after witnessing her 'gift'; if he sent her away? She could understand it anyhow.

Luckily, her worry proves needles when—even though with some delay—Quirin's lips finally form a smile. "Of course; come in. Varian will be glad to see you're feeling better." He shuffles to the side to give space for Lashanie before stepping out into the rain himself. "I am, too," he adds. "You'll find Varian in his lab. Please tell him I won't be back before supper, will you?"

She nods, and upon that, Quirin pulls the door close behind himself with a satisfied air.

Lashanie rubs her arms, relishing the warmth enfolding her as she continues her way. Into Vary's lab, it is then.

.

As she enters the large room with its high ceiling, it quietly echoes with her steps. She deliberately advances soft-footed, hoping to surprise Varian as he surprised her when she came here for the first time. And some surprise that was! Lately, it's become a cherished little shenanigan of hers to sneak up on him; playful payback, so to say.

Lashanie's eyes search for her friend—in vain; Varian's nowhere to be seen. But didn't Quirin say he'd be here? Funny . . .

She's about to turn round and see if perhaps she's got more luck finding him in his room when two gloved hands reach out from behind to cover her eyes. Even though she recognizes Varian within a heartbeat by the build of the body pressing against hers and the combination of lavender scent and a faint chemical touch usually sticking to his clothes, the unexpected of this moment still claims a loud gasp from Lashanie as her muscles tense. " Raspberries !"

"Don't move, and do as I say if you want to live," Varian quips, a smile hovering over his put-on low voice.

Lashanie reaches back, feels for Varian's sides, and gives them a gentle pinch, to which he responds with a soft chuckle and the retraction of his hands.

Wheeling around to face him, she starts, "You really shouldn't do that to me, Vary. That's not nice, you kno—"

But before she can finish her complaint, he pulls her into an embrace. "I'm glad you're alright, Birdy," Lashanie hears him whisper right next to her ear, and she wraps her arms around him, scolding jocularly, "Well, you better don't give me a fright like that again if you want it to stay this way."

Another chuckle escapes him. He brings some distance between them and holds her at the length of his forearm, one of his brows arching up. "You know that I've been watching you, right? Don't tell me you weren't trying to sneak up on me—again!"

Lashanie's smiling eyes wear a telling twinkle. "Unless you can prove otherwise, I'm going to say I merely wanted to surprise you."

At the word 'surprise,' Varian's eyes light up. Palpable excitement suddenly seems to bubble through his entire body. "Ah! Birdy, I've got something for you, and you—Oh! You'll love it! Just wait here a sec."

He hurries over to his cluttered table, and his hands begin rummaging around between papers, books, flasks, and tubes, as he mumbles to himself, "I know I kept it here somewhere . . ."

Spurred by sheer curiosity, Lashanie follows Varian slowly. She isn't sure if she should accept a gift from him, especially if it's something valuable, but she also can't resist the urge to find out what it is.

In his search, Varian kneels underneath the table. "Say, do you keep count of how many of my tools you've broken already with that habit of yours to sneak up—no, sorry—' surprise ' me?" he asks, deliberately dragging out his voice.

Amusement tugs at the corners of Lashanie's mouth. "I'm sorry, Vary; I can't hear you from down there."

"I said—" he starts again, distinctly louder this time when Lashanie's face suddenly appears next to his.

"And strictly speaking, I didn't break any of your tools—you did," she states in a carefree manner, giving her best innocent-little-lamb smile.

Varian's lips pucker into a frown. "Whoa, what?! That's not— Ouch !" He winces as he accidentally bumps the table leg next to him with his elbow, and a little box, self-made from sturdy paper, topples down the rear edge of the tabletop. "Ha—there you are!" Varian rejoices, forthwith closing his hand around it.

The object of his search in one hand, he rises to his feet and extends the other, the empty hand, toward Lashanie to help her back up as well. Standing face to face with her again, he struggles to keep the corners of his mouth under control.

"Even though you're a little liar ," he says, emphasizing the last two words with feigned nonchalance while placing the box inside Lashanie's hands, "I want you to have this."

"What is it?" she whispers, her fingers delicately trailing against the matt surface.

Striving to uphold his laid-back semblance, Varian shrugs his shoulders. "Why don't you open it and find out?"

Lashanie's eyes remain fixated on Varian as she carefully undoes the latch holding the plain box closed. This better isn't some sort of prank! Her gaze wanders down, and puzzlement rises to her features. She tugs at the rose fabric nestled inside the folded paper. "My handkerchief?" As she lifts it, her tinkling laugh rings out. "Why, thank you, Vary! How thoughtful of you."

Meanwhile, something shiny slips from the handkerchief, giving a little tinkle as bright as Lashanie's laugh in the course of its fall.

Varian catches it with one hand. "Not the handkerchief, you silly girl! I only used it as padding. Dad insisted on washing it before we'd give it back to you; he stepped on it when—nuh. Anyway! Here!" He grabs Lashanie's wrist and places the shiny something in her palm.

With childish delight, Lashanie regards the delicate golden bell in her hand. She gingerly nudges it, it jingles in response, and an entranced smile blossoming from her lips reflects on its glossy surface.

"This way, I will always know when you're near," Varian explains, finally allowing a smile of his own to break across his face. "You like it?"

"Yes, it's gorgeous!" She beams at him. "Would you help me put it on?"

