Author's Notes:

Everyone at the Timbers-Canes dinner has their own agenda, but nevertheless a slow truce emerges as they each offer something of themselves. Bianca and Ash discuss Talib's "visions", which seem to be growing increasingly urgent...

Talib groaned. The final course had been cleared away and all the diners sat sated; some – Talib, Bianca, their father and Huon – were beyond satiation and shifting uncomfortably, metabolising the delicious food into regret. Thinking was difficult with the distracting fullness of his stomach, but Talib watched Hayfa and his parents carefully. Nothing had gone wrong, but it neither had it quite gone right. Hayfa was withdrawn, probably grown used to her solitary existence in the Forest. She spoke when spoken to, but answered personal questions evasively, even fairly innocuous ones. That would not earn Ghaliya or Melaco’s trust.

Indeed, Ghaliya in particular now regarded the griffoness almost as warily as did Sim, while Melaco seemed to have more or less decided to ignore her. Talib desperately searched for some excuse to pull Hayfa aside and entreat her to be more forthcoming, even if she had to resort to fictions, but no plausible reason presented itself. So he sat, discomfited and anxious, attending to the conversations as best he could.

The communication between Melaco and Savoir Fare was almost telepathic, and Talib’s father rose to pay the bill at the same instant as the maître d’, on the other side of the restaurant, began totting it up. Marjorie nudged Huon, who quickly offered to pay – as did Hayfa, though Talib wondered where she could be getting money from. Both were shamed into acquiescence by Ghaliya. They all rose and walked to the door, thanking the staff on their way out.

A blast of frigid, rain-damp air forced its way into the warmth of the restaurant, causing nearby diners to frown at them. They hastily closed the door behind them and huddled under the small tiled roof which projected over the entrance. The night was wilder and more miserable than they’d realized while sheltered inside. Sim scowled at the sky and turned to the group.

“Well,” he said, resolutely, “we’d best be off before this gets any worse.” Hayfa nodded, and began to convey her thanks and take her leave. Huon looked at the rain uncertainly, and Marjorie smiled and shook her head, but said nothing.

“Don’t be ridiculous!” Ghaliya exclaimed, looking offended. “I will not permit you to walk all the way back by yourselves in this filthy weather!” She turned to Marjorie, as though for support, who nodded emphatically. “The very thought! We have rooms enough for all of you in the farmhouse, and it’s much closer. Tonight you will be our guests.”

Huon looked relieved, and Ash and Bianca looked like cats who had got the cream, but Sim and Hayfa immediately began to grumble and protest. Ghaliya, however, would brook no disagreement. The grizzled old stallion and the steely-muscled predator were soon cowed. The carts were rigged with makeshift awnings and their small caravan struck out, into the wild weather.

The walk back to Sugarcane Farm should have been miserable, the rain and clouds shrinking their world to the little pools of lamplight they needed to stay on the road. It was difficult to hear anything over the sustained crunching-hissing of hard rain on wagon canopies and the hypnotic squeaking and clattering rhythm of the cartwheels. But the simplifying darkness and the white noise of the rain were strangely meditative. An odd mood – a surreal, peaceable mood – came over the company. Talib knew that if he could only stop watching the blackness beyond their lamps – stop imagining timberwolves in every shadow, and trees animated by malevolent purpose – he could be serenely happy. He tried to dismiss his frustration at not being able to relax, and that worry fed into his anxiety, his edginess. Round and round. His brain was working against him again, like it knew what would be good for him but wilfully did the opposite. Sometimes he felt he had no control. He envied the others their calm.

So when a hulking shape loomed out of the darkness, when the others started in surprise and shock, when only he and Hayfa, unobserved at the rear, seemed to have been expecting it and lunged forward to attack – that was when Talib suddenly knew he wasn’t the only one. Whatever Hayfa had experienced in her mysterious life, she too seemed always to be watching the shadows, expecting the worst, as he had been since his schoolyard days, and especially since the timberwolf attack. He’d seen that hypervigilance in Canterlot veterans who had fought the Changelings and he saw it now, in the two of them, and knew they were alike. He knew it from their shared discomfort with crowds. He knew it from the way she always sat with her back to the wall. And he knew it from her hiss, the raised talons, his huffing grunt and flashing hoof-edges. Both of them saw the world as fundamentally hostile. Of course, just now, they seemed to be correct.

