“Humph!”

Haymarlen closed her mouth. That hadn’t escaped from her. She hadn’t released a breath beyond one from her nose. But the timing was more than coincidence.

“Not to missed,” the voice, and thankfully not her own continued. “Is that what they call a tree-hugger now?”

Haymarlen looked across to the frosted-magenta-eyed maiden, cross arm-sprawled on the next one. “At least he’s gone, Flora. For a moment I thought that he could see me.”

Flora humphed again.

“He might be a ‘crime-fighter’, but he knows fiddle twigs about trees. Calling this one of those red-stalked, dull-leaved over-dominant aphid-attractors. What’s he going to call the ‘greater magnitude’ one? A Juniper?”

“I did the same thing the first time I saw one,” Haymarlen answered. “It takes long enough for us, and we’re only scratching the surface. How much more difficult is it for them?”

“It’s a Plane, Haymarlen,” said Flora, “A plane. Flaky bark, long trunk. I know which one I’d rather be perched in.”

As if in answer, the upper branches of the tree rustled, letting speckles of sunlight dance over the lounging pair, and making the gems in their circlets twinkle.

“See, even Moonbole isn’t impressed at Mr Hergewick's misnomer,” said Flora. “You probably want to march right up to Yellow Breech’s front door and give that would-be naturalist a piece of your mind; don’t you.”

The sunlight danced for a second time over the pair, momentarily illuminating the frost pastel highlights in Haymarlen’s crimson lake hair.

“Only we do not possess the power to unlock you from your shackles,” Flora sighed placing a palm against the branch she was lying upon.

“Thank goodness…” Haymarlen exhaled, but quietly enough that neither her companion, nor Moonbole overheard. The last thing she needed was a disturbance caused by a personage taking exception to the miss-identification made by the Bustlers, and bringing unnecessary attention from around about. Especially from the cottages yonder.

“But I can do this,” Flora added, slipping off the branch and gliding toward the bottom. Haymarlen opened her mouth but was met by the feather-impact of Flora’s feet connecting with the road; causing a mule to bray in alarm.

“Flora, you can’t-”

“Can, Haye,” came the reply, accompanied by Flora’s form marching past the two other mules to Haymarlen dreaded where. Groaning she slipped off her branch, but kept her arms outstretched, attaching to then rotating on a limb lower down, that sent her soaring out of the tree and into the lamp-bright sunlight. For a moment Haymarlen had to put a hand against her eyebrows. But even in mid-flight she could spot the jumpy mules; the driver trying to calm them down; the furrowed field she would prefer not to land in, and the long-striding, spectrum-blue dressed form of Flora ahead, underneath, then behind as she alighted onto the road.

“Don’t try and stop me Haye,” Flora warned, as she strode past.

“We’re not supposed to be attracting attention Flor.”

“Don’t call me Flor.”

“Is it worth blowing our cover?”

“I’m not the one who’s just jumped right out of a tree and landed halfway down the road without breaking a sweat,” Flora added, rolling up one of her sil-embroidered sleeves. “Why didn’t you just land on the roof and be done with it.”

Haymarlen glanced across the field. Sure enough, the oxen-team had come to a halt, and the straw-hatted driver was staring at them as if an entire carnival was parading up the road. Although his attention was soon taken by a lone mule careering across the stretch the oxen had just multi-furrowed.

Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

“I didn’t give the donkeys a fright,” Haymarlen replied, pointing at the bounding form.

“It’s a mule,” said Flora. “A mule. Don’t you start getting confused, I’ve already got one miss-identifier to deal with, and you’re not going to talk me out of it.”

“But it’s still not too late for you to step away from this,” Haymarlen continued. “Be the bigger…”

Flora stopped and looked at Haymarlen.

“…Bigger…” Haymarlen added.

“…What…” Flora almost purred. “And don’t say man, because we’re not males, or anything remotely linked to this bunch of non-descriptives.”

“Person,” said Haymarlen. “Be the bigger person.”

“One problem,” Flora smiled, flew past Haymarlen and thundered three knocks on the front door of the first cottage. “I’m that already.”

Haymarlen groaned and spun away from the door, whilst Flora rolled up the other sleeve. The tap-tap of approaching footsteps came from the further side of the door, along with a more distant voice.

“If that’s you Blankétown, I’ll douse you in the Darn. Why do you think there’s a knocker out there for? Decora…tio…”

The door opened and the near-strawberry hued face of the fellow named Mr Pipcastle looked back, then turned to a contorted gape. “…You’re not Blankétown…” he managed to whisper.

“I’m much worse,” Flora whispered, clenching a fist. “If you don’t go back inside and get the ‘legendary’ Mr Hergewick out here in under half a minute.”

“But you’re a lady,” Mr Pipcastle continued. “Ladies don’t try to smash down front doors.”

“Bet they don’t do this either-” Flora began, seizing Mr Pipcastle, by his waist coat, and launching him over the nearby boundary fence.

Haymarlen opened her mouth, but before any words could leap out, Flora had disappeared into the house. A moment later, a voice other than Flora’s came from beyond the door, followed by a scream, and upon the next, Flora leapt back outside, dragging the person who could only be Fontarius Hergewick by the back of the collar, and without the wide-brimmed hat that he had been wearing in the first place. His eyes on the other hand, momentarily fixed on Haymarlen, before he became the sail to the long-striding mast formed by Flora.

“Please Miss Whatever-your-name-is,” he began. “I am sure that we can take a slower pace than this-”

“Not this side of the ‘Acer’,” Flora replied without looking back.

“But I’m not as ground-covering as your striding — yaaahhh!”

Flora did stop, but Hergewick continued; not walking but in the manner of a ball travelling through an open space. The yell increased as Hergewick came to terms with his destination; the grand acer that crowned the roadside; whose oncoming truck now developed the presence of an unforgiving pillar.

“–Aaah–” he continued, closing his eyes for the inevitable impact. Instead, his legs and torso continued toward the tree, whilst the rest of him, collar included, remained in the one spot, and jerked his eyes open: to be met by the pillar-boled tree, but his feet flapping a stretch away from it. The next moment, the road came up to meet him in a less-than-dignified fashion; along with the bray of a not-too distant mule or donkey. Although no donkey had ever had a set of hooves that were the hue of the rich, dark blue paint used to decorate the porcelain pieces made up in Mirrihans. Nor did donkeys wear a snow-embroidered teal blue dress with a waist girdle and sashes that matched the boots, but also possessed pale blue, silver and white embroidery; or a mane the hue of frosted cranberries…