Miss Sparklecheeks and the Nectar Heist

Bill Tiepelman
2026-05-07T00:34:23-05:00

Miss Sparklecheeks is many things - fabulous, shameless, suspiciously well-moisturized - but she insists she is not a nectar thief. When the Royal Dewdrop Reserve vanishes from Blossombright Hollow and every glittering clue points to her, this tiny fairy-gecko diva must clear her name before a floral scandal wakes something hungry beneath the roots.

Plus

The Petal Panic of Blossombright Hollow

In Blossombright Hollow, where every morning arrived wearing perfume and every sunset looked like it had been painted by a tipsy fairy with access to gold leaf, there existed one rule so sacred that even the butterflies pretended to respect it:

No creature shall sip from the Royal Dewdrop Reserve before the First Blooming Bell.

It was not a complicated rule. It did not require a council of elder moths, three moss-covered scrolls, and a ceremonial beetle in a waistcoat to explain it. It simply meant that the rarest nectar in the hollow — the shimmering, honey-pink, sunrise-warmed sweetness that gathered only in the heart of the Glassbell Blossoms — was to be left untouched until the official spring festival began.

Which, naturally, made it irresistible.

And no one in Blossombright Hollow understood irresistible quite like Miss Sparklecheeks.

She was a tiny creature of alarming beauty and even more alarming confidence, the sort of fairy-gecko hybrid that made bees forget their flight patterns and caused otherwise respectable snails to write poetry on wet stones. Her eyes were enormous, glossy, and innocent in a way that immediately suggested she had recently committed several crimes. Her scales glimmered in shades of coral, turquoise, lavender, and gold, and her wings caught the light like soap bubbles who had married well.

Atop her head sat a crown of miniature blossoms, arranged with such careful drama that one could only assume she had either a personal stylist or a deeply unhealthy relationship with reflective puddles.

She moved through the hollow as if the entire meadow had been built to provide her with flattering angles.

“Good morning, lesser sparkles,” she would chirp, fluttering past the beetle bakers, the dew-polishers, the pollen accountants, and the extremely tired mushroom clerks who kept trying to maintain civic order in a community where half the residents had wings and the other half had boundary issues.

Miss Sparklecheeks was adored.

Miss Sparklecheeks was admired.

Miss Sparklecheeks was, according to at least seven formal complaints and one anonymous acorn note, “a menace with eyelashes.”

She had been accused of many things over the years: sipping from flowers without asking, distracting dragonflies during official races, rearranging garden nameplates to make them funnier, and once convincing a family of ants that she was a minor goddess of snacks. But she had never been accused of anything truly serious.

Until the morning the Royal Dewdrop Reserve vanished.

The panic began at dawn.

Mayor Bumblebrisk, a round and fussy bumblebee with a velvet sash and the emotional resilience of oversteeped tea, arrived at the Glassbell Pavilion expecting to inspect the reserve. He brought with him the ceremonial ledger, three witness beetles, and his assistant, Pevlin, a pale green aphid who took notes on rose petals and fainted whenever someone raised their voice near a tulip.

The Glassbell Blossoms grew in a ring at the center of Blossombright Hollow, their petals translucent and pink, their stems silvered with dew, their fragrance soft enough to make hardened beetles sigh about their childhoods. Each bloom held a single pool of Royal Dewdrop Nectar, glowing faintly in the center like liquid sunrise.

Or at least, each bloom was supposed to.

Mayor Bumblebrisk leaned over the first blossom.

Empty.

He buzzed to the second.

Empty.

The third.

Dry.

The fourth.

Not only empty, but somehow smug about it.

By the time he reached the seventh flower, the mayor’s wings had started vibrating at a pitch usually reserved for kettle whistles and nervous hummingbirds.

“Pevlin,” he whispered.

Pevlin clutched his rose-petal clipboard. “Yes, Mayor?”

“Tell me I am not seeing what I think I am seeing.”

Pevlin peered into the blossom, blinked twice, and turned the color of old lettuce.

“You are not seeing what you think you are seeing.”

“Do you mean that?”

“No.”

Mayor Bumblebrisk placed one tiny leg against his forehead. “Oh, pollen preserve us.”

The Royal Dewdrop Reserve — the pride of the hollow, the centerpiece of the spring festival, the nectar so rare that one sip could make a moth sing opera and a daisy remember its past lives — had been stolen.

Within seven minutes, the whole hollow knew.

Within nine minutes, everyone was shouting.

Within eleven minutes, someone blamed the squirrels, despite the fact that no squirrel had ever successfully entered Blossombright Hollow without getting distracted by its own tail.

By noon, the Hollow Square was packed.

Fairies hovered above clumps of moss, whispering violently. Ladybugs stood in judgmental lines. Bees argued with butterflies. A pair of elderly caterpillars claimed they had predicted this in 1987, despite no one being certain what 1987 was. The mushroom clerks attempted to establish order, but their small wooden gavels were no match for public hysteria.

Mayor Bumblebrisk climbed onto the Great Toadstool Podium, cleared his throat, and immediately regretted having a public-facing career.

“Citizens of Blossombright Hollow,” he began, “please remain calm.”

A moth screamed.

“Calmer than that, preferably.”

The crowd buzzed, chirped, flapped, clicked, and muttered.

“As many of you have heard,” the mayor continued, “the Royal Dewdrop Reserve has suffered a tragic and deeply sticky loss.”

“Stolen!” cried a beetle.

“Sucked dry!” shouted a fairy.

“Licked into oblivion!” wailed someone from behind a fern.

The crowd gasped.

Several creatures looked immediately toward the west side of the square, where Miss Sparklecheeks sat on a curled leaf, polishing one of her tiny claws against her chest with majestic boredom.

She looked up.

“What?”

The staring intensified.

Miss Sparklecheeks blinked her enormous eyes. “Oh, don’t all look at me like that. I have range.”

“You have motive,” snapped Fernella Fuzzwing, a silver-winged fairy with a severe bun and the kind of mouth that had clearly never forgiven joy.

Miss Sparklecheeks gasped delicately. “Fernella. That is hurtful.”

“You were seen near the Glassbell Pavilion last night.”

“I am seen everywhere. I sparkle. That is hardly evidence.”

“You have a history of unauthorized sipping.”

“I prefer the term floral enthusiasm.”

“And,” Fernella said, raising a dramatic finger, “you possess the longest tongue in the hollow.”

A hush fell.

Miss Sparklecheeks slowly turned her head toward the crowd.

“I beg your pardon,” she said, with the grave dignity of a duchess who had just been accused of seducing a chair.

Fernella folded her arms. “It is a relevant anatomical detail.”

“It is a private blessing.”

Someone coughed.

A beetle fainted.

Mayor Bumblebrisk tapped his tiny gavel against the podium. “Please. Let us refrain from discussing Miss Sparklecheeks’... tongue situation unless absolutely necessary.”

“It’s absolutely necessary!” shouted a damselfly from the back.

“It usually is,” muttered Miss Sparklecheeks.

The mayor closed his eyes. “I heard that.”

“I meant it spiritually.”

“Of course you did.”

The accusations came quickly after that, fluttering through the square like angry confetti.

Miss Sparklecheeks had been spotted at twilight near the Royal Moss Gate.

Miss Sparklecheeks had once told a daffodil she looked “sippable.”

Miss Sparklecheeks had been overheard saying, “Rules are just fences for boring people.”

Miss Sparklecheeks had purchased a suspicious amount of petal polish the previous afternoon.

Miss Sparklecheeks had laughed during a safety lecture.

Miss Sparklecheeks had a face.

That last one came from an elderly snail named Bartholomucus, who had not followed the conversation but wanted to participate.

Through it all, Miss Sparklecheeks remained perched on her leaf, outwardly composed, inwardly offended, and admittedly slightly impressed by the community’s ability to build an entire prosecution out of vibes.

“I did not steal the Royal Dewdrop Reserve,” she declared at last, rising to her full height, which was dramatic but not especially tall. “Yes, I enjoy nectar. Yes, I have been known to appreciate a blossom with enthusiasm. Yes, I once caused a minor incident involving a honeysuckle, three priests, and a confused cricket choir.”

“That was not minor!” someone yelled.

“The choir recovered.”

“Their harmony didn’t!”

“It had personality.”

Mayor Bumblebrisk rubbed his temples. “Miss Sparklecheeks.”

She lifted her chin. “But I am not a thief.”

The crowd muttered.

“A flirt, perhaps. A wanderer. A connoisseur of fine floral moisture. A creature of taste and questionable restraint. But not a thief.”

Fernella Fuzzwing stepped forward with a smile as thin as a grass blade.

“Then explain this.”

She unfurled a small velvet pouch and tipped its contents onto the mayor’s podium.

A single shimmering scale slid out.

It glowed turquoise at the center, edged in pink and gold.

The crowd inhaled as one.

Miss Sparklecheeks stared at it.

Her smile disappeared.

There were many shiny creatures in Blossombright Hollow. Dragonflies wore jewel tones like armor. Beetles came polished in every possible shade of vanity. Even the worms glistened after rain, though they were asked politely not to make it weird.

But that scale — that bright, pearlescent, ridiculous little scale — looked exactly like hers.

“Where did you find that?” she asked.

Fernella’s wings gave one sharp, satisfied flick. “At the edge of the seventh Glassbell Blossom. Right beside a trail of nectar droplets.”

Mayor Bumblebrisk looked as if someone had inserted a thundercloud into his abdomen.

“Miss Sparklecheeks,” he said slowly, “do you deny that this scale belongs to you?”

Miss Sparklecheeks opened her mouth.

Closed it.

Opened it again.

For once, the hollow’s most talkative menace had misplaced her sparkle.

“It looks like mine,” she admitted. “But that does not mean I left it there.”

“Scales do not wander off alone,” Fernella said.

“Mine might. They are ambitious.”

“This is serious.”

“So is being framed by a sparkle impersonator.”

That earned a few murmurs, though whether they were supportive or simply entertained was unclear.

From the edge of the square, a low voice spoke.

“There’s more.”

The crowd parted.

Out stepped Grindle Thistlewick, keeper of the Royal Blossoms.

Grindle was a stout little bloom-warden with mossy eyebrows, a beard full of pollen, and the general expression of someone who had been born disappointed. He wore a bark-brown vest, carried a lantern made from a hollowed seedpod, and smelled faintly of wet soil and distrust.

Miss Sparklecheeks had never liked him.

This was mostly because Grindle had once described her as “decorative trouble,” which was both insulting and annoyingly accurate.

He approached the podium and held up a twisted strand of silver vine.

“This was cut near the pavilion gate,” he said. “Clean through. No chewing. No tearing. Something sharp did it.”

Fernella glanced at Miss Sparklecheeks’ polished claws.

So did everyone else.

Miss Sparklecheeks immediately tucked her claws beneath her chin in what she hoped looked like elegance rather than guilt.

“I groom,” she said. “That is not a confession.”

Grindle’s mossy brows lowered. “And there were prints in the dew.”

“What sort of prints?” asked the mayor.

Grindle hesitated.

“Small ones.”

The crowd turned toward Miss Sparklecheeks.

“With toes.”

The crowd leaned in.

“Delicate toes.”

Miss Sparklecheeks threw up her tiny hands. “Oh, now delicate toes are illegal? This hollow has become a tyranny of the unattractive.”

A few butterflies gasped, offended on behalf of no one and everyone.

Mayor Bumblebrisk looked down at the scale, then at the vine, then at Miss Sparklecheeks, whose beautiful face was doing its very best impression of innocence after being caught standing beside a cake knife and an empty dessert table.

“Miss Sparklecheeks,” he said, “given the evidence—”

“The alleged evidence.”

“Given the extremely glittery alleged evidence, I must ask you to remain available for questioning.”

“I am always available for adoration. Questioning is less flattering.”

“And,” the mayor continued, “until this matter is resolved, you are hereby forbidden from approaching any Glassbell Blossom.”

Miss Sparklecheeks froze.

“Forbidden?”

“Yes.”

“From all Glassbells?”

“Yes.”

“Even the little shy one by the moss fountain?”

“Especially that one.”

She placed a hand against her chest. “That blossom and I have an understanding.”

