Sir Nectarback and the Petal That Took It Personally

The Morning the Petal Wouldn’t Let Go

Sir Nectarback regained consciousness in stages.

First came the warmth.

Then the moisture.

Then the deeply troubling realization that something large, pink, and remarkably determined had wrapped itself around his left thigh.

He opened one eye.

It immediately objected.

The morning light pouring through the bloom was pink, glittering, and offensively cheerful. It struck every dewdrop clinging to his skin and scattered itself across the flower’s interior in tiny bursts of gold and coral. Sir Nectarback squinted into it, groaned, and attempted to lift his head.

The petal tightened.

“Easy,” he croaked. “Whatever happened, we are both adults.”

The petal tightened again.

Sir Nectarback stopped moving.

He was wedged deep inside a trumpet-shaped blossom known locally as a Blushing Belladazzle, a flower famous for three things: nectar strong enough to dissolve good judgment, petals soft enough to inspire terrible poetry, and a tendency to close around anything it considered emotionally significant.

At the moment, it appeared to consider Sir Nectarback extremely significant.

He took inventory.

Both arms were present. Both legs were accounted for. His waistcoat was missing, his ceremonial neck ribbon had been tied around one ankle, and someone had decorated the top of his head with tiny orange pollen berries. His skin was slick with nectar, dusted with gold, and covered in enough dew to suggest he had either enjoyed himself tremendously or been marinated.

His mouth tasted like fermented honeysuckle and regret.

“Right,” he whispered. “Not ideal.”

The last thing he clearly remembered was arriving at the Moonmelt Mixer just before sunset. The annual party took place beneath the lantern lilies, where the nectar flowed freely and respectable garden creatures made temporary enemies of their trousers.

Sir Nectarback had planned to stay for one drink.

This was a lie he told himself every year.

He remembered greeting Baroness Butterrump beside the sugared fern. He remembered winning a drinking contest against two budwigs and a snail who had later accused the table of moving. He remembered climbing onto a mushroom cap to deliver a speech about the importance of emotional availability.

After that, his memory became a sequence of disconnected sensations.

A burst of laughter.

A petal brushing his cheek.

Someone chanting his name.

A voice asking, “Do you say that to every flower?”

And his own voice replying with magnificent confidence, “Only the ones I intend to remember.”

Sir Nectarback closed his eyes.

“Oh, hell.”

The petal stroked the side of his face.

It did not have fingers, yet somehow the gesture felt pointed.

“I remember you,” he said quickly.

The bloom loosened by half an inch.

Encouraged, he smiled at the curved wall of pink surrounding him.

“Of course I remember you. How could I forget such a magnificent, velvety...”

He hesitated.

He had no idea what the flower’s name was.

The petal stopped stroking him.

“...presence?”

The bloom snapped shut above his head.

Sir Nectarback was plunged into warm pink darkness.

“That was not my final answer.”

From somewhere beyond the flower came a faint buzzing noise.

“Nectarback?” called a voice.

He froze.

“Sir Nectarback, are you inside that Belladazzle?”

The voice belonged to Pip Thimblewing, a young pollen courier who possessed the garden’s fastest wings and absolutely no ability to keep information to himself.

Sir Nectarback looked down at his missing waistcoat, ribboned ankle, and compromising arrangement of petals.

“No.”

There was a pause.

“I can see your foot.”

Sir Nectarback slowly pulled his foot beneath him.

“Someone else’s foot.”

“It has your signet ring on the toe.”

“Many frogs wear toe jewelry.”

“It says ‘Nectarback.’”

He sighed.

“Pip, before you draw any conclusions, I want you to understand that the situation is botanical.”

“The whole garden is botanical.”

“Exactly. So you see how little this proves.”

The petal opened just enough for Pip’s striped face and enormous eyes to appear above him. The courier stared down into the blossom. His gaze moved from Sir Nectarback’s pollen-encrusted head to the petal coiled possessively around his waist.

“Oh,” Pip said.

Sir Nectarback pointed a warning finger at him.

“Not one word.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Your eyebrows did.”

“They were surprised.”

“Tell them to mind their business.”

Pip fluttered closer. “Do you need help?”

“Obviously not.”

The petal cinched around Nectarback’s middle and pulled him backward until his face landed against its warm, dewy surface.

“I am,” he continued, his voice muffled, “completely in control.”

“Should I fetch someone?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Doctor Dewlap?”

“No.”

“The vine brigade?”

“Pip.”

“Your trousers?”

Nectarback looked down sharply.

There were no trousers.

“Fetch those,” he said. “Quietly.”

“Do you remember where you left them?”

“If I remembered that, Pip, I suspect several other questions would have answered themselves.”

The courier landed on the rim of the bloom and studied the scene with the solemn concentration of someone already composing the version he would swear he had not repeated.

“When did you get in there?”

“Sometime after the mushroom speech.”

“That was early.”

“How early?”

“Before you challenged the fireflies to a blinking contest.”

A fragment of memory returned. Sir Nectarback standing atop a watering stone, shouting that natural luminescence was no substitute for discipline.

