Thirty
Maxen’s hand traces Solma’s collarbone. She snuggles into the crook of his arm and closes her eyes. His breath warms her cheek as he plants a kiss there. With her eyes closed, Solma concentrates on the smell of the grass. It’s so tall, now, rustling in the breeze. Just beyond is the ash tree, flanked with its honor guard of birches, where Blume’s nest is hidden. Every so often, a small shape emerges from the shade, buzzes in circles around the trees and then zooms off like a tiny shooting star. Solma hears them drone past and her heart kicks with both joy and dread. She hopes the little worker bee finds her flowers. She hopes Blaiz doesn’t find the bee first.
Harvest is underway. The orchards are bursting with so much fruit that Solma hardly believes her eyes whenever she patrols