“Not anymore.”

The crowd murmured again, and this time there was a smug little ripple running through it. A scandal was always delicious, but a scandal involving Miss Sparklecheeks was a full meal with dessert and a side of gossip butter.

Fernella smiled.

Grindle did not.

Mayor Bumblebrisk looked exhausted enough to pollinate himself into retirement.

Miss Sparklecheeks stood very still on her leaf, cheeks shimmering, wings twitching, pride bruised in a place no amount of glitter could conceal.

She had been accused before. Lightly. Playfully. Usually correctly.

This was different.

The Royal Dewdrop Reserve had not merely been stolen. Someone had made sure every clue pointed toward her.

Her scale.

Her toes.

Her reputation.

Her blessedly magnificent tongue.

It was insulting.

It was outrageous.

It was, she had to admit, surprisingly well organized.

As the crowd began to disperse, already weaving the day’s accusations into increasingly obscene rumors, Miss Sparklecheeks slipped down from her leaf and fluttered toward the shadowed underside of a fern.

She needed to think.

Unfortunately, thinking was harder when everyone nearby was whispering words like “nectar tramp,” “petal burglar,” and “sticky little criminal.”

“I heard she drank it through a reed,” said one ladybug.

“I heard she bathed in it,” replied another.

“I heard she sold it to moths behind the compost heap.”

Miss Sparklecheeks paused.

That one was just offensive. Moths had no taste.

She slipped deeper into the fern shadows, where the light turned green and cool and the noise of the square softened behind her. Dew clung to the fern stems like tiny glass lanterns. Somewhere nearby, a cricket tuned his legs and then thought better of it.

Miss Sparklecheeks paced along a curled root.

“All right,” she muttered to herself. “Someone wants me blamed. Fine. Rude, but fine.”

She counted the clues on her claws.

A scale that looked like hers.

A cut vine.

Delicate footprints.

A trail of nectar droplets.

And most suspicious of all, Fernella Fuzzwing producing evidence with the smug speed of a creature who had rehearsed her outrage in a mirror.

Miss Sparklecheeks narrowed her enormous eyes.

Fernella had hated her for months, ever since the Autumn Moon Masquerade, when Sparklecheeks had accidentally won Best Wings, Best Crown, Most Radiant Underdew Glow, and Most Likely to Cause a Priest to Forget His Vows. Fernella had taken second place in all four categories and had smiled with the warmth of a frozen thistle.

But was Fernella clever enough to stage a theft?

Possibly.

Was she dramatic enough?

Absolutely.

Was she capable of cutting a silver vine?

Not with those manicured little hands, but she had friends. Awful friends. Friends who used words like “decorum” and “moisture discipline.”

Miss Sparklecheeks shuddered.

Then there was Grindle Thistlewick.

The bloom-keeper had access to the pavilion. He knew the blossoms better than anyone. He carried sharp tools. He disliked her, and not even in a fun way. Grindle’s hatred had no sparkle to it. It was all damp roots and moral fiber.

But Grindle had seemed troubled, not smug.

And Miss Sparklecheeks, despite what the public believed, was very good at reading faces. It helped when one spent so much time convincing others to forgive one’s tiny catastrophes.

Grindle looked worried.

Fernella looked pleased.

Mayor Bumblebrisk looked one sneeze away from a civic breakdown.

“So,” she whispered, “who actually stole the nectar?”

A voice above her said, “Probably someone with a tongue problem.”

Miss Sparklecheeks looked up.

Dangling upside down from a fern stem was Pip Puddlewhisk, a young tree frog with speckled cheeks, a crooked grin, and the social grace of a dropped spoon. He was small, green, perpetually damp, and one of the only creatures in Blossombright Hollow who liked Miss Sparklecheeks more after hearing rumors about her.

“Pip,” she said. “How long have you been there?”

“Long enough to hear you say ‘moisture discipline’ like it personally hurt you.”

“It did.”

Pip dropped lightly onto the root beside her. “For what it’s worth, I don’t think you stole the reserve.”

Miss Sparklecheeks softened slightly. “Thank you.”

“You’d have bragged by breakfast.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Less thank you.”

“Also, the thief was too tidy.”

That caught her attention.

“Explain.”

Pip glanced around, then leaned closer. “I went to look at the pavilion before they blocked it off.”

“Of course you did.”

“I fit under things. It’s not a crime. Usually.”

“And?”

“The droplets weren’t random. They were placed.”

Miss Sparklecheeks stopped pacing.

“Placed?”

“In a little trail. Too even. Like whoever made it wanted someone to follow it.”

“Or find it.”

“Exactly.”

Pip’s throat puffed thoughtfully. “And the footprints? They were delicate, sure. But they were wrong.”

“Wrong how?”

“Too shallow.”

Miss Sparklecheeks flexed her toes against the root. “I am light.”

“You are dramatic. There’s a difference.”

“Careful, frog.”

“Your toes grip. Whoever made those prints wanted them to look like yours, but they didn’t press right at the tips. No claw marks either.”

Miss Sparklecheeks looked at him with new respect. “Pip Puddlewhisk, are you secretly useful?”

“I try not to let it ruin my brand.”

She tapped one claw against her chin. “So the evidence was planted.”

“Probably.”

“The scale?”

“Could be yours.”

“Traitor.”

“Or could be painted shell.”

Miss Sparklecheeks blinked.

“Painted shell?”

Pip nodded. “There’s a beetle lacquer that shines like scales if you polish it enough. My cousin used it once to pretend he was a dragon. Didn’t work. He was eaten by confidence.”

“Is he dead?”

“No, just married.”

Miss Sparklecheeks stared toward the square, where the last of the crowd drifted away in buzzing clusters.

For the first time since Fernella had revealed the scale, her sparkle began to return — not the soft decorative shimmer she used when passing reflective water, but a sharper gleam. A dangerous gleam. A gleam with plans.

“Someone forged my fabulousness,” she said.

“Looks like it.”

“Someone staged a nectar trail.”

“Yep.”

“Someone made fake footprints with inferior toe technique.”

“Deeply disrespectful.”

Miss Sparklecheeks lifted her chin. “Then someone is about to regret underestimating me.”

Pip grinned. “Are we investigating?”

“We?”

“I found the fake prints.”

“You also called my tongue a problem.”

“A famous problem.”

She considered this.

“Fine. You may assist.”

“Do I get a title?”

“Temporary Damp Associate.”

“I was hoping for partner.”

“Earn dry land first.”

They waited until the square had mostly emptied and the bloom guards began their lazy afternoon patrol. Blossombright Hollow, though in crisis, remained fundamentally bad at security. The guards were two beetles named Nib and Nob, both of whom believed strongly in procedure and weakly in staying awake.

Miss Sparklecheeks and Pip crept toward the Glassbell Pavilion through a tunnel of bluegrass and fern stems.

The closer they came, the more the air changed.

The usual floral sweetness had thinned. In its place lingered something sharper — a faint metallic tang beneath the perfume of petals and dew.

Miss Sparklecheeks paused.

“Do you smell that?”

Pip sniffed. “Trouble?”

“No, that’s just your personality. I mean the air.”

He sniffed again. “Like crushed mint and cold coins.”

“Exactly.”

The Glassbell Pavilion rose ahead of them, a ring of silver stems and translucent blossoms enclosed by a delicate vine gate. The gate had already been repaired with a twist of moss cord, but the cut section remained visible — a clean diagonal slice through the original silver vine.

Miss Sparklecheeks examined it.

“That was not claw work.”

Pip leaned close. “How do you know?”

She extended one tiny claw and drew it lightly against a nearby fallen vine. The cut she made was fine but ragged, with a slight tear at the edge.

“Claws pull,” she said. “Whatever cut this pressed straight through.”

“Like a blade?”

“Or a mandible.”

Pip swallowed. “Big mandible?”

“Not necessarily. Sharp. Precise.”

They slipped under the gate.

Inside, the pavilion felt wrong.

Miss Sparklecheeks had visited this place many times — occasionally invited, mostly not — and it was usually alive with sound. Glassbell Blossoms hummed softly when full of nectar, each one producing a different note. Together they created the famous Glassbell Chorus, a shimmering melody that floated across the hollow before the spring festival.

Now the blossoms were silent.

Their translucent petals drooped. Their centers were dry. Dew still clung to their outer edges, but the royal nectar was gone, taken from each bloom with astonishing care.

Miss Sparklecheeks approached the seventh blossom, the one where her alleged scale had been found.

She leaned over the center.

Nothing.

Not even a smear.

“Whoever did this knew how to sip without bruising the flower,” she murmured.

Pip hopped onto a nearby stem. “Could you do that?”

“Of course.”

“Not helping your case.”

“Talent is not guilt.”

She studied the petal edge. There, almost hidden beneath a bead of ordinary dew, was a thin streak of something pale blue.

Miss Sparklecheeks leaned closer.

“Pip.”

He hopped over. “What is it?”

“Look.”

The streak was sticky but not nectar. It shimmered faintly, like powdered moonlight mixed with sap.

Pip sniffed it and immediately sneezed so hard he nearly launched himself into the blossom.

“Ugh. Bitter.”

Miss Sparklecheeks touched the substance with the tip of one claw and held it to the light.

“This isn’t from a Glassbell.”

“What is it?”

“Moonmoth resin.”

Pip’s eyes widened. “That’s used for disguises, right?”

“Among other things. It sticks to almost anything and holds shimmer pigments.”

“Like fake scales.”

“Like fake scales.”

Their eyes met.

For one satisfying second, Miss Sparklecheeks felt the glow of being not only innocent, but correct. A rare and exquisite combination.

Then something moved beneath the farthest blossom.

Pip froze.

Miss Sparklecheeks turned slowly.

At the base of the twelfth Glassbell, half-hidden behind a curled petal, was a small object tucked into the moss.

Not a scale.

Not a droplet.

A tiny ribbon.

Silver, torn at one end, embroidered with a pattern of three black thistles.

Miss Sparklecheeks recognized it instantly.

Her breath caught.

Pip whispered, “What?”

She picked up the ribbon with careful claws.

“This belongs to the Night Thistle Society.”

“That sounds friendly.”

“It is not. It is a private club for creatures who think festivals have become too frivolous, nectar should be rationed, and laughter should be submitted in writing three days ahead.”

Pip made a face. “Monsters.”

“Fernella is a member.”

“Of course she is.”

Miss Sparklecheeks stared at the ribbon, her mind racing.

Fernella had found the scale.

Fernella had pushed the accusation.

Fernella belonged to a society with the charm of a damp tax form.

But why steal the nectar?

Why frame her?

And why leave a ribbon behind, unless the thief had been careless?

Miss Sparklecheeks did not trust carelessness. Not in crimes this neat.

Before she could speak, a voice thundered from the gate.

“You.”

Miss Sparklecheeks and Pip spun around.

Grindle Thistlewick stood at the entrance to the pavilion, lantern in hand, mossy brows drawn low over his eyes.

Behind him stood Nib and Nob, the beetle guards, suddenly very awake and very eager to look competent.

Grindle’s gaze dropped to the ribbon in Miss Sparklecheeks’ claws.

Then to the empty blossoms.

Then back to her face.

“You were forbidden from coming here,” he said.

Miss Sparklecheeks straightened, wings glittering in the tense pink light.

“And yet here I am, improving the investigation considerably.”

Nib pointed a spear no longer than a pine needle. “She’s tampering!”

Nob nodded. “Very tampery.”

Pip raised one sticky foot. “Technically, we found evidence.”

“You’re trespassing,” Grindle said.

“Technically, we found evidence while trespassing.”

“Pip,” Miss Sparklecheeks hissed, “stop helping with your mouth.”

Grindle stepped closer, his lantern casting hard gold light across the drooping blossoms. His face was unreadable, but his eyes lingered on the silver ribbon a moment too long.

Miss Sparklecheeks noticed.

“You recognize this,” she said.

Grindle’s jaw tightened.

“Everyone knows the Night Thistle mark.”

“That is not what I asked.”

The bloom-keeper looked toward the gate. “Guards, escort her to the mayor.”

“Absolutely not,” Miss Sparklecheeks said. “I am in the middle of being framed.”

“You are in the middle of making things worse.”

