As Hente stood behind them in the doorway, Lyrua turned to ask her about the nectar. Nectar, according to the old woman, was a syrup made from steeping pine-spears and mixing the tea with boiled sap from the same trees. And a lot of honey. Heavy and good for a sore throat in fleshfolk, it was the only thing the mossfolk ate, so finding it would not be difficult. It was not, sadly, the Swashbuckler’s Cure that Athen was looking for.

“Lemons,” Lander explained as they returned to the town, “or limes. Sailors are always eating them to stave off the sickness that comes with months at sea. That's why they invented lemonade.”

“Oooh, I love lemonade. Thank you sailors!” Athen showed him the lime he had in his bag. “Gottfred gave me this,” he said, cradling it with both hands, “so I’m ready to clean my ring. Tilsloret.”

“Let me see that, lad.” Lander lowered himself to his knees at the side of the road, and accepted the lime from him. He made a careful slice in the lime with his sword, and held it out to Athen to push his ring inside. “Now keep that lime safe, and in a while I bet your ring comes out shining.”

Her son grinned so brightly at his lime that Lyrua forgot the gloom that the cloud of gulls cast over the island.

They followed Hente’s directions under shelter of the parasol to the centre of town, where the sweet smell of pine was overwhelming. A crowd of mossfolk ambled around in front of a stone building, their extruding cloaks bouncing off each other and clicking as they brushed together. They were in a sort of queue for their nectar, but their expressionless faces and apathetic demeanors made for the most disorganised line she had ever seen. They simply idled in the general direction of the brewery like a basket of pinecones overturned, eventually making progress with no care of who was first.

The building had three chimneys that puffed with smoke, drenching the air with pine scent. Barrels of pine-spears lined the outside wall, and sometimes someone would come around from the back and drag one off.

The treefolk were carrying barrels with them to be filled; many small enough to conceal in their cloaks, so Lyrua only noticed them as they trundled back out, gleefully lugging them home with cloaks unfastened.

“This is where they make nectar?” Athen asked, struggling to see through the crowd.

“Aye,” Lander replied. “Good luck getting past this lot, though.” He shook his head. “And Pa will blame us for taking too long.”

Lyrua pulled her blouse over her nose to stifle the smell. If they had to wait for every one of these slowfolks to get their nectar they could be waiting until Highest Tide. Something had to be done. She resisted her first thought; to send Ove, who she knew could have gotten it by now if she wanted, but that would be… inappropriate. How could she convince an entire thicket of treefolk to let them jump the line? Athen only shrugged when she looked at him, seeing the question in her eyes.

An idea flickered to life in the back of her mind. “Ove?” She spun around, and released a deeply relieved breath to find Ove still with them. “Plants love music! Do you remember how…” The rustling of the mossfolk ceased. Still as a dead wood, they craned their heads over their shoulders to look at her. Her eyes jumped from the mossfolk back to Ove. “… Maybe a little will energise them so you can purchase a keg of nectar before Wolfram leaves us behind.”

One of them asked, “Are you musicians? Will you play for the children?”

Lyrua nodded as she gave the parasol to Athen, and took her coral lyre from Ove before the little raven—the rook—disappeared. As she faced the crowd, her breath caught in her throat.

“Oh a lyre,” The mossfolk all stared at her, and even in their hollow eyes anticipation was recognizable. “That will be good for the little ones’ growth.”

She plucked a string, trying to remember the melody. The Elegy of Aspiration was one her mother loved, and Lyrua remembered struggling through it at her burial. It was a bit embarrassing, but the mossfolk did not seem to mind. They leaned forward just from the twang of one string.

As she played they followed the melody by swinging their bodies, unperturbed when she missed a note, or thumbed two by mistake, though some did murmur words of encouragement.

It was a sombre ode to hope for the days following the loss of love. Not only was the crowd pleased, but other mossfolk were beginning to creep out of the buildings, bristling with curiosity. There was nowhere she looked where she could not see them listening. They ushered their children into the street to play, and some of them carried small pine-spear flutes. The folk revelled in the music, their enjoyment of it pure, their eyes lacking judgement even as she missed increasingly more notes under the pressure of live performance.

As the song ended she immediately began it anew. Lander swung the violin off his shoulder and flicked open the case. The townsfolk were beginning to crowd closer as more joined. She stepped back, pulling the wrong string as she did, but the little ones did not mind.

The older mossfolk left the doors of their homes open to let in the music, and the crowd at the brewery suddenly hurried to have their nectar. She kept backing away, until she could no longer see the chimneys or their puffs of smoke.

Lander stepped up beside her enthusiastically with his instrument under his chin and his bow poised. “Do you remember the song we played for Fourstaile?” He pulled the bow across his strings, bringing pep to the thicket of saplings prancing around them. They tooted their simple flutes along to match her melody, and missed fewer notes than she did.