Varian nods, taking both ends of the dark leather ribbon attached to it and tying it around Lashanie's left wrist. His face shines with pride until he realizes something that entirely escaped him before—excited to present his gift as he was. "You're shivering, Birdy . . ."

"Oh, that's alright. My body has just grown a little too accustomed to the warmth of my bed, I suppose," she dismisses with a giggle, happily twiddling the little bell between her fingers, unperturbed by the shaking of her hands. "Thank you, Vary."

Well, he's glad she enjoys this gift; that's why he gave it to her after all—to see her smile. But . . . when she's looking quite the worse for wear like that, trembling like an aspen leaf and her skin even paler than usual, how is he supposed to relish that moment? And why didn't she tell him that she's cold? Silly Birdy!

Wordlessly, he takes Lashanie's arm, heading for the door with her in tow.

"Where are we going?" Despite the confusion streaming through her voice, she follows him unhesitant.

He casts a smile over his shoulder. "Someplace where we can keep you warm."

•●•●•

Before long, Lashanie found herself seated on the soft cushion of Varian's ' throne ,' the upholstered armchair at the fireside. After lighting a fire for her—a process Lashanie watched with interest, was she forbidden by her parents to use the fireplace at home after all, while for Varian, it seemed like something he's done dozens of times before—he disappeared for a moment, and returned with the counterpane from his room. He wrapped it around her shoulders and plopped down on the floor himself; his back turned toward the flames.

Lashanie had assured him she wouldn't mind sharing the seat with him again, but Varian refused with a smile, explaining that from where he sat, he could hear the crackle of the fire better and how it was a sound he liked. He spoke so fondly that Lashanie decided to share with him the little diddy her grandma had thought up for her, of how it was little fairies—their bodies formed from flames—trying to speak to them who made those noises. Varian had laughed. He explained to her that it was indeed moisture stored within the wood, turning to steam from the heat and bursting open from it, granting with his next breath, however, that her grandma's concoction did have more charm than the mere scientific explanation. And she smiled, but . . .

It was funny: while she loved her grandmother's tales, hearing Varian speak about science was something she enjoyed more—even at those times when she struggled to apprehend the things he said. Perhaps it was for the way he was glowing, feverishly burning on the inside, whenever he elaborated on how rich in finesse the world was. The enthusiasm oozing from him during those moments succeeded in infecting her every time.

Eventually, their conversation had to leave the world of songs and science to assess recent events, and Lashanie learned from Varian what had happened after her collapse two days ago. It seemed that her family had escaped any punishment or further persecution by the skin of their teeth—the royal advisor had approved her demonstration as sufficient, and the charge against her parents was dropped. Yet, a few lower guards had returned once more one day prior to announce that the king had forbidden Lashanie's ' gift ' to be mentioned by anyone.

Varian gave a chuckle when he made her privy to how little the people of Old Corona adhered to that decree and gave her an idea of how thick some lay it on when recounting the events of the healing session, warping it into a wild scene that could eclipse many a fairytale Lashanie's read. She didn't mind, though, if it served to entertain them. What caused her worry, however, was that some of the older ladies sought Quirin out, leaning on him to chase Lashanie out of the village, for they now deemed her a witch of some sort.

Varian had noticed the change in Lashanie's expression and quickly reassured her she was out of the woods, that there was nothing to fret about, and that she could safely ignore those few grannies who could be counted on the fingers of one hand. With a tiny grin, he then added that his dad would never send her away and that he even had accompanied Varian on his visits to Lashanie's sickbed.

The memory of the hesitation she noticed in Quirin when they met earlier at the door surfaced, but Lashanie wanted to believe Varian, and so—at the sight of his smile—she smothered her doubts in the cradle. Why shouldn't he be right? He seemed mighty sure about it, anyhow.

At last, Lashanie had disclosed her strange experience to him: the recurring voice she heard, first the night prior to the decision day, and then again when she was healing Amy . . . when that light enclosed them. She described to him her impressions from that moment in great detail while Varian remained wrapped in a pondering silence even when she had stopped talking already.

His semblance—the quiet and, in particular, the frown plastered to his face—prompted her to ask, "So, what do you say? You think I'm just losing my mind?"

Varian bit his lip, slowly shaking his head. Their eyes met; he took a breath as if to say something but then thought the better of it and got up instead, leaving the room with the words, "Wait here a moment."

And wait is what she's been doing since, tenderly toying with her little bell.

.

Finally, Varian returns, balancing an open book in his arms, his eyes scanning the pages. "You know, the prevalent opinion about your powers is that Soles must have blessed you—hence the bright light," he says, climbing the chair to sit on the armrest so that he can deposit the thick book on his thighs while flicking through the pages.

Lashanie cranes her neck to peer at the words and illustrations flying by, wondering, "Soles?" Yet . . . yeah, there was something; she reckons to remember people whispering that name when she lost consciousness.

"You went to school, right? They must have taught you about the sun goddess," Varian gives back, letting page after page glide through his fingers still.

"I don't know, I mean—yeah, they probably did, but . . ." Lashanie can't recall much about those lessons. Practically the only memory she can connect to them is the pair of white doves building their nest in a tree in front of the classroom's window. Whoopsie.

Luckily, Varian spares her from sharing this truth about the gap in her education with him when he mutters, "Nah, too far," turns back a few pages, and presents the book to Lashanie, instructing, "Here, Birdy—look!"

