Warren closes his eyes—just for a second—and receives a shove in the back. The jolt loosens his hold on the myriad insects he’s trying to control. The bumblebees huddled on his shoulder take off with a surprised buzz. Warren resists the tears that sting his eyes. No-one will have any sympathy if he cries.
Instead, he takes a moment to catch his breath and reconnect with the insects. He hates it. Every instinct tells him to just let go, let them fly free and spread their song across Alphor. Who cares if the bumblebees wander beyond the orchards? Who cares if the butterflies sip from wild crocuses instead of apple blossoms? (Not that there are any wild crocuses).
Maxen cares. Maxen cares a lot.
Gradually, Warren gathers the insects, feeling them as points of light and scent. The purplish
