Lady Blushmidge and the Uninvited Pollen Dusting

The Dusting Heard Around Sugarwild Garden

Lady Blushmidge had been dusted before.

Everyone in Sugarwild Garden had. Pollen was everywhere. It drifted through the air, clung to respectable antennae, settled into private crevices, and appeared on freshly polished wings moments before important social engagements. It was the garden’s glitter: beautiful from a distance, impossible to remove, and usually proof that someone nearby had made a terrible decision.

But this was different.

This was not a light, accidental sprinkling. This was not a tasteful golden shimmer collected while passing through a crowded patch of buttercups. This was a full-faced, high-velocity discharge delivered from behind while Lady Blushmidge was minding her own business beneath the coral bellflower.

One moment, she had been leaning beneath the petal, admiring her reflection in a particularly flattering dewdrop.

The next came a wet floral shudder, a muffled fwump, and enough yellow powder to season a family of bumblebees.

Lady Blushmidge froze.

Golden dust covered her forehead. It clung to her lashes. It sat in a tiny, insulting mound between her antennae and coated one side of her mouth as though she had recently lost an argument with a pastry.

For three long seconds, the entire blossom patch went silent.

Then a dew beetle named Myrtle whispered, “Oh, my.”

Lady Blushmidge slowly turned her head.

Her enormous turquoise eyes narrowed to jeweled slits.

“Who,” she asked with terrifying calm, “just emptied themselves on me?”

A nearby snapdragon immediately closed its mouth.

Two peepfrogs dove behind a leaf. A honeybee pretended to be dead despite hovering several inches above the ground. Somewhere in the rosemary, a cricket began playing a mournful note and was promptly slapped quiet by his wife.

Behind Lady Blushmidge, the coral bellflower trembled.

“Was that you?” she demanded.

The flower leaned away as far as its stem allowed.

“I beg your pardon?” it said.

“You heard me.” Lady Blushmidge wiped one cheek with a tiny pink hand and stared in horror at the thick yellow smear left across her palm. “Did you just blow pollen down the back of my head?”

“Certainly not.”

A smaller puff floated from the bellflower’s center.

Lady Blushmidge’s left eye twitched.

“That,” said the flower quickly, “was residual.”

“Residual from what?”

“Normal blooming activity.”

“Your normal blooming activity has left me looking like I was found beneath a guilty stamen.”

Several beetles gasped. Myrtle the dew beetle leaned closer, suddenly delighted to be alive.

“Nobody saw anything,” the bellflower insisted.

“I saw everything,” Myrtle said.

“You were facing the other direction.”

“I sensed it socially.”

Lady Blushmidge stepped from beneath the petal, her wings buzzing with restrained fury. The movement shook loose a golden cloud that followed her like a public accusation.

“I entered this blossom patch clean,” she announced. “I was polished, perfumed, and carrying only my own pollen. I will not leave it looking like I spent the morning rolling around inside an open anther.”

“You could rinse off in the fountain,” offered a bluebell.

Lady Blushmidge turned toward it.

The bluebell reconsidered its contribution and quietly folded itself shut.

Myrtle crawled nearer, lowering her voice to the sort of volume intended to ensure everyone could hear.

“You know,” she said, “depending on where that pollen came from, this could become more than a cosmetic concern.”

Lady Blushmidge stopped brushing her shoulder.

“Explain yourself carefully.”

“Well…” Myrtle glanced around the blossom patch, savoring the attention. “You have been rather thoroughly coated.”

“I am aware.”

“And pollen does have a purpose.”

“Myrtle.”

“A reproductive purpose.”

The garden inhaled as one.

Lady Blushmidge stared at her.

“Are you suggesting,” she said, “that I may now be carrying some stranger’s pollen?”

“Technically, you are carrying it all over your face.”

“You know what I mean.”

Myrtle’s antennae tilted with grave, delicious concern.

“I’m only saying that when an unidentified bloom releases that much material onto an unsuspecting lady, questions naturally arise.”

“Not intelligent questions.”

“Questions nonetheless.”

A murmur passed through the flowers.

“Carrying pollen?” whispered a ladybug.

“From an unknown bloom?” replied her companion.

“In broad daylight?”

“She always did walk close to the stamens.”

Lady Blushmidge spun toward them.

“I walked beneath one petal!”

“That is how it starts,” Myrtle said solemnly.

“Nothing has started!”

“Perhaps not yet.”

“Pollen does not work that way on midges!”

This should have ended the discussion. It was biologically accurate, logically conclusive, and delivered loudly enough to disturb three sleeping caterpillars.

Unfortunately, Sugarwild Garden had never allowed facts to interfere with a satisfying scandal.

By the time Lady Blushmidge reached the edge of the blossom patch, a pair of gossip gnats were already fluttering toward Bloomberry Court. One told the other that Lady Blushmidge had been “absolutely drenched.” The second upgraded this to “mysteriously impregnated with foreign pollen” before they had passed the first mushroom.

At the lily bridge, they encountered Beryl Bristlewing, who misunderstood the phrase carrying pollen and announced that Lady Blushmidge was expecting.

“Expecting what?” asked her sister.

“No one knows,” Beryl replied. “That is why it is so upsetting.”

Lady Blushmidge, still within earshot, made a sound normally heard only when a praying mantis discovers a loose head.

“I am not expecting anything!” she shouted.

Beryl smiled sympathetically.

“Of course not, dear. It’s very early.”

Lady Blushmidge launched herself across the lily bridge.

She was going to kill Myrtle.

Not permanently, perhaps. Lady Blushmidge was not unreasonable. But she intended to bend the dew beetle into a shape that would make future conversation inconvenient.

She found Myrtle beside the marigold fountain, already sharing the incident with a crowd that included three lacewings, a widowed aphid, six pollen mites, and the garden’s least discreet snail.

“…and then the flower gave a second little puff,” Myrtle was saying, “which I believe showed confidence.”

“Myrtle.”

The dew beetle turned.

Lady Blushmidge hovered before her, wings vibrating so rapidly that pollen spiraled around her in furious golden rings.

“Oh, there you are,” Myrtle said. “We were just discussing your condition.”

“My condition is homicidal.”

“Mood swings,” murmured the aphid.

Lady Blushmidge pointed one tiny claw at Myrtle’s nose.

“You are going to explain to every creature in this garden that I am not carrying anyone’s offspring, seeds, seedlings, sprouts, pods, bulbs, buds, berries, or suspicious little bastards of any botanical variety.”

“That is quite a comprehensive denial.”

“Because you have inspired a comprehensive stupidity.”

Myrtle tapped her chin.

“Still, it might be wise to identify the pollen.”

Lady Blushmidge lowered her claw.

“Why?”

“To stop the rumor, of course.”

“The rumor you started.”

“Origin is irrelevant once a rumor becomes communal property.”

“It has been four minutes.”

“Sugarwild Garden is very efficient.”

The snail beside them nodded, although he had not yet heard the beginning of the conversation.

Myrtle produced a folded scrap of leaf parchment from beneath one wing.

“Every flower’s pollen has a distinctive color, scent, grain, and texture. Find the bloom that matches what is currently lodged in your lashes, and we can prove exactly what happened.”

