The Incident Behind the Petals
There were three things every sensible creature in Sugarwild Garden knew about Bloomberry blossoms.
First, they opened only when properly admired.
Second, they produced nectar potent enough to make a sober beetle compliment a wasp’s personality.
And third—most importantly—they did not appreciate strangers poking around their backfolds.
Bramblebum Bogbean knew all three rules. He had heard them from his mother, his schoolmistress, two garden wardens, and a furious blossom whose stamen he had once mistaken for a handrail. He had even signed a parchment acknowledging them after the regrettable incident at the Spring Petal Exhibition.
Yet there he was.
Wedged backside-first into the tightly curled backfold of Lady Blushberry’s prize blossom, with his orange toes spread wide, his enormous eyes bulging, and his dignity somewhere beneath him making wet little squelching noises.
“Remain calm,” Bramblebum whispered to himself.
The blossom tightened.
“That was not a request for encouragement.”
Lady Blushberry’s bloom was the finest specimen in the eastern beds: seven layers of velvety pink petals, a crown of jeweled stamens, and enough morning dew to make the whole flower shimmer like a chandelier in a bathhouse. It was scheduled to compete that afternoon in the Grand Bloomberry Pageant, where judges would inspect its color, fragrance, symmetry, firmness, and—according to the official program—“overall responsiveness to skilled handling.”
Bramblebum had been specifically ordered to stay at least twelve leaves away from it.
He was currently inside it.
“This is a misunderstanding,” he told the flower.
The blossom gave another slow, muscular squeeze.
“A very flattering misunderstanding, certainly, but still a misunderstanding.”
He planted both hands against the nearest petal and pushed. Dew burst beneath his fingertips. His belly compressed. His left foot kicked uselessly in the air while his right became tangled around a stamen that trembled with what Bramblebum felt was an unnecessarily theatrical amount of enthusiasm.
“Would you stop helping?” he hissed.
A small voice answered from somewhere above him.
“Helping with what?”
Bramblebum froze.
Balanced on the rim of the blossom was Peepwick Tattlewing, a lemon-yellow garden gnat with translucent wings, three spectacles, and the moral restraint of an unattended town crier.
Peepwick leaned forward.
“Oh,” he said.
There followed a silence of extraordinary weight.
“It isn’t what it looks like,” Bramblebum said.
Peepwick adjusted his spectacles one lens at a time. “What does it look like?”
“You know perfectly well.”
“I’d rather hear you say it.”
“I slipped.”
Peepwick looked down at the dry moss beneath the flower. Then he looked at the bloom, which rose nearly four Bogbeans above the ground. Finally, he examined Bramblebum’s position, including the way both arms were spread across the petals and one leg remained hooked around the trembling stamen.
“You slipped upward?”
“There was momentum.”
“From where?”
“Behind me.”
“Convenient.”
“Physics often is.”
Peepwick’s wings began to buzz. Bramblebum recognized that particular buzz. It was the sound Peepwick made whenever he had acquired gossip too juicy to carry at walking speed.
“Do not,” Bramblebum warned.
“I haven’t done anything.”
“Your wings are already telling people.”
“They’re involuntary.”
“So is vomiting, Peepwick, but polite creatures turn away.”
The gnat shot into the air.
“I shall fetch help!” he called.
“Fetch discreet help!”
Peepwick vanished over the hedge, shouting, “BOGBEAN STUCK IN LADY BLUSHBERRY’S BACKFOLD!”
Every bird in the eastern beds stopped singing.
Bramblebum closed his eyes.
“Excellent,” he muttered. “Perhaps he could also ring the shame bell.”
From beyond the hedge came a distant metallic clang.
Dong.
“Of course we have a shame bell.”
The first spectators arrived in less than a minute.
Madame Dewlap, an elderly snail who had not moved quickly since the Mulch Riots, came sliding around the sundial at a speed that left sparks along her shell. Behind her hurried a pair of blushcap beetles, three pollen mice, a dragonfly carrying opera glasses, and Reverend Thistlewick, who claimed he had come only to offer spiritual assistance but immediately selected the best viewing angle.
They gathered beneath the bloom and stared upward.
Bramblebum tried to arrange his face into an expression of noble suffering. Unfortunately, he already possessed the enormous eyes and drooping mouth of a creature permanently surprised by its own decisions. Noble suffering made him look as though he had swallowed a doorstop.
“Morning,” he said.
Madame Dewlap squinted at him. “Bit early for that sort of gardening.”
“I am not gardening.”
“You’ve certainly planted yourself deep enough.”
The blushcap beetles snorted.
Bramblebum attempted another push. The flower responded with a moist, resonant fwump and drew him half an inch deeper.
The crowd gasped.
The dragonfly raised her opera glasses.
“Did everyone hear that?” asked Peepwick, returning with a notebook.
“Nobody heard anything,” Bramblebum snapped.
“I heard a fwump,” said one of the pollen mice.
“It was the wind.”
“The wind doesn’t usually clench afterward.”
“You don’t know what the wind does in private.”
More creatures poured into the bed. Word spread from mushroom to mushroom, carried by root-whispers and the sort of hummingbirds who could repeat a scandal backward before breakfast. Within ten minutes, vendors had arrived with refreshments. A caterpillar erected a small sign reading:
BACKFOLD BOGBEAN VIEWING — TWO SEEDS
THREE SEEDS WITH NECTAR
“Take that down!” Bramblebum shouted.