So when the looming mass let out a lowing moo and the others relaxed, laughing that they had been scared by a lost cow, Talib and Hayfa merely shared a look of dark knowing. No, it had not been timberwolves, or dragons, or Mujeer, or something yet stranger. But it could have been. At any time, Talib and Hayfa knew, it might be. They walked grimly on.

After an uncomfortable walk Sugarcane Farm was filled with the smell of wet coats and the sound of stamping feet. The Canes set to work with the swiftness of practice. Talib got fires up in the lounge and kitchen, Ghaliya busied herself offering guests rhum from the cellar and preparing hot tea, and Melaco and Bianca prepared guest rooms and helped the others settle in. Sim and Hayfa, it seemed, became less comfortable the more was done for them, but Huon’s family made themselves emphatically at home, making use of the fire for their fur and the drying rails for their cloaks. Melaco quietly asked Talib and Bianca to share a room so that Sim and Hayfa wouldn’t have to. They happily agreed, laughing about when they were younger and used to sneak into one anothers’ rooms at night, when they were supposed to be asleep, and talked or played childish games until they either fell asleep or became loud enough that their parents heard and sent them back to their own beds.

The insistent aroma of peppermint tea came to them from the kitchen, and Ghaliya called her children in to help. They carried saucers and cups of the steaming green-gold liquid to their guests, who variously sat in comfortable armchairs and sofas or stood about the room, quietly reading or chatting. She then refilled Baba Azhar’s old teapot and placed it on the coffee table for those who would want refills. Talib caught Hayfa staring at it with intensity from a corner of the room, and wandered over. He’d overheard Huon talking loudly to her earlier about the Griffon empire – some ignorant opinion, emphatically stated, which had insulted her. She’d given a curt reply and separated herself, which was rude but better than disembowelling him. Talib didn’t really think she would do that, though. Probably.

“What’s so interesting about the teapot?” he asked quietly.

Hayfa looked at him for a while before answering, seemingly unwilling to take her gaze off the innocent-looking item.

“Where did you get it?” she asked.

“My grandfather, Ghaliya’s father, left it to us. She might know more about it. You should ask her.”

Hayfa shook her head, but Ghaliya’s sharp hearing made the decision for them.

“Ask me what, dear?” she said, drifting over from the fire.

“H- Sifir was wondering where the teapot came from,” said Talib, ignoring Hayfa’s glare. He had had enough of her evasiveness. Talib’s parents had to feel like they were getting to know her.

“Oh, that old thing! My father left that to us. He picked it up somewhere in the Griffon Empire, though I don’t know where. Are you familiar with the design?” She fetched the pot and held it up for closer inspection, its starburst of arrows and intricate geometric flourishes worn to a sheen by long use.

“I am,” Hayfa said slowly, taking the object after a calculating pause, “although it has become obscure in recent times. Antiques occasionally bear it.”

“I was always fascinated by it,” said Talib, “I wish I knew something about it.”

“Oh, that is no great secret,” replied Hayfa, tracing a line with her claw. “The diverging lines, like a sunburst, they symbolize several things. Principally, they invoke life, with its manifold forms and natures. A certain wildness, a chaos which is nevertheless born of hidden laws; unpredictability, emergence, incomprehensible diversity and complexity. It has not been a popular theme in our kingdom for some time. We have enough of confusion and disorder as it is, in these times.”

“You sound like Baba Azhar,” said Talib.

“Yes,” said Ghaliya, smiling. “or rather, his affinity for Griffon culture made Baba think like one. It was an enormous influence on him.”

Hayfa was looking from Talib to Ghaliya, a shocked expression in her suddenly wide eyes.

“Sifir, what’s wrong?” asked Ghaliya, concerned.

“You are named for your grandfather?” Hayfa asked Talib slowly.

“Yes...” he replied, unsure.

“Your father was Talib Azhar?” she asked Ghaliya, who nodded. Hayfa held the teapot close to her breast, as if cherishing it, and looked around the room as if seeing it for the first time.

“Lalla,” said the griffon reverently, setting the teapot carefully down before bowing deeply to Ghaliya and making that strange greeting gesture again, somehow more graceful this time. “I had no idea the honour I was receiving. Please, forgive my ignorance.”

Talib was gobsmacked, utter confusion plain on his face. Ghaliya merely laughed and tutted, pulling Hayfa up hurriedly.