“Which was an assault by shrubbery.”

“That will be one theory.”

“It is the only theory.”

“Then you should have no fear of testing it.”

Lady Blushmidge looked around.

The lacewings avoided her eyes. The aphid stared openly at her abdomen. One of the pollen mites appeared to be knitting something very small and deeply premature.

By sunset, this nonsense would reach Bloomberry Court. By morning, someone would organize a shower. If the Duchess of Nectar heard it before Lady Blushmidge could stop it, there would be invitations, speeches, and an engraved commemorative seedpod by noon.

She snatched the parchment from Myrtle.

“Fine. We identify the pollen.”

Myrtle brightened.

“Wonderful.”

“We question every flower I passed today. We compare their dust. We locate whichever overexcited bloom discharged without warning, and then you announce to the entire garden that I remain completely and aggressively unpollinated.”

“Biologically speaking,”

“Use that phrase again and I will biologically separate your shell from your backside.”

Myrtle tucked away her concerns.

Together, they returned to the coral blossom patch, where Lady Blushmidge began compiling a list of suspects.

There was Lord Trumpetstem, whose anthers were large, showy, and forever protruding into public pathways. There was the bashful moon lily, who claimed she released only after dark but had recently been seen trembling at noon. There were the Snapdragon Brothers, both known to snap first and apologize only under threat of pruning.

And then there was Jasper Longstamen.

Jasper occupied a tall crimson bloom near the eastern wall. He was handsome in the conventional floral sense: broad-petaled, richly scented, and far too proud of the fact that pollinators frequently lined up to visit him. He also had the infuriating habit of leaning into every conversation as though granting someone access to a special view.

When Lady Blushmidge approached, Jasper stretched lazily toward the sun.

“Lady Blushmidge,” he purred. “You look radiant.”

She pointed to the yellow powder still caked between her antennae.

“Do you recognize this?”

Jasper examined her with an enthusiasm that made Myrtle raise both eyebrows.

“I recognize quality when I see it.”

“Is it yours?”

“Would you like it to be?”

Lady Blushmidge seized his foremost filament and twisted.

Jasper made a noise like a teakettle being murdered.

“Wrong answer.”

“Not mine!” he squealed. “Definitely not mine!”

“How can you be certain?”

“Mine is orange and smells faintly of cinnamon!”

Myrtle scribbled on the parchment.

“Can anyone verify that?”

Three bees raised their hands.

One slowly raised two.

Lady Blushmidge released Jasper in disgust.

The investigation continued.

Lord Trumpetstem’s pollen was pale cream. The moon lily’s was silver. The Snapdragon Brothers produced nearly identical red dust and spent twenty minutes accusing each other of “premature puffing.” None matched the vivid gold coating Lady Blushmidge.

With every eliminated suspect, the watching crowd grew larger.

By late afternoon, half the garden had joined the search. Some came out of concern. Most came because they heard there would be a stamen inspection.

Lady Blushmidge stood on a mushroom cap while Myrtle reviewed the evidence.

“Eleven blooms questioned,” Myrtle announced. “Nine samples collected. Four alibis confirmed. Two stamens reprimanded for unnecessary remarks.”

“Three,” Jasper called from the crowd, still bent sideways.

“Yours required no formal documentation,” Lady Blushmidge replied.

“And,” Myrtle continued, “we still have no match.”

A worried murmur rolled through the gathering.

Lady Blushmidge’s wings drooped.

“Then we missed someone.”

“Or,” whispered the widowed aphid, “the pollen came from outside the garden.”

The crowd gasped.

“Foreign pollen,” said Beryl Bristlewing.

“That explains the volume,” someone added.

“And the mystery,” said another.

“And absolutely nothing else,” snapped Lady Blushmidge.

Before the speculation could worsen, a small voice rose from beneath the mushroom.

“Excuse me.”

No one listened.

“Excuse me!”

Lady Blushmidge peered over the edge.

A tiny pollen mite stood below, clutching a golden grain almost as large as his head.

“What is it?” she asked.

The mite swallowed.

“I found this on the underside of the coral petal where the incident occurred.”

Lady Blushmidge descended.

“And?”

“It isn’t loose pollen.”

Myrtle crawled closer. “What do you mean?”

The mite turned the grain beneath the light. A faint waxy sheen glimmered across its surface.

“It has been treated,” he said. “Mixed with nectar oil so it sticks.”

Lady Blushmidge went very still.

The bellflower’s supposed accidental discharge had not merely coated her. Someone had prepared the pollen to cling to her wings, face, and body long enough for the entire garden to see.

Myrtle’s gossiping smile disappeared.

“That would mean…”

“Yes,” Lady Blushmidge said.

Her turquoise eyes sharpened beneath their remaining gold dust.

“Someone wanted me found covered in another bloom’s pollen.”

Across the crowd, a figure slipped behind the foxgloves.

Lady Blushmidge saw the movement.

She launched from the mushroom without another word, scattering witnesses and evidence in her wake.

Behind her, Myrtle shouted, “Who was it?”

Lady Blushmidge tore through the leaves after the fleeing shadow.

“I don’t know yet,” she called back. “But when I catch them, they’re going to wish their paternity was the only thing in question.”

The Trail of the Sticky Golden Bastard

The figure fleeing through the foxgloves was small, quick, and spectacularly bad at fleeing.

It crashed through leaves that could easily have been flown over, tripped across three exposed roots, and repeatedly shouted, “You didn’t see me!” with the frantic confidence of someone who had never understood how seeing worked.

Lady Blushmidge pursued it through the undergrowth, wings beating furiously behind her.

“Stop!” she shouted.

“I can’t!” the figure cried.

“Why not?”

“You’re chasing me!”

“That is generally when stopping becomes useful!”

The fugitive ducked beneath a curled fern and squeezed through a gap between two damp stones. Lady Blushmidge followed closely enough to grab a fluttering strip of green fabric tied around its waist.

The fabric tore loose.

The creature squealed, shot from the stones, and landed face-first in a shallow puddle of nectar runoff.

Lady Blushmidge descended upon it before it could rise.

She planted one tiny pink foot between its shoulders and twisted both its wings behind its back.

“Who are you?”

“Nobody!”

“Nobody is about to be folded into a very memorable shape.”

“Pip!” the creature cried. “My name is Pip!”

Lady Blushmidge rolled him over.

He was a young leafhopper with pale green wings, a freckled snout, and the trembling expression of someone who had accidentally wandered into the final chapter of his own biography.

A sticky yellow substance coated both his front feet.

Lady Blushmidge stared at it.

“Golden pollen mixed with nectar oil.”

Pip tucked his feet beneath himself.

“Could be anything.”

“It is exactly what was used on me.”

“There are many sticky yellow things in a garden.”

“Name three.”

“Pollen.”

“One.”

“Nectar oil.”

“Those are the two things already in question.”

“Mustard?”

Lady Blushmidge leaned close enough for him to see the golden dust still lodged between her lashes.

“Where did you get it?”

“I found it.”

“Where?”

“In a container.”

“Where was the container?”