“Public land,” the caterpillar replied.
“I am not public land.”
“Your current boundaries are debatable.”
The crowd parted as Lady Blushberry herself swept into the clearing.
She was a tall and impeccably arranged bloomwitch whose gown appeared to be made from overlapping rose petals. Her silver-pink hair curled around two polished berry horns, and she carried a pruning cane tipped with a tiny golden blade. Lady Blushberry had spent eleven months cultivating the blossom for the pageant. She watered it with distilled moon mist, polished each petal by hand, and played it encouraging flute music twice a week.
She looked from the crowd to the flower.
Then from the flower to the two orange feet sticking out of its backfold.
One of Bramblebum’s toes gave an involuntary wave.
Lady Blushberry’s left eyelid twitched.
“Bramblebum.”
“Lady Blushberry,” he replied pleasantly. “Lovely morning.”
“Why are you inside my competition blossom?”
“An excellent question.”
“I would enjoy an excellent answer.”
“I slipped.”
The entire crowd murmured.
Lady Blushberry stared at the ground. She stared at the height of the flower. She stared at Bramblebum’s hooked leg.
“Upward?”
“There was momentum.”
Peepwick scribbled furiously. “Same statement as before.”
“Nobody appointed you recorder,” Bramblebum said.
“The Garden Gazette did.”
“When?”
“About thirty seconds after I sent them the sketch.”
He held up a charcoal drawing. It was surprisingly accurate, though Bramblebum felt the artist had made his bottom excessively round for dramatic effect.
“Burn that.”
“They’ve already commissioned commemorative prints.”
Lady Blushberry approached the blossom. “Do not move.”
“I have made very little progress on that front.”
She inspected the outer petals, touched the stem, and placed one ear against the bloom. Her expression shifted from anger to confusion.
“That’s unusual.”
“What?” asked Reverend Thistlewick.
“She’s purring.”
The crowd erupted.
“Flowers do not purr,” Bramblebum declared over the noise.
The blossom purred loudly enough to shake dew from its petals.
“That proves nothing.”
Madame Dewlap folded her eye stalks thoughtfully. “It proves she isn’t filing a complaint.”
“She is a flower. She cannot file paperwork.”
Lady Blushberry struck the ground with her cane. “Enough. Whether the blossom is distressed, delighted, or experiencing some ghastly confusion is beside the point. You entered a restricted backfold on the morning of judging.”
“Entered is a loaded word.”
“You are lodged in it up to the rib cage.”
“Temporarily situated.”
“With both hands spread.”
“For safety.”
“And one leg wrapped around the central stamen.”
Bramblebum glanced down at his leg as if encountering it for the first time.
“Traitor,” he whispered.
Lady Blushberry raised the golden blade of her pruning cane. Bramblebum whimpered and immediately unhooked his leg.
“Please tell me that is for the petals.”
“Hold still.”
“That did not answer my question.”
With three clean cuts, Lady Blushberry loosened the outer fold. The blossom made an indignant squeak. Two beetle wardens grasped Bramblebum beneath the arms while four pollen mice pulled his ankles.
“On three,” said Lady Blushberry.
“Shouldn’t someone buy the blossom dinner first?” Madame Dewlap asked.
“One,” Lady Blushberry began.
The wardens pulled.
Bramblebum stretched.
“Two.”
The pollen mice heaved.
The blossom tightened with a loud, juicy squelch.
“There should not be this much suction!” one warden cried.
“I have been saying that,” Bramblebum grunted.
“Three!”
Everyone pulled at once.
Bramblebum shot free like a cork from a shaken nectar bottle. He sailed over the crowd, bounced off Reverend Thistlewick’s hat, flattened Peepwick against a signpost, and landed face-first in Lady Blushberry’s decorative moss.
Behind him, the blossom gave a long, disappointed sigh.
For one glorious second, nobody spoke.
Then the crowd applauded.
Bramblebum rolled onto his back. He was soaked in pink nectar from shoulders to toes. A petal clung to his forehead. Several tiny golden pollen prints decorated his backside in a pattern that would later be described by the Gazette as “both incriminating and surprisingly festive.”
Lady Blushberry stood over him.
“You are going before the Garden Tribunal.”
“Is that truly necessary?”
“You compromised my prize blossom.”
The flower opened wider than it ever had before, revealing a brilliant, perfectly symmetrical crown.
Lady Blushberry looked at it.
The blossom shimmered, released a fragrant puff of pollen, and achieved a firmness score Bramblebum suspected was well above competition standard.
“Improved,” Peepwick noted.
Lady Blushberry glared at him. “Compromised in a complicated manner.”
Two beetle wardens hauled Bramblebum upright.
“What exactly am I being charged with?” he asked.
Peepwick flipped to a fresh page.
“Trespass, reckless petal endangerment, unauthorized backfold entry, interference with a competition bloom, public indecency—”
“My indecency was not public until you invited everyone.”
“—and one count of suspicious pollination.”
“Nothing was pollinated.”
Everyone looked at the blossom.
A plump little Bloomberry had already begun forming beneath its petals.
Bramblebum stared at it.
“That,” he said carefully, “could belong to anyone.”
Lady Blushberry’s cane cracked against the ground.
“Take him away.”
As the wardens marched him toward Root Hall, the crowd followed in a chattering procession. Peepwick flew alongside him, notebook ready.
