Chapter 5 Pansy
Pansy
“Did you hear about the Dawnhammer girl? Bad enough when one of our own runs off with one of those arrogant leaf lickers, but a halfling? Right shameful, that. No wonder they eloped. Doubt the soft-handed pipsqueak could’ve even lifted the sealing hammer for a proper dwarven wedding, much less forged the iron into shape.
And don’t get me started about the boy’s ability to provide for the poor lass… ”
CONVERSATION OVERHEARD IN THE DWARVEN CITY OF GARN BORAM
The walk back to Haverow – though longer than Pansy would’ve liked – was easier than expected.
This time she wasn’t weighed down by nearly half-a-dozen bags, all crammed to the hilt with too many “necessities” to be truly deserving of the name.
Instead, she had only her wicker basket: empty for now, but certainly not for much longer.
Pansy had a kitchen to stock, and stock it she would.
She could hardly call the place her domain otherwise.
It was still early by the time she made it to the village proper, where the dusty, dirt roads of the rolling countryside transitioned to familiar mossy cobblestones.
Even though the dawn mists had only just begun to disperse around beams of pale, yellow sunlight, the streets of Haverow were far from empty.
Farmers, off to tend their fields while the weather was still cool, nodded politely at Pansy as she passed them by, as did many of her former neighbors, already tackling their day-to-day chores.
No one, not even the trio of pram-pushing mothers who spent nearly every morning, from what Pansy could tell, discussing the latest village gossip, commented on her recent move – not until she made it to the village square.
There she found one of the local councilors, Mrs. Dorothy Millwood, squat and silver-haired, pinning a large, colorful poster to the village noticeboard.
“Returning home already?” Mrs. Millwood asked, her mouth stretching into a simpering imitation of a smile that didn’t even so much as disturb the wrinkles around her eyes. “I’m not surprised that old cottage isn’t all you cracked it up to be.”
“Oh, no. I’m just doing some shopping,” Pansy replied, lifting her basket for emphasis. She clamped down hard on the urge to be impolite, reaching for that too-pleasant mask Haverow always seemed to demand of her.
Mrs. Millwood’s smile flattened along with her voice. “I see.”
“The cottage is lovely, by the way,” Pansy continued, unable to help herself. “Can you believe it’s still in perfect condition?”
Mrs. Millwood sniffed, disapproval budding beneath her beak-like nose. “That’s all well and good, but a young halfling like yourself shouldn’t be so far from home. When I was your age, I didn’t even think about leaving my parents’ burrow until I was married! Speaking of—”
Oh no. This again. After she’d just gotten her own mother to drop the subject. “Councilor Millwood, I really—”
But it was too late. As far as Mrs. Millwood was concerned, Pansy hadn’t said a peep.
Her tirade continued unimpeded. “You should start thinking about settling down, Pansy. You’re already nearly thirty and still without a partner.
Surely you want to give your parents grandchildren sooner rather than later; while they’re still hale and hearty—”
“Your concern, Councilor Millwood,” Pansy began, raising her voice just enough to put a stop to the elderly halfling’s rambling, “while appreciated, is entirely unnecessary. Thank you.”
“Are you sure?” Mrs. Millwood pressed, her eyes widening with misplaced concern. “Your mother did mention that you were still looking. My nephew over in Oakton is around your age, and he really is quite strapping, very handy in the kitchen and in the fields—”
“I’m fine. Really.”
Mrs. Millwood frowned, her lips thinning. “Well, if you insist… Though one can’t help but wonder how you tolerate it, Pansy – being so alone all the time.”
I’m not alone, Pansy thought to herself, her chest contracting around a flash of stubborn heat. I have my parents and Blossom and – I guess Ren, too, technically. Though hopefully not for much longer…
She shuddered, remembering the way her bare feet had crunched in the dirt still strewn across the bedroom floor that morning, her slippers too small a target for her flailing, sleep-loose limbs.
Yet like everything Ren had thrown her way thus far, it was nothing she couldn’t handle.
Mrs. Millwood, on the other hand… that part was far less certain, especially if she started badgering Pansy about her nephew again.
Honestly, I’d rather marry Ren, and I don’t even like them, she thought, suppressing a grimace at the prospect of having Mrs. Millwood for an in-law: the only thing more dreadful than taking a crotchety, perfectionist, moss-and-dirt-loving goblin for a spouse.