A richly illustrated double page meets Lashanie's eye, and her fingers begin to trace the image of a beautiful woman with golden tresses fanning out to the margins. A glowing aureole from which several rays spring frames her head, giving it the semblance of a strange crown. Her body is made of light, the gleaming silhouette of a voluptuous woman only. And a pair of entirely white eyes seem to be staring back at Lashanie.

"She's very pretty," she admires.

Varian peeks at the drawing, a little frown forming on his lips. "Huh, maybe so." He points at a smaller illustration in the top corner of the other page. "It's this one I wanted you to see, though."

The picture shows the same goddess, only here she's drawn in profile, kissing a child on the forehead. "Sole's blessing," Lashanie reads the tiny inscription underneath aloud. Her gaze seeks Varian's, and she queries, "You believe this is it—my gift?"

Giving a slight shrug of his small shoulders, Varian cocks his head. "In all honesty, I'm not sure. At first, I thought your ' gift ' was connected to some kind of object—say, something like the flower that healed the queen—but you insist you heard a voice . . ." He puts the book down on his thighs again. "And if we assume you haven't just lost your marbles, and that voice was real, we can also safely assume it's connected to some sort of entity, can't we?"

"I—well, I guess so. Yeah. But—" Lashanie shakes her head, summoning the sound of that foreign voice from memory. "I don't think it was a woman whispering to me, really."

Varian again regards the illustrations, floating a theory, "But Soles might well be male, no? I mean, those weren't based on any actual observations, I'd wager. Heh."

While giving him a nod, Lashanie's lips curve up. Yet, Varian can easily perceive the uncertainty hiding at the corners of her slight smile, and he promises, "You know what? We'll keep doing research and find out if there are any records supporting that theory. We'll find the answer—you and I together, alright?"

"Yeah. We can try that . . . together ," Lashanie agrees, her smile growing wider as the doubt gradually vanishes from her face.

As if on cue and to light up the mood further, sunshine slants in through the window, and all of a sudden, the parlor seems to glow from the afternoon sun.

"Huh, looks like the rain has stopped," Varian notices with a touch of stun dancing in his voice.

"Hey, Vary, would you go on a walk with me?" Lashanie is beaming at him, just as bright as the sun. The clear-up of the sky immediately put her in high spirits. Sun and fresh air are just what she needs!

Varian's brows furl. "Are you sure about that?" In his opinion, she's still looking rather pale. Granted, she is rather pale in general, but today she's white like limestone, bearing the semblance of a ghost. At least for today, he'd rather keep her here, where it's dry and warm.

Divesting herself from the blanket, Lashanie smiles against his concerns. "Yes, catching some sunshine would do me good, I think."

Well, he can't force her to stay inside, can he? "I guess we could check on the fields, then," Varian suggests, a wisp of hesitancy yet remaining.

Amidst the commotion about guards and king's decrees and magic and strange whispering voices, Lashanie had nearly forgotten about the predicament at the fields. "Yeah, let's," she agrees, feeling a twinge of remorse sneaking into her conscience; after all, she had promised Varian to help him find a solution when lately they've been busy with her problems all the time. "Is the situation very bad there? Oh—is that why your dad was in such a rush?!"

"What? No . . ." Varian laughs. He slides off the armrest, places the book on it, and abundantly stretches himself before he explains, "No, the critter problem has been taken care of already." A hard-to-read half smile forms on Varian's face. "By the Durands."

•●•●•

The air is crisp but also chilly, and a light breeze bears the smell of damp earth—the distinctive air of a mild Coronan autumn, and Lashanie gladly fills her lungs with it. To her and Varian's side, the greens appear as if freshly washed by the rain, while numerous puddles sprinkle across the gravel path they walk down. Lashanie catches a sidelong glance at her friend. How might he react if she jumped into one of them right now? The thought lets a tiny smile break across her face.

Varian notices and links arms with her before she gets the chance to solder that idea into reality. "Nu-uh! Don't even think about it," he says, showing her a toothy grin.

From which her own smile grows. For some reason, it fills her with absurd happiness when he reads her so effortlessly.

And Lashanie has to say another thing for Varian: he's taking kindly to his newest setback more than she'd expected. Okay, he keeps affirming how he doesn't bother that the Durand family had lastly secured the fields against the raccoons and reaped the village's praise before he could conspicuously often. And all that by using a method somewhat similar to what he had planned . . . even though less risky. But!—his reaction could have been worse, that's for sure.

"No, it's perfectly fine; I mean it! After all, the harvest is safe, and that's all that matters, right?" Varian insists again as if he had read her thoughts, steering their conversation back to the dominating topic of their little trip.

It's the fourth—or maybe even the fifth?—time he's repeating the exact same words like something he'd rehearsed. And if it weren't for those tiny muscles underneath his eye and near the corner of his mouth twitching ever so slightly during his protestations, maybe Lashanie would even believe him.

She already knows that Varian doesn't like the Durand family; he has told her so much, however, on the reason why he needs yet to let her in. The closest thing to a reason he's given her so far was the stressed affirmation that the two brothers—and especially the older one, Seymour—were horrible people.

"Maybe it's better this way," Varian considers, inclining his head. "My raccoon repellent could use some—uh, refinement anyway. Would have been a waste to demonstrate its unmatched efficacy—which I'm certain it will hold!—when I didn't have the chance to bring out its full potential yet. You think so, too, right?" His big, expectant eyes seek Lashanie's gaze.