“Any statement before the hearing?” the gnat asked.
Bramblebum lifted his chin with as much dignity as a nectar-soaked Bogbean wearing a forehead petal could manage.
“Yes,” he said. “I slipped.”
Behind them, Lady Blushberry’s blossom gave another satisfied purr.
Peepwick grinned.
“Your Honor is going to adore you.”
The Garden Tribunal Requests Specifics
Root Hall had been designed for solemn occasions.
Its walls were woven from ancient willow roots, its ceiling arched beneath the enormous cap of a silver mushroom, and its windows were thin slices of polished amber through which the midday sun entered in respectable golden beams. At the center stood a raised bench carved from the stump of Grandfather Oak, who had donated it to the Garden Tribunal after being struck by lightning and developing what he called “a refreshing lack of interest in civic furniture.”
Trials were meant to unfold there with dignity.
Today, the public gallery was selling souvenir cushions embroidered with the words I Came Through the Backfold.
“This is prejudicial,” Bramblebum complained.
“They also come in pink,” said Peepwick.
“I was speaking legally.”
“So was the embroidery guild. They have a permit.”
Bramblebum sat at the defense table between two beetle wardens. Lady Blushberry occupied the opposing table with a stack of gardening records, three character witnesses, and the freshly cut outer petal that had been removed during his extraction. It lay beneath a glass cover like evidence from a particularly fragrant murder.
The prize blossom itself had been planted in a wheeled silver pot beside her.
It seemed to have dressed for the occasion.
Its pink petals stood tall and dewy, its stamens had been combed, and the new Bloomberry beneath its crown had swollen from the size of a seed to the size of a small plum. Whenever Bramblebum glanced toward it, the blossom leaned in his direction.
He shifted his chair farther away.
The blossom followed.
“Stop that,” he whispered.
It released a sweet puff of pollen directly into his face.
Bramblebum sneezed so violently that the petal on his forehead flew off and landed in Lady Blushberry’s water glass.
The gallery erupted in laughter.
“Order!” cried Bailiff Mudknuckle, a broad-backed tortoise with a mossy shell and a voice that could curdle nectar. “This is a court of law, not an afternoon performance!”
Three creatures in the back row quietly folded their programs.
Mudknuckle lifted a ceremonial root mallet and struck the floor.
Nothing happened.
He struck it again.
The mushroom cap overhead released a cloud of silver spores, coating everyone in a dignified layer of glittering dust.
“Court is now in session,” he said, pretending this was intentional. “The Honorable Petunia Pricklepot presiding.”
Judge Pricklepot entered through a curtain of ivy.
She was a round, lavender hedgehog wearing a powdered wig that did not match any known powder or wig. Her spectacles balanced at the very end of her nose, and a tiny snail clerk sat on her shoulder with a quill clenched in its mouth.
The entire hall rose.
Judge Pricklepot climbed onto the bench, arranged three cushions beneath herself, and peered down at Bramblebum.
“Oh,” she said.
Bramblebum frowned. “Is that an official judicial observation?”
“It is now.”
She consulted the charge sheet.
“Bramblebum Bogbean, you stand accused of unlawful entry into a restricted blossom, aggravated petal disturbance, reckless interference with a pageant specimen, indecent garden positioning, and suspicious pollination in the first degree.”
“I object to the word positioning.”
“Would you prefer placement?”
“Somehow, no.”
“How do you plead?”
Bramblebum stood and brushed spores from his belly.
“Unfortunate.”
Judge Pricklepot stared over her spectacles.
“That is not a plea.”
“Misunderstood?”
“Also not a plea.”
“Moist, frightened, and increasingly pessimistic?”
“Mr. Bogbean.”
“Not guilty.”
The blossom purred.
Judge Pricklepot looked toward it. “Has the alleged victim been doing that all morning?”
Lady Blushberry rose. “Only when he speaks, Your Honor.”
“Concerning.”
“For whom?” Bramblebum asked.
“We have not yet determined that.”
Judge Pricklepot nodded to the prosecution table. “Lady Blushberry, you may begin.”
Lady Blushberry swept into the center of the hall.
“Your Honor, shortly after sunrise, the accused was discovered embedded inside the rear fold of my prize Bloomberry blossom. He had ignored posted boundaries, disturbed multiple petals, wrapped a leg around the central stamen, and left behind a pattern of contact that the court botanist has described as extensive.”
The gallery made an appreciative little noise.
Bramblebum stood. “May the record reflect that extensive refers to surface area, not enthusiasm?”
“Sit down,” Judge Pricklepot said.
“Gladly.”
Lady Blushberry raised the cut petal beneath its glass cover.
“The damage is undeniable.”
The petal was bent, creased, and marked with several tiny orange prints. Written beside the evidence in Peepwick’s neat script were the words left hand, right hand, left foot, right foot, and possibly cheek.
“Those prints merely prove I was trying to escape,” Bramblebum said.
“You claim you slipped?” asked Lady Blushberry.
“Correct.”
“Into a flower four times your height?”
“A powerful slip.”
“On dry ground?”
“Treacherously dry. No grip whatsoever.”
“Backward?”
“That is traditionally where one’s back is located.”
Peepwick snorted so hard he dropped his pencil.
Lady Blushberry’s lips tightened. “Then perhaps our witnesses can clarify the circumstances of this miraculous ascent.”
