Act Two
From Butterflies to Fireworks Amongst Rocks and Amber
Chapter One: Alchemy, Not Magic!
"Hey! Give that back, you little thief!"
A grey furball hurries off Varian's table and dashes toward the door of the laboratory, carrying something red standing out against its monochromatic coat.
Varian doesn't even attempt to chase the cheeky raccoon that keeps showing up at his home. He knows he won't catch it like that. And after all, he's taken measures to put an end to this apple thievery by now. His eyes follow the intruder slowing his pace once it realizes Varian isn't following. Rats! This way, it might notice the string stretching across the floor and avoid it still.
The raccoon has brought a safe distance between itself and Varian when it plops down on its hiney to look directly at him and begins stuffing its fluffy face with the apple it just stole—Varian's apple!
Now Varian approaches the animal a few steps. "You brazen little beast!" The thief swallows the rest of its plunder with one big gulp to continue for the door the next second, giving a chitter that might well be this rascal's way of laughing at him. Old Corona's most skilled alchemist, derided by a chubby raccoon . . . Well, he's also the only alchemist in—what feels like the entire kingdom. But who cares about such irrelevancies, especially in a situation like this?
Varian's lips pucker into a pout when he hears an ever-so-familiar voice nearing from the corridor.
"I hope that wasn't directed at me," the voice says.
What timing! Instead of negating, Varian calls out, "Birdy! Quick—catch it!"
Lashanie comes rushing into the lab, "It, what?" And steps on the tripwire, triggering a bottle of pink liquid on a shelf above her to get heated. The bubbling contents then run down a tube at whose end they pour into a round vessel, compressing a spring. Once that vessel is filled completely, the spring shoots up, flinging the now neon-colored orb at Lashanie. It bursts on the ground, trapping her feet in a sticky goo. Utterly confused, she blinks at Varian: "What the . . ."
Meanwhile, the raccoon takes a flying leap over the goo—Varian certainly wouldn't have thought it capable of bridging such a large distance straight—and scoots under another triumphant chitter. He can merely watch it disappear down the corridor. That just can't be true! This apple thief has escaped again !
Shaking his head incredulously, Varian props his hands on his hips. "Did you see that? This raccoon still keeps coming back. Every. Day!"
Lashanie shifts her line of vision slightly as if to gaze back at the animal long out of sight before turning back to face Varian. She inclines her head, the longer side of her creamy brown hair fanning out a bit. "I fear you can put that down to me."
"How come?"
A tiny smile—one Varian knows all too well—starts playing on her lips. "Well, I . . . I might have fed him some apple slices every day. Like, for the past two weeks or so."
Varian's face drops. "You gotta be kidding me! Birdy, I keep trying to catch it so we can take it to the village outskirts, and you're feeding it?!"
"He's not an it —he's a he , and a very gentle little guy at that," Lashanie says, and Varian can hear the touch of defiance swaying in her voice. Why is he even surprised? But of course, Birdy would nourish every animal begging her for food. Silly of him.
"Fine— he then," Varian acquiesces. "But why does he keep coming to my house when you're the one feeding him?"
Lashanie's lips curl into that special Lashanie-smile gushing with sugary sweetness. "I don't know; maybe he likes you?"
And Varian can't help a chuckle to escape him, ranging between amusement and disbelief. "Yeah, I think I am able to live without the affection of an apple-stealing raccoon." He motions at his table and the havoc her new friend had worked there. "He just stole my breakfast, by the way—your 'gentle little guy.'"
"I'm sorry to hear that," Lashanie says, lifting a basket she's brought. "May I try to make it up to you?"
The basket is covered with a red checkered cloth, but Varian can't resist craning still in hopes of catching a glimpse at its content. "Depends. What you got there?"
Lashanie's smiling glance wanders down to the goo and then back up to Varian. "Set me free, and you'll find out."
"Deal." Varian walks over to a shelf and picks up a shaker that used to carry salt before he borrowed it from the kitchen. Not that his dad would miss it . . . or even notice it's gone. "I guess this isn't a fitting cage for a songbird anyway," Varian quips while sprinkling a fine powder over the substance keeping his friend trapped.
A winsome chuckle meets his ears. "No, I suppose not." And Lashanie gives him a little courtesy as thanks when the goo dissolves before adding, "This bird prefers no cages at all, anyhow." She lightly puts her arms around him, making good for the omitted greeting before, and moves over to the table, where she sets her basket down.