"Vary, I am sure that someday all of Corona will know your name," she says, genuinely meaning it. "Perhaps not for that repellent but another idea ."

Varian can't help the little smile accompanying his responding eye roll. He knows using monkshood never sat right with her; she had made no bones of her concerns after all, so he could barely blame her for welcoming the thought he'd have to find another way to win their village's applause. That he would lastly achieve this—would make them realize how wrong they've been about him all along—Varian's got no doubt about that. And hearing her share that conviction at large still prompts a wave of satisfaction to wash over him.

They're nearing a low fence hemming the fields, on whose wood several seasons have gnawed for many years.

Within a split second, Varian makes it to the other side, while Lashanie, whether she wants it or not, must avow herself that the fatigue still firmly clutching her limbs turns this small fence into quite a bit of a hurdle for her. To climb atop it costs her an unfamiliar effort.

Varian offers to help her down, stretching out his hand. "You okay?"

She briefly tarries; she shouldn't need help with something so simple. But despite her annoyance with herself, Lashanie still places her hand in his. The next second, she's grateful for not letting her injured pride get in the way when her knees give out as she hazards to put the laughable short distance between her feet and the ground behind by hopping off the fence.

Varian catches her and pulls her back up safely. "Woah! Forgot how to fly, Birdy?" he banters as she rights herself.

An answering joke already bobs on the tip of Lashanie's tongue when five figures emerge from the shadows of the tall oak trees by the field edge, startling birds into flight.

Rats! They must have been lying in wait for them here. No—for him. Unease unfurls in the pit of Varian's stomach.

"What do you say, it looks like our little misfit's fooled someone else into befriending him," the tallest boy in the group says while inching his way toward Varian and Lashanie. His gaze sizes Lashanie up, and she does the same for him and his company.

Lashanie quickly guesses he must be Seymour, the leader of the group and, as far as Varian's concerned, the worst person in all of Old Corona and its surroundings. The boy himself bears a rather charming semblance, really. A well-groomed, auburn shock of hair, a slim symmetric face adorned with green eyes, and his tall, fit build all amalgamate to an appearance most would likely consider handsome . He's dressed in a simple washed-out linen shirt and a pair of gray trousers that end in the leather of two plain boots.

The boy following close by him looks like a younger, slighter version of himself. His brother, that's for sure. If Lashanie didn't know from Varian that they are separated in age by two years, she would think them twins.

Behind Seymour and Simon, the remaining three build a row, slowly fanning to circle Varian and her like sharks.

Lashanie recognizes the two girls—they're the ones who sat with her the other day. She can gather from the expression of the raven-haired one that they're probably still feeling sore about her remark . . . Alongside her and the thickset girl with curly hair and big eyes both in the color of honey, another boy, pairing a shock of ginger hair with a myriad of freckles sprinkled across every bare inch of his pale skin, lines up.

Once they've contended with this situation, she will ask Varian for their names Lashanie silently resolves.

"What are you doing here, Varian?!" Seymour snarls, his voice thickly laced with disdain.

Darting the other a defiant glare, Varian wrinkles his nose. "Never you mind!"

"Oh, chance would be a fine thing, no?" A raucous laughter breaks from Seymour's throat. "My dad and I have secured the fields against pests, you see. And yet here you are—the worst pest of all—setting foot on it!" He points to Varian, inclining his head as if he was harmlessly fooling around with a friend.

Varian's face, though, tells another story as snide laughter surges up behind Seymour. Lashanie can't bear the hurt oozing from her friend's expression and can't hold back from intervening either. "Don't call him that," she says in as calm a tone as she can manage, challenging subsequently, "We're not doing any harm, so why do you bother if we walk the fields?"

"Nobody bothers about you, princess," Seymour gives back. "But I guess Varian here has neglected to mention how he indeed does harm everywhere he goes."

Lashanie swivels her gaze between the two boys while Varian rolls his eyes in response to Seymour, emphasizing his disregard for that guy's reproach with a derogatory snort.

"What? You wanna call me a liar?! You broke my nose, you dirty—" Seymour barks against Varian's reaction; he takes another step in their direction.

And Varian unceremoniously retorts, "You asked for it!" Not giving anyone a chance to successfully guess if he harbors any fear. Seymour deserved it when he had the nerve to tell Varian that his mother had probably died, so she didn't have to suffer his presence anymore; how unmotherly of her that was. And that on the anniversary of her death . . . He doesn't regret breaking Seymour's nose, and he won't say sorry for it. Never!

Suddenly, Seymour's face lights up. He covers the remaining distance between himself and Varian, determining, "Well, let's get down to brass tacks, then! We can settle that score right here, right now!" And grabs two fistfuls of the collar of Varian's forget-me-not blue shirt. "Say, that tooth back then—t'was a primary tooth, no? Perhaps I should remove the permanent one for you as well?!"

Varian's tongue instinctively touches the premolar in question behind clenched jaws as he fastens his gloved fingers onto Seymour's hands, trying to force the other to ease his grip. "Can we negotiate?" he utters with artificial recklessness, anxious to keep his breathing under control. Whatever happens next, he will not let them know that he's scared! "Cut me some slack, maybe?"

Seymour's mouth twists into a strange grin. He must have been fired up for this moment for too long. "No, I don't think so. I think we're going to beat the hell out of you."

Try as he might, Varian can't help but gulp hard. His heart's pounding frantically against his chest.