“That is my process.”

Nib and Nob advanced.

Pip crouched low, ready to leap.

Miss Sparklecheeks glanced toward the far side of the pavilion, where a gap between two Glassbell stems opened onto a narrow tunnel of moss and shadow.

Grindle saw her looking.

“Don’t.”

Miss Sparklecheeks smiled.

It was not her usual smile, the one made of charm and glitter and terrible ideas. This one was sharper. Brighter. A little dangerous.

“Grindle,” she said sweetly, tucking the ribbon beneath her flower crown, “you really should know better than to tell a lady what not to do.”

Then she flicked her wings, shot upward in a burst of iridescent light, and dove straight through the moss tunnel.

Pip launched after her with a delighted, “Crimes!”

“Alleged crimes!” she shouted back.

Behind them, beetles yelled, Grindle cursed, and the silent Glassbell Blossoms shivered in their wake.

Miss Sparklecheeks burst out beneath the roots of the old magnolia tree and landed hard on a cushion of moss, laughing despite herself, heart pounding, cheeks glowing like stolen sunrise.

For the first time all day, she no longer felt like prey.

She had a clue.

She had an accomplice.

She had enemies with terrible taste in secret societies.

And somewhere in Blossombright Hollow, hidden beneath perfume, petals, and smug little lies, someone had a jar full of stolen Royal Dewdrop Nectar.

Miss Sparklecheeks lifted her head toward the deepening afternoon light.

“All right,” she said. “Let’s rob the robbers.”

The Thistle Club and the Smug Little Lies

Miss Sparklecheeks had always believed that running away was not cowardice if one did it with excellent posture.

And she had posture for days.

She darted through the root tunnels beneath the old magnolia, wings flickering like living stained glass, cheeks glowing with that particular shade of outrage reserved for the falsely accused, the underappreciated, and anyone who had ever been called “tampery” by a beetle with helmet hair.

Pip Puddlewhisk bounded after her in a series of damp, heroic flops.

“You know,” he said, landing beside her on a curled root, “for someone trying to prove she’s not a criminal, you do flee with suspicious elegance.”

“Innocent people can flee beautifully.”

“Can they?”

“I am pioneering the category.”

Behind them, muffled shouts echoed through the mossy passage.

Nib and Nob were attempting pursuit, which mostly involved arguing about who had jurisdiction inside a root system. Grindle’s voice cut through the chaos now and then, low and sharp, calling for the tunnel exits to be watched.

Miss Sparklecheeks paused at a fork in the roots.

To the left, the tunnel sloped toward the lily pond.

To the right, it narrowed into the old worm ways — ancient, damp corridors that no respectable creature used unless desperate, lost, or involved in politics.

Pip looked at the right tunnel.

“No.”

“Yes.”

“It smells like fermented dirt and bad decisions.”

“So does every town meeting.”

“Sparklecheeks.”

“Pip.”

“There are worms in there.”

“Then try not to look delicious.”

She slipped into the right tunnel.

Pip groaned and followed, because friendship was apparently just poor judgment with witnesses.

The worm ways were tight, twisting, and slick with underground dew. Roots coiled overhead like old fingers. Little pockets of glow-fungus cast greenish light across the passage walls. Somewhere in the dark, something sighed wetly, then apologized.

“I hate this,” Pip whispered.

“Good,” Miss Sparklecheeks said. “Fear keeps the pores lively.”

“I’m a frog. My whole body is pores.”

“Then congratulations. You are emotionally moisturized.”

They moved deeper until the shouts faded behind them. At last, the tunnel opened into a hollow chamber beneath the magnolia’s central roots. It was small, round, and lit by pale blue mushroom caps. A trickle of water ran through the center, carrying fallen petals and crumbs from some long-forgotten picnic disaster.

Miss Sparklecheeks stopped beside the water and carefully retrieved the silver ribbon from beneath her flower crown.

Three black thistles shimmered along its edge.

Pip leaned in. “So Fernella’s creepy little club did it?”

“Possibly.”

“Possibly?”

“A clue that obvious is either a mistake, a message, or bait.”

“Could it be all three?”

“Only if the criminal is very annoying.”

Pip nodded. “So yes.”

Miss Sparklecheeks turned the ribbon over. On the underside, hidden beneath the embroidered thistles, was a tiny smear of pale blue resin.

Moonmoth resin.

Her eyes narrowed.

“Whoever planted the fake scale handled this ribbon too.”

“Then it really is connected.”

“Yes.”

“And Fernella had the fake scale.”

“Yes.”

“And Fernella is in the Night Thistle Society.”

“Yes.”

“And Fernella once told me frogs should not attend formal garden functions because we ‘lower the moisture profile.’”

Miss Sparklecheeks looked up slowly. “She said what?”

“At the Buttercup Banquet.”

“That woman needs to be bitten by a decorative purse.”

Pip puffed his throat proudly. “So we hate her together now?”

“Professionally.”

“Excellent.”

Miss Sparklecheeks tucked the ribbon away again. “But hating Fernella does not prove she stole the nectar.”

“It proves she deserves inconvenience.”

“A separate but worthy case.”

She paced along the chamber edge, claws clicking softly against bark. Her mind moved faster than her wings.

The Royal Dewdrop Reserve could not be moved carelessly. Glassbell nectar was famously unstable. Too much shaking and it turned sour. Too much heat and it became vapor. Too much moonlight and it started singing insulting little lullabies. Anyone stealing it would need proper containers, cold shade, and a place to store it away from open blossoms.

Most creatures in Blossombright Hollow would not know that.

The bloom-keeper would.

The Night Thistle Society might.

And the old Nectar Guild definitely would.

Miss Sparklecheeks stopped pacing.

“We need to know where the Night Thistle Society meets.”

Pip made a face. “Somewhere joyless?”

“Undoubtedly.”

“With tiny chairs that make your legs feel judged?”

“Likely.”

“And snacks that taste like discipline?”

“Pip.”

“Right. Focus.”

He scratched his chin with one sticky toe. “I heard they meet beneath the old birdbath.”

Miss Sparklecheeks blinked. “The broken one near Widow Pollenbraid’s lavender hedge?”

“That’s the one.”

“How do you know?”

Pip looked offended. “I’m a frog. I sit in damp places and overhear things. It’s basically my career.”

“Finally, your dampness serves civilization.”

He bowed. “A moist honor.”

Miss Sparklecheeks looked toward the narrow tunnel that led west beneath the garden. Aboveground, the broken birdbath stood near the oldest part of the hollow, where the lavender grew dense and the shade lasted longer than it should. It was a place respectable creatures avoided after dusk, mostly because Widow Pollenbraid liked to tell unsolicited stories about her late husband’s molting problems.

“We go tonight,” Miss Sparklecheeks said.

Pip’s grin widened. “Spy mission?”

“Reconnaissance.”

“That’s fancy spy mission.”

“With better cheekbones.”

“Do I need a disguise?”

“You are green, damp, and shaped like a startled thought. No one will mistake you for a society member.”

“Rude.”

“Accurate.”

“Can I wear a leaf cape?”

“Fine.”

“And a title?”

“Temporary Leaf-Caped Damp Associate.”

Pip beamed. “Promotion.”

They spent the remaining afternoon hidden in the root chamber, which Miss Sparklecheeks found nearly unbearable because underground lighting did nothing for her iridescence. Pip, however, loved it. He caught three gnats, made a nest out of moss, and declared the entire situation “cozy in a criminal way.”

Miss Sparklecheeks tried to rest but could not.

Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the crowd staring at her. Saw Fernella’s thin smile. Saw the fake scale glimmering on the mayor’s podium like a tiny polished accusation.

It was one thing to be known as a troublemaker.

She had cultivated trouble. Trouble had shape, shine, and social utility. Trouble made dull creatures stand up straighter. Trouble gave flowers something to gossip about after rain.

But being framed was different.

Someone had taken her reputation — her wildness, her appetite, her flair, her spectacularly useful tongue — and turned it into a cage.

That was not mischief.

That was theft.

And Miss Sparklecheeks hated thieves almost as much as she hated unflattering puddles.

By moonrise, the hollow had quieted.

Aboveground, the festival lanterns remained unlit. The First Blooming celebration had been postponed, leaving Blossombright Hollow under a blanket of anxious twilight. No music drifted from the cricket stages. No bees rehearsed their spring parade formations. Even the lilies seemed to keep their petals half-closed, as if worried the scandal might splash.

Miss Sparklecheeks and Pip emerged from a knot in the roots near the lavender hedge.

The night smelled of purple flowers, damp soil, and secrets wearing perfume.

Pip had indeed made himself a leaf cape.

It was crooked.

He looked very proud.

“How do I look?” he whispered.

Miss Sparklecheeks glanced at him. “Like a salad escaped judgment.”

“Stealthy salad?”

“Do not push me.”

They crept toward the broken birdbath.

It stood at the center of a small clearing, cracked down one side, its basin tilted and filled with old rainwater. Ivy climbed its pedestal. Lavender leaned close around it, thick and silver in the moonlight. At first glance, it looked abandoned.

Then Miss Sparklecheeks noticed the beetle at the base.

He stood very still beside the ivy, wearing a small black sash embroidered with one thistle.

“Guard,” she whispered.

Pip peered over a lavender stem. “Looks serious.”

“Looks bored.”

“Same thing in a sash.”

They watched.

After a moment, the beetle tapped three times on the cracked stone pedestal.

A seam opened in the ivy.

A hidden door.

Light glowed behind it — dim, amber, and deeply judgmental.

The beetle slipped inside. The ivy closed again.

Miss Sparklecheeks smiled slowly.

“Well.”

Pip whispered, “Secret door.”

“Secret door.”

“Definitely villains.”

“Or very committed hobbyists.”

“Same basement.”

They waited until the clearing settled again. Then Miss Sparklecheeks fluttered up onto the birdbath rim, moving silently from crack to crack, wings tight against her back. Pip climbed the ivy with admirable enthusiasm and very little dignity.

The hidden door had no handle on the outside. Just a smooth patch of bark disguised beneath leaves.

Miss Sparklecheeks examined it, then found a small crescent-shaped depression near the bottom.

“A key mark,” she whispered.

Pip looked at his sticky toes. “Can I—”

“No licking the lock.”

“I wasn’t going to.”

“You absolutely were.”

“Professionally.”

Miss Sparklecheeks leaned closer, studying the mechanism. It was delicate, made from curled thorn and beetle brass. The depression matched a seedpod key, probably carried by society members.

She did not have a key.

She did, however, have an ambitious scale line, a scandalous tongue, and a lifelong disrespect for doors that thought highly of themselves.

“Stand back,” she whispered.

Pip hopped aside. “Are you going to pick it?”

“Something like that.”

Miss Sparklecheeks lowered her head and extended her tongue.

Pip stared.

“Is this one of those absolutely necessary moments?”

“Do you want in or do you want commentary?”

“Both, ideally.”

Her tongue slid into the crescent depression with elegant precision.

For a few seconds, there was only silence, concentration, and one deeply awkward frog trying not to make eye contact with a door.

A tiny click sounded.

The hidden panel loosened.

Miss Sparklecheeks withdrew her tongue, lifted her chin, and smiled.

“Private blessing.”

Pip whispered, “I will never doubt your horrifying gifts again.”

“See that you don’t.”

They slipped through the opening into a narrow staircase curling downward inside the birdbath pedestal.

The air grew cooler. The scent of lavender faded behind them, replaced by beeswax, ink, polished shellac, and that unmistakable odor of creatures taking themselves far too seriously.

At the bottom, the passage opened onto a hidden chamber.

The Night Thistle Society had built itself a clubroom beneath the old birdbath, and it was exactly as dreadful as Miss Sparklecheeks expected.

Dark wooden tables. Thorn-backed chairs. Shelves of labeled jars. A lectern carved from black walnut. Heavy curtains woven from moth silk. Portraits of severe-looking insects lined the walls, each one glaring down as if disappointed that anyone had ever invented dancing.

At the far end of the chamber, a banner hung between two lanterns.

ORDER. RESTRAINT. PROPER BLOOM CONDUCT.

Miss Sparklecheeks nearly gagged.

“This place needs a scandal and twelve cushions.”