She called Madame Dewlap first.
The elderly snail glided to the witness stump, leaving behind a trail so polished that Bailiff Mudknuckle immediately placed a warning cone beside it.
Judge Pricklepot leaned forward. “Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?”
“At my age, I no longer have the energy to improve it,” Madame Dewlap replied.
“Accepted.”
Lady Blushberry approached her. “What did you observe upon arriving at the eastern beds?”
Madame Dewlap extended both eye stalks toward Bramblebum.
“That one was lodged in the bloom with his back end buried, hands spread, toes curled, and a look on his face suggesting either deep regret or unexpected competence.”
The gallery roared.
“Objection!” Bramblebum cried.
Judge Pricklepot tapped her mallet. “On what grounds?”
“Unexpected competence is insulting.”
“Overruled.”
Lady Blushberry continued. “Did he explain how he arrived there?”
“He said he slipped.”
“Did you find that believable?”
Madame Dewlap considered this. “I once watched a drunken slug fall sideways into his own hat, so I hesitate to declare anything physically impossible. But no.”
“No further questions.”
Bramblebum rose for cross-examination.
“Madame Dewlap, did you personally witness me enter the blossom?”
“No.”
“Then you cannot say whether I jumped, climbed, slipped, bounced, rolled, was thrown, or was abducted by an unusually determined flower.”
“That is true.”
Bramblebum smiled at the judge. “No further questions.”
“You still looked guilty,” Madame Dewlap added.
“The witness has been dismissed.”
“And sticky.”
“Dismissed.”
“Very sticky.”
Bailiff Mudknuckle gently rotated the witness stump toward the exit.
Next came Peepwick Tattlewing.
He brought six notebooks, two sketches, a scale model of the flower, and a collapsible pointer. Bramblebum watched in horror as the gnat erected a small illustrated board titled PROBABLE TRAJECTORIES OF BOGBEAN ENTRY.
“That is propaganda,” Bramblebum said.
“It has measurements,” Peepwick replied.
Lady Blushberry asked, “Where were you when you first observed the accused?”
“Flying over the eastern beds while investigating an unrelated rumor involving a married moth and an unlocked greenhouse.”
“Stay relevant,” Judge Pricklepot warned.
“I saw movement inside Lady Blushberry’s blossom. Upon landing, I found Mr. Bogbean embedded in the rear petal fold.”
Peepwick pointed to his first drawing. The image showed Bramblebum’s enormous eyes, outstretched hands, and one dramatically trembling stamen. Someone in the gallery whispered, “They really captured the panic.”
“What did he say?” Lady Blushberry asked.
“He told me it was not what it looked like.”
“Before you said what it looked like?”
Peepwick nodded.
The gallery murmured.
Bramblebum’s attorney’s chair, which had remained empty because he had insisted he could represent himself, suddenly seemed like a poor financial decision.
“And then?”
“He claimed he slipped upward due to momentum originating from behind him.”
Lady Blushberry turned to the judge. “The prosecution requests permission to demonstrate.”
“Granted.”
Two beetles rolled Peepwick’s scale model into the center of the hall. It included a miniature flower, a moss-covered slope, and a tiny clay Bogbean with disproportionately large buttocks.
“Again,” Bramblebum said, “the artistic exaggeration is obvious.”
Peepwick placed the clay figure on the moss. “We attempted to reproduce the accused’s alleged slip twenty-three times.”
He nudged the figure.
It fell forward.
He reset it and nudged it harder.
It rolled sideways into a miniature watering can.
On the third attempt, it flew off the table and struck Bailiff Mudknuckle between the eyes.
“Not once,” Peepwick continued, “did the model travel upward, backward, clear the outer petals, rotate, and settle rump-first into the backfold.”
“Your model lacks my flexibility,” Bramblebum said.
“It is made of clay.”
“Exactly. Stiff through the hips.”
Judge Pricklepot removed her spectacles and rubbed the bridge of her nose.
Lady Blushberry smiled. “No further questions.”
Bramblebum approached the witness stump.
“Peepwick, you admit you did not see me enter?”
“Correct.”
“You arrived after the alleged incident?”
“Yes.”
“And you immediately began spreading the story?”
“I sought assistance.”
“By ringing the shame bell?”
“It was the nearest emergency instrument.”
“The fire gong was beside it.”
“There was no fire.”
“There was no confirmed shame.”
Peepwick glanced at the gallery, then at the souvenir cushions.
“There was probable shame.”
Bramblebum returned to his table before he said something that would add contempt of gnat to the charge sheet.
Lady Blushberry called Reverend Thistlewick.
The reverend adjusted his robes and took the oath.
“What did you observe?” she asked.
“The accused appeared spiritually trapped.”
“Physically?”
“Also that.”
“Did the blossom appear distressed?”
Reverend Thistlewick looked uncomfortable. “Not precisely.”
“How did it appear?”
“Your Honor, must I use the common word?”
Judge Pricklepot sighed. “We have already admitted a petal with cheek prints. The court’s innocence is beyond rescue.”
“The blossom appeared satisfied.”
The flower purred.
Every head turned toward it.
The growing Bloomberry beneath its petals had become noticeably larger.
Judge Pricklepot pointed her mallet at Lady Blushberry. “Is it supposed to grow that quickly?”
“Absolutely not.”
Bramblebum stood. “I would like the court to note that I have been across the room for nearly an hour. Whatever that flower is doing now, it is doing without me.”