He rubbed his temples.

“Anything else?”

“You sang to the tulips.”

“I often sing to the tulips.”

“They uprooted themselves and left.”

“Everyone is a critic.”

“Then you danced with this flower.”

Nectarback’s hands went still.

“Danced how?”

Pip’s wings slowed.

“Enthusiastically.”

“That is not a useful measurement.”

“Several stamens requested privacy.”

Sir Nectarback looked toward the golden stalks clustered at the bottom of the bloom. They leaned away from him as if avoiding eye contact.

“Traitors,” he muttered.

Pip tapped one tiny foot against the petal’s rim. “You also made an announcement.”

“What sort of announcement?”

“A romantic one.”

Nectarback stared at him.

“Define romantic.”

“You asked everyone to witness something.”

A cold sensation moved through Sir Nectarback that had nothing to do with the dew gathering beneath him.

“Witness what?”

“That is where the story gets confusing.”

“Pip, if you value your wings, make it less confusing.”

The courier glanced around before lowering his voice.

“Nobody heard the whole thing. The music was loud, the thistle twins were fighting in the punch bowl, and Madame Dripcurl had just discovered someone polishing the wrong garden ornament. But you definitely raised a goblet and said this petal had shown you something no other bloom ever had.”

Sir Nectarback swallowed.

“That could mean anything.”

“Then you said, ‘From this night forward.’”

The petal gave him an affectionate squeeze.

“That could also mean anything,” Nectarback said, with considerably less conviction.

“Then everyone cheered.”

“Garden crowds cheer whenever someone falls into nectar.”

“You might have promised the flower something.”

“What?”

“Nobody knows.”

“How can nobody know?”

“You whispered the last part directly into the petal.”

Sir Nectarback turned slowly toward the glistening pink surface pressed against his shoulder.

The flower curled closer.

“And it heard me?”

Pip shrugged. “It has been holding you ever since.”

For the first time that morning, Sir Nectarback understood the true severity of his predicament.

A Blushing Belladazzle did not close merely because it liked someone. It closed when presented with a promise. Garden scholars called the behavior vow-binding, an ancient floral instinct developed during the era when bees were larger, courtship was formal, and pollen theft carried a mandatory sentence.

The flower would not release him until the promise had been fulfilled, formally withdrawn, or revealed to have been made under false pretenses.

Unfortunately, Belladazzles took false pretenses very personally.

There were stories of offending suitors being launched across three hedgerows.

One had landed in a compost heap and emerged two weeks later with a new religion.

Sir Nectarback forced himself to breathe calmly.

“All we need to do is reconstruct the evening.”

“We?” Pip asked.

“You were there.”

“So were eighty other creatures.”

“Yes, but you are the only one currently looking at my bare backside.”

Pip immediately looked away.

“That makes you involved.”

“That does not feel legally sound.”

“Neither does being kidnapped by a flower, yet here we are.”

The petal smacked him lightly across the cheek.

Sir Nectarback blinked.

“I apologize,” he told it. “Kidnapped is an ugly word. Let us call this an aggressively extended farewell.”

The petal resumed stroking his shoulder.

Pip leaned down. “Can it understand you?”

“Apparently better than I understood myself last night.”

“What if you just ask what you promised?”

Sir Nectarback stared at the courier with withering patience.

“Ask it how?”

“Politely?”

It was insulting advice, mostly because it was sensible.

Nectarback adjusted himself into what he hoped resembled a respectful sitting position. The petal allowed the movement but remained looped around his waist.

He cleared his throat.

“My exquisite Belladazzle,” he began, choosing each word carefully, “last night was evidently meaningful to us both. To you consciously. To me in a more... fragmented fashion.”

The flower trembled.

A fine shower of warm dew sprinkled over his head.

“I would never diminish whatever occurred between us,” he continued. “However, I fear the nectar may have stolen one small but important detail. Would you kindly remind me what I promised?”

For several seconds, nothing happened.

Then the petal loosened.

Sir Nectarback’s eyes widened.

“There we are,” he whispered. “Mutual respect. Honest communication. Emotional matur...”

A slender pink tendril emerged from beneath him, curled around his missing neck ribbon, and lifted it into the air.

Something had been written across the silk in golden pollen.

Pip leaned forward and read aloud.

“At sunset, beneath the lantern lilies.”

Sir Nectarback frowned. “That is not a promise.”

The tendril flipped the ribbon over.

There was more writing on the back.

Pip’s mouth fell open.

“What?” Nectarback demanded.

The courier looked from the ribbon to the frog and then back again.

“It says, ‘Ask me again when the whole garden can hear.’”

The bloom shivered with delight.

Every petal opened at once.

Morning light flooded the flower, revealing a glittering view across the Sugarwild Garden. Creatures were already moving between the stems below. Vendors erected nectar stalls. Beetles rolled polished berry carts toward the square. Above them, the lantern lilies hung dormant in the daylight, waiting for sunset.

Sir Nectarback stared at them in horror.

From the nearest path came a familiar gasp.