Lyrua nodded to Lander and plucked her strings by his lead.

The children stood up to her knees, and although their narrow heads, tender and green, betrayed their slender bodies, their moss was so thick and round that they rolled in the dirt as they tripped over each other. She longed to drop her song and bundle them up in a fierce hug as they waddled towards her.

Mossfolk with barrels of nectar kept pace with them at the side of the road, leaving space for the younger to dance nearby. As they returned to their homes they left the doors ajar. As the adults swung their bodies and the spears in their cloaks clicked to the beat of Lander’s song, Lyrua realised the noise they made was deliberate. The cloaks were instruments as well.

Lyrua kept retreating, with Lander’s graceful melody guiding her. There were few obstacles, as florafolk did not like clutter, but as she came around the south side of town a wide stream divided the town from the mills. She found herself wondering why she was still walking backwards to begin with. Twirling around, she faced the stream head on.

Florafolk were not fond of bridges either, or at least they were not baulked by the thought of damp feet as humans could be. A few adults crossed the stream by splashing enthusiastically through it, and tossed their saplings across with the most energy she had seen from them. Adolescent mossfolk, as big as the adults but distinguished by the softer, greener tone of their faces, stepped across on stones in a pale attempt at demonstrating maturity through apathy.

Lander came to the end of the song again, so he started another. A simpler, but cheerier ditty that Athen would wiggle his arms to as a baby. Frolic of Fireflies used only four strings, so she made few mistakes as she plucked them quickly. The mossfolk moved to match the tempo, pendulating their cloaks and filling the air with clicks as they tapped together. The children played their flutes in harmony.

Lyrua allowed herself to be caught up in the revelry and jumped into the stream. The water soaked her to her shins, but she shook off the cold with another step. Athen hesitated at the bank, and it gave her an idea. She let her fingers fall into the rhythm of the song and focused her attention on the stream. With a prod of her mana, she seized the stream and tossed it above her head. She held it up while plucking her four strings, surrounded by a variegated mist. Athen travelled gingerly across the pebbled stream bed to stand with Lyrua under the glittering arch.

She released the spell and the cascade of water broke over the parasol in Athen’s hand. The stream returned to course, and Lyrua and Athen were left standing in the middle. The mossfolk shivered in the spray. She stopped plucking, shaking her chafed fingers. Athen frowned at her, noticing her pain.

Lander ended the song with a flourish and the brief silence let through the screeching of gulls overhead, before being cut by a wave of chattering from grateful mouths. The crowd rippled as they nodded, and the children danced away. A few saplings remained nearby to gawk, but soon the streets were clear, and Lyrua carried her son out of the water.

“A lovely song,” an old voice said from across the stream. Hente stepped over a bundle of affectionate saplings that clutched at her legs and played their flutes for her. “Strings don't come this way often, so pardon our indulgence. Music is good for our health.” She stopped at the stream to lift the four saplings up, squishing their soft moss as she carried them across. “But I suppose you knew that.” She let them down, and they scurried away to peek at them from the cover of nearby grass.

“I’ve had this around for a while,” Hente said, holding out a creaking hand. Her knotted fingers wrapped around a brass cylinder, “but for decades, the price of a song from a stranger has not been paid.”

“Has it been so long?” Lyrua asked.

Hente leaned in close to be heard over the birds. “Strangers who play music do not come often.” She smiled at Lyrua, a careful expression for the ancient wooden woman. “It is hard for us to play the instruments you know, but we have a few of our own.” Her fingers uncurled. “And we do have a nice dulcimer.”

Lyrua took the brass object. It was a spyglass, dented and scratched along the brass, but the lenses were clean and whole.

“Unremarkable beyond its craftsmanship,” Hente said, “but you’ll appreciate it, if you lose something to distance.”

“Thank you Hente.”

The ancient Retriever nodded, and waded into the tall grass to round up the giggling saplings. Lyrua tucked her spyglass into her bag. Athen was quick to take her hand, and filled it with Light to soothe her fingers.

They passed close to the sawmills on their route back to the brewery, and the moss-roofed structures had no walls to contain the whirring noise of their massive blades. Even the gulls were drowned out. She hurried away from them, anxious of a developing headache. Despite taking a wrong turn, they found the stone building by its chimneys easily enough. The chimneys were cold now, and there were only a few mossfolk milling about the front.

Ove’s eyes brightened when she noticed Lyrua approaching. “They hurry like Fourstaile when you get them pepped up.” She said, “I have Wolfram’s nectar.”

“Good,” Lyrua sighed, wiping sweat from her brow. “Let us hurry back. I think I might need a nap if I can get one.”