“Oh, hush,” she said lightly, with faint embarrassment, “none of that, Sifir. Or do you extend that title to all sugar-farmers?”

“No,” said Hayfa, seriously, “just to the only child of a great hakim.”

Talib had had enough. “Can somepony please tell me,” he said slowly, “what this is all about?”

“Well,” said Ghaliya lightly, “your grandfather was something of a poet, you know. He was quite well-known in the Griffon Empire.”

Hayfa seemed scandalized, turning to Talib intently. “Talib Azhar was more than that. He was a scholar of the highest genius. He was known to us at the Royal Court, and his works are still studied by every student in every school.” She grasped his forearm in urgency, apparently unaware that she’d revealed, at long last, something about herself. Ghaliya and Talib exchanged a glance. “He revitalized Griffon culture,” Hayfa continued, “reminding us of our own nobility, shown in the mirror of our neglected literary traditions.” She sank a little. “For a while, at least. His absence is felt more and more keenly, in recent years.”

Talib looked at his mother, who appeared slightly embarrassed. “But he was a pony,” said Talib. Hayfa waved a claw.

“He saw our truth. What matter his species? He was as glorious a champion as Griffonkind ever had.” She turned to Ghaliya. “And did he teach you our language, lalla?”

She looked regretful. “He tried,” she said wistfully. “I wish I could say that some of his learning rubbed off. But I was too happy with my hooves in the dirt.”

“There is honour, too, in honest work, lalla,” replied Hayfa, deferentially. “It is all too rare.”

“I do wish you’d stop calling me that, Sifir. I can’t even read the books he left us.”

Hayfa froze. “You have more of his writings?” she asked, quickly. “Written in Griffon?”

“Yes, in the library,” replied Ghaliya, “would you like to see them?”

Hayfa looked at her earnestly. “I think it is accurate to say,” she pronounced, carefully, “that I would.”

Talib didn’t know Hayfa was capable of such expressiveness. She leafed through his grandfather’s wide-spined, hempen-bound notebooks excitedly, muttering in Griffon under her breath, eyes widening and narrowing in turn. Occasionally she made little surprised noises or chuckled. The griffoness seemed completely oblivious to her surroundings. After a time, Ghaliya nudged Talib, who stared at her dumbly until she tilted her head and her eyebrows significantly towards Hayfa, frustration at her clueless child evident in her crossed forelimbs.

Right, he thought. If she’s ever going to open up, this will be it. He cleared his throat carefully. When that didn’t work, he rolled his eyes and walked over to where Hayfa sat with uncharacteristic carelessness on the floor, in front of one of the dark-wood bookshelves that sheathed the library walls, floor to ceiling.

“Find anything interesting?” he asked.

Hayfa looked up from the book with irritation, and he backed away slightly. She sighed and closed it. “Did you know your grandfather was still writing and composing?” she asked, as if Talib had deliberately been keeping this from her.

“Well… I guess I never really thought about it,” he replied defensively. “I knew he wrote, of course, but I never considered what it might be. I mean, he was so old, maybe I assumed he was done with all that…” Hayfa glared at him incredulously, and he faltered. “To be fair,” he offered mildly, “I was practically just a foal.” Behind him, Ghaliya chuckled gently.

“A scholar such as Talib Azhar is never ‘done with all that’, as you put it,” said Hayfa acidly. “It is not a career from which one retires. It is a calling with as many ages as a life.” She looked out the window, counting off the ‘ages’ on her claws. “He started by collecting oral poetry, folk stories and songs, travelling the length and breadth of the Empire as a wandering minstrel. He settled in the capital and began to publish these. Then he moved to the written literature, collecting neglected writings and republishing them with contexts and criticisms in anthologies. Griffons who remembered his visits would write to him if they had any interesting old books lying around. Naturally this then moved into the study of Old Griffon and translations of forgotten works. Finally,” she said, significantly, “he published the Epic of Ilfah.” Hayfa dropped the words from her mouth like great weighty gold nuggets. Talib tried to look like he had heard of it. “Shortly after that, he left the Griffon Empire. Now we see what he worked on next.”

