Page 24 of The Minotaur's Little Peach
"You're telling me you've spent years hauling cargo across every port from here to the Southern reaches, and you don't know the difference between a pear tree and an apple tree?" Soreya's voice carries that particular blend of disbelief and amusement that's become familiar over the past weeks.
I straighten from where I've been examining the small orchard behind the house, wiping dirt from my hands. "I know cargo manifests and ship repairs. Fruit trees weren't exactly part of my maritime education."
She shakes her head, but her smile undermines any real criticism. Taran rests against her shoulder, his tiny fist wrapped around a strand of her hair that's escaped its braid. At just over two months, he's started making these soft babbling sounds that seem almost conversational, like he's offering commentary on our agricultural incompetence.
"The leaves, Dae." She gestures toward the tree I've been studying. "Pear leaves are broader, smoother. Apple leaves have those serrated edges, see?"
I follow her pointing finger, noting the subtle differences I'd completely missed. "Right. Obviously."
"Obviously," she repeats, her tone dry as week-old bread. "No wonder you stuck to smuggling goods instead of growing them."
The casual way she references my less-than-legal maritime activities should probably concern me, but instead it makes something warm settle in my chest. She's not treating me like Korrun's grieving brother or some visiting dignitary she needs to impress. She's talking to me like someone who belongs here, flaws and questionable career choices included.
"These haven't been properly tended since..." Her voice trails off, but she doesn't retreat into grief the way she would have even a week ago. Instead, she shifts Taran to her other arm and approaches the nearest tree with practiced assessment. "The fruit's going to be smaller this season if we don't get them proper care soon."
"Tell me what needs doing."
She glances at me, something flickering in her expression that I can't quite read. "It's a lot of work. Pruning, fertilizing, checking for disease. Not exactly what you signed up for when you decided to stay."
"I signed up for family," I say simply. "That includes keeping the trees that put food on our table."
The way her breath catches, so subtle I almost miss it, makes my chest tighten. She looks at me for a moment longer than necessary, her hazel eyes catching the afternoon light in ways that make those gold flecks shimmer like scattered coins.
"Right then," she says finally, clearing her throat. "Let's start with the pruning. These dead branches need to come off before they start affecting the healthy growth."
The next hour passes in a rhythm that feels surprisingly natural. She points out which branches to cut, explaining the reasoning behind each decision while I handle the actualremoval. My size makes reaching the higher limbs easier, though I lack her practiced eye for identifying problem areas.
"Not that one," she calls when I reach for a branch that looks perfectly healthy to my untrained gaze. "That's going to be your main fruit-bearing branch come harvest time."
I pause, studying the limb in question. "How can you tell?"
"The buds. See how they're fuller, more rounded? Those are flower buds that'll become fruit. The skinnier, pointed ones are just leaf buds."
She moves closer to demonstrate, pointing out the subtle differences while Taran continues his babbled commentary from his perch in her arms. The baby's gotten more animated in recent weeks, his dark eyes tracking movement with increasing focus. Right now, he seems fascinated by the way sunlight filters through the tree branches, one tiny hand reaching toward the dancing shadows.
"He's going to be tall," I observe, noting how Taran's legs are already starting to stretch out from the compact curl of early infancy. "Takes after his father."
"And his uncle," Soreya adds quietly. "He's got your brother's hands already. Look at the size of those fingers."
I glance down at the baby's tiny fist, still wrapped around her hair, and see what she means. For an infant barely a month old, Taran's hands are notably large, promising the kind of reach that'll serve him well if he follows the family tradition of physical work.
"Poor kid's going to be tripping over his own feet for years," I mutter, remembering my own awkward adolescence when growth spurts left me constantly misjudging distances and knocking into furniture.
"Korrun did mention you went through a phase where you couldn't walk through a doorway without hitting your head," she says, her voice warm with shared memory.
The casual mention of my brother doesn't bring the usual pang of grief. Instead, it feels like including him in our conversation naturally, the way it should be. Korrun would've loved seeing his son's first attempts at reaching for tree branches, would've probably started planning to build him a treehouse before the boy could even crawl.
"Lasted until I was seventeen," I admit. "Captain who hired me for my first shipping job said I was like watching a newborn foal trying to figure out which legs belonged to which body."
Her laugh bubbles up bright and unexpected, the sound making Taran blink and refocus on her face with obvious delight. "I can picture that perfectly. All that height and no idea what to do with it."
"Still working on that part some days."
"You seem to have figured it out well enough." Her eyes travel over my frame in a way that's purely observational, but something about the attention makes my skin warm. "The way you move around the house, I mean. Never seen you knock over a single piece of furniture."
The compliment shouldn't affect me as much as it does, but I've spent enough time in spaces designed for smaller people to appreciate someone noticing my efforts to navigate carefully. Most places I visit, I'm constantly aware of being too large, taking up too much room, requiring adjustments that make everyone else's lives more complicated.
Here, though, Soreya's organized the living spaces in ways that accommodate my size without making it feel deliberate. Wider pathways between furniture, sturdy chairs that don't creak ominously when I sit down, cooking implements arranged where I can reach them without contorting. Small considerations that make this feel less like visiting and more like home.
