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to embrace her, yet was whisked back by the Whirlwind of Submission,
which she could not, in her current state, avoid. Thus, with down-
cast eyes, finding each bruise, each Raw in the fruit she bore, Lizbeth
. returned to the buzzing field of blackberry bushes, seeing not the vine
strewn across its core, and tripping, falling to the dirt, amongst the
rolling red apples. Though the worst she suffered was a raspberry on the
knee, Lizbeth could not help but cry.

Once those tears began to fall, with no one there to scare them
back into their ducts, they seemed unending; a wave saved up these
past two years, sealed away with the cement of obligation and duty. But
now that that mortar had cracked, chipped at by both the thanklessness
of her brother and neighbors, and the unselfish lust for content due to
those of her ilk, it would never, and, indeed, should never, be repaired.

Overhead, the bees passed unconcerned, a living, laboring
roof, till Lizberh saw fit to rise. She looked down at the apples and
began picking them up, when underneath one she uncovered the vial
Edgewater had given her. Grains of dirt sat atop it, so Lizbeth brushed
them away, released the apples in her grip, uncapped the ampoule,
and brought it to her lips. Hesitating, she looked around, keeping the
golden liquid only inches from her mouth. In front of her, looming over
the trees in the distance, stood the broken windmill, spinning slowly in
a fresh gust. To her back awaited the orchard with the path Edgewater
Rogers had taken to Ignas, alive with the song of the cranberry-colored
bird, perched on a branch, flicking his head in all directions. And all
around Lizbeth Rew the bees, admirable, diligent, through the heavy,
blackberry-scented air.

"Why shouldn't I drink this wish?" she asked herself "It
doesn't look magical, so it probably won't work, anyway."But, oh, how
she hoped it would! "Although, what if it is poisoned? No, Edgewa-
ter would not have given it to me if it were. Who knows how old it
is, though? It may be stale and make me sick." Lizberh, having nearly
convinced herself not to swallow the draft, lowered the phial from her
lips and was about to cap it when Flash Jones, a vivid orange blossoming
from out of the green brush, pranced up to her, carrying in his mouth
the Hirnsy form of a mouse. The feline opened his jaws, dropped his
spoil, nudged it once with his nose, and looked up at Lizbeth. Lizbeth
smiled gently at the cat. Still standing in the midst of the blackberry
bushes, she watched for a moment the path of a single bee, squeezed

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