Pip pointed toward a side alcove. “Look.”

A group of society members had gathered around a long table. Fernella Fuzzwing stood at its head, silver wings folded neatly behind her. Around her sat several familiar faces: Bristlepin the beetle lacquerer, Madam Prunewort the etiquette moth, two stern ants from the Fiscal Pollen Committee, and a pale little weevil named Crick who looked like he apologized to wallpaper.

Miss Sparklecheeks and Pip ducked behind a stack of dusty ledgers.

Fernella’s voice drifted across the chamber.

“The mayor is weak.”

Madam Prunewort nodded solemnly. “Dangerously sentimental.”

“The hollow has lost its discipline,” Fernella continued. “Festivals have become indulgent. Blossoms are treated like carnival fountains. Nectar is wasted on performers, flutter-drunk moths, and ridiculous creatures whose primary contribution to society is cheek shimmer.”

Miss Sparklecheeks put a hand to her chest.

Pip whispered, “I think that’s you.”

“I know, and she undersold me.”

Fernella paced beside the table. “The disappearance of the Royal Dewdrop Reserve is unfortunate.”

Miss Sparklecheeks leaned forward.

“But,” Fernella said, “it has provided an opportunity.”

There it was.

Opportunity.

The favorite word of people who ruined things and wanted applause for the cleanup.

Bristlepin the lacquerer cleared his throat. His shiny black carapace reflected the lanternlight, and his mandibles clicked nervously.

“The evidence has been accepted?”

Fernella smiled. “The scale was persuasive.”

Miss Sparklecheeks’ claws curled into the ledger cover.

“And the footprints?” asked one of the ants.

“Adequate,” Fernella said.

Pip mouthed, Adequate?

Miss Sparklecheeks looked personally wounded.

Fernella continued. “The public was eager to believe what it already suspected. Miss Sparklecheeks has made herself useful by being exactly as undisciplined as she appears.”

Miss Sparklecheeks narrowed her eyes until they glittered like gemstones with legal intent.

Madam Prunewort fluttered her dull brown wings. “But what of the nectar itself?”

The room went quiet.

Fernella stopped pacing.

“Safe.”

“Where?” asked Bristlepin.

“You know better than to ask details in full assembly.”

“We took risks,” he said. “I crafted the false scale. I applied the resin. If this turns poorly, I will be ruined.”

“You already lacquer beetle shells for pageant larvae,” Fernella replied. “Let us not pretend ruin is unfamiliar terrain.”

Bristlepin bristled, which was probably how he got the name.

Miss Sparklecheeks felt Pip’s sticky hand on her arm.

He whispered, “False scale. She admitted it.”

“I heard.”

“We should tell the mayor.”

“With what proof?”

He looked toward the conspirators. “Our charming faces?”

“Mine, perhaps. Yours is situational.”

Fernella turned toward the banner. “By tomorrow, the hollow will demand stronger rules. The festival will be restructured. Access to rare nectar will be controlled by a proper council. No more chaos. No more improvised songs. No more creatures licking ceremonial blooms because they have ‘chemistry.’”

Several society members murmured in approval.

Miss Sparklecheeks whispered, “That was one time.”

Pip blinked. “You told me it was four times.”

“Across three blooms. Don’t be provincial.”

Madam Prunewort raised one wing. “And Miss Sparklecheeks?”

Fernella’s smile sharpened.

“A public confession would be ideal. But exile may suffice.”

Pip’s mouth fell open.

Miss Sparklecheeks went perfectly still.

There are many insults one can throw at a creature like Miss Sparklecheeks. One can call her vain, reckless, overly scented, dangerously adorable, or legally difficult near honeysuckle. One can question her judgment, her modesty, her ability to pass a reflective surface without holding court.

But exile?

From Blossombright Hollow?

From her flowers, her moss paths, her bickering neighbors, her moonlit puddles, her little world of glitter and gossip and glorious terrible ideas?

That was not petty.

That was cruelty wearing gloves.

For the first time since the scandal began, Miss Sparklecheeks felt something colder than outrage.

Fear.

It slipped beneath her wings and settled against her spine.

Then Fernella said, “By the next moon, she will be gone.”

The fear caught fire.

Pip must have sensed it, because he whispered, “Please don’t do the face.”

Miss Sparklecheeks did not look at him. “What face?”

“The one where your eyes get pretty and everyone nearby should update their will.”

“I am not doing a face.”

“You are absolutely doing the face.”

Miss Sparklecheeks rose from behind the ledger stack.

Pip grabbed for her ankle and missed.

“Oh no,” he whispered. “We’ve entered the theatrical consequences portion.”

Miss Sparklecheeks stepped into the lanternlight.

“Fernella, darling,” she called, “if you wanted me gone, you could have simply admitted your wings look like soup film and asked politely.”

The entire chamber froze.

Fernella turned slowly.

The society members stared.

Bristlepin made a sound like a cork being stepped on.

Miss Sparklecheeks stood in the aisle between the thorn-backed chairs, iridescent wings shimmering, flower crown slightly crooked, cheeks glowing with defiant pink-gold light. She looked small, radiant, and catastrophically done with everyone’s nonsense.

“Miss Sparklecheeks,” Fernella said, voice tight.

“Miss Fuzzwing.”

“You are trespassing.”

“A popular accusation today.”

Fernella’s eyes flicked toward the entrance. “You should not have come here.”

“Yes, well, you should not have planted a fake scale at a crime scene and insulted my toe work in public, but look at us both having growth opportunities.”

The room erupted.

Madam Prunewort gasped hard enough to displace dust. The ants stood. Bristlepin backed toward a shelf of resin jars. Crick the weevil began quietly trying to become furniture.

Fernella raised a hand. “Seize her.”

Nobody moved.

“I said seize her.”

Miss Sparklecheeks smiled and extended her claws. “Yes, do. Let’s find out who leaves with fewer opinions.”

Pip leapt dramatically onto a chair beside her, leaf cape flaring behind him like a soggy banner.

“And I am here too!” he shouted.

The room stared at him.

“For emotional support,” he added.

Miss Sparklecheeks whispered, “Thank you, Temporary Leaf-Caped Damp Associate.”

“You’re welcome.”

Fernella’s composure cracked at the edges. “You heard nothing of importance.”

“I heard Bristlepin admit to crafting the false scale.”

Bristlepin squeaked. “I did not say admit.”

“You said crafted. I supplied context.”

“I was speaking hypothetically.”

Miss Sparklecheeks turned to him. “Were you hypothetically sweating resin?”

He glanced down at the pale blue smear on his front legs.

“That is unrelated moisture.”

Pip whispered, “Weak.”

“Deeply,” Miss Sparklecheeks said.

Fernella stepped forward. “Even if you convince the mayor that a scale was planted, it changes nothing. The reserve is gone. The hollow is afraid. The public has seen what happens when indulgence runs loose.”

“You stole sacred nectar to make a political point.”

“We protected it from waste.”

“You emptied every Glassbell in the pavilion.”

“Temporarily.”

“You blamed me.”

“Conveniently.”

“There she is,” Miss Sparklecheeks said. “The personality finally matched the bun.”

Fernella’s wings snapped open.

For one moment, she looked less like a stiff little fairy with etiquette poisoning and more like something hard, bright, and furious.

“You make everything cheap,” Fernella hissed. “Every ceremony, every custom, every sacred rite. You flutter in, sparkle, wink, sip, and everyone applauds as if disrespect is charm. This hollow was once dignified.”

“This hollow was once boring.”

“It had standards.”

“It had seating charts.”

“It had order.”

“It had moths pretending they enjoyed unsalted pollen cakes.”

Fernella’s face flushed silver.

Miss Sparklecheeks stepped closer. “You didn’t steal the nectar because it was being wasted. You stole it because everyone was happy without asking your permission.”

The chamber fell silent.

Fernella’s eyes flashed.

“Take her.”

This time, the ants moved.

They rushed down the aisle with tiny disciplined steps, mandibles raised. Pip sprang forward, stuck both front feet to the polished floor, and kicked his back legs out wildly.

One ant tripped over him.

The other crashed into the first.

“Ha!” Pip shouted. “Moisture profile that, you tax-legged goblins!”

Miss Sparklecheeks darted sideways as Madam Prunewort tried to throw a napkin ring at her. It missed and struck a portrait of a stern beetle ancestor, knocking it sideways and making him look briefly drunk.

Bristlepin lunged toward the resin shelf.

Miss Sparklecheeks saw him reach for a jar of moonmoth resin and knew instantly what he intended. The stuff could gum wings shut in seconds.

She flew low across the table, slid beneath Fernella’s outstretched arm, and flicked her tail against Bristlepin’s wrist.

The resin jar flew into the air.

Pip, acting on instinct and questionable survival priorities, caught it with his mouth.

His eyes widened.

“Don’t swallow!” Miss Sparklecheeks shouted.

Pip spat the jar onto a cushion.

It bounced, popped open, and spilled pale blue resin across the society banner.

ORDER. RESTRAINT. PROPER BLOOM CONDUCT.

The words sagged, stuck together, and slowly folded into a gummy mess that now read:

ORDER RAIN PROPER CONDUCT.

“Honestly,” Miss Sparklecheeks said, “an improvement.”

The clubroom dissolved into chaos.

The ants tried to regroup and became stuck to Pip’s leaf cape. Madam Prunewort shrieked about upholstery. Crick the weevil succeeded at becoming furniture by hiding inside a hollow chair leg. Bristlepin scrambled after his ruined resin, muttering about sheen integrity.

Fernella, however, did not panic.

She crossed the room with terrifying purpose and seized a small brass bell from the lectern.

Miss Sparklecheeks saw it too late.

Fernella rang it once.

The sound was thin, sharp, and unnatural.

The floor vibrated.

Pip froze with an ant stuck to his cape. “What was that?”

Miss Sparklecheeks looked around.

Behind the society banner, something clicked.

A hidden panel slid open.

Cold air spilled into the room.

And with it came the smell of crushed mint and cold coins.

The same scent from the Glassbell Pavilion.

Miss Sparklecheeks’ eyes widened.

“The nectar.”

Fernella smiled.

“Not all of it.”

From the hidden chamber behind the wall rolled three tiny carts, each pulled by a pair of black-shelled beetles wearing Night Thistle sashes. On the carts sat crystal jars packed in cold moss, glowing softly with honey-pink light.

Royal Dewdrop Nectar.

Not enough to match the whole reserve, but enough to prove the theft. Enough to make the room pulse with stolen sunrise.

Pip whispered, “We found it.”

Miss Sparklecheeks nodded slowly.

“We found some of it.”

Because she saw it immediately.

The jars were too few.

The Glassbell Reserve had been vast, at least by hollow standards. Enough to fill twenty ceremonial acorn cups, seven festival fountains, and Mayor Bumblebrisk’s emergency optimism flask.

Three carts did not account for everything.

Fernella watched her face and smiled wider.

“Yes,” she said softly. “You are quicker than people think.”

Miss Sparklecheeks’ wings tensed.

“Where is the rest?”

Fernella lifted the brass bell again. “Out of reach.”

“Fernella.”

“You should have stayed pretty and foolish.”

Miss Sparklecheeks smiled coldly. “I multitask.”

Fernella rang the bell a second time.

The beetles pulling the carts surged forward.

The first cart barreled down the aisle toward Miss Sparklecheeks. She leapt onto a chair, kicked off a portrait frame, and landed on the cart’s handle. The crystal jars rocked dangerously.

“Careful!” Bristlepin cried. “That nectar is volatile!”

“Then stop driving it like a drunk acorn!” Pip yelled.

He pounced onto the second cart, got dragged six inches, and immediately looked thrilled. “I’m helping!”

The ants finally freed themselves from his cape and rushed toward him again.

Pip bounced backward, grabbed the cape in his mouth, and flung it over their heads. They stumbled blindly into Madam Prunewort, who collapsed onto a thorn-backed chair and declared herself socially murdered.

Miss Sparklecheeks balanced atop the first cart, wings flared, tail curled around the handle. One of the beetles pulling it snapped his mandibles at her.

“Don’t you click at me,” she said. “I have been framed, chased, insulted, and denied access to the shy Glassbell by the moss fountain. I am one inconvenience away from becoming folklore.”