Varian follows her. "Yeah, I figured. But, say—what do you think of my goo trap ?" Considering how well-conceived the construction is, it's rather surprising that she hasn't commented on it by herself. But what of it; he doesn't mind asking for her opinion.
"Your—what?"
"My goo trap," Varian repeats. "The 'prison' I just rescued you from? The name's a working title."
"Ah, of course! Well, the trap part sure works smoothly," it comes from Lashanie, her soft smile hovering in her voice.
Prompting Varian to beam. His invention does just what he had intended—no accidents, no unexpected side effects—and he sees no reason to hide his pride over this success. "Right? It's the perfect solution to our critter problem, better than any repellent. This way, we can catch them and take'em someplace where they won't get into more trouble. Or cause it."
"I guess. Though my little friend has yet to fall into your trap," Lashanie reminds him. The nature of her smile changes into something more playful. "And he's very clever , you know."
With one hand at his hip, Varian tilts his head to the side, ready to engage in what he reckons is one of their little banters. "And I am not?"
"Of course you are," she responds with no hesitation.
And for reasons Varian can't rightly explain, these four words cause his heart to do a little skipper, regardless of how simple they are. Perhaps it's how softly she spoke, or the tenderness in her eyes . . . Or maybe he's just overtired, and that's why his body and mind are acting all that weird again. Yes, it's not the first time he's had such a mini heart attack around her, even though they've begun to occur more frequently lately.
The first time it happened was this endris summer when Lashanie had sneaked out in the middle of the night to watch fireflies. He had been awake, working in his lab. She had been throwing pebbles through the open window, begging with her best puppy dog eyes for him to come with. And he did. Needless to say that he did. What he also managed to do was catch a firefly. And right then, when he showed it to her and the insect's bioluminescent light illuminated the fascination on her face—an expression as if he had just shown her the greatest wonder possible to find on this planet—and she gave that tiny giggle that always made him feel oddly at home, his heart seemed to shift a little.
The very same way it happened just now.
"You alright?" Lashanie asks, hindering silence from settling down between them.
"Heh, of course I am. Why wouldn't I be?" Varian hurries to break their eye contact, ignoring the slight tingling feeling in his stomach as best he can. He swings atop the table, legs dangling from the edge, to sit next to Lashanie's basket. "So, since I've freed you"—he drags out his words—"you're gonna show me whatcha got there, right?" And points with a nod to the cloth hiding the contents of the wickerwork from him.
"Sure. You've earned it for your heroic efforts, after all." Amusement's dancing in Lashanie's voice. She removes the cover, and a tantalizing smell permeates the room, giving Varian's stomach cause to growl. Skipping breakfast this morning wasn't such a good idea.
He peers into the basket to find six tartlets snuggled against each other. They're topped with apple slices sprinkled with cinnamon. And they definitely look too good to be Lashanie's handiwork. Varian can't remember the last time Anne had backed anything, and Ludwig would hardly possess enough patience to decorate these little delicacies this caringly . . .
"They look good; who made them?" he asks.
One of Lashanie's brows tips up. "What makes you think I didn't?"
Varian lets his gaze wander from Lashanie to the tartlets and back to her pointedly. "Well, they're not burnt," he deadpans.
"Vary!" Lashanie gives him a playful nudge, prompting him to chuckle before his stomach utters another growl, demanding compensation for the stolen apple.
At that, Lashanie shoves a tartlet into his hand. "Before I tell you who gave them to me, I want you to try them first."
Okay, this is suspicious. But then again, Varian knows she would never let him eat anything that could harm him. And he's too hungry to negotiate anyway. So he just shrugs and buries his teeth in the pastry. Sweet and fruity, it melts inside his mouth.
No doubt, they could have been made by anyone but Lashanie.
He finishes the rest of the tartlet in one bite, hearing his friend giggle.
"I'm glad you enjoy it. You're welcome to the rest, too, if you like," she says with a smile.
Varian wipes his mouth on his sleeve. "Are you sure? You don't want to share them with your parents?" He knows she isn't a fan of confectionery, but maybe Anne and Ludwig would like some.
"Oh, Mama has been avoiding anything sweet for months now. Aunt Marie's made a comment about her shape when she was last visiting, you know . . ." Lashanie grimaces, indicating how bad that comment must have been. "And Papa never liked apples much. Funny, I know, for a farmer whose largest harvest share is apples."