"You won't!" Two delicate hands unexpectedly cover Seymour's and remove them effortlessly.

Even though Lashanie doesn't endorse the fact that Varian seems to have injured Seymour before, she will not just stand by and watch her friend be hurt. She also isn't blind to the fact that they're in no way inferior to each other in respect of contempt for their opposite, but Varian, by all means, has to cope with enough pain already.

To her luck, something must have flipped inside Seymour's brain, for instead of dealing her an aggressive response, he holds on to her hands as a lover would. She has kidnapped his gaze, and he regards her intently before querying, "And what makes you so sure about that?"

She looks straight into his green eyes, hiding any fear behind a determined glint in her own mindaro ones. "You will leave him alone because I kindly ask you to do so—the lot of you. And I am not asking twice." She struggles hard to bite off each word with a voice that is not shaking to betray how scared she is. But finishing her deliverance, she's quite pleased with her performance; she did sound pretty fearless, in her opinion, and if they'd still put them through the wringer, Lashanie would at least know she really tried.

Gusts of the evening breeze tear at that girl's cream-brown bangs, and something inside Seymour jerks into motion. A sensation entirely strange to the boy, and instead of giving her the slap in the face he thinks she deserves, he starts laughing. He dismally fails to stifle the thought that Varian sure found himself quite a girl there.

Behind him, the others begin to murmur, "Rumor has it she's a witch!" "Yeah, they say even the rain stopped from falling in her presence . . ."

Lashanie doesn't let her amusement about their concerns shine through in the slightest; she keeps calmly braving Seymour with her gaze. Or at least she does it as calmly as she can manage. The wild hammering of her heart—thank goodness—is something only she's aware of.

Giving her a smile, Seymour rids himself of Lashanie's hands, informing her, "Fine, I'll let you get your way, princess—this time." In passing, he slightly bends over as if to whisper into her ear, but his cold eyes bore through somebody else as he loudly says, "Our little Varian here can twist and wriggle as much as he likes, but he won't get out of this. One of these days, I'll get him."

Varian bravely holds Seymour's gaze, pointedly adjusting his shirt. He isn't looking forward to it, but should that day come, should Seymour insist on sorting that matter out with violence, one thing's for sure—he'll fight back!

Clearing off with his friends, who skirt around Lashanie notably, Seymour heaps Varian one last warning. "Cause any trouble on the fields, and I'll let everyone know. We'll see how long your daddy can still defend you from actual consequences then." Therese pokes her tongue out to Lashanie from a safe distance, and then they're gone.

Varian allows himself a moment to relish the fact that his slender, pale friend—the embodiment of the word harmless—has successfully scared them off before he turns his attention to Lashanie. "Have you seen their faces? Gosh, they didn't even dare to come near you—hah! Birdy, you were amazing," he enthuses through relieved laughter as his facial features light up distinctly.

"Are you kidding me?" Lightness spreads in Lashanie's head, and she props herself up on his shoulder, giggling, "I was so scared—I can't believe they swallowed my bluff because if we had gotten into a fight with them, I would have been absolutely useless."

Varian's laughter morphs into a conspiratorial grin on his lips. "Lucky for us that you're quite the notorious witch these days, huh?"

"Yeah. I still hope we don't have to push our luck this bad again anytime soon." Lashanie peers in the direction the others have taken and straightens up just to instantly sway on her feet. "Woah—my legs feel like jelly!" With a playful twinkle in her eyes, she adds, "I fear you'll have to carry me from here, Vary."

•●•●•

The low sun melts in pale gold, bleeding into the dusky evening sky. Stray raindrops gleam off the colorful leaves in the treetop underneath which Lashanie and Varian have made themselves comfortable, while in the distance, the fields below are slowly growing thick with fog.

Not only did Lashanie manage to tag along on her own two feet as Varian ensured that the crops were indeed flourishing, but she also successfully climbed the hill with him—their hill, as she had promptly decided while suggesting they could watch the sunset together from up here like they did the other day. Well, practically, she had dragged him up with what was left of her strength and plopped to the floor as soon as they had reached the peak, noting breathlessly, "You really need to train your stamina, Vary."

Now that they're sitting side by side, relaxed, her curious gaze rests on him; he can sense it even while keeping his own eyes fixed forward, just like he can guess the questions she's going to repeat any moment. On their way here, he was able to blink them, but after that climb, he's grown too tired to keep coming up with excuses. She deserves to know anyway; after all, she's just risked her skin . . . for him.

"You're staring, Birdy," Varian says with a sidelong glance.

"No, I am waiting," Lashanie answers, the slightest smile dancing in her voice.

He thought so.

Varian vents a deep sigh, turning his head to his friend. "Well, what should I tell you?"

"Maybe you could tell me their names for a start," Lashanie suggests gently.

He knows that she won't keep pushing if he refuses. It would take nothing more than a clear 'no' from him so that she would drop this matter. But up until now, he had merely kept her waiting. Because he actually wants to tell her? Yes, probably . . . He just didn't know how to start yet. The memories he connects with them ain't exactly friendly.

"I suppose the one who threatened you was Seymour, the oldest son of the Durands, right?" Lashanie guesses in hopes of making the start of this conversation easier for Varian. "And so the one looking just like him was his brother Simon."

"Right, Seymour and Simon Durand," Varian confirms and grimaces. "The others let Seymour call the tune; that's why he thinks himself cock of the walk. Eugh! "

"What about the other three; who are they?" Lashanie asks calmly.

