Estaria

“Est!” she called, waving. “Come see what I found!”

He glanced toward the Blush’s farmhouse, where he was supposed to go, but Angel was already racing deeper into the orchard. His feet moved before he could think better of it.

“Wait up!” he called, chasing after her. The grass was soft beneath his feet, dappled sunlight dancing through the leaves above.

Angel led him to a gnarled old apple tree, its trunk split near the base to form a perfect hideaway. She ducked inside, and he followed, their knees bumping in the cramped space.

“Look,” she whispered, pointing up through the leaves. A family of sparrows had nested in the branches above, the chicks’ tiny beaks opening and closing as they waited for food.

“They’re so small,” Estaria breathed. The parent birds flitted back and forth, bringing insects to their hungry offspring.

They spent the next hour making up stories about the bird family, giving each chick a name and personality. Angel decided the smallest one was secretly a dragon in disguise, which made Estaria laugh until his sides hurt.

Inside the farmhouse, Mr. and Mrs. Blush exchanged worried glances at Klindon’s subtle message, delivered so innocently through her son. But Estaria noticed none of this, too absorbed in Angel’s latest game – trying to catch falling apple blossoms in their cupped hands before they touched the ground.

“Bet you can’t catch more than me,” Angel challenged, her curls bouncing as she darted after a falling petal.

“Can too!” Estaria sprang up, nearly bumping his head on a low branch.

They raced through the orchard, laughing and keeping count of their catches.

Estaria darted ahead, glancing up to track a fluttering blossom. But something shifted—barely a whisper, just a twist in the rhythm of the trees.

He felt it first in his chest: like the orchard had drawn a breath it wasn’t supposed to take.

The feeling threw him off just enough to misjudge his step. His shoulder clipped a low branch, and he stumbled into the nearest trunk, catching himself with both hands. Bark scraped his palm.

Angel spun around, grinning. “Clumsy!”

He laughed with her—but the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. The orchard always moved with him. The roots, the wind, the pull of the ground beneath his feet.

But for just a second… it hadn’t.

It had hesitated.

Mrs. Blush’s voice eventually cut through their game. “Angel! Time to come in!”

Angel sighed dramatically. “Already?”

Estaria suddenly remembered his mother’s errand. He hurried toward the farmhouse, Angel trailing behind him.

Mrs. Blush stood in the doorway, her weathered hands clasped tightly in front of her apron. “Estaria, dear. Your mother sent you for pie?”

He nodded, slightly out of breath from running.

“Well, we’ll certainly have one ready for you tomorrow. Best head home now – it’s getting late.”

“Can’t Est stay for dinner?” Angel pleaded, tugging at her mother’s apron.

Mrs. Blush’s smile was tight. “Not today, dear. His mother will be expecting him.”

Estaria waved goodbye to Angel as he started down the path home. Behind him, he heard Angel trip over the doorframe again, and go sprawling into the kitchen. He smiled and laughed as he looked back over his shoulder, to see Mrs Blush shaking her head, as she closed the door.

The setting sun painted the sky in shades of pink and orange as he walked, his shadow stretching long beside him. He’d forgotten to count how many blossoms he’d caught – Angel would probably claim she won. Maybe tomorrow they could have a rematch after he picked up the pie.

He reached his front door just as the first stars began to appear. His mother looked up from her mending as he entered.

“Did you have a nice visit?” she asked, her dark eyes studying him carefully.

“Angel showed me some baby birds,” he said, dropping into his chair at the table. “And Mrs. Blush is making pie for tomorrow.”

“Is she now?” His mother’s needle flashed in the lamplight. “How thoughtful of her.”

The floorboards creaked under Estaria’s feet as he made his way down the hallway toward his room. Through the open study door, lamplight spilled out in a warm rectangle, and he caught sight of his father hunched over the desk. Papers were scattered across the wooden surface, and Burl’s forehead was creased in concentration as he scratched numbers into a ledger.

Estaria hovered in the doorway, watching his father’s quill move across the page. The room smelled of ink and leather-bound books, with just a hint of pipe smoke that always seemed to linger in his father’s study.

“Can I help?” Estaria asked, stepping into the room.

Burl looked up, his weathered face breaking into a smile. “Come here, son.” He pushed his chair back and patted his knee. “Maybe you can make sense of these numbers better than I can.”

Estaria climbed onto his father’s lap, the familiar scratch of his wool vest against his arms. The ledger looked impossibly complex up close – rows and columns of numbers marching across the page in his father’s careful handwriting.