The beetle clicked again.

“Wrong choice.”

She whipped her tongue around the cart’s steering twig and yanked.

The cart swerved.

It clipped the leg of the society table, launched a stack of ledgers into the air, and sent pages fluttering everywhere.

One page slapped against Pip’s face.

He peeled it off and squinted. “Sparklecheeks!”

“Busy!”

“This is a storage ledger!”

Fernella’s head snapped toward him.

Miss Sparklecheeks saw it.

“Read it!”

Pip hopped onto the overturned chair, holding the page with both sticky hands. “Uh... jars transferred... six acorn casks... midnight delivery... to...”

Fernella launched herself toward him.

Miss Sparklecheeks dove across the room and slammed into her midair.

The two of them spun in a glittering blur, wings tangling, claws flashing, flower crown shedding one tiny blossom that drifted tragically to the floor.

Fernella hissed, “Give me that page.”

Miss Sparklecheeks bared her tiny teeth. “Give me a confession and a better personality.”

They crashed into the lectern.

Pip scrambled backward, eyes scanning the page.

“To the Frostroot Cellar!” he shouted.

The room went still for half a heartbeat.

Even Fernella froze.

Miss Sparklecheeks looked at her.

“The Frostroot Cellar?”

Fernella’s expression changed.

Not anger.

Not smugness.

Fear.

It was quick, but Miss Sparklecheeks saw it.

Then the hidden door at the far end burst open again.

Grindle Thistlewick stormed in.

Behind him came Mayor Bumblebrisk, Nib, Nob, and half a dozen wide-eyed witnesses from the hollow square.

Apparently, when Nib and Nob lost their quarry at the root tunnels, Grindle had followed the disturbance to the birdbath — and brought civic authority with him, which was unfortunate for everyone wearing a sash.

Mayor Bumblebrisk took in the room.

The spilled resin.

The ruined banner.

The carts full of glowing nectar jars.

Madam Prunewort sprawled in social death.

Two ants wearing a frog cape.

Miss Sparklecheeks and Fernella tangled against the lectern like dueling ornaments.

The mayor’s mouth opened.

Closed.

Opened again.

“I,” he said faintly, “would like very much for someone else to be mayor.”

Grindle’s gaze locked on the nectar jars.

His face went pale beneath the pollen in his beard.

“What have you done?” he whispered.

Fernella straightened, smoothing her gown with trembling hands. “Mayor, this is not what it appears to be.”

Miss Sparklecheeks stood beside her, bruised, glittering, and missing one crown blossom.

“Really?” she said. “Because it appears to be a secret basement full of stolen nectar and a room full of joy-hostile weirdos who framed me with arts and crafts.”

Pip hopped forward holding the ledger page. “Also there’s a delivery record.”

Mayor Bumblebrisk turned toward Fernella.

“Miss Fuzzwing?”

Fernella lifted her chin. “We acted for the good of the hollow.”

The mayor stared at her. “You stole the Royal Dewdrop Reserve.”

“We secured it.”

“You framed Miss Sparklecheeks.”

Fernella’s mouth tightened. “She was a believable symbol of disorder.”

Miss Sparklecheeks raised one claw. “I object to being called believable.”

“Noted,” said the mayor weakly.

Grindle stepped toward the carts. “Where is the rest?”

Fernella did not answer.

The room chilled.

Miss Sparklecheeks glanced between them.

There it was again — that flicker of fear in Fernella’s face, mirrored now in Grindle’s.

“What is the Frostroot Cellar?” she asked.

No one spoke.

The mayor looked down.

Grindle closed his eyes.

Pip whispered, “That seems like a bad silence.”

Miss Sparklecheeks stepped forward. “Someone answer me.”

Grindle opened his eyes.

“The Frostroot Cellar is beneath the oldest roots of the hollow,” he said quietly. “A cold chamber where ancient bloom stores were kept before the Glassbells were cultivated. It hasn’t been used in years.”

“Why?”

“Because something lives there.”

Pip swallowed loudly.

“Something?”

Grindle looked toward the glowing jars.

“The roots beneath Blossombright feed more than flowers. Long ago, before the hollow learned restraint, before the Royal Dewdrop rites existed, nectar was harvested greedily. Too much sweetness gathered underground. It fermented. Changed. Woke things that should have stayed asleep.”

Miss Sparklecheeks blinked. “You have underground nectar monsters?”

Mayor Bumblebrisk winced. “We prefer the phrase historical botanical consequences.”

“Of course you do.”

Grindle’s voice hardened. “If the rest of the reserve was taken to Frostroot, it may already have seeped into the old channels.”

“And if it has?” Pip asked.

Grindle looked at Fernella.

Fernella looked away.

The bloom-keeper answered anyway.

“Then by dawn, the Hollowroot Bloom may wake.”

The society members began murmuring in panic.

Miss Sparklecheeks folded her arms. “I’m sorry, the what now?”

Mayor Bumblebrisk sat heavily on a thorn-backed chair and immediately yelped.

Grindle gripped his seedpod lantern. “An ancient flower beneath the hollow. Huge. Hungry. Half-root, half-blossom, all appetite. It drinks concentrated nectar through the soil. If it wakes fully, it will bloom upward through Blossombright.”

“That sounds lovely,” Pip said hopefully.

“It eats everything sweet.”

Pip looked at Miss Sparklecheeks.

Miss Sparklecheeks looked at herself.

“I am not that sweet,” she said.

Pip opened his mouth.

“Choose wisely,” she warned.

He closed it.

Grindle turned on Fernella. “You fool. You didn’t just steal festival nectar. You moved unstable royal concentrate into the old root system.”

Fernella’s composure finally shattered.

“I didn’t know!”

“You didn’t ask.”

“The ledgers said the cellar was cold enough.”

“The ledgers are older than the mayor’s emergency optimism flask!”

Mayor Bumblebrisk whispered, “Please leave my flask out of this.”

Miss Sparklecheeks stepped into the center of the room.

“Enough.”

Everyone turned toward her.

She stood amid overturned chairs, resin stains, stolen nectar jars, and the remains of a secret society’s dignity. Her wings were scuffed. Her crown was missing a bloom. Her reputation had been dragged through pollen, law, and mild anatomical commentary.

But her eyes shone brighter than ever.

“Where is the cellar entrance?”

Grindle frowned. “Absolutely not.”

“Where?”

“This is not a little scandal chase. Frostroot is dangerous.”

“I have been accused, chased, banned from blossoms, insulted in committee, and nearly resin-glued by a beetle pageant stylist. Dangerous has joined the queue.”

“You don’t understand what’s down there.”

“Then explain while walking.”

Mayor Bumblebrisk rose shakily. “Miss Sparklecheeks, the matter of your innocence appears, ah, substantially clarified.”

“Substantially?”

“Fully! Very fully. Sparklingly fully.”

“Better.”

“But you are not required to involve yourself further.”

Miss Sparklecheeks looked toward Fernella.

Fernella would not meet her eyes.

Then she looked toward the jars of recovered nectar — beautiful, glowing, stolen little suns.

And finally toward Pip, whose crooked leaf cape hung from one shoulder, whose face was smudged with dust and pride.

Blossombright Hollow was ridiculous.

It was petty, overperfumed, badly governed, overly fond of formal sashes, and apparently built atop a sleeping nectar beast because no one in history could ever just enjoy a normal meadow.

But it was hers.

Her ridiculous hollow.

Her glittering mess.

Her home.

She lifted her chin.

“Someone framed me for stealing the nectar,” she said. “Fine. Someone hid the rest in a monster basement. Less fine. But if anyone thinks Miss Sparklecheeks is going to be remembered as a sticky little scapegoat while some overgrown root gobbles the garden, they have mistaken me for a creature with emotional balance.”

Pip grinned slowly.

“So we’re going to the monster basement?”

“Obviously.”

Grindle sighed so deeply it seemed to come from ancestral soil.

“The entrance is under the frostfern stones.”

Miss Sparklecheeks smiled.

“Wonderful.”

Mayor Bumblebrisk raised a trembling hand. “Perhaps we should assemble a careful rescue party.”

From somewhere far beneath the hollow came a low, echoing groan.

The birdbath chamber shook.

Dust drifted from the ceiling.

Above them, through soil and root and stone, something enormous shifted in its sleep.

The crystal nectar jars flickered.

One by one, the Glassbell petals in the stolen jars began to hum.

Grindle’s face went grim.

“Too late.”

Miss Sparklecheeks turned toward the exit, wings flaring with reckless light.

“Then let’s go make a terrible decision quickly.”

The Hollowroot Bloom and the Glittering Little Reckoning

The entrance to the Frostroot Cellar sat beneath three pale stones at the northern edge of Blossombright Hollow, where the grass grew silver, the moss stayed cold even in summer, and every sensible creature avoided standing too long unless they enjoyed hearing whispers from underneath their feet.

Miss Sparklecheeks, naturally, stood directly on top of it.

“This is the place?” she asked.

Grindle Thistlewick held his seedpod lantern high. Its golden glow flickered against the frostfern leaves, making them shine like brittle lace. “Yes.”

Pip Puddlewhisk peered between the stones. “It looks like the sort of place that eats frogs first.”

“Good,” Miss Sparklecheeks said. “Then I’ll have a warning.”

“That was almost supportive if I ignore the meaning.”

“That’s the spirit.”

Behind them, half of Blossombright Hollow had gathered in nervous clusters. Mayor Bumblebrisk hovered near the rear, flanked by Nib and Nob, who were trying very hard to look brave while standing behind a mushroom. Fernella Fuzzwing had been brought along under watch, her wrists bound lightly with silk vine and her expression bound tightly with humiliation.

Bristlepin, Madam Prunewort, the ants, and the rest of the Night Thistle Society had been left under guard at the old birdbath chamber, where they were presumably having the worst meeting of their dull little lives.

Good.

Miss Sparklecheeks hoped someone served unsalted pollen cakes.

Another groan rolled up from beneath the hollow.

The ground trembled.

All around the clearing, blossoms shivered. Dewdrops trembled on petals. A cluster of tulips snapped themselves shut with the offended drama of wealthy relatives discovering karaoke.

Mayor Bumblebrisk wrung his tiny hands. “Perhaps this is a situation for engineers.”

“Do we have engineers?” asked Pip.

The mayor hesitated. “We have three ants who once built a very sturdy jam ramp.”

“That will not help,” Grindle said.

“It was a very sturdy ramp.”

Grindle ignored him and knelt beside the frostfern stones. With both hands, he cleared away the moss growing between them, revealing an old circular seal carved into the earth. It was made of braided roots hardened like wood, etched with symbols of petals, moons, and warning marks that looked suspiciously like screaming faces.

Miss Sparklecheeks leaned closer.

“Those symbols seem unfriendly.”

“They are wards,” Grindle said. “Old ones. Meant to keep the Hollowroot Bloom asleep.”

“Are they working?” Pip asked.

Another deep groan answered him.

The seal pulsed faintly pink.

Pip nodded. “I withdraw the question.”

Grindle pulled a small thorn key from his vest and inserted it into the center of the root seal. “Once we go down, stay close. The Frostroot tunnels shift around old moisture channels. Follow the lantern. Do not touch glowing roots. Do not drink anything. Do not hum back if something hums at you first.”

Miss Sparklecheeks raised a claw. “Define ‘something.’”

“No.”

“That feels intentionally unhelpful.”

“It is merciful.”

The seal unlocked with a low wooden crack.

The braided roots twisted apart, revealing a stairway descending into blue-black dark. Cold air breathed upward, smelling of mint, wet stone, ancient sugar, and botanical resentment.

The crowd backed away.

Miss Sparklecheeks did not.

She looked down into the darkness, wings tucked close, tail curling behind her.

Then she glanced at Fernella.

“You’re coming.”

Fernella’s face sharpened. “Absolutely not.”

“Absolutely yes.”

Mayor Bumblebrisk fluttered forward. “Miss Sparklecheeks, perhaps Miss Fuzzwing should remain under supervision aboveground.”

“Miss Fuzzwing moved the nectar. Miss Fuzzwing knows where it was stored. Miss Fuzzwing is going to point her stiff little finger at the mess she made.”

