Countess Dewpucker and the Questionable Nectar Kiss

The Kiss That Required a Press Secretary

Countess Dewpucker had survived three royal garden parties, two disputed inheritances, a summer of aggressive water lilies, and one regrettable engagement to a newt who believed trousers were a form of government oppression.

She had never before been kissed by a bumblebee in front of six hundred witnesses.

There were, she discovered, several disadvantages to the experience.

The first was the pollen.

The second was that a bumblebee’s mustache tickled.

The third was that every creature attending Queen Honeyblush’s Nectar Ball had gone completely silent, which allowed the wet little sound of their separating lips to travel across the ballroom with the acoustical confidence of a dinner gong.

Basil Bumblewick hovered beside her in a black top hat and velvet bow tie, his wings frozen so stiffly that he remained airborne through panic alone. His eyes were wide. Her eyes were wider. Between them, a ceremonial blossom overflowed with warm golden nectar and the wreckage of several reputations.

A pearl of nectar slid from Basil’s lower lip.

Countess Dewpucker watched it fall.

It landed directly on her jeweled heart pendant.

Somewhere behind the orchestra, an aphid whispered, “Oh, that is filthy.”

The ballroom inhaled.

Then it exploded.

Fans snapped open. Wings buzzed. Goblets rattled. A duchess fainted into the punch, recovered, and fainted again after realizing the first attempt had lacked an audience. Six gossip beetles began writing simultaneously, each using the back of the creature in front of him as a desk.

From the press balcony came the unmistakable flash of firefly photography.

Basil looked at the crowd, looked at the countess, and finally looked down at his own mouth as though it had acted without consulting the rest of him.

“Your Grace,” he whispered.

“Countess,” Dewpucker corrected.

“Yes. Of course. I knew that.”

“You have just put your tongue on my title. I should hope you know what it is.”

His fuzzy cheeks turned the color of raspberry jam.

“I can explain.”

Countess Dewpucker slowly raised one gloved hand.

Basil stopped explaining before he had begun, which was the first sensible thing anyone had done all evening.

The countess tasted nectar, bergamot, and catastrophe. Her crown had slipped sideways. One lace sleeve was damp. The ruby paint on her lower lip had transferred so perfectly onto Basil’s mouth that he appeared to have dressed for the occasion.

She could already see tomorrow’s headline.

DEWPUCKER DEBAUCHED: COUNTESS TAKES BEE IN PUBLIC BLOOM.

The Sugarwild Scandal Sheet had never allowed accuracy to interfere with alliteration.

At the center of the ballroom, Queen Honeyblush sat beneath a canopy of rose-gold petals with one eyebrow raised. To her right, Captain Bramblethor stood rigid in ceremonial raspberry armor. His famous mustache twitched with the particular distress of an officer who suspected romance might require paperwork.

To the queen’s left, Marchioness Velouria Bramblekiss smiled behind a black lace fan.

It was not a kind smile.

Velouria was a jewel wasp with an emerald shell, a waist narrow enough to imply tax fraud, and the social instincts of a decorative knife. She had spent the evening circulating through the ball and distributing compliments so precise that their victims did not realize they had been insulted until several minutes later.

Now her dark eyes moved from Basil’s nectar-stained mouth to Dewpucker’s disordered crown.

The fan fluttered.

Countess Dewpucker understood the gesture perfectly.

You are finished.

That was when embarrassment gave way to rage.

Dewpucker had been raised in the eastern lily courts, where aristocratic daughters learned three essential skills: how to sit on a damp leaf without wrinkling silk, how to decline a proposal without returning the jewelry, and how to destroy an enemy while appearing mildly concerned for her health.

She straightened her crown.

“Smile,” she murmured.

Basil’s jaw trembled. “At what?”

“Me.”

“Are you going to have me killed?”

“Not if you smile convincingly.”

He produced an expression resembling a bee being examined for parasites.

“Better,” she lied.

Countess Dewpucker turned toward the ballroom.

The whispers died one by one.

“My apologies,” she announced, her voice carrying cleanly beneath the petal arches. “Mister Bumblewick and I had intended to share our news after the final waltz.”

Basil made a small choking sound.

Dewpucker placed one hand firmly against his back, disguising the choke as an embrace.

“Unfortunately,” she continued, “his enthusiasm has always been difficult to contain.”

A ripple of delighted scandal moved through the crowd.

The fireflies flashed again.

Velouria’s fan stopped moving.

“You mean the kiss was invited?” called a gossip beetle from the balcony.

“Invited?” Dewpucker repeated. “My dear, it was overdue.”

The ballroom erupted a second time.

Basil’s wings gave out.

He dropped six inches and landed bottom-first in the ceremonial blossom.

Nectar rose around him in a golden splash.

Countess Dewpucker did not blink.

“As I said,” she told the crowd, “difficult to contain.”

Queen Honeyblush laughed first.

It was a low, surprised sound that loosened the whole room. The orchestra struck up a mischievous reel. Courtiers crowded closer, eager to congratulate a couple who had not existed thirty seconds earlier. The duchess in the punch fainted for a third and final time.

Dewpucker reached into the blossom, seized Basil by his bow tie, and lifted him from the nectar.

“Dance with me,” she said through her smile.

“I no longer trust that phrase.”

“Would you prefer ‘come quietly’?”

“Dance it is.”

She carried him into the waltz.

Basil was too small to lead and too stunned to follow, so he hovered while the countess rotated him by the shoulders like an ornamental lantern. Around them, polished beetles and jeweled moths parted to offer a clear view. Sugarwild society regarded privacy as a defect found mostly in criminals and fungi.

“I am so terribly sorry,” Basil whispered.

“Which part?”

“All of it. The kiss. The fall. The public announcement of what I assume is now our torrid affair.”

“There is nothing torrid about you.”

“Thank you.”

“That was not praise.”

He swallowed. “I did not mean to kiss you.”

“That is becoming less flattering by the moment.”

“I mean I intended to deliver a greeting. A formal greeting. A bow, perhaps a hand kiss, and then a brief discussion of the weather.”