Lady Blushmidge stood with one hand over her mouth and a basket dangling from the other. Beside her, the thistle twins froze in perfect unison. A snail halted so abruptly that his shell continued rocking.

All four looked up at Sir Nectarback, half-dressed and shining inside the open Belladazzle.

Then they saw the ribbon.

Lady Blushmidge’s basket hit the ground.

“Is that a proposal reminder?” she cried.

“No,” Sir Nectarback said.

The Belladazzle rang like a tiny wedding bell.

The thistle twins screamed.

Pip shot into the air.

“I’m going to find your trousers.”

“Pip!”

But the courier was already racing across the garden, flying with the unmistakable speed of someone carrying news far more exciting than an errand required.

Below, Lady Blushmidge had begun waving other creatures over.

Sir Nectarback looked at the lantern lilies, then at the golden message on his ribbon, then at the petal curled tenderly beneath his chin.

Sunset was less than twelve hours away.

By then, the whole garden would be gathered beneath those lilies, waiting to hear him repeat a question he could not remember asking.

Worse, judging by the petal’s affectionate grip, the answer had already been yes.

The Trail of Catastrophically Romantic Evidence

By nine o’clock, half the Sugarwild Garden believed Sir Nectarback was engaged.

By ten, the other half had selected outfits.

The news traveled through roots, wings, whiskers, and the highly efficient mouths of creatures who insisted they did not gossip. Every retelling acquired fresh embellishments. Nectarback had proposed from atop a moon lily. He had presented the Belladazzle with a ring carved from a pearl. He had promised to abandon bachelorhood, strong drink, and recreational pollination.

The last version caused several former companions to laugh so violently that a nearby caterpillar required assistance.

Sir Nectarback remained inside the bloom.

The Belladazzle had opened enough to let him sit upright, but one petal stayed wrapped firmly around his waist. Whenever he attempted to slide free, the flower drew him back with the calm authority of a grandmother retrieving a child from traffic.

It had also begun grooming him.

Every few minutes, a smaller petal swept dew across his brow or repositioned one of the orange pollen berries decorating his head. The bloom was preparing him for something, and Sir Nectarback suspected it was not an early release.

“You are very attentive,” he said, after the flower polished his left shoulder for the third time. “Possibly too attentive. A healthy partnership allows room for individual grime.”

The petal tapped his mouth.

“Yes, fine. No criticism before breakfast.”

A chorus of excited murmurs rose from below.

Pip Thimblewing returned carrying a bundle of clothing, followed by Lady Blushmidge, Baroness Butterrump, Doctor Dewlap, both thistle twins, and a beetle dragging a cart labeled Emergency Celebrations.

“Why is there a cart?” Nectarback demanded.

“Preparedness,” said the beetle.

“Go prepare somewhere else.”

Pip landed on the rim and dropped the clothing into Nectarback’s lap.

It was not his.

He lifted a tiny sequined undergarment between two fingers.

“Explain.”

“That is everything we found near the dance floor,” Pip said.

“My trousers are blue.”

“They may have started blue.”

Nectarback rummaged through the bundle. It contained one silk stocking, a feathered collar, three mismatched gloves, a lace garter large enough to restrain a badger, and a sash reading Most Flexible Guest.

Baroness Butterrump pointed at the sash. “That one is definitely yours.”

“Based on what evidence?”

“You wore it while demonstrating something with a vine.”

Nectarback stopped searching.

“What did I demonstrate?”

The baroness smiled slowly. “Reach.”

Lady Blushmidge fanned herself with both hands.

Doctor Dewlap cleared his throat. “Perhaps we should focus on the immediate medical concern.”

“Finally,” Nectarback said. “A professional.”

The doctor climbed into the flower, pressed two fingers against the petal, and listened gravely.

“Strong pulse. Excellent color. Responsive curl.”

“And the frog?”

Doctor Dewlap glanced at him. “You look moist but stable.”

“I am being held against my will.”

The Belladazzle slapped Nectarback’s backside.

Several spectators gasped.

Baroness Butterrump whispered, “It knows what it has.”

“Could everyone stop admiring the kidnapping?” Nectarback snapped.

The petal raised itself threateningly.

“Aggressively extended farewell,” he corrected.

It settled again.

Doctor Dewlap peered over his spectacles. “This is a classic vow-binding response. The flower believes you made a sincere promise.”

“I was drunk.”

“Flowers rarely recognize intoxication as a contractual defense.”

“Then flowers need better courts.”

“If you fulfill the promise, it will release you.”

“I do not know what I promised.”

“You may formally withdraw it.”

Nectarback looked hopeful.

“Excellent.”

“But if the Belladazzle believes the withdrawal dishonest, it will initiate rejection.”

“Meaning?”

Doctor Dewlap pointed toward the distant compost heap.

A wooden sign stood at its edge. Painted across it were the words Impact Zone.

Nectarback’s hope departed.

Lady Blushmidge lifted the pollen-written ribbon. “The flower expects him beneath the lantern lilies at sunset. Whatever he promised must involve a public question.”