“In my hands.”

Lady Blushmidge tightened her grip.

“You have mistaken me for a creature with patience.”

“All right!” Pip gasped. “Someone paid me to place a packet beneath the coral petal.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know.”

Lady Blushmidge bent one of his legs toward a direction nature had not recommended.

“I genuinely don’t know!” he squeaked. “The instructions were left in my sleeping leaf with two drops of royal nectar and a sketch of the blossom. I was only supposed to attach the packet beneath the petal.”

“And then?”

“Pull the silk thread when you arrived.”

Her grip loosened slightly.

“You pulled it?”

“Yes.”

“You blasted me?”

“Technically the packet did.”

Lady Blushmidge folded his leg another inch.

“I blasted you.”

“Yes! I blasted you. Very personally. Deeply personally. Entirely my fault.”

By then Myrtle and the others had caught up, although calling it catching up was generous. Myrtle arrived riding the garden snail, having apparently decided urgency was no reason to sacrifice comfort.

“Did you catch him?” she called.

Lady Blushmidge looked at the leafhopper trapped beneath her.

“No, Myrtle. I’m helping him stretch.”

The crowd gathered around them.

Several creatures stared at Pip’s sticky feet. The widowed aphid stared at Lady Blushmidge’s abdomen again and received such a vicious glare that she finally found another part of the garden fascinating.

Myrtle dismounted.

“Is he the pollen donor?”

“He is a leafhopper.”

“That does complicate the paternity angle.”

“There is no paternity angle.”

“I said it complicated it.”

Lady Blushmidge released Pip and hauled him upright by one antenna.

“He was paid to rig the pollen packet.”

A murmur rippled through the crowd.

“Paid by whom?” Myrtle asked.

“He claims he doesn’t know.”

“I don’t!” Pip said. “The instructions weren’t signed.”

Lady Blushmidge held up the torn strip she had ripped from his waist.

“What is this?”

Pip’s freckled face paled.

“Nothing.”

“You have already used that answer.”

Myrtle inspected the cloth. It was deep leaf-green, finely woven, with a tiny golden berry embroidered along one edge.

Her expression changed.

“That is a Bloomberry Court servant’s sash.”

The crowd inhaled.

Lady Blushmidge looked from the sash to Pip.

“You work at the court?”

“Sometimes.”

“Doing what?”

“Deliveries. Errands. Dusting.”

The garden fell silent.

Pip swallowed.

“Furniture,” he added. “I dust furniture.”

“Take me to your sleeping leaf,” Lady Blushmidge said.

“Why?”

“Because I want to see the instructions.”

“I threw them away.”

“Then you will take me to where you threw them.”

“I ate them.”

Lady Blushmidge stared.

“You ate the evidence?”

“I panic-chew.”

“Can you remember what the note said?” Myrtle asked.

Pip squeezed his eyes shut.

“Mostly. It said: ‘Place the packet beneath the western coral petal before the second sunbell. When Lady Blushmidge arrives, pull the thread. Remain unseen. Payment enclosed.’”

Lady Blushmidge tilted her head.

“How did the writer know I would be there?”

“Perhaps you told someone,” said Myrtle.

“I told exactly one creature.”

“Who?”

Lady Blushmidge’s gaze hardened.

“The Duchess of Nectar.”

The crowd made a collective sound somewhere between a gasp and a delighted squeak.

“The Duchess?” Myrtle whispered.

“Do not start.”

“I haven’t said anything.”

“Your face has already published three editions.”

The Duchess of Nectar presided over Bloomberry Court with perfect posture, impeccable manners, and the moral warmth of a decorative spoon. She hosted every major social event in Sugarwild Garden and considered unapproved happiness a breach of protocol.

Lady Blushmidge had been scheduled to meet her beneath the coral bellflower that morning to discuss seating arrangements for the Moonpetal Supper.

The Duchess had never arrived.

“Perhaps she arranged the dusting,” someone whispered.

“Or perhaps she was the intended victim,” another replied.

“Or perhaps Lady Blushmidge was secretly meeting a foreign stamen there.”

Lady Blushmidge spun toward the voice.

Every creature looked at someone else.

“I am going to Bloomberry Court,” she announced.

Myrtle stepped beside her. “I’m coming.”

“No.”

“You need an impartial witness.”

“You are the least impartial creature I know.”

“Then imagine how suspicious it will look if even I believe you.”

Lady Blushmidge hated that this made sense.

She pointed at Pip.

“He comes too.”

“I have errands,” Pip said.

“You are the errand now.”

They crossed Sugarwild Garden beneath a sky turning peach with late afternoon. Pip walked between Lady Blushmidge and Myrtle, his wings tied with the torn servant’s sash. Behind them came a swelling procession of creatures claiming they had unrelated business near the court.

By the time they reached the rose-vine gates, the procession included most of the original witnesses, Jasper Longstamen, four bees, seven ladybugs, two caterpillars carrying refreshments, and the garden snail, who had started early and was tremendously proud of himself.

The gatekeeper lowered a thorny branch across the entrance.

“State your purpose.”

Lady Blushmidge stepped forward.

“I was lured beneath a flower, blasted in the face with treated pollen, declared botanically compromised by half the garden, and forced to spend my afternoon comparing the private dust of eleven different blooms.”

The gatekeeper blinked.

“Is that official court business?”

“It becomes official court business in approximately five seconds.”

He raised the branch.

“Welcome to Bloomberry Court.”

The court occupied the heart of a sprawling peony whose layered pink chambers curled around a central nectar pool. Courtiers drifted between the petals in silk-winged finery, whispering behind fans made from pressed leaves.

They stopped whispering when Lady Blushmidge entered.

Then they began whispering much faster.

“That’s her.”

“She doesn’t look expectant.”

“They never do this early.”

“Whose pollen is it?”

“I heard it was a trumpet vine from the southern hedge.”

“I heard there were three fathers.”

Lady Blushmidge climbed onto the central petal and shouted, “There are no fathers!”

Every head turned.

A tiny court musician lowered his flute.

“Not even your own?” asked an elderly moth.

“Not relevant fathers!”

Myrtle touched her arm.

“You may wish to phrase your denials less broadly.”

“I wish to phrase them with a hammer.”

At the highest petal sat the Duchess of Nectar.

She was a tall rose chafer dressed in layers of plum-colored wing silk, with a crown of tiny seed pearls resting between her antennae. Her shell gleamed like polished garnet. Not a single speck of pollen marred her.

“Lady Blushmidge,” the Duchess said. “What an unexpected arrival.”

“Unlike the pollen.”

The Duchess’s eyes traveled over the residue on Lady Blushmidge’s face.

“Yes. I heard about your unfortunate… encounter.”

“You heard quickly.”

“News travels.”

“Myrtle assists it.”

Myrtle gave a modest bow.

Lady Blushmidge dragged Pip forward.

“This leafhopper works at your court.”

The Duchess examined him.

“Many creatures work here.”

“He was paid to rig the pollen packet that exploded beneath the coral petal.”

A wave of excited whispering passed through the court.

The Duchess remained perfectly still.

“A serious accusation.”

“It is not an accusation. He confessed.”