“Instead you climbed into my flower and assaulted my lipstick.”

“Someone struck me from behind.”

Dewpucker’s steps did not falter.

“Who?”

“I don’t know. I was carrying a tray past the ceremonial bloom. Something pricked my shoulder, my wings surged, and the next thing I knew your face had become the entirety of my immediate future.”

She studied him.

Basil Bumblewick was not, upon close inspection, built like a seducer. His top hat was a little too large. One side of his mustache curled upward while the other seemed to have surrendered. His bow tie had been mended with black thread that did not quite match the velvet.

He smelled faintly of clover, library dust, and panic.

“What were you doing with a tray?” she asked.

“Working.”

“You are a waiter?”

“Assistant nectar steward.”

“That is a waiter wearing a hat.”

“The hat is part of the certification.”

Dewpucker glanced toward the edge of the dance floor.

Marchioness Velouria was gone.

In her place stood a narrow praying mantis in silver spectacles, speaking urgently to three gossip beetles. Each beetle carried a stack of freshly printed scandal sheets.

Already?

The mantis raised one page.

Across its top, in dripping red letters, was the headline:

COUNTESS DEWPUCKER’S SECRET COMMONER: SOUR LIPS FIND SWEET NECTAR.

Beneath it was a perfect firefly portrait of the kiss.

The angle was intimate. The lighting was exquisite. Her crown sparkled. Basil’s tiny hands rested against her cheeks. Floating hearts—decorations she now realized had been released at precisely the moment of impact—framed them like a commissioned engagement portrait.

This had not been an accident.

Someone had arranged the sting, the hearts, the photographer, and the presses before Basil’s lips ever touched hers.

“Continue smiling,” she murmured.

“My face is beginning to cramp.”

“Then suffer romantically.”

The waltz ended.

Countess Dewpucker accepted the room’s applause, tucked Basil beneath one arm, and walked toward the moon-orchid terrace.

“Where are we going?” he asked.

“Somewhere private.”

“Should I be encouraged or terrified?”

“Both will help the performance.”

She swept through the terrace doors and kicked them shut behind her.

Moonlight silvered the orchid railings. Below, the lanterns of Sugarwild glowed among the flowers. Music and gossip pressed softly against the glass.

Dewpucker placed Basil on a marble table beside a vase of blushing violets.

“You are going to tell me everything,” she said.

“I have. Tray, sting, face, social death.”

“Who assigned you to the ceremonial bloom?”

“The duty card was waiting in the steward’s room. It bore the royal seal.”

“Did anyone see you receive it?”

“Only the night porter. A mole named Crumpet. He is not observant, but he is extremely available.”

“And the tray?”

“Prepared for me. Six nectar flutes and a vial of perfume for the countess at the eastern blossom.”

“I was the only countess at the eastern blossom.”

“That did simplify delivery.”

“What perfume?”

Basil patted his coat, then froze.

From the inner pocket, he withdrew a tiny crystal vial. Its stopper had broken. A smear of shimmering pink liquid coated the glass.

Dewpucker leaned close.

The fragrance was warm and sweet: rose nectar, ripe peach, and something darker beneath both.

Her heart pendant grew hot against her chest.

“Do you know it?” Basil asked.

“Yes.”

She took the vial without touching the liquid.

“It is Surrender at Sundown. A courtship perfume. Two drops make the wearer irresistible. Three make the nearest creature reckless.”

Basil counted the residue with his eyes.

“And an entire vial?”

“Usually requires a priest, a solicitor, and replacement furniture.”

His hat tilted as he went pale.

“I may have spilled it when I was struck.”

“On whom?”

They both looked down.

The front of Countess Dewpucker’s lace gown glittered with pink perfume.

Basil took one respectful step backward.

Then another.

“That explains,” he said carefully, “why I am having several thoughts inconsistent with my employment contract.”

Dewpucker corked the broken vial with a violet stem.

“Control yourself.”

“I am trying. Unfortunately, you currently smell like every good decision I have never made.”

Despite herself, one corner of her mouth moved.

Basil noticed.

That was unfortunate.

“Did you nearly smile?”

“No.”

“I believe you did.”

“You are intoxicated by my bodice.”

“A sentence I never expected to hear at work.”

“Listen carefully, Mister Bumblewick. Someone intended to humiliate me. They chose you, arranged the encounter, and had the story printed before it happened. If I deny the kiss, I become a ridiculous old frog attacked by the catering staff. If you confess it was an accident, you become an unemployed lunatic with a lip-paint problem.”

“I had reached much the same conclusion, although mine included more sobbing.”

“So we will give them a different story.”

Basil’s wings slowed.

“What sort of story?”

Countess Dewpucker lifted the scandal sheet from beneath the terrace door. Someone had already pushed a copy through the gap.

She examined the photograph.

It was infuriatingly beautiful.

“A love story,” she said.

Basil sat down very suddenly.

“With us in it?”

“Try to contain your disappointment.”

“I am attempting to contain several things.”

“Until we discover who staged this, you will court me publicly. You will send flowers, attend dinners, and gaze at me as if I am the final spoonful of nectar in Sugarwild.”

“I do not think the gazing will be difficult.”

“You will also remember that it is acting.”

“That may be more advanced.”

Dewpucker extended one hand.

“Do we have an agreement?”

Basil stared at her glove, then at her face.

“How does the agreement end?”

“With my enemy exposed, your reputation restored, and both of us relieved to be rid of the other.”

“Naturally.”

He took her hand.

The moment his fingers touched the glove, the terrace doors flew open.

Marchioness Velouria stood there with half the ballroom behind her.

“Oh,” Velouria said, her voice dripping concern. “I hope we are not interrupting.”

Dewpucker felt Basil’s hand begin to pull away.

She tightened her grip.

This was the second sensible thing anyone had done all evening, and it belonged entirely to her.

“Not at all,” the countess said.

Then she drew Basil close and kissed him.

This time there was no collision. No sting. No accidental perfume.

She kissed him slowly, deliberately, and with enough aristocratic commitment to make the fireflies overheat.