“A mercy to us all,” Judge Pricklepot said.
Lady Blushberry called her final witness: Professor Pistillious Rootworthy, chief botanist of the Sugarwild Horticultural Academy.
The professor was a narrow green mantis wearing a waistcoat lined with measuring spoons. He examined the cut petal, inspected the growing berry, smelled the pollen, and asked Bramblebum to provide a footprint for comparison.
“Why?” Bramblebum asked.
“Science.”
“Science has become extremely nosy.”
He pressed one orange foot into an ink pad and stamped the professor’s parchment. Rootworthy compared it with the markings on the petal.
“A match,” he announced.
“We all knew they were my feet,” Bramblebum said. “Nobody has accused a second Bogbean of lending me his toes.”
Professor Rootworthy approached the blossom. Its crown opened for him, but when he extended a measuring spoon toward the backfold, the petals slapped his hand away.
“Fascinating.”
He tried again.
The blossom snapped at him.
The gallery gasped.
He moved the spoon toward Bramblebum.
The bloom immediately relaxed and began purring.
“Most fascinating.”
“Could we use a less incriminating adjective?” Bramblebum asked.
The professor turned to the judge. “Your Honor, this blossom has formed a preference bond.”
Lady Blushberry went pale. “A what?”
“Bloomberry blossoms occasionally select a preferred pollination companion. It is rare, but once established, the bloom may respond only to that creature’s scent, touch, or presence.”
Bramblebum pointed at the flower. “You see? It selected me. I am the victim.”
“You were still found inside it,” Judge Pricklepot said.
“Kidnapped by horticulture.”
Professor Rootworthy leaned close to the blossom. “The bond appears unusually strong. I would estimate that direct contact occurred for at least nine minutes.”
The hall went silent.
Lady Blushberry slowly turned toward Bramblebum.
Peepwick’s pencil hovered over his notebook.
Judge Pricklepot asked, “How long did you say you were trapped?”
Bramblebum swallowed.
“Time behaves strangely under stress.”
“How long?”
“Perhaps…several minutes.”
Peepwick flipped through his notes. “When I arrived, he said, ‘At last, someone’s here.’”
Lady Blushberry’s eyes narrowed. “At last?”
“A figure of speech.”
“Suggesting you had already been waiting.”
“Or that I value Peepwick’s company so highly that even one second without him feels eternal.”
Peepwick lowered his pencil. “That may be the least believable thing he has said.”
Professor Rootworthy continued examining the petal. “There is something else.”
From beneath the glass cover, he lifted a tiny strand of blue-green fiber caught in a bead of dried nectar.
“This thread does not come from the accused’s clothing.”
Bramblebum wore no clothing.
He looked down at himself.
“Yes, thank you, Professor. The court can see that.”
Rootworthy held the fiber to the light. “It comes from climbing rope.”
A stir swept through the gallery.
Lady Blushberry’s voice became very quiet. “Why would there be climbing rope inside the backfold?”
Bramblebum said nothing.
Peepwick leaned forward.
Judge Pricklepot fixed Bramblebum with a stare that could have made a stone confess to loitering.
“Mr. Bogbean,” she said, “did you climb into that flower?”
“No.”
“Did you possess a rope this morning?”
“I possess many things.”
“Was one of them a rope?”
“Temporarily.”
Lady Blushberry slammed both hands onto her table. “You planned this!”
“Planned is an aggressive interpretation.”
“You brought climbing equipment to my garden!”
“For safety.”
“While slipping?”
“I am a cautious slipper.”
The gallery exploded into laughter, shouts, and several enthusiastic repetitions of cautious slipper. The souvenir vendor immediately began crossing out the words on his cushions.
Judge Pricklepot hammered her mallet until another cloud of spores fell from the ceiling.
“Order! One more interruption and I will clear this hall!”
The room settled.
She turned to Bramblebum.
“This court has indulged your explanation through witnesses, diagrams, botanical testimony, and more discussion of floral backfolds than I expected to endure in my judicial career. You will now tell us exactly what happened this morning.”
Bramblebum looked at Lady Blushberry.
He looked at Professor Rootworthy.
He looked at the packed gallery, where dozens of creatures waited with open notebooks, raised opera glasses, and mouths already prepared to repeat his next sentence inaccurately.
Finally, he looked at the blossom.
It leaned toward him, petals trembling.
The enormous Bloomberry beneath its crown pulsed once.
Then it cracked.
A thin line of golden light appeared across its surface.
Professor Rootworthy recoiled. “Everyone get back.”
The berry split open.
A torrent of sparkling nectar erupted across Root Hall, sweeping away evidence, spectators, souvenir cushions, and one deeply offended judge. Bramblebum grabbed the defense table as the flood spun him in a circle.
From inside the shattered berry came a tiny, indignant voice.
“Would somebody kindly explain why my nursery smells like Bogbean?”
The nectar drained through the root floor.
At the center of the hall sat a newborn Bloomberry sprite no taller than a teacup. She had pink petals for hair, a round berry belly, and two enormous rainbow-ringed eyes.
Everyone stared at her.
Then everyone stared at Bramblebum.
The sprite blinked up at him.
“Papa?”
Bramblebum’s grip slipped from the table.
He landed flat on his back.
Judge Pricklepot wiped nectar from her wig.