“Goodness,” said Ghaliya, “it never sounded so tidy and lofty when he talked about it, wandering the land, singing in taverns.” She shook her head, smiling fondly in memory. Without warning, her expression hardened and she caught Hayfa in a gaze which even Talib could see was loaded. “Obviously,” she said, with delicate precision, “you’re a griffon of uncommon schooling, Sifir.” Then silence. Somehow, Talib saw, his mother had just told Hayfa that she knew much more about the griffoness than had been revealed. Now, written on the quiet, papery air, hung a question. Talib could read it. Doubtless Hayfa could, too.

Who are you? Why should I trust you?

The griffoness stood slowly, her golden eyes taking in the two ponies. That moment lasted a long time. Talib felt like the sudden tension was seeping out of the air and into his bones, freezing him in place. One inscrutable gaze met another, his mother and this secretive predator, neither wavering. Finally Hayfa seemed to reach a decision.

“Talib has spoken with you about me, I assume?” she said, voice neutral. Ghaliya nodded slightly. The griffoness sighed. “Well,” she said, “then there seems little point in remaining reticent. My true name, as you probably know, is Hayfa Karima. Yes, I am of ‘uncommon schooling’, as you put it. I am the daughter of a noble house, and have had the appropriate tutelage. Probably I should have played up my accent a little more, jumbled my grammar.”

Ghaliya nodded with satisfaction. “It is nice to finally meet you, Hayfa,” she said, not without reproach.

“Lalla, I am truly sorry for the necessity of lying – to you, especially. I beseech you to keep this confidence. Please trust that I have my reasons, although I cannot share them.”

Talib’s mother inclined her head doubtfully. “Not even Melaco?” Hayfa shook her head. Ghaliya held her gaze a moment longer, while Talib held his breath. His mother, however, broke into a smile, and the tension dissipated. “Well, that won’t be anything new,” she said. “So, what are we looking at?” she continued, peering at the strange script of the open book in Hayfa’s talons. Talib breathed out. Finally, something had opened between the two females.

“None of this is published, or finished. They would be highly prized in the Griffon Empire.”

“I think we’d like to hold on to them,” said Ghaliya, slowly.

Hayfa shrugged, understanding. “From what I’ve seen,” said Hayfa, “these notebooks are more scholarship than composition. There are stories and poems, but most are vague or fragmentary. They are accompanied by copious notes, however. This particular notebook,” she said, “seems dedicated to…” she paused, uncertain, “…wilderness, as far as I can discern. Stories of wastelands, forgotten tribes, remote mountains. Even the Everfree Forest gets significant space, Talib.” Talib’s ears pricked up, and Hayfa opened the book to show him. Talib looked at the page, but could make nothing of the graceful, flowing script. A symbol, however, caught his eye.

“That’s the design from the teapot!” he cried.

“Yes,” said Hayfa, “he seems to have used this and similar symbols to code the passages for note-taking. The ‘wilds’ symbol, from the teapot, is most common in this notebook focusing on wilderness stories, of course, but there are other symbols and the system is consistent through all the books. But I have no idea what the others mean.”

Talib frowned, staring at the page.

“Baba seems to have shared your interest in the Forest, Talib,” said Ghaliya.

He nodded. “I think… look, obviously there’s this stuff going on with Progress,” he said, slowly, “and the over-logging is definitely important. But there’s something else about the Forest. Something deeper, and older, and whether he realizes it or not, Progress Miller is… disturbing it. I don’t know how I know, but I do. I can practically taste it. That’s why I want to finish these experiments so desperately. They’ll get us one step closer to understanding what is really going on.”

Ghaliya sighed, closing her eyes. “It’s just… well, you know our thoughts.” She looked between Talib and Hayfa, the lantern-light glowing in reflection from the open pages around them. “The Everfree would be dangerous enough without all this going on. But right now, who knows what could happen in there?” Her gaze settled on Hayfa. “My son wants me to believe he will be safe. He is going to remind me – perhaps unwisely, considering how he lied to keep it from us – how experienced he is in the ways of the Forest. And since I still won’t be convinced, he’ll drag you into it, and tell me you are some kind of soldier, and you’ve been training him, and you’ll keep each other safe. But if there is any chance of Melaco and I believing that – and I don’t concede that there is – then I would have it from you directly. Why are you throwing your lot in with my son for this? You don’t have skin in the game, as my husband would put it.”