“Then we find every witness from last night,” Nectarback said. “Someone heard it.”

Pip produced a tiny notebook.

“I made a list.”

Nectarback narrowed his eyes. “When?”

“While looking for your trousers.”

“You were gone an hour.”

“There were interviews.”

“Of course there were.”

Lady Blushmidge leaned over Pip’s shoulder. “Who comes first?”

“Madame Dripcurl.”

A collective murmur passed through the group.

Sir Nectarback’s stomach tightened.

Madame Dripcurl owned the Bent Stamen, a discreet nectar lounge that remained discreet only because nobody could remember leaving it. She collected secrets with the patience of a spider and served them chilled whenever it benefited her.

“She will want payment,” Nectarback said.

“I brought three jars of moon honey,” Lady Blushmidge replied.

“She will want humiliation.”

“We brought you.”

Baroness Butterrump laughed so hard she nearly fell from the flower.

The Belladazzle refused to release Nectarback for the investigation, but it permitted the group to move it. Four beetles lifted the entire flower onto the emergency celebration cart while Doctor Dewlap carefully separated its roots from the surrounding soil. A team of worms carried a damp mound beneath it to prevent wilting.

Thus Sir Nectarback began his journey across the Sugarwild Garden seated inside his possessive bloom like a disgraced monarch in a fragrant carriage.

Creatures lined the paths to watch him pass.

Some applauded.

One threw rice.

“Stop encouraging it,” Nectarback shouted.

The Belladazzle caught a grain with its petal and tucked it lovingly beside his knee.

At the Bent Stamen, Madame Dripcurl was polishing a crystal goblet with the smug serenity of someone who had expected them.

She was a velvet-bodied moth with sweeping antennae, plum-colored wings, and a talent for making silence feel expensive.

“Sir Nectarback,” she purred. “You look exactly as I remember you, only more conscious.”

“Madame.”

“And clothed differently.”

“Do you know where my trousers are?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“That is not the question you came to ask.”

Lady Blushmidge placed the jars of moon honey on the counter.

Madame Dripcurl did not look at them.

“I heard Nectarback proposed something last night,” Blushmidge said. “We need to know what.”

“He proposed many things.”

Nectarback winced.

“Most were anatomically optimistic,” Madame Dripcurl continued. “One involved a trellis, a spoon, and a complete misunderstanding of how moth wings fold.”

“The flower,” Nectarback said quickly. “What did I promise the flower?”

Madame Dripcurl finally looked at the Belladazzle. Its petal curved protectively around him.

“You met shortly after your speech.”

“The one about emotional availability?” Pip asked.

“No. The second speech.”

Nectarback frowned. “I gave two?”

“The second concerned the tyranny of fitted waistcoats.”

That explained the missing garment.

“The Belladazzle laughed,” Madame Dripcurl said. “You became fascinated because you had never heard a flower laugh at you before.”

“With me,” Nectarback corrected.

Madame Dripcurl stared at him.

“Continue.”

“You spent the next hour trying to impress it. You balanced nectar cups on your nose. You recited a sonnet backward. You claimed to have invented foreplay.”

Baroness Butterrump snorted.

“I improved it,” Nectarback muttered.

“The flower remained amused but unconvinced. Then you began speaking seriously.”

He shifted inside the bloom.

“About what?”

“Loneliness.”

The room quieted.

Even the Belladazzle became still.

Madame Dripcurl set down the goblet.

“You said everyone in Sugarwild knew Sir Nectarback, but nobody stayed long enough to meet the creature underneath the title. You said attention was plentiful and affection was scarce.”

Sir Nectarback looked away.

“That does not sound like me.”

“No,” she said. “It sounded honest.”

“Did I make the promise then?”

“Not here. The Belladazzle touched your face, you started crying, and then you accused me of cutting onions.”

“Were you?”

“This is a nectar lounge.”

“So there is no proof.”

Madame Dripcurl reached beneath the counter and produced a blue pair of trousers.

They were covered in handwritten signatures.

She tossed them into his lap.

Across the backside, someone had written, Witnessed and concerned.

“Put those on,” she said. “Then visit the thistle twins’ punch bowl. That is where you went next.”

The twins exchanged guilty looks.

“You told me you remembered nothing,” Nectarback said.

“We remembered the punch bowl,” said the first twin.

“Not what happened inside it,” said the second.

Sir Nectarback wrestled his way into the trousers while the Belladazzle helped far more enthusiastically than necessary. Once he was dressed, the procession continued toward the abandoned dance lawn.

The party’s remains glittered beneath the late-morning sun. Empty nectar shells lay between crushed petals. Streamers drooped from mushrooms. A drowsy beetle slept inside a flute. Near the center stood the enormous silver punch bowl, still half-full of luminous pink nectar.

Something moved beneath its surface.

Doctor Dewlap approached cautiously and tapped the rim.

A green head emerged with a gasp.

It belonged to Archibald Soursnout, an elderly newt known for documenting garden events nobody wished documented.

“Morning?” he asked.