"All right, if you say it's okay . . ." Varian shrugs and picks up another tartlet. "You're telling me who made them now?"
"Mhm. Do you remember when I mentioned that Mrs. Durand asked me to help cultivate her garden?"
Varian had already opened his mouth, ready to take a huge bite. Now he stops in his motion. Brows furrowed, he asks, "Are you saying Seymour's mom made 'em for you as thanks for helping her?"
He watches Lashanie wring her hands. She nods. "Well, I guess . . . yes."
And Varian drops the pastry back into the basket, causing Lashanie to roll her eyes.
"Precisely why I haven't told you before. I mean, come on—you got no reason to dislike his mother. Or scorn those tartlets just because she made them."
"Ehh, I beg to differ," Varian retorts, wiping his hands on his lilac red apron. Part of him knows Lashanie's right; Mrs. Durand has never given him any reason to bring odium on her. Still, she's the mother of the most contemptible person he's ever met. "She lives in the same house as him; what if Seymour did— something to them?" Yeah, he noticed it sounded kind of silly. But he also wouldn't put it past Seymour to manipulate food to harm others.
Puzzlement crosses Lashanie's features. "Why would he do that? He thinks I'm the one eating them."
And Varian fails to keep a bitter smile from creeping into his face. "Right. And he would never do something like that to you , your Prince Charming." Heck! That came across far more reproachful than he had planned, and an immediate twinge of regret hits. What is wrong with him today?!
To his luck, Lashanie doesn't seem to hold it against him. In fact, she still smiles. "Don't be silly, Vary. He isn't my Prince Charming, and you know full well that I keep telling him to find another princess to worship." She folds her arms on her back and brings her face a little closer. "If I didn't know better, I'd say you're jealous."
Varian's stomach turns a summersault. That's ridiculous! Why would he be jealous of Seymour?!
Seymour, who had confessed his love to Lashanie.
Before, Seymour had 'merely' kept trying to win her over for his friend group, to separate her from Varian. That was until a small festival the village held a few weeks ago. During the evening hours, everyone was singing songs, and Lashanie—like so many others—had been dancing. Like a wild fairy, she's been jumping barefoot through the sand. Varian can still see that image of her clear as day, safely shelved in his memory. And he also remembers the intensity with what Seymour's been staring at her back then. The next day he did confess to Lashanie, asking her to be his girl. And she kindly declined. But that didn't stop Seymour from trying to win her over.
Thinking about the sole fact that this guy is after his best friend does irk Varian, granted. But not because he's jealous. No . . .
With a throw-away gesture, he denies, "Me, jealous? I ask you!"
Lashanie takes a step back, her always shining smile seeming to flicker slightly, "I know, I was just kidding. I mean—you have no reason to be jealous, right?"
Was there a trace of . . . disappointment in her voice? Or is he just imagining things now? Varian presses his lips together. Unsure what else to say, he decides to simply change the subject. "Right, heh . . ." "Hey Birdy, say—you want me to show you how the goo trap works?"
"Yes, I would love to see it." The glow of Lashanie's smile is back as if nothing happened, and Varian dismisses the subtle change in her mood he thought to have noticed as a figment of his imagination. He's about to jump off the table and lead Lashanie to his newest invention.
But she prevents this attempt and dampens his enthusiasm by hurrying to add, "It'll have to wait, though. I still have chores; I only wanted to drop in real quick to bring you these while they're still fresh." She points at the basket.
Varian peers at the tartlets. She came by just to give them to him . . . Oh, Birdy.
"I guess I should have left you stuck in the goo, so you'd have to stay," Varian quips. He can hear the disappointment in his own voice, though, and the look on Lashanie's face betrays she's heard it too.
Her lips tip up gently. "I promise you to hurry, Vary. You won't even notice I'm gone."
Ha. He wishes. Yet, Varian nods. "Alright."
He watches Lashanie head for the door. Before she leaves, she turns back once more. "If you really don't want to eat those apple tartlets, you can just put them aside, and I'll feed them to my raccoon friend later. He'll love them."
Varian opens his mouth, but Lashanie's gone before he gets the chance to protest. Defiantly, he reaches into the basket and stuffs another of the pastries into his mouth. He's so not going to 'share' even more of his food with that greedy raccoon.
Still chewing, he slides off the tabletop. Time to reset the trap.