“Mr. Bogbean,” she said, “your situation has ripened considerably.”
The Truth Ripens in Public
There are moments in every creature’s life when the world stops turning, the birds stop singing, and every poor decision ever made lines up neatly to kick him in the same vulnerable place.
For Bramblebum Bogbean, that moment was being called Papa by a teacup-sized Bloomberry sprite in front of a packed courtroom.
He remained flat on his back beneath the defense table, blinking nectar from his enormous eyes.
“I would like to request a recess,” he said.
Judge Pricklepot wrung berry juice from her powdered wig. “Denied.”
“A mistrial?”
“Denied.”
“A sudden and merciful death?”
“Pending.”
The newborn sprite toddled across the wet floor. Her pink petal hair bounced with each step, and the tiny golden stamens sprouting from her head glowed like birthday candles. She stopped beside Bramblebum and poked his swollen cheek.
“Papa,” she repeated.
The gallery inhaled as one.
Peepwick wrote so quickly that smoke rose from his pencil.
“Stop recording this,” Bramblebum said.
“History is happening.”
“History can mind its own damned business.”
The sprite climbed onto Bramblebum’s belly, settled into the curve beneath his chin, and released a comfortable little purr identical to the blossom’s.
Madame Dewlap dabbed at one eye stalk. “She has his suction toes.”
Four tiny orange toes curled around Bramblebum’s thumb.
“Coincidence,” he said.
“And his eyes,” said Reverend Thistlewick.
The sprite looked up with two enormous rainbow-ringed orbs, one slightly larger than the other.
“A popular shape.”
“She also has his mouth,” Peepwick noted.
The sprite’s lower lip drooped into the same permanently worried grimace Bramblebum had worn since hatching.
“Many creatures are disappointed by life.”
Professor Rootworthy scuttled forward and crouched beside them.
“Do not touch her,” Bramblebum warned.
The professor paused.
Bramblebum paused too.
The words had left his mouth before he could examine them. His arms had already curled around the sprite, shielding her from the crowd.
Rootworthy’s antennae lifted.
“Protective response,” he murmured.
“I am protecting her from your measuring spoons.”
“Paternal protective response.”
“Nosy mantis response.”
Lady Blushberry stepped around the overturned prosecution table. Nectar dripped from her petal gown. The remains of the shattered Bloomberry lay scattered across the floor, while the prize blossom leaned toward the sprite with every petal extended.
“Professor,” she said, “is that creature truly his offspring?”
“Biologically?” Rootworthy clicked his mandibles. “Almost certainly not.”
The entire courtroom sagged with disappointment.
Peepwick stopped writing. “Could you reconsider?”
“Science does not reconsider for a better headline.”
“It should occasionally.”
The professor adjusted his waistcoat. “Bloomberry sprites acquire traits from the first creature with whom their blossom forms a preference bond. Appearance, mannerisms, vocal patterns, sometimes temperament. She resembles Mr. Bogbean because the blossom selected him as her template.”
Bramblebum sat up slowly, the sprite still nestled against him.
“So I am not her father.”
“Not biologically.”
“Wonderful.”
“You are more of a horticulturally imprinted co-parent.”
“Put me back on trial.”
“Papa!” the sprite chirped.
The gallery collectively sighed.
Bramblebum looked down at her. “Could you call me something else?”
She considered this request with great seriousness.
“Backfold Papa.”
The gallery detonated.
Judge Pricklepot struck her mallet, missed the bench, and smashed her water cup.
“Order!” she shouted. “If anyone repeats the phrase Backfold Papa outside this courtroom, I will have them composted!”
Peepwick quietly underlined it three times.
Lady Blushberry stared at Bramblebum. “A preference bond cannot form from accidental contact alone.”
Professor Rootworthy nodded. “Correct. The creature and blossom must willingly maintain sustained contact.”
“Willingly?”
“On both sides.”
Every eye returned to Bramblebum.
He looked at the ceiling.
The ceiling offered no legal advice.
Judge Pricklepot settled her damp wig crookedly onto her head. “Mr. Bogbean, your rope proves you approached the blossom deliberately. The preference bond proves you remained there willingly. Your continued insistence that you slipped now insults the intelligence of this court, several witnesses, and at least one scale model.”
Bailiff Mudknuckle placed the little clay Bogbean back on the table. Its exaggerated bottom had acquired a crack.
“You will tell the truth,” Judge Pricklepot said, “or I will hold you in contempt until that child is old enough to attend university.”
The sprite raised her hand. “I’m very advanced.”
“Of course you are,” Bramblebum muttered.
Lady Blushberry folded her arms.
Peepwick readied a fresh notebook.
Professor Rootworthy lifted a measuring spoon but lowered it again when Bramblebum glared.
The blossom extended one pink petal toward him.
Bramblebum stared at it for a long time.
Then his shoulders dropped.
“Fine.”
A hush fell over Root Hall.
“I did not slip.”
The gallery gasped despite having known this from the moment he opened his mouth.
Madame Dewlap whispered, “Well, knock me over slowly.”
Bramblebum stroked the sprite’s petal hair.
“Three nights ago, I was passing through the eastern beds.”
“At midnight?” Lady Blushberry asked.
“I enjoy private walks.”
“You were carrying a nectar siphon.”
“Private walks are thirsty work.”
Judge Pricklepot tapped her mallet.
“Continue without decorating the truth.”