“Nearly noon,” Pip replied.

“Excellent party.”

“Were you in there all night?” Lady Blushmidge asked.

Archibald looked around. “Apparently.”

Nectarback leaned toward him. “Did you see me with this flower?”

The newt squinted at the Belladazzle.

“I saw it pull you out of the punch.”

“It rescued me?”

“After you tried to rescue the moon’s reflection.”

A memory flashed through Nectarback’s mind.

Cold nectar.

Silver light trembling beneath him.

A pink petal winding around his chest and lifting him to safety.

His own arms embracing it.

His voice, suddenly soft, saying, “You came back for me.”

The memory vanished.

“What happened next?” he asked.

Archibald rubbed nectar from his eyes. “You kissed the flower.”

“Where?” Pip asked.

“Repeatedly.”

“I meant where in the garden.”

“So did I.”

Baroness Butterrump doubled over against the cart.

Nectarback’s cheeks turned purple.

“Did I make a promise?”

“You said the flower deserved better than a drunken performance beside a punch bowl. You asked it to meet you beneath the lantern lilies at sunset.”

“And then?”

“Then you whispered something into its petal.”

“Did you hear it?”

“No, but the flower rang. Loudly. Every lantern lily in the garden lit up.”

Lady Blushmidge gripped Pip’s shoulder.

“A resonance bloom.”

Doctor Dewlap nodded gravely. “That only happens when a Belladazzle accepts a heart-promise.”

“Do not call it that,” Nectarback said.

“That is what it is called.”

“Call it something less alarming.”

“A binding declaration of intimate intent?”

“Somehow worse.”

The Belladazzle nestled against him.

Nectarback tried to remember the whisper, but his mind offered only warmth, pink light, and the sensation of being held without being laughed at.

He shook it away.

“Who saw us after the punch bowl?”

Archibald pointed toward the far end of the lawn, where a trail of gold pollen disappeared beneath the ferns.

“Follow the damage.”

The trail led through a hedge with a Sir Nectarback-shaped opening, across a bridge covered in abandoned musical instruments, and into the Mooncup Meadow. Evidence of his evening lay everywhere.

His waistcoat hung from a branch.

His left shoe rested inside a sleeping bird’s nest.

A mushroom bore the words Nectarback was emotionally available here.

At the center of the meadow stood a circle of bent mooncups surrounding a stone pedestal. On top sat a crystal nectar bottle and two goblets.

One goblet was frog-sized.

The other had been shaped from a folded petal.

Nectarback climbed from the Belladazzle, which allowed him three steps before looping around his ankle.

He approached the pedestal.

Etched into the stone were two sets of marks. One was the print of his hand. The other was the delicate pattern of a petal’s veins.

Pip opened his notebook. “Does that mean anything?”

Doctor Dewlap examined the marks.

“A mutual pledge.”

Nectarback’s mouth went dry.

“What kind?”

“The wording determines that.”

“The wording nobody heard.”

“Correct.”

Lady Blushmidge picked up the crystal bottle. A small quantity of silver nectar remained inside.

“Memorydew,” she said.

Everyone stepped back.

Memorydew was distilled from mooncup nectar and dream pollen. One sip could restore a forgotten moment with perfect clarity. Two could make a creature remember things that had never happened. Three had once convinced an entire mole family they were a staircase.

Nectarback stared at the bottle.

“How much did I drink last night?”

The Belladazzle tapped the pedestal five times.

“Five glasses?” Pip asked.

It tapped again.

“Five bottles?”

The flower rang brightly.

Baroness Butterrump whispered, “How are you alive?”

“Breeding,” Nectarback replied automatically.

The remaining Memorydew shimmered inside the crystal.

One sip might reveal his promise.

It might also return every humiliating detail surrounding it.

Nectarback uncorked the bottle.

The Belladazzle wrapped around his wrist, stopping him.

“You do not want me to remember?” he asked.

The flower trembled.

Its petal pressed gently against his chest.

“Or you do not want me to remember this way.”

Another soft ring.

For a moment, the swagger left his face.

Whatever he had said beneath the mooncups, the bloom did not want it reduced to evidence extracted from a bottle. It wanted him to find his way back to the feeling that had produced it.

That was profoundly inconvenient.

Feelings were much harder to interrogate than witnesses.

Sir Nectarback set down the bottle.

“Fine,” he said quietly. “We do this properly.”

He retraced his steps around the pedestal. His hand moved across the cool stone. He pictured the silver nectar, the flower beside him, and the garden blurred by five bottles of spectacular irresponsibility.

A memory stirred.

He saw himself sitting on the pedestal with his feet dangling over the edge. The Belladazzle stood rooted beside him, its great pink bloom bent close.

“Everyone thinks I enjoy leaving,” his remembered self said.

The flower brushed his cheek.

“Truth is, I leave before anyone notices I want to stay.”

The image sharpened.

He remembered placing his palm against the stone. The petal had rested beside it. Together, they made the marks now etched into the surface.

Then he heard his own voice.

“At sunset, beneath the lantern lilies, I will ask you properly.”