Hayfa did not respond immediately. She preened with uncharacteristic agitation, then said, “I cannot easily answer that question, since my own mind is… confused, in certain memories. But whatever is happening, I’ve felt it before. It’s… not something I can talk about. Suffice it to say that in the Forest I can hear echoes of something unpleasant I experienced, once. If I can prevent it repeating, I will.”

Ghaliya considered. “You have some training?”

“More than some. And experience, and practice. I am ‘proved’, as my ’ameed, my colonel, put it.”

“And Talib?”

“Talib is competent. He can be more than that. Some Ponyville pacifism made him hesitant, but I suspect he has discovered a new appreciation for the martial arts,” Hayfa said drily. Talib nodded fervently, which, ironically, aggravated the now-chronic ache in his skull.

Ghaliya frowned, thoughtful. Talib watched her closely for some sign, but she gave none. Eventually, she nodded. “I will discuss it with Melaco. We’ll sleep on it.” Talib sagged, but knew it was the best he could hope for. As if summoned, Melaco poked his head into the room and announced their guests were retiring for the night. Ghaliya gave them a final, grave look, bid Talib see that Hayfa was settled in for the night, and walked out to ensure the others had what they needed. Even with so much on her mind, the code of hospitality which was so ingrained in their family could not be neglected.

Talib, now alone with Hayfa, smiled weakly at the griffoness. “Thank you,” he said, “I know you don’t like talking about yourself.”

“Needs must,” she said laconically, regarding him blandly. She seemed to have more to say, but was unsure. Talib waited patiently. “Will you…” she began hesitantly, “…will you thank your parents for me, later? It’s been a while since anyone has been so generous with their hospitality.”

Talib nodded slowly, unsure what to say. “I wish-” he began, then stopped, looking at her helplessly, wanting to ask more, wanting her to trust him with her story, and not quite sure why. Even now, he could not be sure whether they were friends, or were merely thrown together by the alignment of their goals. He gave up. He would not wheedle revelations from her. But there was one thing he would request.

“Can you tell me what Baba wrote about the Everfree?” he asked.

“I don’t have the patience to translate or dictate all the little pieces in these notebooks, Talib,” she replied, gesturing to the several thick hemp-bound volumes. “There are all kinds of fanciful folk stories in there, about druids and manticores and something winged and secret in the mountains beyond the Forest. I will not be your bedtime reader.”

“I suppose not,” he said, glumly.

Hayfa regarded his morose expression a while and rolled her eyes – a particularly expressive gesture with her aquiline visage. “Oh, very well. There is something I can do. Would you like to learn the Griffon tongue?” The young colt looked at her in surprise. “It would be fitting,” she said, “with your heritage. Some,” she continued, her familiar sardonic, lofty tone exaggerated, “would consider it an honour to teach you.” Talib’s suddenly eager expression made his answer clear. “We can practice while we work, so it won’t cost me any time. You’ll need some books of instruction, though, to study independently.”

“I’ll see what Twilight can rustle up,” said Talib. He tried to hide his excitement as they bid one another goodnight.

"What's behind this go-faster instinct? Impatient to get somewhere?" Ash teased gently, looking with interest at Bianca's latest soap-box cart design. The expressive scribbles crouched on the page, sleek and low and somehow animated, as if ready to pounce.

Bianca just laughed. "I think that's pretty true," she replied. "If I know what I want, then why wait?"

Ash looked at her for a time, expression pleasant but not easy to read. Their eyes met, and then he looked away in awkward silence, shuffling through some of her calculations on the workbench. Bianca thought she could see him blushing under his soft grey-blue coat, and her heart leapt.

That morning the two families had awoken roughly in sync - except Talib, who was sleeping a lot since his concussion - and shared a happily rowdy breakfast, enjoying the kind of easy familiarity that grows quickly after sleeping under the same roof. Sifir was nowhere to be seen, but an elegantly-penned note in the kitchen expressed indebtedness for the Canes' hospitality and a desire to meet again. Bianca, the kind of farm pony who could practically hear the sun rise, reflected that the griffoness must move silent as mist to have slipped away without waking her. While the others were lingering over sweet, cardamom-infused coffee, Ash had asked to see some of Bianca's work. She had recognized an opportunity to be alone together for a while. They had gone out to the workshop, and spent a few minutes looking through designs and very carefully not brushing against one another in the sometimes-cluttered space. Ash had apologized for his father's opinionated manner, and Bianca had said something vaguely reassuring.