Granted, marrying Ren was an equally impossible proposition, as Pansy was quick to remind herself when the (absurd!) image of her and Ren exchanging vows beneath a white canopy sent an inexplicable rush of heat to her face.
Ridiculous. She scoffed, rapidly putting the goblin out of her mind as she turned her attention to the poster Mrs. Millwood had affixed to the noticeboard.
Bring the Annual Harvest Festival to Haverow!
it declared in impressively large letters, meant to be read from all corners of the plaza.
Unfortunately, the text that followed was not nearly so digestible; no doubt because Mrs. Millwood – or whoever had put together the poster – had insisted on turning a list of best practices to impress the Greater Halvenshire Festival Committee into a whole screed.
Amazing how something as beloved as the Harvest Festival could be rendered so joyless.
Pansy made it approximately two lines before her eyes glazed over, and she gave up.
If this is what it takes to host the Harvest Festival, it’s no wonder they haven’t picked us in over twenty years.
You’d need to fill the whole village with a wizard’s simulacrums to even have a chance.
Catching the direction of Pansy’s gaze, Mrs. Millwood said sternly, “Ah, that reminds me. Pansy, I feel compelled to warn you that we won’t be tolerating any funny business this year.
Haverow will be hosting the Halvenshire Harvest Festival come autumn, and it’s very important that all residents put their best foot forward – lest Halfend get the honor yet again.
” She shuddered, as if the prospect of attending the festival in a town barely even a few hours’ ride away was a nightmarish proposition.
How fortunate for you that I’m no longer a resident, Pansy thought sourly. “I wouldn’t dream of ruining Haverow’s prospects on purpose, Councilor Millwood,” she said, laying it on a bit thick, the words so choked with saccharine sweetness they were practically dripping with it.
“Not on purpose, no,” Mrs. Millwood admitted.
“And that’s precisely the problem, Pansy.
Everyone remembers what happened with your grandmother at the last festival – the way she attacked poor Fenwick when he was setting off the fireworks, thinking the noise was the necromancer come back to life or some such.
All that adventuring never was good for the poor woman.
And now that you’ve moved into that old cottage of hers, well…
people are beginning to wonder about you too.
You always did ask far too many questions.
Although curiosity is natural among children, you’re a grown woman now.
It’s unbecoming. No one likes it when someone makes waves in an otherwise tranquil pond, and Haverow,” she continued firmly, “is exceedingly tranquil. Far more so than Halfend, at any rate.” She sniffed.
It took everything in Pansy’s power not to gape at the woman.
Surely, she couldn’t be serious. Fury surged within Pansy, hot and bitter.
It streamed into her ribcage, corroding muscle and bone alike.
She wanted so badly to unleash it all on this woman, to spit in her face, and ask her, How dare you?
But where would that leave her? Where would it leave her parents?
Pansy had learned a long time ago that nothing was ever only about her.
Everything she did, everything she said – it was all a mirror, one that reflected right back on the people around her.
I’m sorry, Grandma. Pansy forced a smile, her best one yet.
By now, she had it down to an art, even if it left her cracking at the seams. “The Festival Committee will be coming around soon as part of the selection process, right? How about I bake some cookies for when they arrive? That way, they’re sure to remember Haverow in the best possible way. ”
Mrs. Millwood paused, considering. “You are rather talented in the kitchen, even if the presentation can sometimes be a little unorthodox… Very well. But nothing – adventurous.” She said the word like a curse, her nose wrinkling.
“I wouldn’t dream of it. Nothing but classic shortbread for our honored Committee, cut into perfect little squares.”
And with that, Pansy turned on her heel and walked away, heading in the direction of the one place she knew she could safely detonate the bomb ticking down in her throat.
Blossom’s Blossoms was, thankfully, not far. Decked in vibrant twists of purple wisteria, the two-story stone-and-mortar building sat on the other side of the square, down a narrow, tree-lined road always thick with the honeyed scent of fresh pastries, courtesy of the bakery next door.
On any other day, Pansy might stop in for a hot, buttered scone – a prospect that should have sent her empty stomach gurgling with approval – but the ember cradled on her tongue had turned forge-bright.
Like a pot about to boil over, she shook with each step, every impolite word she’d bitten back during her conversation with Mrs. Millwood surging against her teeth in a blistering tide. One way or another, it was coming out.