Pip raised one bound wing.

“Under moderate bending.”

“The instructions knew when and where I would meet you,” Lady Blushmidge continued. “Information I shared with no one else.”

The Duchess leaned back.

“Are you accusing me?”

“I am inviting you to provide a convincing reason why I shouldn’t.”

The court gasped at the breach of etiquette. Somewhere behind a fan, someone whispered, “She is absolutely glowing.”

Lady Blushmidge’s antennae snapped toward the voice.

“That is rage and nectar oil.”

The Duchess rose.

“I did not arrange your dusting. I failed to meet you because another matter demanded my attention.”

“Which matter?”

“Private court business.”

“Then it is about to become public garden gossip.”

Myrtle quietly opened her parchment.

The Duchess’s mouth tightened.

“Shortly before our meeting, I received an anonymous message informing me that someone intended to disrupt the Moonpetal Supper.”

“How?”

“By exposing a scandal involving one of my guests.”

Lady Blushmidge glanced at the powder on her shoulder.

“How fortunate that one appeared immediately.”

“Precisely. I went to investigate the threat and found nothing. By the time I returned, you had left the blossom patch.”

“Covered in enough evidence to make the entire garden think I had been pollinated by a stranger.”

“Three strangers,” called someone from the rear.

Lady Blushmidge raised one claw without turning around.

“I will come back there.”

Silence returned.

The Duchess descended from her petal throne.

“Someone wanted to embarrass you publicly,” she said, “and possibly damage the reputation of this court.”

“Then show me the anonymous message.”

“I destroyed it.”

“Did everyone in this garden eat their evidence today?”

“I burned mine.”

“A refreshing variation.”

The Duchess signaled to a blue damselfly standing near the nectar pool.

“Captain Veilwing searched the court after I received the warning. He found no intruder.”

The captain bowed.

Lady Blushmidge studied him. “Did you search the servants’ quarters?”

“Of course.”

“Pip’s sleeping leaf?”

“Yes.”

Pip shifted nervously.

Lady Blushmidge noticed.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“That answer now has a very poor survival rate.”

Pip looked at the Duchess, then at Captain Veilwing.

“There was something else in my leaf.”

“What?”

“A small jar.”

“Of treated pollen?”

“No. Perfume.”

The Duchess stiffened.

“What kind?” Myrtle asked.

“Moonberry and jasmine,” Pip said.

A murmur passed through the courtiers.

Lady Blushmidge caught it.

“Why does that matter?”

Myrtle leaned close.

“Moonberry and jasmine is the Duchess’s personal scent.”

All eyes turned toward the throne.

The Duchess lifted her chin.

“It is hardly exclusive.”

“It is made exclusively for you,” said Captain Veilwing.

She gave him a look capable of curdling nectar.

“Your commitment to precision is mistimed, Captain.”

Lady Blushmidge approached Pip.

“Was the jar full?”

“Half full.”

“Where is it now?”

“Captain Veilwing took it.”

The blue damselfly stepped back.

Every creature in the court turned toward him.

Lady Blushmidge smiled slowly.

“Captain?”

“It was unauthorized material,” he said. “I confiscated it.”

“Then produce it.”

“I disposed of it.”

“Burned, eaten, or shoved somewhere anatomically ambitious?”

“Poured into the drainage stem.”

“How tidy.”

Captain Veilwing’s jaw hardened.

“I will not be interrogated by a hysterical midge because she stood too close to an excited flower.”

The court went dead silent.

Lady Blushmidge’s expression became almost serene.

Myrtle took three careful steps backward.

“Captain,” she whispered, “you should fly now.”

“Why?”

Lady Blushmidge struck him in the throat with the heel of her palm.

Captain Veilwing stumbled into the nectar pool. His wings flailed, splashing three courtiers and an unfortunate harpist.

Lady Blushmidge landed on the pool’s edge.

“I was not hysterical when I arrived,” she said. “I was furious. You are now assisting with the transition.”

The captain pulled himself from the nectar, coughing.

“Seize her!”

No one moved.

“She assaulted an officer of the court!”

The gatekeeper examined the ceiling.

“I didn’t see it.”

“Neither did I,” said the harpist, wringing nectar from his hat.

“I sensed it socially,” Myrtle added.

Captain Veilwing looked around and realized he had temporarily misplaced authority.

Then Lady Blushmidge noticed the dust along the edge of his right wing.

Gold.

Sticky.

Fresh.

She reached for him.

The captain sprang backward and flew.

He shot through the upper opening of the peony chamber, scattering seed pearls and startled servants. Lady Blushmidge launched after him.

“Seal the court!” shouted the Duchess.

Petals folded across the exits. Thorned vines twisted shut around every opening except the narrow gap through which the captain had escaped.

Lady Blushmidge chased him over the rooftops of Bloomberry Court, between arching rose stems and lanterns made from glowing pods.

Captain Veilwing was faster, but he was also covered in nectar. Every few wingbeats, one side stuck briefly to his body and sent him veering into ornamental shrubbery.

He knocked through a garland, bounced off a berry banner, and crashed into the upper balcony of the records bloom.

Lady Blushmidge landed behind him.

The captain staggered into the circular chamber, knocking over stacks of rolled leaf documents.

“Stay back.”

“You arranged the dusting.”

“You cannot prove that.”

“Your wing is covered in the same mixture.”

Captain Veilwing looked at it.

“Contamination from the leafhopper.”

“You never touched him.”

“Then from the court.”

“The pollen packet was opened across the garden.”

“Perhaps you spread it.”

“You fled before I touched you.”

“Because you strike officers in the throat.”

“Only when they say stupid things within reach.”

He backed toward a desk carved from rosewood. One hand slid behind him.

Lady Blushmidge saw the movement.

“Take your hand away from the drawer.”

“There is nothing in the drawer.”

“Then you will lose nothing by opening it.”

Captain Veilwing yanked the drawer free and threw its contents into the air.

A golden cloud erupted across the chamber.

Lady Blushmidge covered her face and dropped behind a stack of ledgers. Pollen filled the room, clinging to the walls, floor, documents, and Captain Veilwing himself.

He lunged for the balcony.

Lady Blushmidge caught his ankle.

He struck the floor hard enough to loosen several teeth and one regrettable confession.

“She made me do it!”

Lady Blushmidge dragged him away from the ledge.

“Who?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“You just announced that someone made you do it.”

“That was involuntary.”

“The next part can be too.”

Footsteps and wingbeats approached from the stairwell. Myrtle, Pip, the Duchess, and half the court poured into the records bloom.

They stopped at the sight of the captain lying in a pile of treated pollen.

Myrtle surveyed the scene.

“This looks compromising.”

“He carries it beautifully,” Lady Blushmidge said.

The Duchess approached Captain Veilwing.

“Explain yourself.”

He looked at her, then at the crowd.

“I was ordered to assist with a harmless court diversion.”

“By whom?”

“I never saw her face.”

“Her?” Lady Blushmidge repeated.

“She wore a mourning veil. She said Lady Blushmidge needed to be publicly discredited before the Moonpetal Supper.”

“Why?”