“I intended to borrow a little nectar.”
Lady Blushberry’s berry horns flashed crimson.
“Steal.”
“Borrow without the burden of permission.”
“Steal.”
“Yes, fine. Steal.”
Bramblebum swallowed.
“When I approached the blossom, it was folded tightly shut. Then it opened one rear petal and…well…”
He waved vaguely toward the flower.
“It beckoned.”
Peepwick raised his hand. “Physically or suggestively?”
“Is there a difference with this crowd?”
The blossom curled its petal twice in a very clear come closer gesture.
The gallery murmured.
“Exactly like that,” Bramblebum said. “I climbed up. I thought it was inviting me to the nectar chamber.”
Lady Blushberry’s jaw tightened. “Through the backfold?”
“It was the opening presented.”
Madame Dewlap nodded sagely. “It would have been rude to insist on the front.”
“Thank you,” Bramblebum said.
“I was joking.”
“Support is support.”
He continued.
“The blossom gave me nectar. Not much. Just enough to taste. Then it curled around me and started humming.”
“Purring,” Rootworthy corrected.
“At that distance, Professor, the distinction becomes personal.”
The judge covered her face with both paws.
“I stayed for perhaps ten minutes,” Bramblebum admitted.
Peepwick consulted his notes. “The botanist estimated nine.”
“I am rounding in the direction of honesty.”
“Why did you return this morning?” Lady Blushberry demanded.
Bramblebum looked at the blossom.
“Because it called me.”
The hall became quiet again.
“Bloomberry blossoms do not speak,” she said.
“Not in words. I heard it through the roots. It was frightened.”
Professor Rootworthy moved closer. “Frightened of what?”
“The pageant.”
Lady Blushberry recoiled as though he had insulted her horns.
“She has been cultivated for the pageant since budding.”
“That was the problem. Every day, someone polished her, measured her, prodded her, spread her petals, criticized her firmness, and discussed how she would be displayed. Nobody ever asked whether she wanted a dozen judges handling her stamens in public.”
The blossom shuddered.
Several petals folded protectively over its crown.
Lady Blushberry’s face changed.
For the first time since entering the eastern beds, her anger loosened.
“She never resisted me,” she said.
“She was afraid of disappointing you.”
Bramblebum’s voice softened.
“She called me because I had been the only creature to sit with her without measuring anything. She wanted somewhere to hide until the pageant was over. I climbed into the backfold, planning to loosen the training ties from inside.”
“The blue-green rope fiber,” Professor Rootworthy said.
Bramblebum nodded. “One tie snapped. The petal rolled inward, and I became trapped.”
Peepwick lowered his notebook. “Why didn’t you say that?”
“Because I would have had to admit I had previously climbed into Lady Blushberry’s prize blossom at midnight to steal nectar.”
Lady Blushberry raised one eyebrow.
“Also,” Bramblebum added, “the phrase the flower wanted me inside her did not seem likely to improve my position.”
Madame Dewlap coughed. “Not with your leg around the stamen.”
“That happened during the trapping.”
“Of course it did.”
Judge Pricklepot considered him in silence.
“So your defense is that you trespassed previously to steal nectar, returned in response to a botanical distress call, entered the blossom willingly, became trapped while attempting to free it, and then lied repeatedly because the truth sounded worse?”
“That is an unnecessarily accurate summary.”
Lady Blushberry walked to her blossom.
She reached for one petal, then stopped before touching it.
“Did you want to enter the pageant?” she asked.
The blossom folded shut.
“Did you want Bramblebum to help you escape?”
It opened and leaned toward him.
Lady Blushberry closed her eyes.
“I see.”
She removed the silver competition ribbon tied around its stem. The blossom unfurled at once, releasing a fragrant cloud of sparkling pollen. It stretched every petal, shook itself from crown to stem, and slapped Professor Rootworthy’s measuring spoon from his hand for good measure.
“Point taken,” he said.
Lady Blushberry faced the judge.
“Your Honor, I withdraw the charges of petal endangerment, competition interference, indecent positioning, and suspicious pollination.”
Bramblebum smiled.
“However,” she continued, “the nectar theft and trespassing remain.”
His smile collapsed.
“I should have anticipated that second sentence.”
Judge Pricklepot shuffled her damp papers.
“The court finds Bramblebum Bogbean guilty of unauthorized entry, petty nectar theft, and wasting a magnificent amount of judicial time. The remaining charges are dismissed due to heroic intent, botanical consent, and the court’s desperate wish never to hear the word backfold again.”
The souvenir vendor quietly hid his cushions.
“Sentence?” Bramblebum asked.
“You will complete sixty days of service in Lady Blushberry’s beds. Duties will include watering, pruning, pest removal, and teaching cultivators to recognize blossom distress.”
“Reasonable.”
“You will also care for the newborn sprite until her preference bond naturally matures.”
Bramblebum looked down.
The sprite had fallen asleep against his chest with one orange foot stuck to his chin.
“How long does that take?”
Professor Rootworthy consulted a pocket guide. “Anywhere from six months to eighteen years.”
“That is an aggressively broad estimate.”
“Botany is full of surprises.”
Judge Pricklepot lifted her mallet.
“Finally, you will issue a public correction to the statement ‘I slipped.’”
Bramblebum rose carefully, holding the sleeping sprite.
He faced the gallery.
Peepwick lifted his pencil.
Madame Dewlap extended both eye stalks.