Basil’s top hat rolled across the terrace.

The crowd gasped.

Velouria’s smile cracked.

When Dewpucker released him, Basil hovered crookedly, his mustache pointing in two different philosophical directions.

“There,” she said, looking directly at the marchioness. “Now everyone has the correct version.”

Applause burst across the terrace.

Dewpucker bowed. Basil attempted to bow, forgot he was airborne, and turned one complete circle.

Velouria recovered quickly.

“How unexpectedly romantic,” she said. “And how brave of you, Countess, to trust a gentleman you met only this evening.”

“Basil and I have nothing to hide.”

“Then you will both be delighted by tomorrow’s engagement supper.”

Dewpucker’s smile held.

“Engagement?”

Velouria lifted a gilt invitation.

“Surely you remember the old Nectar Ball custom. A second public kiss confirms formal courtship. Queen Honeyblush has already offered the moon-orchid hall for the announcement.”

Basil made the faintest squeak.

“How generous,” Dewpucker said.

“And one more thing.”

Velouria stepped closer. Her perfume carried no rose nectar now, only the cold green scent of crushed thistle.

“The palace guard found a vial of Surrender at Sundown in your carriage.”

The terrace went silent.

Captain Bramblethor appeared behind the marchioness, holding an evidence pouch. Inside lay a crystal bottle identical to the one hidden in Dewpucker’s hand.

“Countess,” he said gravely, “we need to discuss whether Mister Bumblewick’s affection was entirely voluntary.”

Every eye turned toward her.

Basil looked at the bottle.

Then he looked at Dewpucker.

For the first time that evening, there was no panic in his face.

He slipped one arm around her waist.

“Captain,” he said, “the countess has never needed perfume to make me behave foolishly.”

Dewpucker stared at him.

“Was that convincing?” he whispered without moving his smile.

“Disturbingly.”

Across the terrace, Velouria’s eyes narrowed.

The fake courtship had lasted less than two minutes.

Someone had already tried to turn it into a crime.

And as Countess Dewpucker leaned against the little bee she had intended merely to use, she realized two things at once.

The first was that Marchioness Velouria had made her next move.

The second was that Basil Bumblewick’s arm felt alarmingly natural around her waist.

The Engagement Supper for Two Absolutely Unengaged Creatures

By breakfast, Countess Dewpucker had been engaged in seven newspapers, married in two, widowed in one, and described by the Morning Midge as “pregnant with possibility.”

She burned that one first.

The others lay across the breakfast table in a colorful fan of libel, speculation, and surprisingly flattering portraiture. Every edition featured the same firefly photograph: Dewpucker bending toward Basil Bumblewick, Basil clinging to her cheeks, their mouths joined above the ceremonial bloom while pink hearts floated around them like witnesses with no respect for context.

Beneath the papers sat three hundred and twelve congratulatory cards, eleven formal objections, four marriage proposals from creatures who had misunderstood the situation, and a lace parcel from the Duchess of Dampshire containing something described only as “appropriate for the wedding night.”

Dewpucker had not opened it.

She had, however, moved it away from the fireplace.

Across the table, Basil sat inside a porcelain egg cup because it was the only chair in Dewpucker House that did not make him look like a child awaiting punishment. He wore a fresh bow tie, a borrowed waistcoat, and the haunted expression of a creature who had discovered fame before finishing his tea.

“This one calls me your secret nectar stallion,” he said.

“You are neither secret nor a stallion.”

“I appreciate the clarification.”

“Stop reading them.”

“I tried. Then I found the illustration of us fleeing to the southern begonias.”

He turned the paper around.

The artist had given Basil enormous muscles, a sword, and the hindquarters of a dragonfly. Dewpucker had been drawn across his arms in a transparent nightgown, swooning so vigorously that one eye faced the wrong direction.

“You look ridiculous,” she said.

“I look magnificent.”

“Your abdomen has been weaponized.”

“Art often reveals truths photography cannot.”

Dewpucker reached across the table and lowered the newspaper into the flame.

Basil watched his imaginary muscles curl into ash.

“I was keeping that.”

“You were not.”

A silver breakfast bell rang in the corridor.

Prudence Petalspite entered carrying a tray of sealed invitations. She was Countess Dewpucker’s private secretary, a slender lavender stick insect whose eight spectacles were connected by a gold chain and whose affection for schedules bordered on the erotic.

She regarded Basil in the egg cup.

“Your alleged fiancé has received another bouquet.”

“From whom?” Dewpucker asked.

“An anonymous admirer wishing him strength during his captivity.”

Basil brightened. “How thoughtful.”

“It is made of stinging nettles.”

“Less thoughtful.”

Prudence placed the invitation tray on the table. “Queen Honeyblush confirms tonight’s engagement supper at the Moon-Orchid Hall. Attendance is compulsory for the happy couple, the Royal Courtship Council, and every social predator within flying distance.”

“Cancel it,” Dewpucker said.

“On what grounds?”

“Sanity.”

“Not recognized by the council.”

“Fire?”

“They have a second hall.”

“Death?”

“Requires separate forms for each of you.”

Dewpucker glared at the stack.

Prudence adjusted her spectacles. “Captain Bramblethor is waiting in the drawing room. He has brought the perfume found in your carriage and the expression he uses when someone important may be guilty.”

“How does it differ from his ordinary expression?” Basil asked.

“The left side of his mustache points toward prison.”

Captain Bramblethor entered before they could summon him.

His raspberry armor had been polished to a prosecutorial shine. One hand held the evidence pouch. The other carried a small glass instrument with a silver needle and a rubber bulb.

“Countess,” he said.

“Captain.”

He looked at Basil.

“Mister Bumblewick.”

Basil saluted with his teaspoon. “Still consenting.”

“We will determine that.”

Bramblethor set the instrument beside the evidence pouch. “This is a truth siphon. Standard procedure in suspected courtship enchantment.”

“You intend to interrogate him at breakfast?” Dewpucker asked.

“The effects of Surrender at Sundown can persist for twelve hours. If Mister Bumblewick inhaled enough of it, his declarations may not belong to him.”