But Varian's features remain unusually hard; his jaw is tense. "The third guy is Oscar. He only ever does what he's told. His friends say jump, and he jumps. One could easily mistake him for a puppet," he says, not even trying to mince matters. "Then there's Molly, the girl with the curls. She's Seymour's oldest friend. I—I don't think she's fine with everything he does, but usually, she's much the same as all of them and just panders to his whims."

"Hm. That leaves the girl who called you ' Var ' the other day," Lashanie tentatively points out after a moment of silence.

Varian sighs and grants himself a few more seconds to organize his thoughts before he responds, "Therese—that's her name." He fights back the anger and shame boiling up and threatening to choke him at the mention of her.

"She's not just another of Seymour's friends, is she?" Lashanie follows up and finds in the mirror of his gaze that she's right. "Is it okay for you to tell me what happened between you and her?"

Is it? Varian isn't sure. He ponders and regards his friend's mien with care. Lashanie remains still, looking him straight in the eye. The curiosity he recognizes in her features would likely put him off from anybody else, but with her, it oddly enough got something gentle—yeah, almost comforting—to it. He might at least afford a chance for her to understand.

"How about that? You guess what happened, and if you land close enough, I'll give you the details," Varian offers.

The corners of Lashanie's mouth tip up. "How many tries do I get?"

Hah! He knew she wouldn't refuse a game like that. "I don't know . . . Does three sound fair to you?"

Lashanie nods and straightens her back, deliberation rising to dominate her expression. "Well, let's see . . ." Her eyes suddenly grow wide, and she states, "I got it—you had a crush on her and confessed, but she doesn't feel the same and keeps teasing you about it now."

The sureness with which Lashanie conveys that absurd idea prompts Varian's brows to draw together. His lips form a skeptical smile as he suppresses a chuckle.

Prompting confidence to yield from Lashanie's face, confusion takes its place as she wonders, "No? I'm gonna go out on a limb, then, and say . . . you've been a couple, and she broke up with you."

Now that's too much! Varian's unable to restrain himself any longer, and laughter takes him. "I ask you!—no!" he vehemently insists through a snorty laugh.

"Such a far cry from the truth?" Lashanie blinks at him.

Him holding hands or some such things—with Therese ?! Varian shakes his head to rid himself of the images trying to take shape in his mind. He breathes in deeply as the amusement slowly fades, laughter still lingering in the corners of his mouth. "Oh, Birdy . . . you definitely read too many of those soppily romance stories."

Lashanie's lips form a silent O while her cheeks get bathed in scarlet. "I—I do?!"

"Yeah, not everything is about love like in your books." He watches her mouth warp into a moue before he adds, "Her and I, anyhow, we've been just friends."

"Like you and I?"

"No, not like us," Varian corrects without missing a beat. "Therese's idea of friendship"—he searches for the right words—"strays from how we'd define it. I mean, perhaps we also never have truly been friends . . . " He wrings his hands uncomfortably. In retrospect, it was just dumb of him to trust her; she way too easily hoodwinked him. Therese thought everything he did or liked was either weird or silly. A friend shouldn't constantly make fun of one for their interests, and he knew but chose to turn a blind eye to all the warning signs so that he wouldn't have to be alone anymore. How silly of him.

"It was a year ago or so, for two or maybe three months. The moms of Therese and Molly were at loggerheads with each other about some silly gossip, and during their difference, Molly wasn't allowed to see Therese anymore. And since Molly is best friends with Seymour, Therese had to go—you know, they simply froze her out of the group," Varian says, staring into space, lost in memory, while his fingers tear little blades of grass to bits methodically. "I don't know why she came to me; practically, we were complete strangers then, but when I was sitting at the stairs in front of the house, she just climbed them and sat beside me. I was way too—surprised to send her away. And out of the blue, she asked me how I could bear being alone all the time . . . because she couldn't."

Lashanie gingerly touches Varian's arm. The hurt carried by his voice pains her. And to her surprise, she also grows angry with herself. She had been there—here in this village with him. And she was lonely like him. They wouldn't have needed to feel this way if she hadn't let her parents hide her inside the house. Suppose she had summoned the courage and told them how unhappy she was instead of accepting their decision as the ultimate way. If only . . . Now it was too late. But she silently vows to herself to ensure they will have to be alone no more.

A slight smile flashes over Varian's face. "It's okay." He sighs. "Anyhow, she started crying then, and I felt sorry for her. That's how we became— friends ."

"And how did your friendship end?"

The emotion blazing in the back of Varian's eyes changes, assuming something unfathomable. "She ended it," he says, casting his gaze out into the vast fields again. But unlike before, it remains sharp as he continues, "When Therese's and Molly's mothers reconciled, Therese wanted to go back to her real friends—the ones who weren't mere make-shift solutions to her."

Lashanie's lips part; she wants to say something while sympathy shimmers through her every pore, but Varian doesn't stop to hear her. If he did, he might not be able to continue afterward.

"But, you see, since she's been with me, Seymour didn't want to take her back . . . not without proof of her loyalty to them. You wanna know what that proof looked like?" Varian asks.

Ire and pain sway in his voice alike, and Lashanie doesn't dare to answer. Fortunately, he isn't waiting for one anyway. He proceeds on his own accord.

