Meanwhile, back by the reeds...
Maeve, who knew the reeds needed time to forget last year’s heartbreak and this week’s argument, had baked the pie to draw out the silence and keep it safely contained until the village was ready for it again. Now the silence was loose. Which meant the memories might come with it.
She sighed, stood, and fetched her long wooden spoon--the one with the knot near the handle. “Oh dear," she said softly, “the pie’s been pinched." And with that, she set off toward Brighton Bothan, gooseberry justice in her eyes. -------------------------------------- |
Gooseberry Pie & Silence
The Brighton fairyfolk weren’t nosy--just naturally curious with finely tuned appetites. So when Tansy Bitterwhistle, newly arrived from under the pier, found a perfectly unbothered gooseberry pie cooling on a mossy stump by the reeds, she thought nothing of pinching it.
It smelled of summer rain and forgotten songs. The crust was dimpled with rosemary seeds, and the note beside it read only:
“Pie and Silence. Do Not Divide."
“But it’s pie," said Tansy to no one, which was a common practice among Brighton fairies. “And it’s just sitting there."
So she took it. All the way back to Brighton Bothan, where the others were decorating the mantelpiece with barnacles and unclaimed thoughts. She sliced it neatly. Poured tea. Lit the kettle moss.
And that’s when everything went quiet.
Not peaceful quiet. Not good-quiet.
The kind of quiet that made the teacups hum nervously. The kind of quiet that made Fitz the cat flatten his ears from four cottages away. A gooseberry hush, full of held breath and stories unspoken.
Tansy tried to speak--but the words folded up like washing. She blinked. The pie had vanished.
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It smelled of summer rain and forgotten songs. The crust was dimpled with rosemary seeds, and the note beside it read only:
“Pie and Silence. Do Not Divide."
“But it’s pie," said Tansy to no one, which was a common practice among Brighton fairies. “And it’s just sitting there."
So she took it. All the way back to Brighton Bothan, where the others were decorating the mantelpiece with barnacles and unclaimed thoughts. She sliced it neatly. Poured tea. Lit the kettle moss.
And that’s when everything went quiet.
Not peaceful quiet. Not good-quiet.
The kind of quiet that made the teacups hum nervously. The kind of quiet that made Fitz the cat flatten his ears from four cottages away. A gooseberry hush, full of held breath and stories unspoken.
Tansy tried to speak--but the words folded up like washing. She blinked. The pie had vanished.
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