Basil raised one leg. “For the record, several of my declarations rarely feel as though they belong to me.”

The captain squeezed the bulb. The silver needle emitted a clear blue spark.

“Place your hand here and answer plainly. Were you compelled to kiss Countess Dewpucker?”

Basil rested his hand against the glass.

“The first time, yes.”

The spark remained blue.

Bramblethor’s mustache sharpened.

“By the countess?”

“No.”

Blue again.

“Did she knowingly expose you to courtship perfume?”

“No.”

“Did she ask you to lie about your relationship?”

Basil glanced at Dewpucker.

The truth siphon turned scarlet before he spoke.

“Interesting,” Bramblethor said.

“Very sensitive instrument,” Basil replied.

“Answer.”

“She asked me to participate in a strategically revised public interpretation.”

The siphon flickered between blue and purple, apparently offended by the phrasing.

“And the second kiss?” Bramblethor asked. “The one on the terrace.”

Basil’s hand remained against the glass.

“What about it?”

“Was that kiss unwelcome?”

The room went still.

Dewpucker examined the sugar bowl with sudden scholarly interest.

Basil’s wings made one soft, nervous beat.

“No,” he said.

The truth siphon glowed a brilliant, humiliating blue.

Prudence wrote something on her clipboard.

“What are you writing?” Dewpucker demanded.

“Nothing relevant to payroll.”

Captain Bramblethor removed Basil’s hand from the device. “The immediate coercion complaint is suspended. The planted vial remains evidence of an attempt to implicate you, Countess.”

“Then investigate Marchioness Bramblekiss.”

“On what evidence?”

“She arranged the engagement supper within minutes, knew where the second vial would be found, and smiles like a silk purse full of razors.”

“The first two are circumstantial. The third is not illegal.”

“It should be.”

Bramblethor placed the pouch inside his armor. “Until we identify who prepared Mister Bumblewick’s duty card, neither of you is to leave the city.”

“Splendid,” Basil said. “I have never been forbidden to travel with a countess before. It lends structure to the romance.”

The captain departed without acknowledging him.

Dewpucker waited until the front door shut.

Then she turned to Prudence.

“Find the mole.”

Crumpet the night porter lived beneath the palace kitchens in a tunnel furnished almost entirely with lost gloves.

By noon, Dewpucker, Basil, and Prudence had squeezed into his parlor beneath a chandelier made from teaspoons. Crumpet himself sat in a red velvet chair, wearing a striped dressing gown and blinking at them through a sleep mask he had forgotten to remove from his forehead.

“The duty card?” he repeated.

“The one given to Mister Bumblewick,” Dewpucker said. “Who delivered it?”

Crumpet scratched his nose with one enormous digging claw. “Young lady. Green shell. Black veil. Smelled of thistles.”

Dewpucker and Basil exchanged a look.

“Marchioness Velouria,” Basil said.

“Could be,” Crumpet replied. “Could be a cabbage. Eyes aren’t what they were.”

“Did she say anything?”

“Said the queen wanted Bumblewick assigned to the eastern blossom. Gave me a raspberry seal and six pollen crowns.”

Prudence held out her hand. “The seal.”

Crumpet looked wounded. “I may have spent it.”

“A royal seal?”

“The wax was wrapped around chocolate.”

Dewpucker closed her eyes.

“Did she leave anything else?”

Crumpet thought for so long that Basil began examining the glove chandelier.

Then the mole snapped his claws.

“A feather.”

He rummaged beneath his chair and produced a narrow green plume edged in black.

Dewpucker knew it immediately. Velouria had worn a collar of identical feathers at the ball.

Prudence reached for it.

“Wait,” Basil said.

He leaned close without touching the plume. “That is not a feather.”

“It is green, pointed, and fell off a collar,” Dewpucker said.

“It is also humming.”

The plume trembled between Crumpet’s claws.

A tiny black seam opened along its shaft.

“Drop it,” Basil shouted.

Crumpet dropped it.

The false feather split apart and released a cloud of sparkling pink vapor.

Basil flew straight into Dewpucker’s face.

Prudence pulled her clipboard over her nose.

Crumpet inhaled deeply and turned toward the nearest object with sudden, helpless passion.

It was a boot.

“At last,” he whispered.

He embraced it.

The vapor filled the tunnel.

Dewpucker grabbed Basil, shoved him inside an abandoned glove, and tied the fingers around his waist.

“Stay there.”

“This feels less like courtship than advertised.”

“If you inhale more perfume, you may attempt something fatal to both of us.”

“The glove already smells like feet. Death has become competitive.”

Prudence kicked open a ventilation hatch. Fresh air rolled through the tunnel, thinning the vapor. Crumpet continued murmuring promises to the boot.

On the floor, the broken feather dissolved into oily black dust.

“It was planted,” Prudence said.

“Of course it was,” Dewpucker replied. “A perfect clue implicating Velouria, conveniently retained by a witness too foolish to question it.”

Basil wriggled free of the glove. “You think someone wants us to blame her?”

“I think someone wants us looking wherever they point.”

“Velouria still enjoys this far too much.”

“Enjoying cruelty and organizing it are separate professions.”

Prudence gathered the dust into an envelope. “The engagement supper begins in six hours.”

Dewpucker looked at Basil.

“Then we attend.”

“As bait?” he asked.

“As the happiest couple in Sugarwild.”

“That sounds more dangerous.”

The Moon-Orchid Hall had been decorated as if romance were a military occupation.

Pink ribbons covered the columns. Heart-shaped lanterns hung from every vine. A portrait of Dewpucker and Basil’s first kiss had been enlarged to the size of a carriage and suspended above the royal table. Someone had added the words LOVE FINDS A WAY in gold pollen beneath it.

“Love had help from a poisoned feather and an ambush photographer,” Dewpucker muttered.

Basil offered his arm.

He wore a tailored plum waistcoat now, a crisp white collar, and a top hat sized to remain attached during emergencies. Dewpucker had selected the clothes herself. She had told Prudence it was necessary for the deception.