•●•●•
Varian's just put on his metal visor and the heavy coat—something Lashanie insisted he'd do during welding jobs after flying sparks had burned ugly wholes into the left sleeve of his shirt, and she'd been so kind to sew on a striped patch for him so his dad wouldn't find out he almost set himself ablaze (he still believed Varian had ripped it open on a jotting nail)—when the floor starts shaking. From the corner of his eye, Varian notices one of his Erlenmeyer flasks—one sealed with a cork—trembling precariously near the table edge. He reaches out—and the flask slips through his fingers, bursting into pieces to release a purple liquid. It reacts with the oxygen and vaporizes into a mist that creeps across the floor and gradually spreads throughout the place. Well, that's just unfortunate. But cleaning up can wait; he needs to check on them first.
With the tip of his boot, Varian half-heartedly shoves the splinters under the table when suddenly the door behind him creaks, and he hears careful steps striking against the ground.
"It's just fog. I'm sure it's okay," someone says. It's a voice Varian's mind fails to match with anyone he knows.
Near the entrance, he beholds the figures of two women. One daringly treads through the mist and immediately sets off the goo trap the same way Lashanie did before. A quick chain reaction later, the intruders are stuck, both coughing loudly from the raised fog mixed with dust.
"Fine. A—a booby trap!" Now the shorter one sounds pretty disquieted.
And Varian decides to find out who his 'visitors' are. He's merely going to make this a little more . . . interesting. They haven't seen him yet, and he plays on that. Carefully, he climbs atop the table, rearing from the mist the next second.
"Raps, everything's gonna be—oh!" The taller woman interrupts her attempt to calm her companion when they finally take notice of Varian slowly drawing closer. Lashanie would probably scold him, but he kinda relishes giving those strangers a little scare. After all, they entered his home and lab unbidden.
Certain to have their full attention, Varian lifts his chin, asking emphatically, "What do you want?" while the visor still concealing his face distorts his voice. On top of that, the thick coat renders his guise a lot larger. He must admit, this is fun!
The taller woman has shifted into a defense stance best as her sticky fetters give away, while the shorter one attempts a nervous introduction, her brows crinkled with worry. She pipes up, "Um . . . hi. So sorry to bother you, sir. I—wanted to ask you about my hair ," and pulls a thick golden braid over her shoulder. It almost reaches down to her bare feet.
Now Varian recognizes the person standing in front of him. Of all the people he thought could visit his place, the crown princess sure wasn't one of them! Well, time to round his diddy greeting performance, it seems.
"Because you're such a magic exp—" the princess continues.
And Varian interrupts her pointedly, "Magic?" The refractive glasses of his mask bathe his eyes in a bilious green glow. "I do not work with magic !" he clarifies, cutting the air with his hand.
Forthwith, he reveals his face to the visitors, pushing the face shield to the top of his head. As surprise breaks into the women's features, a grin graces Varian's. "I mean, technically, it's not magic; it's alchemy," he says, waving his hands placatory. "But, yeah, don't—don't sweat it."
The princess doesn't seem all too reassured, however. She wrings her hands, giving a nervous laugh. "Got it."
Perhaps he's gone a little overboard the way he startled them—just a little.
"So, what is this?" The princess' gaze guides Varian's attention to the goo holding her in place. She slightly lifts her feet for emphasis.
"Oh, it's—it's a chemical compound of, uh, my own design. Thank you," Varian gives back, pride streaming through his voice, while he dresses down from the heavy protective coat to reveal the actual—and surely less intimidating—lanky build of his body. He drops the metal visor as well, leaps down the table, and lands near the princess.
To her side, he's spotted another intruder who's got caught in the goo— that raccoon has made his way into Varian's house again! It's this rascal's luck that he can't take him to the outskirts right now. Instead, Varian pulls the repurposed salt shaker from his pocket and frees the animal to carry it toward the door. "Uh, see, we have a bit of a critter problem out here," he explains on the side, "and through the miracle of modern alchemy, I have found a humane way to solve the problem."
The raccoon chitters in his grasp as if to protest. And Varian sends him out of the lab with a flourish. Making sure, though, that he'll land safely on his tiny feet.
"This is riveting, but could you get us out of here ?" The princess' companion asks. However, it sounds more like a command.