The memory fractured before revealing the question.

Nectarback opened his eyes.

Everyone watched him.

“Well?” Lady Blushmidge asked.

“I remembered part of it.”

“What part?”

“I promised to ask the flower something properly.”

Baroness Butterrump clasped both hands beneath her chin. “Marriage.”

“No.”

“Courtship?” Pip suggested.

“No.”

“Exclusive pollination rights?” asked one thistle twin.

“Absolutely not.”

The Belladazzle pinched his backside.

“We have not discussed terms,” Nectarback told it.

Doctor Dewlap studied the etched marks. “The question must have concerned staying. That emotion is embedded in the pledge.”

“Then perhaps I promised to stay for breakfast.”

Lady Blushmidge stared at him. “Under the lantern lilies at sunset?”

“A late breakfast.”

“Before the whole garden?”

“I enjoy an audience.”

“You enjoy escape routes.”

Sir Nectarback had no answer for that.

A bell rang in the distance.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

The garden’s afternoon bell.

Only six hours remained before sunset.

Pip’s wings drooped. “What do we do now?”

Nectarback looked toward the lantern lilies. Their pale bulbs swayed above the distant square, where creatures had already begun arranging chairs.

More than chairs.

There were ribbons.

A musicians’ platform.

And beneath the largest lily, someone had erected an arch woven from white honeysuckle.

Sir Nectarback pointed at it.

“Who authorized that?”

The beetle from Emergency Celebrations raised one leg.

“Preparedness.”

“Take it down.”

The Belladazzle curled sharply around Nectarback’s waist.

“Leave it loosely assembled,” he amended.

Lady Blushmidge touched his arm. “There is one witness we have not questioned.”

“Who?”

She looked at the flower.

“The only one who heard every word.”

“It cannot speak.”

“Not in a language you understand.”

Doctor Dewlap slowly removed his spectacles.

“There is someone who might translate.”

Nectarback did not like the expression on the doctor’s face.

“Who?”

“Mother Pistil.”

The garden fell silent.

Even the thistle twins stopped whispering.

Mother Pistil lived beneath the oldest rose in Sugarwild. She spoke with roots, listened to seeds dream, and had not forgiven Sir Nectarback for an incident involving her sacred watering basin and what he continued to maintain had been an unusually shaped ladle.

She could ask the Belladazzle what he had promised.

She could also tell when a creature lied.

Sir Nectarback looked at the petal embracing him, the crowd preparing for sunset, and the final swallow of Memorydew glimmering in the bottle.

“I would rather risk the compost heap.”

The Belladazzle lifted him from the ground and deposited him firmly onto the cart.

Its petals pointed toward Mother Pistil’s rose.

Apparently, his intended had made the decision for him.

The Question Beneath the Lantern Lilies

Mother Pistil’s rose grew at the edge of the Sugarwild Garden, beyond the respectable paths and several warning signs nobody had bothered to make less inviting.

The first read Do Not Enter Without Purpose.

The second read Curiosity Is Not a Purpose.

The third had been recently amended to say Especially You, Nectarback.

Sir Nectarback sat inside the Belladazzle as the emergency celebration cart rattled past it.

“That feels unnecessarily personal,” he said.

The pink petal squeezed him.

“Yes, I understand the irony.”

Pip, Lady Blushmidge, Baroness Butterrump, Doctor Dewlap, the thistle twins, four beetles, and the worms carrying the Belladazzle’s soil followed behind. Nobody had formally joined the investigation. They had simply failed to leave.

By the time the procession reached the old rose, another twenty creatures trailed at a supposedly discreet distance.

Mother Pistil waited beneath a canopy of crimson petals.

She was an ancient mantis with a narrow emerald body, translucent wings, and forelegs folded so precisely that she appeared to be praying for everyone else’s improvement. Silver pollen traced the ridges of her face. Her eyes moved independently, allowing her to disapprove of Nectarback from two directions at once.

“Sir Nectarback,” she said.

“Mother Pistil.”

“You have brought a crowd.”

He glanced behind him.

The spectators attempted to hide behind one mushroom.

“They are concerned citizens.”

“They are nosy little bastards.”

“That as well.”

Mother Pistil studied the Belladazzle. Its petal remained wrapped around Nectarback’s middle, but its edges trembled with nervous anticipation.

“This bloom believes you owe it a question.”

“So I have gathered.”

“And you have forgotten the question.”

“Only temporarily.”

“You arrived inside the flower that trapped you, on a cart decorated for your engagement.”

Nectarback looked down.

The emergency beetle had added ribbons during the journey.

“Certain details have escaped my control.”

“Control was never among your gifts.”

Mother Pistil extended one foreleg. “Bring the bloom closer.”

The beetles rolled the cart beneath the ancient rose. Mother Pistil placed the tip of her foreleg against the Belladazzle’s central vein.

The flower shivered.

A low note moved through its petals, too deep for Nectarback to hear but strong enough to ripple the dew across his skin.

Mother Pistil closed her eyes.

The garden became still.