Prudence had written something on her clipboard again.

“You look acceptable,” Dewpucker said.

“You stared for eleven seconds.”

“I was checking the tailoring.”

“With your mouth slightly open?”

“Your next waistcoat will have fewer breathing holes.”

They entered arm in arm.

The guests applauded. Dewpucker smiled. Basil gazed up at her as instructed, though the expression in his eyes required very little acting.

At the royal table, Queen Honeyblush welcomed them with weary amusement.

“Countess. Mister Bumblewick. I trust today has been restful.”

“I was accused of enchanting him, Your Majesty,” Dewpucker said.

“And I was illustrated with the hindquarters of a dragonfly,” Basil added.

The queen nodded sympathetically. “Courtship is difficult.”

Marchioness Velouria sat opposite them in emerald silk and black pearls. She lifted her glass.

“To authentic affection.”

“And authentic evidence,” Dewpucker replied.

Their glasses touched.

Neither drank.

Dinner began with rose-petal soup, followed by candied beetles, buttered pollen cakes, and a nectar custard shaped like the happy couple. Basil refused to eat his own head. Dewpucker ate hers without hesitation.

Between courses, members of the Royal Courtship Council asked questions.

Where had they met?

“At the ball,” Basil said.

“Years ago,” Dewpucker said at the same time.

They stared at each other.

“We met years ago,” Basil corrected, “but only realized it at the ball.”

“He was wearing a different hat,” Dewpucker added.

What did they admire most about one another?

“Her composure,” Basil said immediately.

“His ability to survive impact,” Dewpucker replied.

What pet name did the countess use for him?

Dewpucker’s mind went blank.

Basil smiled sweetly.

“She calls me her little nectar stallion.”

Dewpucker kicked him beneath the table.

He folded around his dessert spoon.

“Passion,” the council chairwoman whispered approvingly.

By the fourth course, their invented history had acquired a moonlit meeting, a forbidden picnic, and an exchange of secret letters that Basil promised to write retroactively.

By the fifth, Dewpucker’s hand had remained over his beneath the table for so long that neither remembered who was pretending.

Then the orchestra began the lovers’ waltz.

Basil looked toward the dance floor.

“I should warn you,” he said, “I have never danced without being carried.”

“You are a bee.”

“We are excellent at directions. Rhythm is a private humiliation.”

Dewpucker led him onto the floor.

This time she did not rotate him like a lantern. She rested one hand beneath his, placed the other lightly against his back, and let his wings carry him at the level of her heart.

“Follow my shoulders,” she said.

“I have been trying not to.”

“Basil.”

“Following.”

They moved slowly at first.

Then Basil found the rhythm.

He circled her with surprising grace, velvet coat flashing beneath the lanterns. Dewpucker turned with him, her lace skirts sweeping through fallen petals. The hall softened into warm color and distant music. The watchers disappeared. Even the enormous portrait overhead became irrelevant.

Basil drew closer.

“Are we still performing?” he asked.

“Of course.”

“You stopped watching Velouria.”

Dewpucker looked across the room.

The marchioness’s chair was empty.

“Damn it.”

They left the dance without waiting for the music to end.

Beyond the hall, a trail of crushed thistle petals led through the moon-orchid corridor toward the private conservatory. Dewpucker and Basil followed it past sleeping flowers and shuttered lanterns.

At the conservatory door, they heard voices.

Velouria spoke first.

“The countess has become unpredictable.”

A second voice answered from the darkness.

“No. She has become useful.”

Dewpucker recognized it.

So did Basil.

They looked at each other in disbelief.

Inside the conservatory, Captain Bramblethor continued.

“Tomorrow, the courtship council will open Dewpucker House for the engagement inspection. While everyone watches the happy couple, you will retrieve the heart pendant.”

Dewpucker’s hand rose to the jewel at her throat.

Velouria lowered her voice. “And if she refuses the inspection?”

“Then the perfume charge becomes formal. Either way, the pendant returns to the crown.”

“You are certain she does not know what it unlocks?”

“If she knew, she would never wear it in public.”

Basil leaned closer to the door.

The hinge creaked.

Conversation stopped.

Dewpucker seized Basil and pulled him behind a giant orchid leaf just as the conservatory door opened.

Captain Bramblethor stepped into the corridor.

His armor passed within inches of their hiding place.

Basil pressed against Dewpucker’s chest, his wings trapped beneath her hand. The heart pendant pulsed between them with a faint, ruby light.

Bramblethor stopped.

The pendant grew hotter.

His mustache turned slowly toward the leaf.

“Come out,” he said.

Dewpucker held her breath.

On the other side of the leaf, something small scurried across the floor.

Bramblethor lunged.

Crumpet the mole shot from beneath a flowerpot carrying the same boot he had fallen in love with earlier.

“You’ll never separate us!” he cried.

He vanished through a ventilation grate.

The captain swore and pursued him down the corridor.

Dewpucker waited until his footsteps faded.

Then she looked down.

Basil was still pressed against her.

“You may release me,” he whispered.

“I am considering whether you are safer here.”

“I am considering several thoughts inconsistent with the investigation.”

The perfume should have worn off hours ago.

They both knew it.

Dewpucker loosened her hand from his wings but did not move away.

“The first kiss was arranged,” she said.

“Yes.”

“The second was strategy.”

“Excellent strategy.”

“This one would be a mistake.”

“Almost certainly.”

Basil lifted one hand toward her face.

The heart pendant flashed.

A sharp click sounded beneath Dewpucker’s gown.

The jewel split open.

Inside, where a painted portrait should have rested, lay a tiny golden key.

Neither of them touched it.

From the conservatory came Marchioness Velouria’s quiet voice.

“Now,” she said, “perhaps you understand why everyone is so interested in your love life.”

The Third Kiss, Which Was Nobody Else’s Business

Marchioness Velouria stepped from the conservatory holding a dagger made from black glass.

It was a beautiful weapon—narrow, polished, and completely inappropriate for an engagement supper unless one had invited the correct relatives.

Countess Dewpucker pushed Basil behind her.