Lady Blushberry waited beside the newly liberated blossom.
Bramblebum drew a breath.
“Citizens of Sugarwild Garden, I did not slip.”
The gallery leaned forward.
“I climbed willingly into Lady Blushberry’s backfold because her blossom asked for help. My position was unplanned, my intentions were mostly honorable, and anything that appeared enthusiastic was caused by muscular panic.”
Madame Dewlap snorted.
“Mostly honorable?” Judge Pricklepot asked.
“I was still stealing nectar.”
“Correction accepted.”
The mallet struck.
“Court adjourned.”
Root Hall erupted into chatter.
Lady Blushberry wheeled the blossom toward the door. As it passed Bramblebum, one petal curled around his shoulder and gave him a lingering squeeze.
He looked around quickly.
Peepwick had seen it.
Of course Peepwick had seen it.
“Say nothing,” Bramblebum warned.
“Was that gratitude?” the gnat asked.
“Yes.”
“It looked intimate.”
“Flowers are expressive.”
“She’s purring again.”
“I saved her from public handling.”
“By publicly handling her?”
“I will feed you to a sundew.”
The newborn sprite woke and waved at Peepwick.
“Backfold Papa!” she announced.
Every creature in the hall heard her.
Judge Pricklepot’s composting threat proved useless. By sunset, the title had spread through every hedge, hollow, and berry patch in Sugarwild Garden. A tavern composed a drinking song about it. The embroidery guild produced an entire line of cushions. Someone painted a mural on the eastern wall depicting Bramblebum flying from the flower with a strategically placed fig leaf and what he considered a wildly optimistic physique.
His attempts to correct the story only made it worse.
“It was a rescue,” he told the beetles at the market.
“With rope?” they asked.
“Yes.”
“And suction?”
“Unfortunately.”
“And nine full minutes of sustained contact?”
“Go eat mulch.”
The prize blossom never entered the pageant. Instead, Lady Blushberry replanted it in a quiet corner of the garden where visitors were forbidden to touch without invitation. Freed from its training ribbons, it grew wider, brighter, and more gloriously unruly than any judged specimen in Sugarwild history.
It also produced Bloomberries only when Bramblebum was nearby.
Professor Rootworthy called this “a fascinating continuation of the preference bond.”
Madame Dewlap called it “proof that some flowers never forget a capable backside.”
Bramblebum called it nobody’s damn business.
He completed his garden service without complaint—unless one counted the daily complaining. He watered the roots, chased off nectar mites, and taught young cultivators that a bloom opening was not always an invitation, a bloom closing was not always shyness, and any flower that slapped away a measuring spoon had expressed itself clearly enough.
The sprite followed him everywhere.
Lady Blushberry named her Berrybell. Bramblebum privately suggested several less adorable names, including Sprout, Nuisance, and Not Biologically Mine. Berrybell ignored them all and continued calling him Backfold Papa, usually in crowded places.
Months passed.
The scandal faded, as scandals do, replaced first by a duke caught licking moon mushrooms and later by Reverend Thistlewick’s suspiciously expensive new greenhouse. Bramblebum’s mural was eventually covered by climbing roses, though the fig leaf remained visible through winter.
One warm morning, he sat beside the blossom while Berrybell chased dew beetles through the grass.
Lady Blushberry brought two cups of nectar and lowered herself beside him.
“You know,” she said, “if you had told the truth immediately, much of the humiliation could have been avoided.”
Bramblebum sipped his nectar.
“Not much.”
“Perhaps half.”
“Peepwick had already rung the shame bell.”
“Fair point.”
The blossom leaned over them, scattering cool droplets across Bramblebum’s head. Its backfold opened slightly.
He narrowed his enormous eyes.
“Absolutely not.”
The petal beckoned.
“We discussed boundaries.”
The blossom purred.
Lady Blushberry hid a smile behind her cup.
“Perhaps it needs help.”
“It has survived perfectly well for months.”
The backfold opened a little wider, revealing a bright pool of golden nectar.
Bramblebum stared at it.
Lady Blushberry stared at him.
Berrybell stopped chasing beetles.
“Papa,” she said solemnly, “don’t slip.”
Bramblebum placed his cup on the moss.
“For the last time,” he grumbled as he reached for his climbing rope, “I never slipped.”
The blossom curled its petals around him.
From somewhere beyond the hedge came the faint scratching of Peepwick’s pencil.
Bramblebum closed his eyes.
“That little bastard is getting eaten by a sundew.”
And that was how Bramblebum Bogbean became the most trusted blossom advocate in Sugarwild Garden, an unexpectedly competent guardian, and the only creature in recorded horticultural history required by court order to knock before entering a flower from behind.
He complied with the order faithfully.
Mostly.
After all, some trouble was simply too ripe to approach from the front.
Bring the Backfold Trouble Home
The Backfold Bogbean Who Backed Into Bloomberry Trouble brings Bramblebum’s enormous guilty eyes, questionable positioning, and dew-soaked floral scandal out of Sugarwild Garden and straight into your home. Display his spectacular lack of judgment as a vibrant canvas print or luminous metal print, or let the trouble spread across a tapestry, throw pillow, or cozy fleece blanket. Those who prefer hands-on involvement can reassemble the evidence with a puzzle, while the tote bag and greeting card are ideal for anyone who has ever backed into trouble and immediately blamed physics.
