She hesitated. “I’ll tell Nic eventually, but not yet. He can be a little... possessive.”
Dragonfly offered a soft, sincere reply. “Nic won’t hear it from me.”
Helen looked over at her, then said, almost shyly, “Areyouin love with anyone?”
Dragonfly’s cheeks burned. Her neck prickled with heat, and for a ridiculous second, she thought about hiding her face in the blackberry pan.
“I don’t think so,” she said quickly. “Not really.”
Helen, mercifully, didn’t press.
She pointed at the pan instead. “What are you going to do with those?”
Grateful for the change, Dragonfly exhaled. “I was thinking preserves. Maybe a dozen tarts for Collin and Aries.”
Just saying his name made her stomach flutter. She should probably eat something herself.
“I love making preserves,” Helen said wistfully. “But I haven’t in ages.”
“There’s plenty here—and more for the picking. You could take some if you want, or maybe we could...”
She stopped herself. She’d almost invited Helen to her place, but she lived in a cramped loft over her aunt’s shop. It wasn’t exactly a parlor for guests.
But Helen’s face lit up. “Come to my house! We can cook the preserves together. I’m free all morning tomorrow—dance class isn’t until three.”
Dragonfly perked up. “I have studies in the afternoon, but morning works.”
“I’ll take these then?” Helen gestured to the pan.
“Sure. I’ll pick more on the way.”
As they reached a fork in the road, Helen gave her directions to the house—detailed and precise. Then the girls parted, one toward the stream and bridge, the other toward the circle.
As soon as she got home, Dragonfly set to work with a sharp, restless energy. She’d planned to leave some of the chores for morning, but now that tomorrow held a sweeter promise—a plan with her new friend—she needed everything just so.
She pushed the cots and chairs aside and swept the floors until they shone, then mopped to chase off the dust. The clatter of jars echoed softly as she washed and stacked them in tidy rows, lids clinking like a rhythm to her thoughts. Clothes were already dry from earlier, so she folded them with crisp precision, setting each stack aside as she turned to the stove.
Oh, that dreadful stove. It never failed to bake the loft like a kiln in summer, and tonight was no exception. But it was the only way to warm supper. The heat pressed against her skin, made her limbs heavy, her hair stick to the back of her neck.
By the time Auntie closed the shop below and her sister returned home, the sweat was clinging beneath her arms, her dress damp along the spine. And still—needles, thread, hems to mend. She worked on, even as her muscles threatened mutiny.
It was well past midnight when she finally collapsed into her cot. Her mind spun in feverish loops even as her body gave out.
And when sleep found her, it wasn’t restful. She dreamt of the forest hollow—of Collin’s hands, his mouth, the way his nearness made her whole body tremble and spark. She woke more breathless than before, unsure if it was desire or confusion that clung to her like heat.
Dragonfly stood in Helen’s sprawling kitchen with her sleeves rolled high and a thin sheen of sweat clinging to her neck. Steam curled up from the heavy pots where blackberries bubbled and spat, staining the air with their rich, almost-wine scent. She and Helen hovered like nervous bees, spoons in hand, stirring steadily so the jam wouldn’t catch and burn on the bottom. It was hot, sticky work—demanding hours of patience and sore arms—but the perfume of fruit and honey made it feel worth it. Every so often, Dragonfly had to step back, pressing a damp cloth to her brow and breathing deeply.
The whole house smelled like a sweet dream.
Helen’s kitchen—no, Helen’s entire house—was a world apart. It sat nestled in a bright little clearing, tucked amongst North Town’s oldest trees, but it didn’t belong to the forest the way the other cabins did. From the outside, it looked humble, a wide log villa, soft with moss and age. But inside, it gleamed with extravagant wealth. Matching antique furniture. Upholstery so fine it caught the light like silk. Even the floors shimmered—stone squares laced with flecks of gold, pink, and green, like someone had scattered sunrise dust and locked it in place. The countertops stretched on and on, and the pantry was large enough to sleep in.
Dragonfly didn’t envy it—exactly. But there was something dizzying about being in a place where nothing had ever had to be repurposed.
Helen let out a soft gasp and hopped down from her little footstool. She needed it to stir the bottom of the tallest pot. Wiping her face on her apron, she groaned, “I’m going to be smelling blackberries in my pores for days.”
Dragonfly laughed and wiped her own cheek with the cloth. She laid her stirring spoon aside and reached for the silver one—small, elegant, perfect for tasting. That was always her favorite part. She dipped it into the pot, watching the thick purple mixture cling to the metal.
“Is it sweet enough?” she asked aloud. “I didn’t add much honey. I thought the berries had enough sweetness on their own.”