“See here?” Burl pointed with the feathered end of his quill. “These are all the apples we’ve traded this season. Each family’s contribution, what they received in return.”

Estaria squinted at the tiny numbers. “That’s a lot of apples.”

“Indeed it is.” Burl chuckled, the sound rumbling through his chest. “The Blushes alone traded nearly fifty bushels last week.”

“Is that why Mother wanted pie?” Estaria asked, trying to follow the lines of figures with his finger.

His father’s laugh was shorter this time. “Your mother has her own way of keeping track of things.” He dipped his quill in the inkwell. “Now, if we add these numbers here…”

Estaria watched as his father began explaining about credits and debits, but the words started to blur together like the ink on the page. His mind wandered back to the baby birds in the apple tree, wondering if their mother had brought them dinner yet.

“Getting a bit dry for you, isn’t it?” Burl asked, noticing his son’s glazed expression.

Estaria nodded sheepishly.

“Truth be told, it’s a bit dry for me too.” His father ruffled his hair. “Go on and wash up for dinner. I’ll finish this last column and join you soon.”

Sliding off his father’s knee, Estaria could smell something savory wafting from the kitchen. His stomach growled, reminding him how long ago his apple orchard adventures with Angel had been.

“Don’t forget behind your ears,” Burl called after him. “Your mother will check.”

Estaria hurried to the washbasin in his room, the ledger’s mysterious numbers already forgotten as he splashed water on his face and hands. In the kitchen, he could hear the clatter of plates as his mother set the table, and his father’s quill scratching away at the last few sums of the day.

The savory aroma of beef stew filled the kitchen as Estaria settled into his usual spot at the table. Steam curled up from the wooden bowls his mother ladled full, carrying hints of rosemary and thyme. His stomach growled loudly, earning a raised eyebrow from his mother.

“Someone’s hungry,” Klindon said, placing a bowl in front of him.

“Starving!” Estaria grabbed his spoon, barely waiting for his father to sit down before digging in. The rich broth warmed him from the inside out, chunks of tender beef and vegetables melting in his mouth.

“You can thank the Blushes for the carrots,” she replied, settling into her chair. “They traded some lovely ones this morning.”

“Angel’s really good at picking the best ones,” Estaria said between bites. “She says you have to look for the ones with the greenest tops, because that means they’re the freshest. And she showed me this trick where you can tell if they’re sweet by how bright orange they are.”

Klindon shifted in her chair, catching Burl’s attention with a subtle tilt of her head. Burl’s smile faded slightly as he gave an almost imperceptible nod.

“And you should have seen her catch that huge fish last week!” Estaria continued, oblivious to the exchange. “She has this special spot down by the bend in the river, where the water gets really deep. The fish was almost as long as my arm!” He gestured enthusiastically with his spoon, nearly sending broth flying.

“Careful there,” Burl warned, but his tone was gentle.

“Sorry.” Estaria returned to his bowl, scraping it clean.

Klindon filled his bowl again without comment, though Estaria hardly seemed to notice, lost in a steady stream of Angel stories that carried them through the entire meal. Each bite seemed to remind him of another adventure or special skill his friend possessed.

“And she’s so funny! Today she was pretending one of the baby birds was actually a dragon in disguise, hiding from knights who wanted to steal its treasure. She does all these different voices when she tells stories.” He attempted to mimic one of Angel’s dragon voices, making his father cough to hide a chuckle.

“She said tomorrow she’s going to show me where the rabbits have their burrow,” Estaria said, using his last piece of bread to soak up the remaining broth. “She says if we’re really quiet, we might see the babies coming out to play. Angel’s the only one who knows where they are – she’s good at finding special things like that.”

“I’m glad you enjoyed it,” Klindon said, beginning to clear the bowls. “Now, why don’t you help me with these dishes?”

“Can I tell you about the time Angel found a turtle while we work?” Estaria asked, already rolling up his sleeves at the washing basin.

“Of course, dear,” Klindon replied, handing him a dish towel. “Tell me all about it.”

When Estaria turned to make sure his father could hear the story, he noticed that Burl remained at the table, and a contemplative expression had replaced the bored, tired expression when he was writing in the ledger.

After drying the last bowl, Estaria’s jaw stretched wide in an enormous yawn. The kitchen’s warmth and his full stomach made his eyelids feel heavy.