“Because you had discovered something.”

Lady Blushmidge frowned.

“Discovered what?”

“She didn’t say.”

“Then how were you to discredit me?”

Captain Veilwing glanced toward the Duchess.

“By making it appear Lady Blushmidge had been secretly collecting pollen from multiple court flowers.”

The silence that followed was so complete that the garden snail could be heard arriving several chambers below.

Lady Blushmidge stared at him.

“Multiple flowers?”

“The first packet was only supposed to begin the rumor.”

“The first?” Myrtle said, nearly vibrating with journalistic joy.

Captain Veilwing closed his eyes.

“Additional samples were to be found in Lady Blushmidge’s home before the supper.”

The Duchess’s expression turned glacial.

“You intended to plant evidence in the home of one of my guests?”

“I intended to protect the court.”

“You intended to protect yourself,” Lady Blushmidge said. “What did she offer you?”

He said nothing.

Pip raised a bound wing.

“Royal nectar?”

Captain Veilwing looked at him.

That was enough.

“Royal nectar,” Myrtle said. “The same payment left for Pip.”

The Duchess turned toward a locked cabinet at the far end of the chamber.

“Royal nectar is kept in the treasury bloom. Only four members of this court have access.”

Lady Blushmidge stood.

“You, Captain Veilwing…”

“The court treasurer,” said the Duchess, “and my two senior attendants.”

Myrtle unfolded her parchment.

“Names?”

“Thistlewick, Madame Rosethorn, and Lady Vesperlace.”

At the third name, Captain Veilwing flinched.

Lady Blushmidge saw it.

“Lady Vesperlace.”

“I said nothing,” he replied.

“Your face did.”

The Duchess stepped closer. “Vesperlace has served this court for twelve seasons.”

“Where is she now?”

No one answered.

The Duchess turned to the surrounding attendants.

“Find her.”

The servants scattered.

Lady Blushmidge looked around the pollen-covered records chamber. The open drawer contained several empty waxed packets, a spool of spider silk, and a list written on pressed violet paper.

She picked it up.

Seven flower names were written in a precise silver hand. Lord Trumpetstem. Jasper Longstamen. The Snapdragon Brothers. The moon lily. Two court orchids.

Every flower she had questioned that afternoon.

Beside each name was a note describing its pollen.

At the bottom, beneath a line drawn in red ink, were three words:

Her testimony dies.

Lady Blushmidge read them twice.

“What testimony?” Myrtle asked over her shoulder.

“I don’t know.”

The Duchess looked at Lady Blushmidge. “Were you planning to speak at the Moonpetal Supper?”

“Only about the new nectar allocation.”

“What about it?”

Lady Blushmidge hesitated.

Three days earlier, while reviewing the supper accounts, she had noticed that six jars of royal nectar had vanished from the court inventory. Lady Vesperlace had dismissed it as a copying error. Lady Blushmidge had planned to raise the discrepancy privately with the Duchess during their coral-blossom meeting.

She had told no one else.

“The missing nectar,” Lady Blushmidge said.

The Duchess’s eyes narrowed.

“What missing nectar?”

Before Lady Blushmidge could answer, a scream rose from the treasury bloom below.

The group rushed from the records chamber and down the spiraling petal stairs.

They found a court attendant collapsed outside the treasury entrance. The thorn lock had been cut. The vault stood open.

Inside, the shelves were empty.

Not merely six jars.

Every drop of royal nectar was gone.

On the floor lay a discarded mourning veil.

Myrtle picked it up carefully.

“Lady Vesperlace?”

“Perhaps,” said Lady Blushmidge.

Then Pip pointed to a tiny trail glistening across the treasury floor.

Thick drops of royal nectar led through a narrow servant’s passage and out the rear of the court.

Mixed into the shining trail were grains of bright golden pollen.

“She’s carrying the nectar,” Pip said.

Lady Blushmidge knelt beside the trail.

One set of footprints ran through it: delicate six-point impressions belonging to a female lacewing.

But overlapping them was something else.

A broad, wet mark dragged through the nectar, followed by a repeating pattern of deep round punctures.

Whatever had left those tracks was much larger than Lady Vesperlace.

And it had been pulling something heavy.

The Duchess looked toward the darkening garden beyond the passage.

“If she reaches the outer hedge with the royal nectar, we will never recover it.”

Lady Blushmidge stood and brushed the last loose pollen from her claws.

“Then we follow the trail.”

Myrtle glanced at the strange marks.

“Do you know what made those?”

Lady Blushmidge studied the punctures, the dragging groove, and the golden residue glimmering between them.

“No.”

A low, resonant buzz rolled across Sugarwild Garden from somewhere beyond the western wall.

The windows of Bloomberry Court trembled.

Several flowers instinctively closed.

Lady Blushmidge’s jeweled eyes narrowed.

“But judging by the size of those tracks, I suspect we are about to inspect a considerably larger stamen.”

The Moonpetal Supper and the Unreasonably Large Stamen

The trail of royal nectar crossed the western lawn like a confession written by someone too sticky to lie properly.

Lady Blushmidge followed it through crushed clover, beneath the hanging roots of the old willow, and around three startled mushrooms that immediately denied witnessing anything.

Myrtle hurried beside her, clutching the discarded mourning veil beneath one wing and taking notes with the other.

Pip came behind them with his wings still tied.

“Could someone untie me?” he asked.

“No,” said Lady Blushmidge.

“What if the large buzzing thing attacks?”

“Then you may distract it.”

“With what?”

“Your consequences.”

The Duchess of Nectar followed beneath an escort of court guards, although the guards were beginning to question their career choices. Captain Veilwing stumbled among them with his wrists bound in spider silk and his wings sealed together by a thick coat of his own treated pollen.

Every few steps, he attempted to regain his dignity.

Every few steps, dignity examined the situation and declined to participate.

Behind the official party came nearly half of Sugarwild Garden.

The other half claimed to be staying home for reasons of personal safety but followed at a distance while hiding behind increasingly inadequate vegetation.

The garden snail had also joined the pursuit.

He had taken a shortcut.

No one knew how.

The nectar trail widened as it approached the western wall. Deep punctures marked the soil on either side of the dragging groove. Whatever had helped remove the jars from the treasury had six legs, a heavy body, and feet large enough to convert Pip into an unpleasant memory.

Myrtle leaned over one of the impressions.

“Could it be a beetle?”

“Too narrow,” said the Duchess.

“A wasp?”

“Too heavy,” said Lady Blushmidge.

“A very committed caterpillar?” Pip suggested.

Lady Blushmidge looked at the round punctures.

“Caterpillars do not have pointed feet.”

“Perhaps this one has accessories.”

A second buzzing tremor rolled beyond the wall.

Pip lowered his voice.

“Could be a caterpillar with accessories.”

The trail ended at a split in the western hedge where several thorn branches had been snapped outward. Golden pollen dusted the broken stems. Beyond them lay a forgotten corner of the garden called Moonroot Hollow.

Nothing had bloomed there for years.

The hollow was shadowed by enormous leaves and tangled vines. Pale mushrooms glowed along the ground. At its center stood the remains of an abandoned moonflower conservatory, its silver petals hardened into arching walls around a collapsed glassy dome.