“If you intend to stab me,” she said, “do avoid the lace. It is older than your title.”

Velouria glanced at the dagger.

“This is for the orchid.”

She turned and sliced through a thick silver vine beside the conservatory door.

The vine fell away, revealing a tiny listening beetle fastened beneath the leaves. Its brass wings whirred once before Velouria crushed it beneath her heel.

“We have perhaps thirty seconds,” she said.

Basil leaned around Dewpucker’s gown. “Before what?”

“Before the creature wearing Captain Bramblethor’s face realizes I have stopped cooperating.”

Dewpucker stared at her.

“Explain quickly.”

“The captain you heard is not Captain Bramblethor. His name is Briarclack. He is a mirror mantis, a professional impersonator, and a former actor dismissed from the Royal Conservatory for biting a critic.”

“Only one?” Basil asked.

“The reviews were mixed.”

Velouria extended one jeweled hand toward the open pendant.

Dewpucker closed it around the golden key.

“Keep your fingers,” the countess warned.

“I do not want the key. Briarclack does.”

“You delivered Basil’s duty card.”

“No. He did, wearing my face.”

“The feather smelled of your perfume.”

“Because it came from my collar. He stole three at the ball.”

“And the vial in my carriage?”

Velouria’s jaw tightened. “Also Briarclack.”

Dewpucker gave her a long look.

“You appear in every answer without being responsible for anything. That is either innocence or aristocracy at its most advanced.”

“I have been attempting to expose him for months.”

“By smiling at my humiliation?”

“I contain multitudes.”

Footsteps rang at the far end of the corridor.

Measured. Armored. Official.

Velouria lowered her voice. “The key opens the Heartvault beneath Dewpucker House. Your family has guarded it for five generations.”

“My family guarded recipes, grudges, and a deeply disappointing collection of commemorative spoons.”

“The spoons are a decoy.”

Dewpucker’s expression hardened. “Aunt Gussandra told me never to underestimate the spoons.”

“Inside the vault is the First Bloom Accord—the original treaty dividing Sugarwild’s nectar springs among the crown, the eastern lily courts, and the free pollinators. Whoever possesses its royal seal can redirect every spring in the garden.”

Basil’s wings stopped.

“Briarclack could starve the hives.”

“Or sell the water back to them,” Velouria said. “He needed legal access to Dewpucker House. An engagement inspection provided it. The perfume scandal ensured the council would order one whether the countess agreed or not.”

Dewpucker looked down at Basil.

“So the kiss was never intended merely to embarrass me.”

“Embarrassing you was an unusually popular bonus.”

The footsteps drew closer.

Velouria opened a narrow door behind the orchids. “This passage leads to the western terrace. We must reach Dewpucker House before Briarclack.”

“And the real captain?” Basil asked.

“Locked beneath the palace laundry.”

“How do you know?”

“He has been sending threats through the trouser press.”

Dewpucker stepped into the passage.

“Basil, free Captain Bramblethor. Velouria and I will secure the vault.”

“You are sending me away?”

“I am giving you the task that requires flying, discretion, and the ability to fit through a laundry chute.”

“All right. It sounded less romantic before the explanation.”

She caught his bow tie before he could leave.

For one moment, the corridor, conspiracy, and pounding footsteps disappeared.

“Do not be heroic,” she said.

“I am an assistant nectar steward.”

“That has not prevented you so far.”

Basil touched her wrist.

“Try not to marry anyone while I am gone.”

“Go.”

He flew toward the laundry stairs.

Dewpucker and Velouria entered the hidden passage just as the false captain turned into the corridor.

“Countess?” he called.

His voice was perfect.

Even his mustache sounded suspicious.

The passage descended through the palace stem in a spiral of damp stone and glowing roots. Velouria moved quickly. Dewpucker followed less gracefully, lifting her skirts with one hand and clutching the pendant with the other.

“Why should I trust you?” she asked.

“You should not.”

“An unusually honest answer.”

“Trust is slow. Briarclack is fast.”

Behind them, metal struck stone.

The false captain had found the door.

They emerged beneath the western terrace into a courtyard filled with royal carriages. Dewpucker selected the nearest—a polished walnut shell drawn by four harnessed dragonflies—and shoved the driver aside.

“Dewpucker House,” she ordered.

Velouria climbed in. “Can you drive?”

“I am a countess.”

“That was not my question.”

Dewpucker snapped the reins.

The dragonflies launched.

The carriage shot through a hedge, clipped the top from a fountain, and scattered three romantic poets who had been waiting outside the supper for material.

“Apparently not,” Velouria said.

“They moved.”

“The fountain?”

“In spirit.”

Behind them, Briarclack burst from the palace wearing Bramblethor’s armor. He raised one hand, and a squad of royal guards took flight around him.

“Stop the countess!” he shouted. “She has enchanted Mister Bumblewick and abducted the marchioness!”

“I object to being abducted in this carriage,” Velouria said. “It is terrible for my image.”

Spears of hardened sugar struck the road beside them.

Dewpucker snapped the reins again.

The dragonflies accelerated until the carriage bounced from leaf to leaf, trailing ribbons from the engagement supper. Residents leaned from windows as they passed. Several cheered. One tossed confetti. The public had assumed it was an elopement.

“Kiss her!” someone shouted.

“Wrong passenger!” Dewpucker yelled back.

They reached Dewpucker House with the guards seconds behind them.

Prudence stood in the doorway holding her clipboard and a crossbow.

“You are early,” she said.

“Lock the house.”

“Already done.”

“How did you know?”

“Mister Bumblewick sent a laundry moth.”

Dewpucker paused.

“Efficient little bastard.”

“I have added it to his favorable qualities.”

“Give me that clipboard.”

Prudence held it closer.

“No.”

The front gates shook beneath a heavy blow.

Briarclack’s voice carried over the wall.

“By order of Queen Honeyblush, open for inspection!”

“The council inspection is scheduled for tomorrow,” Prudence called back.

“The schedule has changed.”

Prudence looked offended beyond reason.

“Now I know he is an impostor.”