"So it's like this: we're at my place—Therese and I. Can you believe that I was dumb enough to even invite her into my home?! . . . Eugh! Anyway —we're in my lab, and Therese keeps repeating how bored she is and asks me to walk over to her house and fetch her sketchbook so she 'doesn't have to die of boredom'— as she put it ! I leave, blindly trusting her, and while I'm gone, she stoops so low as to let Seymour and the others into the house."

Varian gazes at Lashanie, and in his eyes, she reckons to find the helplessness flaring up again he must have felt back then.

"They broke so much of my stuff—Birdy, they ruined my entire lab! All because Therese wanted to prove she'd choose them over me. . ."

For a moment, Lashanie's at a loss for words. Their first meeting steals from memory into her mind—no wonder he was acting so aloof back then. Her poor hurt Vary . . . Accompanied by a tiny tinkle, she places her hand on his cheek. Finding her voice again, she asks, "You haven't told your dad, have you?"

Varian places his own hand atop hers, gently pressing it against his skin and leaning into her touch to relish it an instant before he removes her hand. He slowly shakes his head. "No, I haven't."

"But, then Quirin, he thinks . . ."

"He thinks I destroyed my lab in a flash of anger over Therese breaking with me," Varian confirms what Lashanie was getting at.

Her following question reaches him as almost but a whisper. "Why?"

Varian lowers his gaze. "You can't imagine how glad my dad seemed when I finally made a friend. How could I tell him that she's only been with me because the others didn't want her around anymore and that she dropped me as soon as she saw an opening to get back with them, that she never liked me, but I was still foolish enough to bring her into our home?! That she hated me enough to do something like that . . . when dad was so happy to see me making friends. I rather have him thinking I couldn't maintain that friendship than tell him the truth—that it was fake all along, and apparently, I wasn't worthy of real friendship for Therese." He hadn't suspected those emotions were resting so close beneath the surface, patiently waiting for the right moment to burst out of him. Now he feels breathless, as if he just ran a mile.

After rattling down that cascade, Varian gasps for air, and in that short moment where he keeps still with wide eyes and hunched shoulders, Lashanie fears he'll break out into tears. Her hands instinctively reach out for him when he merely releases all the air in his lungs again, and the ghost of a smile graces his face.

Varian's never told anyone about all this and wouldn't have thought so, but— sweetness —it was liberating ! It's as though he just talked a heavy weight off his chest, and he allows himself a great sigh of relief. Feeling a smile ushering into his face, Varian raises his eyes to Lashanie only to gape at her the next moment, utterly taken aback.

Only then, when the surprise on Varian's face meets her, Lashanie notices the tears falling from her eyes. Her fingers tentatively dab her cheeks, staggered to feel the wetness of the glistening traces on their tips. Why is she crying now?! This is just ridiculous—if anyone were allowed to cry, it would be him! Lashanie begins to frantically rub her eyes with the heels of both hands. "I am sorry," she manages to utter through sobs. Gosh, she hates herself right now. But she's also helpless against it; it hurts her terribly how Varian's been treated and how ashamed he was of something that wasn't at all his fault.

"Oh, Birdy . . ." Varian dispels the awkwardness with a moved chuckle. He ruffles through her hair and explains, "No need to cry; it's not as bad as all that. Most things are replaceable anyway . . . well, except for my mom's herbarium and them." He touches the goggles nestled into his raven hair and the teal streak arching through it.

"They've been your mother's too?" Lashanie asks with an ebbing-out sob, gladly seizing the distraction.

"Yeah. Dad says she wanted me to have them." Varian smiles, his blue eyes half-lidded at the idea of them being a lucky charm left for him by his mom. He catches the corners of Lashanie's mouth tip up and asks, "You're better now?" inclining his head slightly.

"Yes, It—It's just"—she snuffles, smoothing her hair against her head—"It's beyond me why Seymour insists on treating you in such ugly ways."

Varian's lower lip juts as he unsuccessfully rummages through his brain for an answer. It is a good question, one he's never really thought about, though. They just—don't like each other . . . but Varian can't rightly remember why. "I guess he's used to the other kids doing his bidding—and I refused," he eventually says, the mere flicker of a memory glinting in the back of his mind. "You know, when Seymour and I got into a fight, and he knocked out my tooth—"

The shock creeping into Lashanie's eyes prompts Varian to make haste to add, "It's alright, really! It was a loose primary one anyway," afraid she might shed tears again.

"Anyway," he continues, "That day, I let it slip to my dad that I hate Seymour. He was shocked, said that 'hate' was such a strong word to use, and he told me that—" Varian hesitates. Does he really want to share this with Lashanie and risk she'll feel sorry for Seymour in the end? Well, it's probably too late now . . . "Behind closed doors, Seymour's father is a very impulsive and violent person. My dad has tried to talk reason into him several times, but it seems he doesn't care to heed any advice on ' personal matters '. And, well, he told me that's why Seymour is such a quarrelsome pain in the—" He swallows the last word and shrugs his shoulders. "You know . . ." "His whole deal—this habit of trampling other's underfoot—is all to compensate for his father's abuse. Or at least that's what my dad is thinking." He deliberately leaves out the final comment of Quirin—holding Varian in his arms and stroking his hair to dry his tears—of how they should show some sympathy for Seymour. Back then, Seymour walked away with a black eye while Varian had lost a tooth, and the adults agreed that they both had given as good as they got. But Varian still begs to differ, certain they let Seymour get away with worse simply because they all knew about the miserable conditions he had to endure at home.