For several minutes, the old mantis said nothing. Her antennae shifted slightly as the Belladazzle pulsed beneath her touch. Once, her expression softened. Then one eye opened and fixed itself on Nectarback.

“You certainly said a great deal.”

Baroness Butterrump moved closer.

“How much?”

Mother Pistil’s other eye opened. “Enough to embarrass three generations of his descendants.”

“Wonderful,” Pip whispered, opening his notebook.

“Close that,” Nectarback said.

Mother Pistil continued listening. “The bloom remembers the dancing. The drinking. The incident with the punch bowl.”

“We have covered those.”

“It remembers you calling its petals softer than moonlight resting on whipped cream.”

Lady Blushmidge sighed.

“That is lovely.”

“He used the same line on a mushroom,” said one thistle twin.

“The mushroom was exceptionally soft,” Nectarback replied.

The Belladazzle tightened.

“Past tense,” he added. “Strictly historical.”

Mother Pistil’s head tilted.

“The flower knows you flirted. It knows you performed. It knows many of your compliments were recycled nonsense offered by a frog who mistakes attention for intimacy.”

Nectarback’s smile weakened.

“Does it have any favorable observations?”

“One.”

He straightened.

“At the mooncup pedestal, you stopped performing.”

The petal rested against his chest.

“You told the flower you were tired of being the creature everyone wanted for an evening and nobody expected to see in the morning. You said you had made yourself impossible to hold so that being released would never feel like rejection.”

No one laughed.

Nectarback stared down at his hands.

Without the previous night’s nectar to protect him, the words felt indecently naked.

“That sounds dramatic,” he said.

“It sounds lonely,” Mother Pistil replied.

He gave her a sharp look.

She did not blink.

“What did I promise?”

Mother Pistil lifted her foreleg from the flower.

“It will not tell me.”

The crowd erupted.

“What do you mean?” Nectarback demanded.

“The words were given privately. It considers them yours to remember, not mine to repeat.”

“Then why did we drag it across the entire garden?”

The Belladazzle slapped his thigh.

“Transport it,” he corrected. “Tenderly transport it.”

Mother Pistil stepped closer. “The bloom did share one thing. Your promise was sincere.”

“I had consumed five bottles of Memorydew.”

“Nectar loosens the tongue. It does not manufacture a heart.”

“You have clearly never attended one of Madame Dripcurl’s midsummer tastings.”

“You asked the flower to meet you beneath the lantern lilies because you wanted to repeat the question sober, publicly, and properly.”

Nectarback looked toward the west. The sun had already begun its descent.

“That does not help me remember the words.”

“You are searching for words because words are where you hide.”

“I am celebrated for my words.”

“You are tolerated despite them.”

Pip covered a laugh with a cough.

Mother Pistil lowered her voice.

“Stop trying to recover the performance. Remember why you wanted to stay.”

The Belladazzle loosened its hold.

For the first time since morning, Sir Nectarback could have stepped out of the flower.

He placed one foot on the cart.

The petal did not stop him.

He placed the other beside it.

Still, the bloom remained open.

The watching creatures leaned forward.

Nectarback stood completely free.

There was no binding vine around his ankle, no petal around his waist, and no physical obstacle between him and every escape route he had spent the morning demanding.

The Belladazzle bowed its head.

Its brilliant pink petals dimmed.

“It released me,” he whispered.

“No,” Mother Pistil said. “It gave you a choice.”

The distinction was irritating enough to be true.

Nectarback looked down the path leading away from the rose. He could disappear into the reed beds before sunset. By morning, the garden would have a new scandal. By next week, another creature would provide fresher entertainment.

That was how he had survived every expectation anyone had ever placed upon him.

Arrive dazzling.

Leave early.

Never stay long enough to disappoint someone properly.

He stepped away from the cart.

The Belladazzle sagged.

Pip lowered his notebook.

Lady Blushmidge looked ready to say something, but Mother Pistil silenced her with one raised foreleg.

Sir Nectarback took another step toward the path.

Then a memory returned.

Not the grand declaration.

Not the cheers.

Not the question.

It was a quieter moment, almost hidden beneath the rest.

He had been sitting beside the Belladazzle after it pulled him from the punch bowl. Nectar dripped from his nose. His waistcoat was gone. His practiced charm had dissolved somewhere around the third bottle.

The flower had rested a petal against his back.

It had not laughed.

It had not demanded a performance.

It had simply stayed.

Sir Nectarback stopped walking.

He turned around.

The Belladazzle lifted its bloom slightly.

“I still do not remember the question,” he said.

Mother Pistil watched him.

“But I remember the answer I wanted.”

The flower rang once.

Nectarback climbed back onto the cart and settled inside its petals.

They curled around him gently, no longer restraining him.

“Take us to the lantern lilies,” he said.

The emergency beetle saluted.

“Celebration speed!”

The cart lurched forward so violently that two thistle twins and one doctor landed in a fern.

Word reached the garden square before they did.

