Chapter 13 Pansy #2
They didn’t encounter much in the way of obstacles on the way to Haverow, and even less once inside the village.
Granted, it was still early. Most people would be either in their homes, preparing dishes for tonight’s feast, or down in the nearby meadow, working on the festival grounds themselves.
The few people they did encounter in the street barely spared them a passing glance; Ren, out of not unfounded caution, had opted to wear their cloak with the hood up, disguising the most telling of their goblin features, at least for a casual observer.
Thankfully, Pansy had been right about the guards – namely, the lack thereof.
Evidently, Mrs. Millwood hadn’t completely lost her sense of proportionality, which was heartening to see.
Or perhaps she’d just been so swamped with preparations for the festival that Pansy (and any and all chaos associated with her presence) had simply slipped her mind.
Honestly, Pansy was betting on the latter.
It was plain to see that Mrs. Millwood and the rest of the council had spared no expense in outfitting the town for the day’s festivities.
Banners in harvest gold, orange and red unfurled overhead in scintillating streams, strung from one iron lamp post to the next, each inundated with wheatsheaves and garlands of strawflower, copper beech and sunflowers. Blossom’s handiwork, no doubt.
Pansy’s chest clenched at the thought of her friend, who she hadn’t seen since that disastrous afternoon in her parents’ burrow.
It had been easy to lose herself in caring for Ren’s garden, carrying water from the cottage’s nearby stream, picking beans and ambervine, encouraging pests away from the garden with netting and offers of a new, alternative home.
She had replaced the deep-seated sting of regret with the marvel of new growth.
But as the day of the Harvest Festival had drawn closer and closer, the weight of her damaged relationship with Blossom had borne down with oppressive force.
Now, as she navigated the familiar cobblestone streets of Haverow, all choked with her best friend’s blooms, she couldn’t think of anything else.
And not just her relationship with Blossom.
Her parents had been there too, their silence in that moment when their words would have mattered most even more deafening.
No doubt they would be at the festival, too; they all would.
Perhaps, if she kept to where the crowds were thickest, she could avoid them. But was that really what she wanted?
No. Of course not. Her heart clenched, choking the breath from her lungs.
Running away would be easier. So much easier, she realized, as her eyes snapped to her parents’ burrow, fast approaching on the left.
However, she had come here to fix things, and that meant facing her fears head-on. All of them.
Ren’s hand found her elbow as her apprehension stretched taut beneath her skin, their touch almost tentative. “You don’t have to see them if you don’t want to.”
Pansy shook her head. “I’ll likely see them at the festival anyway. It’s”– she swallowed, her fingers finding Ren’s and giving them a grateful squeeze – “better to do this now. Rip off the bandage, you know?”
Ren’s brow furrowed. “You shouldn’t rip off a bandage,” they said, sounding moderately horrified by the idea.
She waved a hand. “It’s an old halfling saying.”
“It sounds barbaric.”
“Be nice,” Pansy chided.
“I am nice!” Ren protested, their free hand sweeping out in a dramatic arc. They looked at Pig, lagging slightly behind them, her muscles straining against the weight of the cart, now heavy with their pumpkin. “Aren’t I being nice, Pig?” A snort. “See? She agrees!”
“If you say so…”
A few more steps, each punctuated by the sharp clack of the wagon’s wheels against the dark cobbles, and they’d arrived.
Pansy put one hand on the wooden gate, ready to push it aside, but found herself unable to put the necessary force behind the movement.
It was as if every last scrap of strength had left her, evaporating without a trace.
“Pansy?” Ren was once again at her side, their fingers an anchor on her elbow.
“Sorry, I’m—” Tired, she’d wanted to say. But the lie caught in her throat, filling her mouth with bitter salt.
Silence stretched between them, heavy and thick. At last, Ren asked, “Do you want me to come with you?”
“I’ve already demanded so much of you,” Pansy mumbled, her cheeks darkening beneath the hot brand of her shame.
The corner of Ren’s mouth twitched. “That’s not what I asked.”
Of course it wasn’t. That was the point. Pansy looked down at her feet, her teeth catching on her lower lip. “I can’t promise my parents won’t say something insensitive,” she said at last, her gaze darting up to meet theirs.
“Good thing I have plenty of experience dealing with thoughtless comments from halflings.”