Lashanie's got no words for what she just learned. The horror of not being safe in her own home and the person who should protect her using their physical superiority to hurt her—it's an idea too foreign to her. She can't even imagine it. Altogether, it's one too many impressions she'd have to process, and her brain vehemently refuses her. A heat spreads inside her head instead that might well be fever. She can do nothing but silently wish neither Varian nor Seymour had to undergo so much pain . . .

He can practically watch the pity for Seymour slowly bloom behind Lashanie's eyes, and Varian kinda regrets telling her. The heck with it! It's too late to take it back now. Promptly, he decides to change the subject to spare himself from hearing her expression of sympathy for his personified peeve. He keeps his compassion for that brute within bounds, that's for sure!

"So, you see now how you and Therese could never be the same?" he asks. "You would never do something like that, right?"

Lashanie locks eyes with Varian and regards something beseeching in him he fails to mask. Does he fear she could leave him now that she knows about Seymour's woes? Oh, Vary . . . He has no idea how very fond of him she is already. Silly boy . "You're right; I would never. You're my best friend, Vary." Her smile assumes a playful touch. "You know, I think you're like a blue poppy flower in a field of red ones."

But Varian remains serious. "Promise you will stay with me? Until the end?" he asks blatantly, stretching his hand out to her. He feels cheap for compelling a promise but also can't help it. He needs to know she won't simply leave.

Lashanie gives him a warm smile and takes his hand, pressing her palm against his while interlacing their fingers. She vows with ardor, "I promise. I'll stay with you, Varian. Always ."

At that, Varian gladly squeezes her hand, smiling from ear to ear.

The last strips of light vanish behind the fields.

Lashanie has no choice anyway, not really. Leaving him would never cross her mind, even if he hadn't asked for that promise. He feels like a lodestone to her. They seem so different and yet so much alike . . . It's a feeling she could never hope to explain, but one thing she knows for sure—he is inevitable for her.

And she would love to be a blue poppy flower with him.

•●•●•

Three Days Later . . .

Another halcyon day runs its course in Old Corona. Lashanie and Varian lackadaisically apply fresh paint to the wall of one of its tiny houses—the punishment for staying out after curfew and climbing and destroying a roof to gather a poisonous plant.

"Community service—Pah!" Varian grumbles, slapping a huge splodge of paint to the wall with a listless wave of his arm. "I would be a bigger help to the community if I was allowed to refine my raccoon repellent."

Tiny paint splatters hit Lashanie's arm. "Come on, Vary; it could be worse. Imagine we had to clean the stables."

Varian dunks his brush into a bucket dangling from his arm and throws the next load of color against the wall. And again, a tiny shower of it rains down on Lashanie as well. She frowns. Is he doing that on purpose?!

He grins. "Easy for you to say—after all, it was you who broke that roof."

"You wanted me to climb that barn," Lashanie reminds him, wiping her arm on the apron secured around her waist.

Varian chuckles. "True. But I never asked you to tear down the entire building."

"You know what? Next time, you do the climbing, and I'll be the one standing around to enjoy the view."

"Settled!" Varian's grin adopts an arch hint. "Whatever we'll have to climb next, it'll profit from this—you know, not being doomed to break under your weight."

Lashanie gasps in mock offense. "What a cheek!"

Insouciantly, Varian flings paint once more. But this time, the largest share lands on Lashanie. That silly grin on his face leaves her no doubt—he's definitely doing that on purpose! But two can play this game . . .

Lashanie lightly runs her fingers over the bristles of her brush, decorating Varian with a tiny starfield of dashes of color. "My, it really suits you, Vary!" she gloats, sugary sweet.

And the payback follows at once. Varian loads his brush with fresh paint, and with a flourish, he tosses a thick splodge directly into the middle of Lashanie's face. She blinks at him with dilated eyes, and he struggles not to burst out into loud laughter, pressing his lips together tightly as he watches the color drop from her chin.

In a flash, Lashanie shakes off her shock. "Ha Ha! How uproariously funny!" Without further ado, she grabs her bucket with both hands and winds up to empty it in Varian's direction.

Varian's already raised his hands to at least shield his face from the coming shower when they get called back to order.

"Wrap this up—both of you!" Ludwig meddles. "That paint is meant for the walls, not your faces!" He watches his daughter lower the bucket again and says to Quirin, who just walked up to his side, "You really have to keep your eyes glued to them; otherwise, they only get up to nonsense!"

For a moment, Quirin just watches them, playfully nudging each other. Yes, they would probably cause them one or the other headache in the coming years. Especially considering Lashanie's strange gift. The king was right to order him to guard her—one couldn't possibly know whose attention she might attract . . . Still, he's glad her name has been written on the same line in the book of fate as his son's. She seems to do him good; he has perked up again distinctly since making her acquaintance. Quirin knows there's promise in his boy, an ineffable spark. And perhaps she's just the right one to help Varian find a good use for it someday.

How did his beloved Isabella put it? A diamond cuts nothing but another diamond . . .

"Get a move on, you two! We won't hold supper until you're done!" He finally calls.

Varian and Lashanie go about their work again indeed, but they still keep teasing each other unbridled, laughter being torn from their throats.

Quirin rolls his eyes—with an indulgent smile on his lips, however. He'll gladly put up with some trouble if it means Varian is happy.