She is a stern-looking woman with hazel eyes and an ebony curly bob framing her pale face. Her tall figure's clad in a red high-necked shirt covered by a loose grey tunica and a pair of striped trousers in the same shade of brown as her boots. And she wears a sword tied to her back . . . Altogether, she looks like the opposite of the sunny princess with the tiny flowers in her golden tresses, the warm freckled skin, and her long purple dress adorned with a laced bodice.
Varian gives a nervous chuckle, reckoning to have caught a touch of irritation in that woman's voice. He gropes his clothes for the shaker, mumbling to himself, "Where is that neutralizing parti—" There!
The moment he produces it from his right pocket, that raccoon walks past him, coming back in as if it was only natural—as though he lived here! Varian grabs him by his striped tail, earning himself a chittered dissent. Gentle, his eye! Lashanie's new friend is a rude one, that's all. "Oh! Come—get outta here!" He carries the raccoon out the door and quickly shuts it in his face. Hopefully, that's enough to keep him away for a while.
Varian walks back to the princess and goes down to one knee in front of her to sprinkle the neutralizing powder over the goo. With a sizzling noise, it dissolves. Yet, Varian remains in this kneeling position.
The tone of voice of the princess's companion had him realize he might have upset them. And him upsetting royalty was nothing his father, or the crown—or practically anyone in this kingdom—would take lightly. Placing one hand on his chest and bowing his head slightly, he utters through an embarrassed laugh, "I am so sorry, Your Highness."
Pleasant surprise lets the princess's eyes dilate as her lips tip up. "Your Highness?" she repeats. "Wait—You know who I am?"
"Uh, how could I not?" Varian laughs and points at her with his arms spread wide. "Look at your hair! Ha!" Wait. Did that count as speaking out of turn? Varian doesn't know, and to be on the safe side, he quickly adds a "Your Highness" in a quieter, more respectful tone before he pointedly clears his throat.
But the princess waves it off. With an indulgent smile, she says, "Oh, please. Just Rapunzel."
"Wow! Really?" Now it's his turn to be surprised. Not that Varian hadn't heard several people mention how different Princess Rapunzel was from the typical member of the ruling class. But experiencing it firsthand was still something . He straightens up and runs one hand through his hair. "Okay." Not constantly needing to worry about correct etiquette will make this much easier!
Spurred by that welcome turn—and his curiosity—Varian walks around his two visitors in a semicircle and comes to a halt behind Rapunzel. "So, fantastical stories of your hair returning have spread throughout Corona." He bends down slightly, examining the thick braid dangling down her back. It is a unique shade of blonde and actually reminds him of sunlight. And it's lighter than he would have thought, as he ascertains by lifting the braid with both hands. Interesting. "Yeah, people say it's magic, but personally, I don't really believe that," he tells Rapunzel and her companion.
He drops the hair and shifts back into their field of vision. "Now, as you have probably guessed, I am a man of science, specifically, al—"
"Alchemy. We know," Rapunzel's armed escort interrupts. She glares at Varian, bringing her face closer. "Now listen, kid," she continues, "we need your help, but let me make something clear. What happens here stays here, you got it?" and clutches Varian's collar, pulling him up effortlessly.
His eyes widen. But more in bafflement than fright. Why does everyone who tries to reinforce their point to him have to tear at his clothes? Or, come to think of it, touch him at all?! That's just rude! Yet, he can find something in the eyes of that woman . . . Worry? Or maybe even fear?
And so, despite that rough treatment, Varian nods.
.
Before long, Varian's led Rapunzel to one of his lab tables, where she lay down flat on her back, the long braid streaming out the entire length of the tabletop. With the help of his magnifying glass—a unique one he has attached to a metal rod to make fiddly work easier—he now peers at the golden strands. At first glance, he can't spot anything irregular about Rapunzel's hair. Well, except for the color and length. That latter alone certainly is quite impressive, though. Scrutinizing it inch by inch, Varian utters, "Oh, yes, this—this, ha!—it's very . . ." He suddenly beholds Rapunzel's face through the magnifier, and a tiny frown breaks into his own. " . . . long." He'd almost forgotten there was a person attached to that overabundance of hair. Nothing against the princess—it's merely a habit of his to get lost in thought while working.
Rapunzel exchanges a suspicious glance with her other companion—a chameleon who, from what Varian's heard, is always seen with her. Most times perched on her shoulder. Right now, however, he's sitting on the table by her side, a similar expression as Rapunzel's plastered to his tiny green face.
