Page 25 of The Minotaur's Little Peach
"Your turn," I say, handing her the pruning shears. "Show me how it's supposed to be done."
She passes Taran to me with practiced ease, our fingers brushing as the baby changes hands. The contact lasts longer than necessary, her warm skin against mine sending an unexpected jolt through my system. When I look up, her cheeks have gained color that has nothing to do with the afternoon sun.
"Careful with his head," she murmurs, but her attention seems focused more on my face than on Taran's positioning.
"I've got him." The baby settles against my chest with the kind of trust that still surprises me, his tiny fist immediately finding purchase in my shirt. "Go on, show me proper technique."
She turns to the tree, but I catch her stealing glances in my direction as she works. The way she moves speaks to years of practice—confident cuts that reveal the tree's natural shape, efficient motions that waste no energy. Her hands, small and precise, handle the tools with the same competence she brings to everything else.
"The goal isn't just removing dead wood," she explains, stepping back to assess her work. "You want to open up the center so air can circulate, sunlight can reach all the branches. Creates better conditions for fruit production."
"Makes sense." I shift Taran to get a better view of her pruning, noting how she's created clean lines that enhance rather than fight the tree's growth pattern. "Like rigging a ship—work with the natural forces instead of against them."
"Exactly." Her smile brightens, pleased that I understand the principle. "Though I imagine ship rigging is considerably more complicated than fruit tree maintenance."
"Different kind of complicated. Trees don't try to capsize you in a storm."
"No, they just drop fruit on your head when you're not paying attention."
Taran chooses that moment to let out a particularly enthusiastic babble, as if agreeing with his mother's assessment of arboricultural hazards. The sound makes us both look down at him, caught by the way his dark eyes seem to move between our faces like he's following the conversation.
"He's getting more alert," I observe. "Seems like he's actually listening to what we're saying."
"Babies are smarter than people give them credit for," Soreya says, reaching out to stroke his cheek with one finger. "He knows our voices, recognizes different tones. Won't be long before he starts trying to mimic sounds."
Her touch is gentle against Taran's skin, but when she pulls back, her hand hovers near mine where I'm supporting his weight. For a moment, we're connected by this small circle of contact—her fingers almost but not quite touching mine, both of us focused on the child between us.
The moment stretches longer than it should, charged with something neither of us acknowledges but both clearly feel. Her breathing has gone slightly shallow, and I can see her pulse beating at the hollow of her throat. My own heart rate has picked up in response, awareness crackling between us like static before a storm.
"We should..." she starts, then stops, not finishing the thought.
"Should what?"
"Get back to the trees," she says finally, but makes no move to step away. "Before we lose the good light."
"Right. The trees."
But neither of us moves, caught in this strange suspension where admitting what's happening feels both inevitable and impossible.
Finally, I remind myself how much she's been through and I force myself away, clearing my throat. "So what do you need me to do next?"
I tell myself that I imagine that flash of disappointment across Soreya's face. That it's just my hope speaking and that's all.
14
SOREYA
Three days of steady work have transformed the small orchard from neglected grief into something that looks like hope again. My hands ache from hours of pruning and weeding, dirt clings beneath my fingernails despite repeated washings, and my back protests every movement from bending over root systems that had grown wild without proper tending.
But the trees—oh, the trees look magnificent.
I lean against the doorframe, cradling a cup of steaming kaffo as I survey our handiwork in the fading evening light. The pruned branches create clean lines that enhance each tree's natural shape, and the cleared ground around their bases already shows signs of new growth. For the first time since Korrun's death, the orchard looks like something we can build a future around instead of a monument to everything I've lost.
"Admiring our agricultural prowess?" Daegan's voice comes from behind me, warm with the same satisfaction I feel.
"I'd forgotten how good it feels," I admit, not turning around. "Seeing them healthy again. I didn't realize how much it hurt, letting them go like that."
His footsteps approach, stopping close enough that I can sense his presence without him crowding into my space. "They needed time to recover. Same as you."