Fernella lifted her chin. “I do not take orders from you.”

Miss Sparklecheeks smiled.

“Darling, no one takes orders from me. They simply realize the alternative is louder.”

Pip hopped beside her, crooked leaf cape still clinging heroically to one shoulder. “Also, if we die because you forgot a detail, I will haunt you moistly.”

Fernella stared at him.

“That is not a recognized threat.”

“Not yet.”

Grindle exhaled through his nose. “She comes. But she stays behind me.”

“I object,” Fernella said.

“Excellent,” Miss Sparklecheeks replied. “Carry that feeling downward.”

And so, with the hollow watching in horrified silence, the strangest rescue party in Blossombright history descended into the Frostroot Cellar: Grindle Thistlewick, bloom-keeper and professional damp scowl; Miss Sparklecheeks, falsely accused nectar enthusiast and current owner of righteous fury; Pip Puddlewhisk, frog assistant, leaf-caped menace, and increasingly poor judge of safe hobbies; Fernella Fuzzwing, disgraced society schemer with excellent posture and worsening prospects; plus Nib and Nob, who had been volunteered by the mayor before either beetle realized what was happening.

“Leadership,” Mayor Bumblebrisk whispered from above, “is mostly delegation.”

Nob looked back. “I heard that.”

“Wonderful hearing,” the mayor called weakly. “Very brave ears.”

The root seal groaned above them and remained open, casting a narrowing circle of moonlight over the top steps.

Then the darkness swallowed them.

The Frostroot stairs spiraled down through earth packed with silver roots. The walls glittered with frozen dew, each droplet reflecting their lantern light in tiny distorted versions of their faces. Miss Sparklecheeks caught her reflection in one and made a mental note that mortal peril was doing wonderful things for her cheek shimmer.

The air grew colder with every step.

At first, the tunnel was silent except for the tap of beetle feet, the whisper of Fernella’s restrained wings, and Pip’s occasional attempts not to sound terrified.

Then came the humming.

Low. Sweet. Wrong.

It rose through the walls like a lullaby sung by something that had never met a child but had eaten several lullabies.

Pip clapped both hands over his mouth.

Miss Sparklecheeks glanced at him. “Do not hum back.”

He shook his head violently.

“Good frog.”

They reached the bottom of the stairs and entered a cavern so vast that the lantern light vanished before touching its ceiling.

The Frostroot Cellar had once been a storage chamber, but time and neglect had turned it into something between a cathedral, a root system, and the digestive tract of a god with floral interests. Ancient shelves carved from stone lined the walls, many collapsed under curtains of white moss. Old acorn casks lay cracked open. Frostferns grew in clusters along the floor, their leaves glowing faintly blue.

Across the chamber stretched thick roots — some no wider than vines, others as broad as fallen trees — all converging toward the far side, where a massive bud slept beneath layers of translucent root and ice.

The Hollowroot Bloom.

Even closed, it was enormous.

Its petals were folded tight, pale and veined with pink-gold light. Its surface pulsed slowly, as if something inside was breathing. Around its base, channels of glowing nectar ran through grooves in the stone like tiny rivers of stolen sunrise.

Miss Sparklecheeks’ mouth went dry.

“Well,” she said softly, “that is inconveniently large.”

Pip whispered, “Can flowers have teeth?”

Grindle did not answer quickly enough.

Pip made a small squeaking sound. “I hate the pause.”

Fernella stood frozen beside them, her face stripped of all smugness.

“It wasn’t awake when we brought the casks,” she whispered.

Grindle turned on her. “You brought casks here yourself?”

“Not all the way in. The beetles carried them to the first chamber.”

“And opened them?”

“Only to inspect the seal.”

“You opened unstable Royal Dewdrop Nectar beside dormant Hollowroot channels?”

Fernella swallowed. “Briefly.”

Grindle looked as if his beard might ignite from disappointment. “You have weaponized stupidity.”

Miss Sparklecheeks pointed ahead. “There.”

Six acorn casks sat near the base of the massive bud, half-hidden by curling frostfern leaves. Their lids were cracked. Honey-pink nectar seeped from the seams and flowed into the carved stone channels leading directly into the Hollowroot Bloom.

The bud pulsed again.

This time, one petal twitched.

Nob whispered, “I would like to resign.”

Nib nodded. “I second his resignation.”

Grindle tightened his grip on the lantern. “We need to stop the flow.”

“How?” asked Miss Sparklecheeks.

“The channels can be dammed with frostfern paste. It hardens when pressed into nectar.”

Pip looked at the glowing roots wrapped around the casks. “And then?”

“Then we remove the casks.”

“Past the giant hungry flower?”

“Yes.”

“I miss being accused of crimes.”

Miss Sparklecheeks stepped forward. “Fine. Pip, you gather frostfern. Nib and Nob, help him.”

The beetles blinked at her.

“Why are you giving orders?” Nib asked.

“Because I am the only one here with a survival aesthetic.”

Nob looked at Grindle.

Grindle nodded. “Do it.”

“I still don’t like her tone,” Nib muttered.

Miss Sparklecheeks smiled sweetly. “And yet history will not remember you.”

Nib went pale and hurried after Pip.

Grindle moved toward the nearest channel, kneeling to inspect the flow. Fernella remained where she was, staring at the Hollowroot Bloom.

Miss Sparklecheeks fluttered back to her.

“You are very quiet.”

Fernella’s jaw tightened. “I am considering the situation.”

“How refreshing. You skipped that part earlier.”

Fernella looked at her then, and for once her expression was not sharp or superior. It was frightened. Young, almost. Smaller than Miss Sparklecheeks expected.

“I thought I was saving the festival from becoming a mockery.”

“No. You were trying to make everyone enjoy things correctly.”

“There should be standards.”

“There should be joy.”

Fernella looked away.

“You don’t understand what it is like,” she said quietly, “to work for every bit of respect and then watch everyone adore a creature who flutters in late, breaks every rule, and still gets forgiven because she sparkles.”

Miss Sparklecheeks’ first instinct was to say something devastating.

She had several options prepared.

One involved Fernella’s bun.

Another involved her personality having the texture of old cabbage parchment.

Both would have been excellent.

But beneath the cavern, beside an ancient waking nectar beast, with stolen sweetness glowing at their feet, Miss Sparklecheeks found herself doing something deeply inconvenient.

She listened.

Then she said, “You think I get forgiven because I sparkle?”

Fernella’s silence answered.

Miss Sparklecheeks laughed once, softly and without much sparkle in it. “I get forgiven because when I make a mess, I stay and clean at least enough of it that people can laugh later. You made a mess and tried to bury me under it.”

Fernella flinched.

“There’s the difference,” Miss Sparklecheeks said.

Before Fernella could answer, the Hollowroot Bloom groaned.

The cavern shook violently.

Pip tumbled backward with an armful of frostfern. Nib and Nob crashed into each other. One of the acorn casks split wider, releasing a sudden rush of Royal Dewdrop Nectar into the nearest channel.

The massive bud drank.

A seam opened along its central petal.

Inside glowed a deep, hungry gold.

Then the roots moved.

Not swayed.

Moved.

One thick root uncoiled from the stone and swept across the cavern floor.

“Down!” Grindle shouted.

Miss Sparklecheeks dove as the root whipped above her head, scattering frostfern leaves and smashing an old stone shelf into rubble. Pip leapt onto the wall and stuck there, eyes huge.

“It has opinions!” he yelled.

Another root snapped toward the leaking casks, curling protectively around them.

Grindle cursed. “It senses the nectar.”

“Of course it does,” Miss Sparklecheeks said, rolling upright. “Why would anything be easy when it can become a murder salad?”

Pip flung frostfern toward her. “Paste?”

Grindle grabbed the leaves and crushed them between his hands. Blue sap spilled out, thick and icy. “Press it into the channels!”

Nib and Nob rushed to help, mashing frostfern in their tiny beetle claws and shoving the paste into the glowing grooves. The first channel hissed and hardened, blocking the nectar flow.

The Hollowroot Bloom reacted instantly.

The humming turned into a roar.

A root lashed toward the beetles.

Miss Sparklecheeks shot forward, tongue flicking around Nob’s waist, and yanked him out of the way.

He landed beside her in a heap.

“You saved me.”

“Tell everyone I did it beautifully.”

“You did it terrifyingly.”

“Acceptable.”

Pip bounded to the second channel and slapped frostfern paste over the flow with both hands. It sealed with a crackle of cold blue light.

“I am useful!” he shouted.

“Focus, Damp Associate!” Miss Sparklecheeks called.

“But celebrate briefly!”

“Briefly!”

The third channel ran beneath a tangle of animated roots. Grindle tried to reach it, but a root curled around his lantern and ripped it from his hand. The light swung wildly, casting monstrous shadows across the cavern.

Fernella stood near the entrance, frozen as roots writhed between her and the others.

Miss Sparklecheeks saw her and snapped, “Fernella!”

Fernella startled.

“Move!”

“I can’t—”

“You can. You ruined my morning with advanced planning. Use some of that!”

Fernella’s wings trembled.

Then she saw the fourth channel.

It ran directly beside her, thin but bright, feeding nectar into a cluster of smaller roots that glowed with growing life.

A patch of frostfern grew near the wall.

Fernella looked from the fern to the channel.

For one second, Miss Sparklecheeks could see the decision move through her.

Fear.

Pride.

Shame.

Then Fernella lunged.

She ripped frostfern from the wall, crushed it in both hands, and threw herself toward the channel. A small root snapped around her ankle, jerking her backward. She cried out, clawing at the stone.

Miss Sparklecheeks flew toward her.

Another root swept up between them.

“Pip!” she shouted.

Pip launched from the wall like a damp green missile and landed on the root holding Fernella. He clung to it with all four feet and bit it.

The root recoiled.

Pip immediately regretted the flavor. “Ugh! Ancient salad!”

Fernella scrambled free and slammed the frostfern paste into the channel. It sealed.

The smaller roots dimmed.

Miss Sparklecheeks hovered beside her, breathing hard.

Fernella looked up.

“I helped.”

“Do not make it weird.”

“I wasn’t.”

“Your face was considering a speech.”

Fernella closed her mouth.

“Better,” Miss Sparklecheeks said.

Four channels were sealed.

Two remained.

Unfortunately, those two fed directly beneath the largest cask, which was now wrapped in a nest of moving roots and positioned right below the opening Hollowroot Bloom.

The bud’s central petal peeled back further.

A mouth was too ugly a word for what appeared inside.

It was more like a golden throat lined with soft, luminous filaments, each one tipped with a bead of hungry nectar-light.

It was beautiful.

It was horrifying.

It looked like it wanted dessert and a witness.

Pip whispered, “That flower definitely has teeth emotionally.”

Grindle wiped frostfern sap on his vest and stared at the final channels. “We can’t reach them.”

Nib pointed. “The roots are guarding the cask.”

Nob added, “And the flower is doing that... opening thing.”

“Yes, thank you, tactical beetle report,” Miss Sparklecheeks said.

The cask split again.

Nectar poured faster.

The Hollowroot Bloom swelled.

The entire cavern filled with sweet, intoxicating perfume. Miss Sparklecheeks felt it at once — a warmth in her throat, a tug behind her eyes, a terrible urge to fly straight to the glowing nectar and drink until all problems became someone else’s.

Pip shook his head hard. “Is anyone else suddenly thinking bad ideas smell delicious?”

Grindle grimaced. “The bloom is luring us.”

Fernella backed away, hand over her mouth. “It’s in my head.”

Miss Sparklecheeks gritted her teeth.

The nectar scent curled around her like a compliment.

Come closer, it seemed to hum.

Just one sip.

One beautiful, glowing sip.

Everyone already thinks you want it.

Miss Sparklecheeks’ wings trembled.

The Hollowroot Bloom knew appetite. It knew desire. It knew the part of every creature that leaned toward sweetness and whispered, why not?

For Miss Sparklecheeks, that whisper had always been loud.

She took one step forward.

Pip grabbed her tail.

“Nope.”

She blinked, snapping halfway out of the spell. “Did you just grab my tail?”

“Emergency tail protocol.”

“That is not a thing.”