She fired the crossbow through the keyhole.

Someone outside yelped.

Dewpucker led Velouria through the drawing room toward the ancestral gallery. Portraits of stern amphibians watched from the walls. Each wore a jeweled heart pendant identical to hers.

At the gallery’s end stood the family spoon cabinet.

It contained five hundred silver spoons commemorating births, funerals, coronations, divorces, and one unusually successful beet harvest.

“The decoy,” Velouria said.

“Aunt Gussandra would rise from the pond and bite you for that.”

Dewpucker inserted the golden key into a tiny lock beneath the cabinet.

Nothing happened.

She turned it left.

Nothing.

She turned it right.

One commemorative spoon fell from the top shelf and struck her crown.

Velouria examined it.

“The handle bears a heart.”

Dewpucker lifted the spoon.

On its bowl was engraved:

LOVE OPENS WHAT RANK CANNOT.

“Sentimental nonsense,” she said.

“Try the spoon.”

“It is a spoon.”

“Your house is under siege because everyone underestimated the spoons.”

Dewpucker inserted its handle beside the golden key.

The cabinet split down the middle.

Cold golden light poured through the opening.

Behind it, a spiral stair descended into the roots.

The front doors crashed open.

Prudence fired again.

“Your inspection remains unscheduled!” she shouted.

Dewpucker and Velouria hurried into the vault passage. The cabinet closed behind them just as armored guards entered the gallery.

The stair ended in a circular chamber wrapped around an underground spring. Crystal water rose from the roots and divided into three glowing streams beneath the floor.

At the chamber’s center stood a stone pedestal.

On it rested the First Bloom Accord.

The parchment shimmered with ancient pollen. Three seals hung from its lower edge: a honeybee crown, a lily, and a pair of crossed wings.

Velouria stopped at the bottom of the stairs.

“There it is.”

“And there you are,” Dewpucker said.

She turned.

Velouria still held the black-glass dagger.

For several seconds, neither moved.

Then Velouria placed the dagger on the floor and kicked it toward Dewpucker.

“As I said, trust is slow.”

A blade punched through the cabinet door above them.

Wood splintered.

Briarclack tore the hidden entrance open.

He descended wearing Captain Bramblethor’s face, but the disguise had begun to fail. One side of his mustache sagged. His raspberry armor melted into glossy green plates. Two serrated mantis arms unfolded behind him.

“Thank you for opening the vault,” he said.

Dewpucker picked up the dagger.

“You went through a remarkable amount of trouble to arrange a kiss.”

“I arranged a scandal. The kiss was merely efficient.”

“It was sloppy,” Velouria said.

“And yet we are all here.”

Briarclack’s arm struck.

Dewpucker blocked it with the black blade. The impact spun her across the chamber. Velouria leapt onto his back, hooked both arms around his neck, and drove one heel into the edge of his armor.

Briarclack threw her into the spring.

She surfaced furious and dripping.

“This silk is imported!”

Dewpucker slashed at Briarclack. He dodged and pinned her against the pedestal.

“Give me the key.”

“You are standing inside the vault.”

“The key does more than open doors.”

He tore the golden key from her hand and thrust it into the center of the royal seal.

The three streams beneath the floor surged.

Water twisted upward around the pedestal, forming a glowing map of Sugarwild. Every nectar spring shone like a star.

Briarclack grinned.

“At midnight, they will all answer to me.”

“You have overlooked one thing,” Dewpucker said.

“What?”

“You are not royal.”

She drove the commemorative spoon into the second lock beside the seal.

The vault rejected him.

A torrent of spring water blasted from the pedestal and struck Briarclack squarely in the chest. His disguise dissolved in a sheet of raspberry-colored foam. The current carried him across the chamber and pinned him against the wall.

“Velouria!” Dewpucker shouted.

The marchioness grabbed the black silk ribbons hanging from her soaked gown and bound Briarclack’s serrated arms.

He twisted free of the water long enough to reach for Dewpucker.

A small black hat flew down the stairs and struck him between the eyes.

Basil Bumblewick followed it.

Behind him came the real Captain Bramblethor, dressed in a palace laundry sheet and wearing an expression capable of prosecuting weather.

His genuine mustache pointed entirely toward prison.

“Briarclack,” the captain said.

The mirror mantis looked at him.

“You appear ridiculous.”

“I have spent fourteen hours beneath a trouser press.”

Captain Bramblethor picked up Briarclack by the throat.

“You are about to learn how that feels.”

The royal guards crowded onto the stairs behind him. They stared at the two Bramblethors, then at the mantis dripping raspberry foam.

“Arrest the green one,” Dewpucker said.

The guards obeyed.

Basil landed on the pedestal beside her. His waistcoat was torn. There was starch in his mustache and a clothespin attached to one wing.

“You were heroic,” Dewpucker said.

“Entirely by accident.”

“Better.”

He looked at the glowing map, the ancient treaty, and the spoon still protruding from the royal seal.

“I assume the commemorative cutlery saved Sugarwild.”

“We will never tell Aunt Gussandra.”

Queen Honeyblush arrived shortly before midnight.

She entered the Heartvault accompanied by the Royal Courtship Council, three attorneys, and Prudence, who had acquired a second crossbow.

The queen listened while Dewpucker explained the perfume, the false duty card, the planted evidence, the engagement inspection, and Briarclack’s plan to seize the nectar springs.

Captain Bramblethor stood nearby in his laundry sheet while guards restrained the mirror mantis.

Marchioness Velouria gave her own statement, omitting only the parts that would have required admitting to several unrelated crimes.

When they finished, Queen Honeyblush examined the First Bloom Accord.

“The treaty will be moved to the royal vault,” she said.

Dewpucker folded her arms.

“No.”

The chamber fell silent.

Captain Bramblethor’s mustache briefly forgot which way to point.

Queen Honeyblush looked at the countess.

“No?”

“My family has protected it for five generations. Tonight proved that the royal household is not uniquely qualified to guard anything.”

Basil coughed into one hand.

“She does have the laundry evidence.”

The queen considered this.

Then she smiled.