No doubt Ren had meant the comment as a joke.
They were smiling, for Harvest’s sake! But the memories of those early days had taken on a razor sharpness, whetted on a grindstone of constant shame.
Now, they cut across Pansy’s mind like a filleting knife, slicing open parts already tender to the touch.
She must have winced because Ren’s smile dropped all too swiftly, their touch on her elbow ever more insistent. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. I—” They faltered, lips pressing together hard.
“It’s okay.” Pansy smiled weakly. “What’s one halfling burrow when you’ve already wandered through a whole halfling village, right?” The laugh that followed proved even weaker – and to Pansy’s own ears, at that.
“No, that’s not it at all,” they said, shaking their head. “Pansy, I – I’d like to meet your parents.”
She blinked. “But – why?” she asked, incredulous, prompting Ren to let out a short, half-aborted noise of frustration.
“Just let me go with you,” they insisted. “I came all this way, didn’t I? I hate doing things halfway.”
This time, the snort of laughter that pulled from Pansy’s throat was entirely genuine. Warmth swelled beneath her breastbone, as comforting as the press of Ren’s palm. “All right,” she agreed. “But let me go in first to… prepare them.”
“Yes, I wouldn’t want to frighten anyone. That being said, I am curious. Who do you think can scream louder – you or your parents? I think my ears are still ringing from the squeal you let out your first day at the cottage.”
“I’m going inside!” Pansy all but shouted as she shoved aside the gate.
In stark contrast to her earlier attempt, this motion had too much force behind it. The gate’s hinges, well oiled as always, shifted with barely a whisper, but the gate itself hit the adjoining fence with a splintering crack that seemed to echo down the empty, burrow-lined street.
It was no wonder then that Pansy’s mother appeared in the window a moment later, hazel eyes narrowed.
She spotted Pansy immediately, already halfway up the pebbled garden path.
In fact, her daughter was probably the only thing she did see, given how quickly she rushed to the door, ripping it open before Pansy could even so much as lift a hand up to knock.
“Oh, blessed Harvest, you’re finally home!” her mother cried, sweeping her up into a bone-crushing hug. Then, turning her head to the side, she called back into the burrow, “Borage! Pansy’s home!”
“Mum, I’m—”
“Pansy, you have no idea how worried we were,” her mother said, cupping her face with both hands, unerringly gentle even as she ran roughshod over the conversation.
“Every day, your father and I have thought about going into the woods to find you, but the forest is so large and dark, and I barely even remember where your grandmother’s cottage is these days.
Plus, with your father’s awful sense of direction, it was far more likely we’d just get ourselves horribly lost, as Councilor Millwood and Agvaldir so kindly pointed out to us when we were at our least rational. ”
Pansy’s heart sank at the mention of the elderly councilor and the wizard. “So, you just waited here,” she said flatly, her voice icier than a winter’s gale. “Waited and hoped I’d come back.”
“Of course we hoped,” said Pansy’s father, appearing in the doorway behind her mother.
His face was moderately flushed. So, either he’d raced over from the far end of the burrow or – and this was the option Pansy herself was betting on – he’d swiped a taste of her mother’s famous apple crumble, fresh out of the oven judging from the smell, the moment she’d left to go peer out the window.
He’d never been much good at hiding guilt, and he loved his wife’s apple crumble.
“Pansy, sweetheart,” her mother began, gently stroking the curve of Pansy’s cheekbone with her thumb, “we’re so sorry about what happened the last time you were here. We were afraid that something could happen to you. You know, all your father and I want is for you to be safe and happy—”
“Then there’s someone I want you to meet,” Pansy said, the words coming out strong despite anxiety roiling in her belly.
It was then that her mother finally noticed Ren, still standing by the wagon, their attempt at a casual posture undone by the pronounced line of tension running through them from head to toe. Although their hood was still in place, it was no match for this level of scrutiny.
Pansy’s mother tensed. “You brought a goblin? Here?” she hissed, her voice thinned not by anger but by fear, etched in sharp lines across her face. She glanced around – searching, it seemed, for the invading horde of goblins and orcs that Ren’s presence surely heralded.
“Is this the one you’ve been living with?” asked her father, managing to sound almost calm. The pallor of his lips, however, told the true story. He was just as afraid as her mother was.