“It is now.”

The bloom pulsed again, stronger.

The nectar kept pouring.

Grindle looked at Miss Sparklecheeks, then at the guarded cask, then at the narrow gap between two roots high above the final channels.

“There may be one way.”

“Why do I hate how you said that?” Pip asked.

Grindle pointed to the gap. “Someone small and fast could get above the cask, cut the binding root, and spill frostfern paste directly into the two channels.”

Nib stared upward. “That gap is tiny.”

Nob nodded. “Tiny and murder-adjacent.”

Pip looked at Miss Sparklecheeks.

Fernella looked at Miss Sparklecheeks.

Grindle looked at Miss Sparklecheeks.

Miss Sparklecheeks folded her arms. “Oh, wonderful. We’ve arrived at the part where my delicate proportions become public infrastructure.”

Grindle’s expression was grim. “You can fit.”

“I know I can fit. I am upset by the narrative convenience.”

Pip grabbed a clump of frostfern paste and shoved it into a folded leaf. “Take this.”

Miss Sparklecheeks accepted the little bundle.

The scent of the nectar tugged again, stronger now.

Come closer.

Drink.

Prove them right.

She looked at the glowing cask. At the massive opening bloom. At Fernella’s pale face. At Pip’s worried eyes.

Then she smiled.

“Well,” she said, “if I’m going to be remembered for my tongue, I may as well make it historically inconvenient.”

Pip groaned. “Please survive that sentence.”

Miss Sparklecheeks shot upward.

The roots reacted immediately.

They whipped toward her, pale and fast, slicing through the cold air. She darted between them, wings flashing turquoise, pink, and gold. One root grazed her side. Another snapped at her tail. A third curled around the air where she had been half a heartbeat before.

Below, Pip shouted advice that was mostly panic with verbs.

“Left! No, your other left! Up! Bad root! Insult its mother!”

Miss Sparklecheeks twisted through the gap above the cask, scraping one wing against ice. Pain flashed across her back, but she held steady.

The binding root pulsed beneath her.

It was wrapped tight around the cracked cask, feeding nectar through two thick tendrils into the channels below.

She landed on the cask lid.

The perfume hit her full force.

Royal Dewdrop Nectar glowed through the split beneath her feet.

Sweetness rose around her, warm and golden, promising applause, pleasure, vindication, everything she wanted without any of the tedious bits where one had to be better than expected.

The Hollowroot Bloom hummed directly into her bones.

Little thief.

Little hunger.

Little glittering mouth.

They know you.

Miss Sparklecheeks swayed.

Her tongue flickered involuntarily.

Below, Pip shouted her name.

It sounded far away.

She looked down through the root tangle and saw the others staring up at her.

Grindle, stern and afraid.

Nib and Nob, useless but earnest.

Fernella, guilty and small.

Pip, one hand pressed to the stone, leaf cape crooked, eyes wide with trust so ridiculous it nearly annoyed her back into consciousness.

Miss Sparklecheeks inhaled sharply.

“I,” she hissed at the bloom, “am not your snacky little metaphor.”

Then she whipped her tongue around the binding root.

The root thrashed.

She held tight.

It bucked beneath her, trying to fling her into the open throat of the bloom. She dug her claws into the cask lid, wings beating hard, tongue wrapped around the pulsing root like a living rope.

“Sparklecheeks!” Pip screamed.

She pulled.

The root strained.

Pale fibers snapped one by one.

The Hollowroot Bloom roared.

Miss Sparklecheeks’ tongue burned. Her claws slid. The cask cracked wider beneath her. Nectar splashed up, dotting her cheeks, her wings, her flower crown with glowing sweetness.

For one terrifying second, the spell surged again.

Drink.

She bared her teeth.

“Buy me dinner first.”

And yanked with everything she had.

The binding root tore free.

The cask lurched.

Miss Sparklecheeks flung the frostfern paste into the exposed channels below.

The paste hit both flows at once.

Blue frost spread like lightning.

The channels sealed.

The nectar stopped.

The Hollowroot Bloom screamed.

Every root in the cavern convulsed.

The cask exploded beneath Miss Sparklecheeks in a burst of pink-gold light.

She was thrown backward toward the open bloom.

Pip launched himself from the wall.

“Not today, murder salad!”

He collided with her midair, knocking her sideways just as the Hollowroot’s petals snapped shut where she had been. The impact sent both of them tumbling through a curtain of roots and crashing into a pile of frostfern.

For a moment, there was only darkness, dust, and the faint sound of Pip wheezing like a heroic squeaky toy.

Miss Sparklecheeks opened one eye.

“Pip?”

“I think,” he gasped, “I have become soup.”

“Are you dead?”

“No.”

“Then stop being dramatic. That’s my department.”

He lifted his head. “Did we win?”

Across the cavern, the Hollowroot Bloom shuddered.

The glowing veins in its petals dimmed. Its roots, starved of the concentrated nectar, loosened and sagged back against the stone. The massive bud closed tighter, folding inward with a long, furious sigh that rattled the frostfern leaves.

The humming faded.

One by one, the old channels darkened.

Grindle stood slowly, staring at the dormant bloom.

“Yes,” he said, voice rough. “We won.”

Pip rolled onto his back and smiled at Miss Sparklecheeks. “I saved you.”

“You tackled me into frozen shrubbery.”

“Heroically.”

“Moistly.”

“Still counts.”

She sighed and offered him a tiny hand. “It counts.”

His grin widened.

“Permanent Damp Associate?”

“Do not get greedy.”

“Assistant Damp Associate?”

“Senior Temporary Leaf-Caped Damp Associate.”

He gasped. “With seniority?”

“Limited.”

“I’ll take it.”

Grindle approached them, lantern recovered but dented. His mossy brows were still severe, but something in his face had softened.

“Miss Sparklecheeks.”

She sat up, brushing frostfern from her wings. “If this is another accusation, I’m emotionally closed.”

He shook his head. “It is not.”

He looked at the sealed channels, the dormant Hollowroot Bloom, and the wreckage of the casks.

Then he bowed.

Not deeply.

Grindle did not seem built for deep gestures.

But enough.

“You saved the hollow.”

Miss Sparklecheeks blinked.

Compliments, she knew how to receive. Adoration, she could manage with professional grace. Applause, she accepted as a basic environmental need.

But respect from Grindle Thistlewick landed differently.

It was less shiny.

Heavier.

Annoyingly meaningful.

She lifted her chin to hide how much it touched her. “Yes. I did do that.”

Grindle almost smiled. “Try not to make it unbearable.”

“I make no promises.”

Fernella approached slowly, her silk-vine bindings loosened by Nob during the chaos. She looked shaken, dusty, and painfully aware that her scheme had nearly fed the entire hollow to an underground flower with appetite issues.

She stopped in front of Miss Sparklecheeks.

For several seconds, neither spoke.

Pip whispered, “This feels like the part where someone learns humility and everyone gets itchy.”

Miss Sparklecheeks did not look away from Fernella. “Quiet, Senior Temporary Leaf-Caped Damp Associate.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Fernella swallowed.

“I was wrong.”

Miss Sparklecheeks waited.

Fernella’s wings drooped. “I framed you. I lied. I stole from the Glassbells. I endangered the hollow.”

“And?”

Fernella frowned faintly. “And?”

Miss Sparklecheeks tapped one claw against her cheek. “You insulted my toe work.”

Fernella closed her eyes.

“And I insulted your toe work.”

“Continue.”

“Your toe work is... adequate.”

Miss Sparklecheeks stared.

Fernella sighed. “Elegant.”

“Better.”

“And highly distinctive.”

“There we are.”

Fernella looked down. “I am sorry.”

Miss Sparklecheeks studied her for a long moment.

Part of her wanted to be grand. Another part wanted to be vicious. A third, very loud part wanted a bath, a nap, and perhaps a ceremonial platter of whatever nectar remained legally available.

Finally she said, “You do not get forgiveness because you said the word.”

Fernella nodded.

“You get a chance to earn it by telling the whole hollow exactly what you did.”

Fernella’s face tightened, but she nodded again.

“Publicly,” Miss Sparklecheeks added.

Fernella winced.

“In detail.”

Another nod.

“With emphasis on my innocence, heroism, and excellent anatomical restraint.”

Pip made a tiny choking sound.

Fernella looked pained. “Fine.”

“And you will personally replace every Glassbell ceremony banner with something less dreadful.”

“Such as?”

Miss Sparklecheeks smiled. “We’ll workshop it.”

Fernella looked genuinely frightened for the first time all night.

Good.

By the time they climbed back out through the frostfern stones, dawn had begun to pale the eastern sky.

Blossombright Hollow waited in breathless silence.

The crowd had grown larger through the night. Bees hovered in sleepy clusters. Fairies clung to flower stems. Ladybugs lined the moss path. Butterflies rested with wings folded like stained glass prayer books. Mayor Bumblebrisk stood at the front, looking as if he had aged six administrations in one evening.

When Miss Sparklecheeks emerged, covered in frostfern dust and glowing specks of Royal Dewdrop Nectar, the crowd gasped.

Pip hopped out beside her and immediately struck a pose with his torn leaf cape.

Nib and Nob followed, trying to look as if they had intentionally survived.

Grindle came next.

Then Fernella.

The clearing went silent.

Mayor Bumblebrisk fluttered forward. “Well?”

Grindle lifted his lantern. “The Hollowroot Bloom sleeps. The channels are sealed. The remaining nectar is gone, but the hollow is safe.”

A wave of relief passed through the crowd.

The mayor pressed one hand to his heart. “And the theft?”

Grindle looked at Fernella.

Fernella stepped forward.

For a moment, she seemed almost unable to speak.

Then Miss Sparklecheeks cleared her throat gently.

Fernella’s shoulders stiffened.

“The Night Thistle Society stole the Royal Dewdrop Reserve,” she said, her voice carrying across the clearing. “We removed it to force stricter control over the festival. We planted false evidence to implicate Miss Sparklecheeks.”

The crowd erupted.

“I knew it!” shouted someone who absolutely had not known it.

“Scandal!” cried a moth with visible delight.

Bartholomucus the elderly snail turned to the ladybug beside him and said, “I blame the squirrels.”

Fernella continued, louder. “Miss Sparklecheeks was innocent.”

Miss Sparklecheeks raised one claw.

Fernella closed her eyes briefly.

“And heroic.”

Miss Sparklecheeks made a rolling motion with her hand.

Fernella’s jaw tightened.

“And her toe work is elegant and highly distinctive.”

Pip whispered, “Historic.”

Mayor Bumblebrisk stared at Fernella, then at Miss Sparklecheeks, then at Grindle.

“I see.”

He clearly did not see. He was trying to see while also surviving the administrative avalanche forming behind his eyes.

He turned to the crowd. “Citizens of Blossombright Hollow, this has been a grave breach of trust, tradition, safety, and frankly several filing procedures.”

A mushroom clerk nodded solemnly.

“The Night Thistle Society will be held accountable. The spring festival will proceed, though with, ah, modifications.”

“Such as not feeding ancient root monsters?” Pip called.

“That will be included,” said the mayor.

Miss Sparklecheeks stepped forward. “And the Glassbell Blossoms?”

Grindle looked toward the pavilion in the distance. “They will recover. Without the reserve, the First Blooming will be quieter this year. Less ceremonial nectar. Less spectacle.”

A sad murmur passed through the hollow.

For many, the First Blooming was not just a festival. It was the moment winter truly ended. The moment sweetness returned. The moment the hollow remembered that surviving cold and gloom deserved more than paperwork and polite nodding.

Miss Sparklecheeks looked at the tired faces around her.

Then at Fernella, who looked like someone slowly understanding the size of what she had taken.

Then at Grindle, whose sternness seemed wrapped around an old love for the blossoms.

Finally, she looked down at the glowing specks of nectar still clinging to her cheeks, wings, and flower crown from the cask explosion.

Not much.

But not nothing.

She smiled.

“Grindle.”

The bloom-keeper narrowed his eyes. “Why do I dislike that tone?”

“Because you are wise.”

“What are you planning?”

“A festival.”

“There is no reserve.”

“There is a little.”

“On you.”

“Exactly.”