A warm golden light pulsed inside.

So did the buzz.

Lady Blushmidge stopped at the entrance.

“Captain Veilwing,” she said, “what is in there?”

“I don’t know.”

“That answer has disappointed us all afternoon.”

“Lady Vesperlace never told me where she was taking the nectar.”

“You helped her steal it.”

“I helped her relocate six jars.”

The Duchess turned slowly toward him.

“The treasury held forty-eight.”

Captain Veilwing swallowed.

“Her plans may have expanded.”

“Your sentence certainly will,” the Duchess said.

Lady Blushmidge stepped through the broken arch.

“Stay here,” she told the crowd.

Everyone nodded.

Then everyone followed her.

Inside, the conservatory smelled of moonberry perfume, warm nectar, and something floral enough to qualify as a public indecency.

Forty-eight empty jars lay scattered across the floor.

At the far end of the chamber, Lady Vesperlace stood on a raised root platform wearing a silver gown and the furious expression of a woman whose elaborate criminal plan had been interrupted by the intended victim before supper.

She was a striking lacewing with long violet wings, jeweled eyes, and an elaborate arrangement of antennae that suggested she had spent years styling them upward to compensate for something.

Behind her towered the source of the buzzing.

It was a moon trumpet.

Not an ordinary one.

The ancient flower had grown from the cracked conservatory floor into a pale, curling monster nearly as tall as Bloomberry Court. Its petals spread like ivory sails. Thick vines coiled around the walls. At its center rose one vast golden stamen, swollen with nectar and vibrating so violently that dust drifted from the ceiling.

Lady Blushmidge stared upward.

Myrtle stared longer.

“That,” Myrtle whispered, “is an unusually confident botanical structure.”

“Do not encourage it,” Lady Blushmidge said.

A huge pollen beetle stood beneath the flower. Bronze-shelled and heavy-legged, it wore a harness connected to a wooden cart. The stolen nectar jars had been dragged here behind it.

The beetle looked at the arriving crowd and lowered its head.

“I was told this was a catering job,” it muttered.

“You broke into the royal treasury,” said the Duchess.

“The lady said the rear entrance was for deliveries.”

“It was locked with thorns.”

“Many kitchens are secure.”

Lady Vesperlace stepped down from the platform.

“You should not have followed me.”

Lady Blushmidge brushed a remaining fleck of gold from her cheek.

“You sprayed me with treated pollen, started a rumor about my reproductive condition, bribed a leafhopper, corrupted the captain of the court, planted evidence, robbed the treasury, and escaped behind a beetle dragging forty-eight jars through wet nectar.”

She gestured toward the shining trail outside.

“Your demand for privacy arrived somewhat late.”

Lady Vesperlace’s wings tightened.

“The pollen was supposed to ruin your credibility.”

“It ruined my afternoon.”

“Once the additional samples were discovered in your home, no one would have believed your accusations about the missing nectar.”

“You mean the accusations I had not yet made?”

“You noticed the discrepancy.”

“Six jars.”

“Six jars were enough to expose everything.”

Lady Blushmidge looked at the enormous flower.

“What exactly is everything?”

Lady Vesperlace smiled.

It was not a pleasant smile. It was the expression of someone finally reaching the portion of her scheme she had rehearsed in front of a mirror.

“For twelve seasons, I have served tea, arranged petals, corrected invitations, recorded accounts, and listened while creatures with smaller minds received larger titles.”

“Ah,” Myrtle said. “Employment dissatisfaction.”

“Silence.”

Myrtle wrote that down.

Lady Vesperlace raised her arms toward the moon trumpet.

“This flower once fed every nocturnal bloom in Moonroot Hollow. Its pollen could strengthen petals, brighten color, and force dormant plants into magnificent bloom. But it withered when the old nectar channels were closed.”

“So you stole royal nectar to revive it,” Lady Blushmidge said.

“Not merely revive it.”

The enormous stamen throbbed.

The pollen beetle took two cautious steps away.

Lady Vesperlace’s eyes gleamed.

“At moonrise, it will release enough pollen to coat all of Sugarwild Garden. Every bloom will open under my command. Every vine, bud, and berry will depend upon the nectar mixture I alone know how to prepare.”

The Duchess stared at her.

“You intend to seize the garden through horticultural blackmail?”

“I prefer botanical authority.”

“It is blackmail with gardening gloves,” Lady Blushmidge said.

“Once the garden sees what I can create, they will beg me to lead.”

Myrtle glanced around at the cracked dome, stolen jars, trembling flower, and pollen beetle trying to quietly remove its harness.

“Your campaign launch does feel slightly moist.”

Lady Vesperlace pointed toward her.

“Captain, seize them.”

Captain Veilwing looked down at his bound wrists.

“I appear to be between duties.”

“You useless blue bastard.”

“That tone is exactly why workplace loyalty has declined.”

The moon trumpet convulsed.

A deep shudder passed through its petals. Golden powder spilled from the enormous anther and drifted into the chamber.

The Duchess covered her mouth.

“How long until moonrise?”

Myrtle looked through the broken dome.

The sky had deepened to purple. A silver edge already showed above the eastern hedge.

“Not long enough for a committee.”

Lady Blushmidge flew toward the flower.

Lady Vesperlace moved between them.

“You cannot stop it. The nectar has already entered its roots.”

“Then I’ll remove the stamen.”

The entire room flinched.

Jasper Longstamen, who had followed despite being specifically told not to, crossed both legs.

“Surely there is another approach.”

Lady Blushmidge drew a small pruning blade from beneath her wing.

The giant stamen seemed to notice.

It bent toward her.

“Oh,” Myrtle said. “It appears to have opinions.”

The stamen snapped forward.

Lady Blushmidge dove aside as the heavy anther smashed into the stone floor. A cloud of gold burst across the chamber, coating several guards, two lacewings, and the garden snail, who had only just arrived.

The snail blinked beneath a thick yellow layer.

“Did I miss anything?”

“Only your original color,” Myrtle said.

The moon trumpet struck again. Its vines whipped from the walls, curling around pillars and ankles. Courtiers screamed and scrambled toward the entrance.

A vine caught Captain Veilwing around the waist and lifted him into the air.

“Help me!” he shouted.

Lady Blushmidge ducked beneath him.

“I’m considering it.”

“Please consider faster!”

Lady Vesperlace laughed from the platform.

“It recognizes me as its keeper.”

A second vine wrapped around her ankle.

Her smile vanished.

“Release me.”

The vine lifted her upside down.

Her gown fell over her face.

“Keeper appears to be an honorary title,” Lady Blushmidge observed.

Lady Vesperlace kicked furiously.

“Put me down!”

The flower shook her.

A silver key, three nectar receipts, and a small embroidered handkerchief fell from her clothing.

So did a list titled Mandatory Titles for My Future Court.

Myrtle picked it up.

“Supreme Bloom Regent is ambitious.”

“Give me that!”

“Mistress of All Openings is perhaps vulnerable to interpretation.”

“It refers to flowers!”

“It rarely helps when you explain it.”