By sunset, every path surrounding the lantern lilies overflowed with spectators. Fireflies hovered beneath the blossoms, waiting to ignite them. Moths tuned instruments on the musicians’ platform. The honeysuckle arch had doubled in size despite Nectarback’s explicit order that it remain loosely assembled.

Madame Dripcurl operated a portable nectar bar beside the seating area.

A sign offered two drinks for the price of three.

“That is robbery,” Nectarback told her as the cart passed.

“Romance pricing,” she replied.

The beetles stopped beneath the largest lantern lily.

Sir Nectarback climbed from the Belladazzle. This time, it released him easily.

He wore his blue trousers, his recovered waistcoat, and the ceremonial ribbon Pip had cleaned as thoroughly as possible without removing the golden message. The pollen berries still crowned his head because the flower had objected whenever anyone touched them.

Before him stood nearly every creature in Sugarwild.

Behind him waited the Belladazzle.

Above them, the first lantern lily opened.

Soft blue light spilled across the square.

One by one, the other lilies awakened, glowing violet, gold, and rose. Fireflies swirled among them until the entire garden shimmered beneath a canopy of living stars.

The crowd fell silent.

Pip stood in the front row with his notebook poised.

Nectarback pointed at it.

“If this becomes a pamphlet, I will eat you.”

Pip tucked it behind his back.

Sir Nectarback turned toward the Belladazzle.

Its petals were wide open. Dew trembled along their edges like jeweled nerves.

He had delivered speeches to larger crowds. He had toasted queens, insulted dukes, and once improvised an entire eulogy for a beetle who turned out to be asleep.

Yet standing before one silent flower left him unable to produce a single clever sentence.

For once, that seemed appropriate.

“Last night,” he began, “I said something to you that I cannot remember.”

The spectators murmured.

The flower remained still.

“I spent today searching for the exact words because I believed they would tell me what to do. Mostly, they told me what an ass I made of myself.”

Baroness Butterrump raised her goblet.

“You were magnificent.”

“Thank you, Baroness.”

He faced the bloom again.

“I know I promised to ask you something properly. I know you took that promise seriously. I also know I have spent most of my life saying beautiful things whenever the truth felt too dangerous.”

His voice softened.

“So I will not repeat words I do not remember.”

The Belladazzle’s petals drooped.

A disappointed sigh passed through the square.

Sir Nectarback stepped closer.

“I will ask the question I mean now.”

The petals lifted.

He placed one hand against the flower’s central vein.

“When the music stops, the nectar is gone, and nobody is watching, will you let me stay?”

The garden held its breath.

The Belladazzle trembled beneath his palm.

Then it opened wider than any Belladazzle had opened before.

A wave of golden pollen burst from its center and swept across the square.

The lantern lilies blazed.

The fireflies scattered in sparkling spirals.

The musicians sneezed simultaneously.

The petal wrapped around Nectarback’s waist and pulled him into the bloom with enough enthusiasm to remove one shoe.

The whole garden erupted.

Cheers thundered beneath the lilies. Goblets rose. The thistle twins sobbed into one another. Lady Blushmidge threw handfuls of sugared seeds. Doctor Dewlap attempted to maintain professional composure while wiping his spectacles.

Pip retrieved the notebook.

“Put that away!” Nectarback shouted from inside the petals.

The Belladazzle kissed him with a wet slap across the face.

Baroness Butterrump climbed onto a chair.

“Is this an engagement?” she called.

Nectarback emerged from the bloom covered in gold pollen.

“No.”

The flower rang.

“It is a conversation.”

The flower rang twice.

“A committed conversation.”

Three rings.

He looked at it.

“Do not negotiate through public pressure.”

The petal tightened around him.

Nectarback sighed.

“Fine. It is an exclusive conversation.”

The crowd cheered again.

Madame Dripcurl began distributing bottles.

“On the house!” she announced.

Someone accepted one, studied the bill attached to it, and shouted, “This says emotional surcharge.”

Music filled the square.

The Belladazzle swayed, carrying Nectarback with it. He settled against the warm curve of its petal and watched the creatures dance beneath the lantern light.

For the first time in his celebrated career, Sir Nectarback remained at a party without scanning the garden for his next entrance or his earliest escape.

He simply stayed.

Much later, after the musicians packed their instruments and the fireflies drifted home, the square grew quiet.

No crowd remained.

No one was watching.

The Belladazzle curled protectively around him beneath the fading lantern lilies.

Sir Nectarback smiled in the darkness.

“You know,” he murmured, “this does not mean you can keep taking everything personally.”

The petal smacked his backside.

“Fair.”

From somewhere beyond the bloom came Pip’s distant voice.

“Did it answer yes?”

Sir Nectarback lifted his head.

“Go home, Pip!”

“That sounds like a yes!”

A pair of wings buzzed away through the night.

Nectarback sank back into the petals.

“Tomorrow,” he told the flower, “we establish boundaries.”

The Belladazzle drew him deeper into its warm embrace.

Sir Nectarback considered objecting.

Then the petal moved.

His eyes widened.

“Tomorrow afternoon,” he amended.