It had become clear, over the last day or so, that there was something here. They talked naturally and with passion about their machines - although Ash had more of an intuitive mechanic's approach and Bianca a methodical engineer's - and their hopes for the future. There was an electrifying mixture of nervousness and comfort, attraction and caution, in the way they interacted. It felt natural and strange at the same time. They'd already promised to write, though neither of them had any idea what to do next.

Still half-heartedly ruffling through Bianca's notes to avoid her gaze, Ash unearthed some of Talib's old notes, and peered more closely. The chaotic, irregular scrawls made the copious calculations and equations even harder to understand, written as they were with much crossing-out, idiosyncratic notes and abbreviations, and heavily layered with botanical sketches. Ash shook his head and looked at Bianca questioningly.

"Do you understand any of this stuff?" he asked.

Bianca raised an eyebrow. "You mean the statistics, the botanical experiments, the magical theory, the silviculture, or the industrial espionage?" she asked wryly.

Ash laughed. "Any of it, I guess. I might work with trees but I'm a city pony at heart. I couldn't make head nor tail of what he was saying last night."

Bianca looked at the cryptic scribblings, her gaze focused on something else. "I have a vague picture," she said. "Talib wants to understand the magic of the Everfree Forest, so he's come up with some experiments or other. At the same time, he and Old Sim have evidence that Progress Miller is over-logging, and that seems to be affecting the Forest, so they're trying to stop him."

Ash nodded. "That's about what I understood. I wasn't sure if the two were related somehow."

Bianca placed the tip of a hoof on one of the sketches, tracing the outline of an experimental plot. "Exactly. That's where the wheels come off. Talib doesn't know either, though he seems to think so. And that's just the tip of the iceberg - I can tell there's a lot more weirdness happening than he's letting on. Last night Talib told me he's been having visions."

Bianca watched Ash carefully assemble his best I'm-not-calling-your-brother-crazy-but-I-have-some-questions expression. She frowned, but not at him.

"I know. He woke me up thrashing and muttering last night, something about wings in the Forest, and fire, and water, and a great heart…" she trailed off. "I don't know. Crazy stuff. I thought it was a nightmare so I tried to wake him up. But his eyes were already open, looking at the moon through the window, and he didn't seem to hear me. I was worried he was having a fit, you know, like the nurse had warned us after the concussion. But then it started to ease off, and he woke up properly."

"Was he alright?"

Bianca remembered how drained Talib had looked, grimacing in pain with hooves pressed to his temples and eyes squeezed shut, panting in a cold sweat. She'd offered him the glass of water on the nightstand but he'd waved it away weakly. You're drenched, she had said, you need water. His eyes and mouth had shot open then, wide with shock. Of course, he'd said, water…

But then he'd frowned and gone silent, and in her concern and exasperation, Bianca had demanded he drink up and tell her exactly what in Equestria was going on. He'd sworn her to secrecy before telling her about the other visions, and what he'd just realized: that every time, they had come to him while he was in water of some kind. The streams and pools. The mist. The rain. Until this time. It felt like something was reaching out to him: sending a warning, asking for help, increasingly desperate.

"He said he'd seen catastrophe and destruction, a breaking of the very heart of the Forest"

"What does that mean?"

"He has no idea."

They lapsed into silence, until Ash shrugged. "Maybe they are just nightmares," he ventured, hopefully.

"Apparently they're… different," she replied. Talib had been a little more verbose. They feel real, Bianca, he'd said. It's like watching thundercaps roll in over the hills. I can see something coming, hear the thunder, smell the rain. He had stopped just short of the word 'premonition'.

"You're worried," said Ash; a statement.

"Absolutely. Going up against Progress Miller is scary enough. But I think Talib's right: there's a lot more going on here, and we have no idea what."

"I'm a bit jealous," said Ash, "I never had a sibling. Talib's lucky."

Bianca sighed. "It's not always easy. He's such a dreamer… and still as wilful as a foal. But we've always looked after each other. Well," she said, considering, "I've always looked after him."

Ash was quiet for a spell. "I don't think he likes me," he said, finally.

Bianca laughed. "He just has no idea what's going on. He'll get used to it."

Ash brightened. "Will he, now?"

Bianca looked away and mumbled something about being time to go back inside. But she couldn't hold back the smile.