The moon finally cleared the hedge.

Silver light poured through the broken dome and struck the trumpet’s petals.

The flower opened wider.

Its stamen swelled with a low, obscene hum.

Across Moonroot Hollow, dormant buds pushed through the soil. Vines crawled over the ruins. Mushrooms expanded with startled pops. Every flower in sight turned toward the conservatory.

Then the ancient trumpet inhaled.

The suction pulled loose petals, leaves, and several smaller insects toward its center.

Pip slid across the floor.

“I would like to revisit the issue of my wings!”

Lady Blushmidge caught his ankle.

Myrtle grabbed Lady Blushmidge.

The garden snail anchored Myrtle by sitting down with unusual conviction.

The Duchess clung to the snail’s shell.

Jasper Longstamen grabbed the Duchess and immediately looked as if he hoped everyone had noticed.

“If it releases that pollen,” the Duchess shouted, “the whole garden will be covered!”

Lady Blushmidge looked at the enormous anther.

It was nearly ripe.

A seam along its side had begun to split.

“The pollen mixture sticks to whatever it touches,” she said.

“I am painfully familiar with that detail,” Myrtle replied.

“Then we don’t stop the release.”

“What?”

“We decide where it lands.”

Lady Blushmidge released Pip and sliced the sash binding his wings.

“You rigged the first packet.”

“Under regrettable employment conditions.”

“Can you rig another?”

Pip looked at the swelling flower.

“That is considerably larger than a packet.”

“Can you do it?”

“Probably.”

“Good.”

“I would like ‘probably’ recorded as a warning.”

Lady Blushmidge pointed toward the tattered silver curtains hanging from the conservatory arches.

“We wrap the anther before it bursts. The cloth catches the pollen.”

Myrtle examined the trumpet’s vast center.

“And which creature would be stupid enough to fly up there?”

Lady Blushmidge had already launched.

“That one,” said the Duchess.

Pip followed her.

Together they fought against the flower’s inhalation, dragging a length of silver cloth between them. Lady Blushmidge reached the stamen first and looped one end around its base.

The surface was hot, sticky, and vibrating with deeply inappropriate enthusiasm.

“I have had better afternoons,” she muttered.

Pip landed on the opposite side.

“Tie it beneath the anther!” she shouted.

“Which part is the anther?”

Lady Blushmidge stared at him.

“You operated a pollen device without knowing the parts of a flower?”

“I work in deliveries!”

The stamen bucked.

Pip lost his grip and slapped chest-first against it.

“The large wobbly bit!” Lady Blushmidge yelled.

“That description has not improved the situation!”

Below them, Myrtle directed the crowd.

“Pull the curtain around the left side!”

“My left or the flower’s left?” called a guard.

“The side currently attempting to kill you!”

“Both sides are attempting to kill me!”

Several guards grabbed the dangling fabric. The pollen beetle planted its feet and took the heavier end of the cloth in its mandibles.

The Duchess drew the fallen pruning blade and cut through the vine holding Captain Veilwing.

He hit the floor.

“Thank you,” he gasped.

She handed him the trailing edge of the curtain.

“Pull.”

“I am still bound.”

“Then use your teeth and consider it the first installment of your public service.”

Lady Vesperlace continued swinging upside down above them.

“Release me! I can control it!”

The moon trumpet shook her again.

“Your control is dazzling,” Myrtle said.

Lady Blushmidge and Pip pulled the curtain around the anther just as the split widened.

A blast erupted inside the fabric.

The silver cloth ballooned into a vast golden sack.

The force spun Lady Blushmidge around the stamen, whipped Pip through two complete circles, and knocked Jasper backward into a patch of newly awakened violets.

“Hold it!” Lady Blushmidge shouted.

The stitches began to tear.

Bright pollen leaked through the seams.

Pip clung to the knot.

“It won’t hold!”

The massive sack swelled above the chamber. If it burst, the concentrated cloud would spread farther than the original release.

Myrtle watched the fabric strain.

“We have successfully made the problem rounder!”

Lady Blushmidge looked beyond the conservatory.

Moonroot Hollow sloped downward toward an old irrigation pond. Its surface lay dark and still beneath a canopy of lily pads.

“Cut the stamen!” she called.

Jasper sat up among the violets.

“Again, I object to the casual phrasing.”

“Not yours!”

“The distinction matters enormously!”

The Duchess raised the pruning blade.

“The base is too thick.”

The pollen beetle stepped forward.

“I can pull it.”

Everyone turned toward him.

He shrugged beneath his bronze shell.

“I was hired to drag jars. I am comfortable expanding the contract.”

They looped his harness around the base of the stamen. The beetle dug his pointed feet into the soil, producing the deep punctures they had followed from the treasury.

He pulled.

The stamen bent.

The entire flower screamed.

It was not a metaphorical scream. It produced an immense trumpet blast that flattened every petal in the conservatory and blew Myrtle’s parchment clean out of her hands.

“My notes!” she cried.

“Priorities!” Lady Blushmidge shouted.

“Those are my priorities!”

The beetle pulled again.

The stamen tore free from its base with a wet, thunderous pop.

Jasper fainted.

The swollen pollen sack dropped.

“Toward the pond!” Lady Blushmidge yelled.

Everyone seized the curtain, the harness, or whatever part of another creature was available. The severed stamen crashed through the conservatory entrance and rolled down the slope.

It gathered speed.

Lady Blushmidge and Pip flew above it, steering with the fabric. The guards pushed from behind. The pollen beetle hauled from the front.

Captain Veilwing tripped, became tangled in the harness, and contributed by screaming in a direction generally consistent with forward motion.

The sack struck the pond.

For one suspended moment, it floated.

Then the silver curtain split.

Golden pollen exploded beneath the water.

The entire pond glowed.

Every lily pad rose three feet into the air. Reeds shot upward along the bank. Hundreds of tiny moonflowers burst open at once, illuminating the hollow in silver, violet, and blue.

A family of frogs surfaced wearing expressions of profound botanical betrayal.

The largest frog looked at the radiant pond.

“I was asleep.”

Then a lily bloomed beneath him and launched him into a shrub.

The ancient moon trumpet behind them sagged. Without its stamen, the remaining petals folded inward and settled against the ruined conservatory.

The attacking vines released their prisoners.

Lady Vesperlace dropped onto the stone floor, still wrapped in her gown.

When the others returned, they found her attempting to crawl toward a side passage with the subtlety of an overturned table.

Lady Blushmidge landed on the trailing hem of her dress.

“Going somewhere?”

Lady Vesperlace stopped.

“I was seeking assistance.”

“With what?”

“My arrest.”

The Duchess approached, covered from crown to feet in golden pollen.

One seed pearl hung crookedly from her antenna.

She had never looked less dignified.

She had also never looked more dangerous.

“Lady Vesperlace,” she said, “you are charged with theft of royal nectar, corruption of a court officer, conspiracy, attempted defamation, reckless botanical awakening, and forcing me to pull a giant stamen across a lawn in formal silk.”

Lady Vesperlace lifted her chin.

“History will understand me.”

Myrtle recovered her parchment from a vine.