Of course, she knows her hair is long, just like anyone laying eyes on her. Varian's remark was more of a—soliloquy. "Oh, no, don't worry, Your High— Rapunzel !" he says with a grin. He's far from done yet. "I am sure that I, Varian, can unlock the mystery of your hair with the power of science !" For emphasis and spurred by excitement, Varian throws his arms open. Doing so, he hits the magnifying glass. It gives a metallic screech as it spins around on the rod. And smacks him in the back of his head. Hard. "Ow!"
Rapunzel immediately sits up, watching Varian with worry.
He wants to reassure her despite the pain shivering through his skull. After all, who trusts a scientist who can't safely handle his own tools? Patting his head with one hand, he finds his glove smeared with blood. Okay, this is bad. But it's not that much blood; it could be worse . . . "Heh. No sweat, it's just a little—" Varian can hear his words blurring into each other. Funny, his voice sounds as if coming from far away. Stars start dancing before his eyes. And then, everything goes black.
•●•●•
Finally! Lashanie is finally done with her chores.
And—goodness—cleaning the windows has been a pain, literally. She'd be lucky if the combination of that nasty cleanser and the rough cloth wouldn't give her blisters on the hands. Next time, she'll use the products of Varian's alchemy he's kindly provided her with, that's for sure! No matter how much her Papa is against using any of them inside their house.
For now, though, she's just happy to spend the rest of the day with Varian.
Lashanie climbs the stone steps to his house's entrance. And stops on the threshold. How strange—the front door is wide open. Has Varian left and forgotten to close it?
She steps into the dimly lit corridor, and opaque scraps of conversation reach her ears. They seem to come from Varian's lab. Is there someone with him? A girl? Curiosity takes Lashanie. With smooth moves, she quietly shoves the door open a crack and slips into the room.
A small stifled sound escapes her.
Burglars?! Varian's unconscious on the floor, a person she can barely see is bending down to him behind the table, and another person—an armed woman—is standing closer to Lashanie, whirling to face her. She follows Lashanie's gaze, and her mien hardens.
Perhaps she thinks Lashanie will try to run, or maybe they don't want to risk any witnesses—for whatever reason, the burglar attempts to grab her. "Easy, girl!"
With one quick step, Lashanie avoids her hand. It just skims past her arm. Another step puts some distance between her and the stranger, who grimaces angrily. And with a third step, Lashanie kicks the back of her heel into a mop. It topples over; she catches it with one hand and holds it before her chest like a lance. "You leave him alone and get out of here, or else . . ." Her heart is throbbing wildly inside her chest, and she can't help her voice shaking.
Lashanie's opponent scoffs, her voice a snarl as she says, "A mop? You gotta be kidding me."
Lashanie clutches the handle, holding the cleaning tool up defiantly. Of course, she knows this isn't an optimal choice of weapon; she's also noticed the sword on that woman's back. But she doesn't plan to fight her anyway. She can't fight. She'll outflank her, get to Varian, and—
Her train of thought gets derailed when the second burglar rears, hands raised in surrender. "Please, we don't mean harm."
Prompting Lashanie to clasp hers over her mouth, letting the mop fall to the ground. She can scarcely believe her eyes. This is no burglar. "Your hair . . . you are Princess Rapunzel," she breathes reverently.
"I'm sorry we've frightened you," the princess assuages while giving a nod. "You see, we came here to ask Varian for help . . . about my hair." A disarming smile blooms on her lips. "Are you his friend?"
Lashanie casts a brief glance at the other woman. She doesn't make a move to capture her, so Lashanie dares to rush past her to Varian's side. "Yes. What happened to him?"
Princess Rapunzel's eyes land on the magnifying glass. "He hit himself on the head. I want to heal him," she says, brushing her fingers against her stunning braid. "But maybe we should help him up off the floor first."
Lashanie nods. She hurries to a shelf and sweeps for a small etui, shoving flasks and tube racks aside . . . There! With it in her hand, she drops to her knees by Varian's side again and produces a glass ampoule. A pungent smell escapes the moment Lashanie snaps it open. Carefully, she waves the ampoule under Varian's nose. This should bring him back.
Varian's eyes flutter. "Birdy . . ."
Oh, thank goodness! A sigh of relief heaves Lashanie's chest. For a moment, she forgets they're not alone and caresses his cheek, the way she'd usually do when he's in low spirits and needs comfort. "Are you alright, Vary?"
A smile steals around Varian's mouth. "Guess what, Birdy—I've caught the raccoon."