The silence that followed was one of the more complicated silences in Blossombright history.

Pip blinked. “Are you suggesting—”

“No one panic,” Miss Sparklecheeks said.

Everyone immediately panicked.

“Absolutely not,” Grindle said.

“You don’t even know what I’m suggesting.”

“You are suggesting using the trace nectar on your wings and crown to restart the Glassbell hum.”

Miss Sparklecheeks looked impressed. “That was very accurate.”

“Because it is exactly the sort of terrible idea you would have.”

“A terrible idea that might work.”

Grindle’s mouth thinned.

Mayor Bumblebrisk fluttered closer. “Could it?”

Grindle hesitated.

“Possibly. Glassbells can resonate from even a small amount of Royal Dewdrop if it is returned directly to the central bloom.”

Miss Sparklecheeks spread her wings. Tiny nectar flecks sparkled in the dawn light.

“Then we have enough to make a beginning.”

“It would not restore the reserve,” Grindle said.

“No. But it might restore the song.”

The crowd quieted.

That mattered.

The song mattered.

More than the ceremony. More than the first sip. More than the mayor’s ledger and the society’s rules and even Miss Sparklecheeks’ very legitimate need for public admiration.

The Glassbell Chorus told the hollow that sweetness still existed.

After the night they had survived, they needed that.

Grindle studied her. “You would give it back?”

Miss Sparklecheeks lifted one brow. “Don’t say it like I’m emotionally allergic to generosity.”

Pip opened his mouth.

She pointed at him. “You especially, silence.”

He closed it with visible effort.

Grindle nodded slowly. “Then come.”

The whole hollow followed them to the Glassbell Pavilion.

The blossoms looked pale in the morning light, their translucent petals drooping from the theft. The pavilion was still, silent, wounded.

Miss Sparklecheeks stepped into the center ring.

She looked at the shy Glassbell near the moss fountain.

“Hello, darling,” she whispered. “Sorry about all the legal tension.”

Grindle stood beside her with a small crystal thorn, carefully scraping glowing flecks of nectar from her wings and flower crown into a single dewdrop cup. It was not glamorous. It tickled. At one point Miss Sparklecheeks sneezed and nearly caused a diplomatic incident with a nearby daisy.

At last, Grindle held up the cup.

Inside shimmered one tiny bead of Royal Dewdrop Nectar.

So small.

So bright.

The crowd held its breath.

Grindle placed the bead into the heart of the central Glassbell.

Nothing happened.

For one terrible second, the hollow remained silent.

Fernella looked down.

Mayor Bumblebrisk’s wings drooped.

Pip whispered, “Come on.”

Miss Sparklecheeks leaned toward the bloom.

“Listen,” she said softly, “I know this has been a lot. Theft, lies, monster roots, society weirdos. Frankly, everyone here needs therapy and better snacks. But if you have even one note left in that pretty little throat, now would be an excellent time to be dramatic.”

The central Glassbell trembled.

A single tone rose from its petals.

Soft.

Clear.

Pink-gold in sound, if sound could have color.

Then the next blossom answered.

Then the next.

One by one, around the ring, the Glassbells began to hum.

Their petals lifted. Dew gathered along their edges. Light ran through them like sunrise through stained glass. The chorus was quieter than in years past, thinner, tenderer — but it was real.

Blossombright Hollow listened.

Some creatures cried.

Some laughed.

The bees joined first, humming low beneath the Glassbells. Then the crickets found harmony. The butterflies opened their wings. The fairies lit the festival lanterns at last, and warm gold light bloomed across the pavilion.

Mayor Bumblebrisk wept openly into his sash.

“I’m fine,” he sobbed. “This is mayoral moisture.”

Pip wiped one eye. “I get it.”

Miss Sparklecheeks looked at him. “Are you crying?”

“No. I’m a frog. I’m just generally wet.”

“Convenient.”

“Very.”

Fernella stood at the edge of the pavilion, watching the Glassbells sing. Her face looked different in the music — not forgiven, not fixed, but cracked open enough for something honest to begin.

Miss Sparklecheeks approached her.

“You will hate what I’m about to say.”

Fernella sighed. “I usually do.”

“Good. The festival needs order.”

Fernella blinked.

“Not your joyless prison-table version,” Miss Sparklecheeks added quickly. “But some. The reserve was vulnerable. The pavilion was poorly watched. The mayor handles crisis like a pudding in office.”

Across the pavilion, Mayor Bumblebrisk sniffled. “I heard pudding.”

“Good ears,” Miss Sparklecheeks called.

Fernella studied her. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying you are going to help repair what you broke. Not by controlling joy. By protecting it.”

Fernella looked toward the singing Glassbells.

“And you?”

Miss Sparklecheeks smiled. “I will provide necessary chaos.”

“Of course.”

“And style oversight.”

“Naturally.”

“And veto power over all banners.”

Fernella’s eyes narrowed. “Limited veto power.”

“Do not relapse in front of me.”

Fernella almost smiled.

Almost.

It was tiny, brittle, and deeply suspicious.

But it was a start.

By midday, the First Blooming Festival had transformed from a grand nectar ceremony into something stranger, messier, and far more memorable.

There was no reserve to sip, so the hollow shared honeydew tea instead. The bees performed a revised parade called We Are Very Sorry About the Governance Failure, which received polite applause and one standing ovation from a beetle who misunderstood the title. Pip was asked to reenact his leap at the Hollowroot Bloom six times, each version becoming less accurate and more heroic.

Nib and Nob claimed they had bravely “secured the lower perimeter,” which everyone agreed meant they had screamed professionally.

Grindle oversaw the recovery of the Glassbells with stern devotion, though he allowed Miss Sparklecheeks to place one ridiculous pink ribbon on the shy blossom by the moss fountain.

“It likes it,” she insisted.

“It is a flower,” Grindle said.

“It has taste.”

“It has petals.”

“Same thing, in the right light.”

The Night Thistle Society was publicly disbanded, though Madam Prunewort requested permission to continue hosting “structured reflection circles.” Mayor Bumblebrisk agreed only after Miss Sparklecheeks renamed them “Guilt Picnics,” which proved wildly popular.

Fernella gave her confession from the Great Toadstool Podium.

In detail.

With emphasis.

It was painful for everyone involved, but especially Fernella, which helped.

When she reached the part about planting the fake scale, Bristlepin was brought forward to demonstrate the lacquer technique. The crowd gasped. Several beetles asked for his business card. Justice, like spring, was complicated.

And then, at sunset, Mayor Bumblebrisk cleared his throat and called Miss Sparklecheeks to the podium.

She arrived three minutes late.

On purpose.

The crowd cheered anyway.

She fluttered up to the top of the toadstool, wings restored, cheeks polished, flower crown repaired with one extra blossom for emotional compensation. Pip sat beside the podium in his leaf cape, looking like an extremely damp knight who had won a lawsuit.

Mayor Bumblebrisk lifted a small medal made from a polished dewdrop shell.

“For extraordinary bravery, for exposing the theft of the Royal Dewdrop Reserve, for assisting in the prevention of catastrophic underground botanical awakening, and for returning the Glassbell Chorus to Blossombright Hollow, we hereby honor Miss Sparklecheeks as Guardian of the First Bloom.”

The crowd erupted.

Miss Sparklecheeks placed one hand against her chest.

“I accept this honor with humility.”

Pip coughed.

She glanced down. “Modified humility.”

The mayor pinned the medal near her shoulder. It caught the light beautifully, which she considered proof that destiny was not entirely incompetent.

“Would you like to say a few words?” Mayor Bumblebrisk asked.

Miss Sparklecheeks turned toward the crowd.

“Yes.”

Pip whispered, “Uh-oh.”

She smiled.

“People of Blossombright Hollow, today you learned several important lessons. First, never trust a secret society with a boring banner. Second, if you are going to fake someone’s footprints, respect the toe work. Third, ancient flower monsters are everyone’s problem, so perhaps read the old warning stones before storing stolen snacks underground.”

Grindle nodded grimly.

“Most importantly,” she continued, her voice softening just enough to surprise them, “joy is not disorder. Sweetness is not waste. A festival is not ruined because creatures laugh too loudly, dance badly, flirt near the refreshments, or occasionally admire a blossom with enthusiasm.”

A few creatures glanced toward the Glassbells.

Miss Sparklecheeks lifted her chin.

“Rules should protect wonder, not strangle it in a sash.”

Fernella looked down, but not angrily.

“And finally,” Miss Sparklecheeks said, “I was innocent.”

The crowd cheered.

“And heroic.”

They cheered louder.

“And my tongue remains none of your business unless needed for public safety.”

The crowd went absolutely feral.

Mayor Bumblebrisk nearly dropped his gavel. Pip fell over laughing. Grindle closed his eyes as if praying to soil. Fernella made a sound that might, in another life, have become a laugh if given supervision and sunlight.

The Glassbell Chorus rose behind them, soft and bright, carrying the hollow into evening.

Later, when the lanterns glowed and the honeydew tea ran out and the moths had become emotional about three separate songs, Miss Sparklecheeks slipped away to the shy Glassbell by the moss fountain.

Pip found her there.

She was sitting on a curled leaf, looking unusually quiet.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Obviously. I have a medal.”

“That wasn’t the question.”

She watched the little Glassbell shimmer in the lanternlight.

“I almost believed it,” she said.

Pip hopped beside her. “Believed what?”

“That they were right. That I was just appetite and sparkle and trouble with eyes.”

Pip was silent for a moment.

Then he said, “You are trouble with eyes.”

She looked at him.

“But not just,” he added quickly.

She smiled faintly.

“Smooth recovery.”

“I practice falling.”

They sat together while the Glassbells sang.

After a while, Pip nudged her with one damp shoulder.

“For what it’s worth, I would have known you didn’t steal the nectar even without the fake footprints.”

“Because I would have bragged by breakfast?”

“Partly.”

“And?”

“Because you like being adored too much to ruin the festival. No audience, no point.”

Miss Sparklecheeks considered this.

“That is almost touching.”

“I’m growing.”

“Don’t overdo it.”

He grinned.

The shy Glassbell beside them released one tiny drop of ordinary dew. It slid down the petal and caught the lanternlight.

Miss Sparklecheeks leaned close.

Pip cleared his throat.

She froze.

“What?”

He gave her a look.

She sighed dramatically. “I was only admiring it.”

“With your tongue halfway out?”

“My face has instincts.”

“Guardian of the First Bloom.”

She groaned. “Fine.”

She pulled back from the blossom and folded her hands with exaggerated virtue.

Pip nodded approvingly.

For five full seconds, Miss Sparklecheeks behaved.

Then the Glassbell tilted ever so slightly toward her, as if offering the dewdrop.

Miss Sparklecheeks looked at Pip.

Pip looked at the flower.

The flower shimmered.

“Did it just consent?” she whispered.

Pip narrowed his eyes. “I am not legally qualified to answer that.”

Miss Sparklecheeks smiled slowly.

“Then no one saw anything.”

And with one delicate, dazzling, historically defensible flick of her magnificent tongue, she caught the dewdrop from the petal.

Not royal nectar.

Not stolen sweetness.

Just ordinary dawn-water from a shy little bloom.

It tasted like moss, moonlight, and forgiveness with boundaries.

Pip stared at her.

“Really?”

Miss Sparklecheeks licked her lips.

“Guardian privileges.”

He shook his head. “You are impossible.”

She spread her wings, cheeks glowing in the lanternlight as the Glassbell Chorus sang around them.

“Yes,” said Miss Sparklecheeks, with perfect confidence. “But I’m also innocent.”

And this time, everyone knew it.

Bring the glittering scandal of Miss Sparklecheeks and the Nectar Heist out of Blossombright Hollow and into your own perfectly legal collection. This mischievous little nectar bandit is available as a vibrant canvas print, sleek metal print, cozy fleece blanket, decorative throw pillow, dramatic tapestry, whimsical puzzle, charming greeting card, and even a spiral notebook for recording your own suspiciously sparkly ideas. Whether she’s guarding the First Bloom or committing crimes against floral restraint, Miss Sparklecheeks brings big fairy-garden chaos to prints, decor, gifts, and cozy merch with absolutely no shame and excellent toe work.