“History is currently writing ‘sticky lunatic with title envy.’”

“You miserable little gossip.”

“That will fit nicely in the quotation section.”

The guards bound Lady Vesperlace beside Captain Veilwing.

Pip quietly moved away from them.

Lady Blushmidge caught him by the sash.

“And where are you going?”

“Home?”

“You rigged the pollen packet.”

“Then heroically helped prevent a larger pollen disaster.”

“After accepting payment to cause the smaller one.”

“I believe that demonstrates professional growth.”

The Duchess studied him.

“He will repay the stolen nectar.”

Pip looked toward the glowing pond.

“All forty-eight jars?”

“Every drop.”

“I am paid in leaves.”

“Then you will work it off.”

“For how long?”

The Duchess examined the transformed hollow.

New flowers were still opening around the pond. One enormous lily had developed teeth and was testing them on a pebble.

“Until Moonroot Hollow no longer presents an immediate danger to visitors.”

Pip watched the toothed lily swallow the pebble.

“Would anyone like to notify my descendants?”

By the time the party returned to Bloomberry Court, the Moonpetal Supper had begun without them.

No one had canceled it because no one in Sugarwild Garden would willingly surrender a catered event merely because of treason, theft, or an unstable reproductive structure.

The guests sat around long tables beneath glowing blossoms. Musicians played beside the nectar pool, although the harpist kept pausing to remove residue from his strings.

When Lady Blushmidge entered, conversation stopped.

She was coated more thoroughly than before.

Gold covered her hair, cheeks, wings, dress, and both legs. Myrtle looked no better. The Duchess had lost half her crown. Captain Veilwing and Lady Vesperlace were tied together with curtain cord and being marched behind the guards.

Beryl Bristlewing stood at the nearest table.

Her eyes widened.

“Oh, dear,” she whispered. “There are two of them now.”

Lady Blushmidge pointed at her.

“Finish that thought and I will introduce you to the pond frog.”

Beryl sat down.

The Duchess climbed onto the central petal and addressed the gathering.

“This afternoon, Lady Blushmidge was deliberately coated with treated pollen as part of an attempt to discredit her before she could expose theft from the royal treasury.”

The courtiers murmured.

“She was not secretly collecting pollen from multiple flowers,” the Duchess continued. “She is not carrying an unknown bloom’s offspring, and she is not expecting anything.”

Lady Blushmidge folded her arms.

“Thank you.”

The Duchess looked at the ruined edge of her gown.

“Except reimbursement.”

“Substantial reimbursement.”

“Naturally.”

Myrtle stepped onto the platform.

“For accuracy, should we state that she remains completely and aggressively unpollinated?”

Lady Blushmidge considered it.

“Yes.”

Myrtle turned toward the crowd.

“Lady Blushmidge remains completely and aggressively unpollinated.”

A disappointed sigh moved through the guests.

One pollen mite quietly unraveled the tiny garment he had been knitting.

Jasper Longstamen raised a hand.

“Would she be open to changing that condition?”

Lady Blushmidge threw a spoon.

It struck him between the petals.

The Moonpetal Supper resumed.

Captain Veilwing and Lady Vesperlace were placed beneath guard beside the least comfortable section of the table. Pip was assigned to serve nectar using a cup that had been tied to his hand. The bronze pollen beetle received two plates of sugared clover and a revised contract explicitly excluding robbery.

Lady Blushmidge was offered the seat of honor beside the Duchess.

She declined and sat beside Myrtle instead.

“You understand,” she said, “that most of today’s humiliation resulted from your mouth.”

Myrtle nibbled a moonberry.

“Most of today’s investigation also resulted from my curiosity.”

“You suggested I might be carrying a flower’s offspring.”

“I introduced urgency.”

“You introduced stupidity.”

“And yet we recovered the treasury.”

“The treasury is currently blooming in a frog pond.”

“Recovered is an emotionally flexible word.”

Lady Blushmidge reached for her cup.

Myrtle leaned closer.

“For what it is worth, I never truly believed you were expecting.”

“That is worth nothing.”

“I did briefly wonder about Jasper.”

Lady Blushmidge put down her cup.

Myrtle moved her chair out of striking distance.

“Only because he raised two hands.”

Lady Blushmidge lunged.

Myrtle fled around the table, laughing so hard she lost both moonberries and one shoe.

The guests cheered. The musicians increased their tempo. Even the Duchess smiled, although only briefly and in a manner she could later deny.

By midnight, the true story had spread throughout Sugarwild Garden.

By dawn, it had changed in several important ways.

According to one version, Lady Blushmidge had fought a carnivorous flower with her bare hands. According to another, she had severed a stamen large enough to bridge the pond. A particularly enthusiastic account claimed she had been abducted by seven foreign orchids, escaped an underground pollen cult, and personally delivered forty-eight jars of nectar while in active labor.

Lady Blushmidge spent the following morning correcting the rumors.

By lunchtime, she gave up.

Instead, she placed a sign outside her home.

It read:

NOT EXPECTING.
NOT AVAILABLE.
NOT INTERESTED IN YOUR STAMEN.
KNOCK ONLY IF SOMETHING IS ON FIRE.

Someone left flowers beneath it.

She burned them.

Myrtle later published a complete account of the affair under the title The Uninvited Pollen Dusting: Crime, Corruption, and One Extremely Large Floral Organ.

Lady Blushmidge objected to the subtitle.

Myrtle changed it to A Completely Accurate Investigation.

Lady Blushmidge objected to that more strongly.

In the end, Captain Veilwing lost his commission and was assigned to clean the Moonroot irrigation channels under Pip’s supervision, which punished them both with impressive efficiency. Lady Vesperlace was stripped of her title and sentenced to inventory every pollen grain stored at Bloomberry Court.

She requested imprisonment instead.

The Duchess denied it.

As for the awakened pond, it became one of Sugarwild Garden’s most popular attractions. The moonflowers glowed all year. The giant lilies were magnificent once taught not to bite visitors above the ankle. The frogs eventually accepted their situation and began charging admission.

Lady Blushmidge never again walked beneath a coral petal without checking the underside first.

She also carried a pruning blade, a small towel, and a written statement confirming that pollen could not impregnate a midge.

The statement was signed by three physicians, two botanists, and one exhausted magistrate.

No one read it.

Sugarwild Garden had never allowed facts to interfere with a satisfying scandal.

But from that day forward, whenever a flower released so much as an unexpected puff near Lady Blushmidge, every blossom in the vicinity immediately clenched shut.

Because rumors might travel quickly.

But a furious pink midge carrying pruning shears traveled faster.

Bring Lady Blushmidge Home

Bring the scandalous sparkle of Lady Blushmidge and the Uninvited Pollen Dusting into your home without the rumors, botanical blackmail, or aggressively vibrating stamens. Showcase the richly detailed artwork as a framed print, a luminous metal print, or an oversized tapestry. For a softer dusting of Sugarwild chaos, it is also available as a throw pillow or fleece blanket. Those who prefer assembling their scandals one suspicious piece at a time can choose the puzzle, while the greeting card is perfect for anyone who deserves an unexpected puff of floral impropriety.