“Very well. The accord remains here under joint protection of the crown, Dewpucker House, and the free pollinators.”

She looked at Basil.

“Mister Bumblewick, you will represent the pollinators.”

Basil’s mouth opened.

“Your Majesty, I carry trays.”

“You infiltrated a palace laundry, freed my captain, and struck a traitor with formalwear.”

“The hat was already damaged.”

“Your appointment begins tomorrow.”

Basil bowed. “Then I respectfully request a new hat.”

“Granted.”

The Courtship Council chairwoman cleared her throat.

“There remains the question of the engagement.”

Dewpucker and Basil turned toward her.

“The second public kiss confirmed formal courtship,” the chairwoman continued. “The engagement supper was completed. Under Sugarwild custom, the couple must either announce a wedding date or dissolve the arrangement before witnesses.”

Every creature in the vault leaned closer.

Dewpucker looked at Basil.

Their entire courtship had been constructed from perfume, gossip, strategy, and lies told beneath decorative hearts.

But he had believed her when the evidence made her look guilty.

He had returned when she sent him away.

And he still wore a clothespin on one wing because no one brave enough to enter a fortified vault had thought to remove it.

“We dissolve it,” Dewpucker said.

Basil’s face fell before he could stop it.

The council chairwoman raised her pen.

“Very well.”

“The arrangement was fraudulent,” Dewpucker continued. “The announcement was a defense against scandal. The supper was an investigation. The engagement belongs to Briarclack, the perfume, and every gossip who mistook spectacle for truth.”

She removed the heart pendant and placed it on the treaty.

“I will not allow any of them to decide whom I love.”

Basil looked up.

Dewpucker extended her hand.

“Mister Bumblewick, would you care to have breakfast with me tomorrow?”

“In the egg cup?”

“If you behave.”

“And if I do not?”

“We will require a larger cup.”

Basil took her hand.

“I would be delighted.”

The council chairwoman lowered her pen.

“So you are ending the engagement and beginning a courtship?”

“A private courtship,” Dewpucker said.

Six gossip beetles immediately began writing.

She glared at them.

They continued more quietly.

Briarclack was sealed inside a dry seedpod pending trial for conspiracy, impersonation of a royal officer, nectar extortion, unlawful use of courtship perfume, and making Captain Bramblethor miss an important mustache appointment.

The last charge carried the harshest sentence.

Marchioness Velouria was officially commended for assisting the crown and unofficially warned that stealing evidence from an active investigation remained illegal even when done elegantly.

Crumpet received treatment for perfume exposure. His relationship with the boot ended amicably after he discovered it belonged to a centipede.

Prudence created a new category in Dewpucker House’s schedule titled UNPLANNED ROMANTIC EMERGENCIES.

She allotted two afternoons per month.

Three weeks later, Countess Dewpucker returned to the Moon-Orchid Hall for Queen Honeyblush’s spring reception.

The enormous portrait of the first kiss had finally been removed. A smaller copy now hung in the palace cloakroom, where the queen claimed not to know about it.

Dewpucker stood alone on the western terrace beneath the orchid lanterns. She wore her jeweled crown, pearl necklace, and ruby heart pendant, now fitted with three additional locks and a small warning label.

Behind her came the soft buzz of familiar wings.

Basil Bumblewick landed on the railing in a new black top hat. His plum waistcoat bore a silver badge identifying him as Keeper of the Pollinator Seal.

“You are late,” Dewpucker said.

“I was intercepted by three reporters, two admirers, and a dragonfly who insisted we had served together in the southern begonias.”

“Your illustrated hindquarters continue to cause trouble.”

“They have their own fan club.”

He offered her a tiny bouquet of blushing violets.

“No nettles?”

“I am learning.”

Dewpucker accepted the flowers.

Music drifted from the ballroom.

Basil held out one hand.

“Would you care to dance?”

“Are you wearing perfume?”

“Only clover, library dust, and the natural scent of professional advancement.”

She took his hand.

They danced beneath the moon orchids without an audience, announcement, or legal council. Basil followed her shoulders. Dewpucker followed his wings. Neither was especially good, but the absence of witnesses improved them enormously.

When the music ended, Basil remained close.

“May I kiss you?” he asked.

Dewpucker considered him.

The first kiss had been forced upon them.

The second had been a weapon.

The nearly third had been interrupted by a key, a conspiracy, and the least romantic vault in Sugarwild.

This one belonged to no one else.

“You may,” she said.

Basil removed his hat.

He kissed her carefully.

It was soft, warm, and entirely free of airborne intoxicants.

No fireflies flashed.

No hearts fell from the ceiling.

No newspaper printed the moment before it happened.

When they parted, Basil’s mustache was crooked and Dewpucker’s ruby lipstick had marked his mouth once again.

“Questionable?” he asked.

She adjusted his bow tie.

“Deeply.”

“Another?”

“For investigative certainty.”

They kissed again.

Behind a nearby orchid, one gossip beetle slowly raised his notebook.

Marchioness Velouria’s black-glass dagger appeared from the darkness and sliced the pencil cleanly in half.

“Private courtship,” she whispered.

The beetle fled.

Velouria slipped away without disturbing the couple.

By morning, everyone in Sugarwild agreed on three facts.

The nectar springs were safe.

The engagement was over.

And Countess Dewpucker’s latest kiss was nobody’s business.

Which naturally made it the only thing anyone wanted to discuss.

Bring Home Sugarwild's Most Discussed Kiss

Countess Dewpucker and Basil Bumblewick may have rescued Sugarwild's nectar springs, unmasked a mirror mantis, and survived an engagement that began as somebody else's scandal-but the garden will be discussing that kiss until the commemorative spoons tarnish. Give their gloriously questionable courtship the formal treatment with a canvas print or luminous acrylic print, invite the scandal onto a throw pillow, or piece together every clue with the jigsaw puzzle.

For declarations requiring less royal paperwork, carry the unlikely pair on a tote bag, toast accidental heroism with a coffee mug, or send a greeting card worthy of an announcement Sugarwild absolutely was not prepared to print.