“Time for bed, I think,” Klindon said, hanging the dish towel to dry. “But don’t forget your reading. Ten pages tonight.”

“Yes, Mother.” Estaria trudged up the narrow stairs to his bedroom, each step feeling heavier than the last. The floorboards creaked under his feet as he crossed to the small shelf where his current book waited.

He lit the lamp on his bedside table, its gentle glow casting warm shadows across the walls. The book’s leather cover was smooth beneath his fingers as he settled onto his bed, propping himself up against the headboard. He’d been reading about ancient trading routes - not the most exciting topic, but his mother insisted it was important to understand how commerce worked.

The words swam before his eyes as he tried to focus on the page. Something about silk merchants and mountain passes. He blinked hard, forcing himself to concentrate.

“…caravans would often spend weeks traversing the treacherous paths…” Estaria’s head nodded forward, then snapped back up. He’d read this sentence three times now.

He shifted position, lying on his stomach with the book propped on his pillow. That helped for about half a page, until he found himself thinking about the baby birds again instead of trade routes. The smallest one had been so tiny, its beak barely bigger than his fingernail.

His eyes grew heavier with each paragraph. The lamp’s flame seemed to dance and blur as he struggled through another page. Six pages in, the words began to mix together like soup ingredients in a pot.

Just a short rest, he thought, laying his cheek against the open page. The paper felt cool against his skin. He’d finish the last four pages in a minute…

Suddenly, he was back in the apple orchard. The split-trunk tree loomed before him, but now it reached up into clouds. Looking up at the nest, he saw movement - but instead of tiny beaks, a scaled head emerged. The smallest chick had indeed been a dragon, just as Angel had said.

“Quick!” the dragon chirped, spreading wings that shimmered like morning dew. “What’s the sum of column three, row twelve?”

A giant ledger appeared in the air, floating between the apple tree’s branches. Numbers filled every space, just like in his father’s study, but these seemed to glow and pulse with their own light.

“I… I don’t know,” Estaria stammered. “There are too many numbers!”

The numbers swirled and danced across the page like fireflies. Estaria squinted, trying to make sense of them. “Wait, that’s not right. You can’t add apples and carrots together!”

“Of course you can!” The dragon somersaulted across the page. “Watch!” It breathed a tiny flame, and suddenly all the numbers turned into different kinds of fruit and vegetables, tumbling through the air in a colorful cascade.

Before Estaria could respond, a cinnamon cider washed away the fruit, and the dream dissolved into deeper sleep. The book remained open beneath his cheek, his quiet breathing stirring the pages as the lamp burned low beside him.

In the doorway, Klindon paused, shaking her head at the familiar sight. She stepped inside, gently marking his page—six—before pulling the blanket up to his chin. As her hands neared his face, Estaria smiled in his sleep.

She caught the faint scent of cinnamon on her skin and smiled back. Leaning in, she placed a kiss on his forehead, the warmth lingering between them.

Klindon settled into her chair, the needle flashing in and out of cloth.

“He talks about Angel a lot,” she said. “Seems the girl’s got a gift for finding things. Bird nests. Rabbit burrows. Little secrets.”

Burl didn’t look up from his bowl. “Kids notice more than we give them credit for.”

“Mmm.” Klindon tied a knot and bit the thread. “You remember when we used to walk the orchard with Estaria? Before he could talk properly, he’d point at every apple worth picking. Didn’t know what he was doing—but he had a feel for things.”

“Still does.”

“And now he’s spending all that time with Angel.” She smoothed the hem. “Seems like a good influence.”

Burl’s spoon slowed. “On who?”

Klindon gave a faint smile. “Well, that depends.”

The spoon tapped against the bowl. Outside, crickets chirped.

“He’s a child, Klindon.”

“Exactly.” Klindon reached for her thread again. “Children don’t think about what’s important. That’s what makes them so… unguarded.”

Burl rose from his chair, slow and heavy, and carried his bowl to the basin. The water splashed as he rinsed it.

“Just let them be kids, Klindon,” he said without turning around.

“They are,” she replied, folding her mending in her lap. “I would never dream of changing that.”

He lingered a moment longer, as if weighing whether this was a battle worth fighting, then left without a word. The stairs creaked beneath his weight as he climbed to bed.

Klindon sat in the quiet kitchen, the needle resting idle between her fingers. She didn’t smile. But her eyes were calm, focused.

Her husband might grumble. But he wouldn’t interfere.