In a corner of Bluebell's workshop, between several long boats he'd lined vertically against the walls, he thanks me graciously for returning his Wagon of Speed and the ruined chair, as though I was the one who'd done him the favor. He rests his giant paws on the wagon and sniffs the burnt bits. Heat rises to my face with embarrassment, and now that all the niceties are out of the way, I confess.

"Bluebell, I did something awful by accident."

"Oh?" He raises his snout, bushy eyebrows furrowed. A bit of ash sticks to the white fur of his jaw. "Did you damage another piece of furniture? It’s not a worry Sam, I’ll have this one repaired soon enough."

I shake my head, holding the straw hat as if it might stabilize me. I stare at the boats he must've built last night because they hadn't been there yesterday. The wood is polished and gleaming in the sunlight streaming through the front entrance. The boats are long and sleek, and I'm almost jealous. If they're as good as his wagon, then they must be a joy to take out on the water. I’ve never even been on a boat before.

He unloads the ruined chair onto a small workbench, taking great care to pile all the broken bits in his massive paws. On the side, there's a larger workbench where the skeleton of an unfinished boat sits upside down, its insides splayed like wooden ribs.

"Are you busy?" I ask him. "I need to tell you about this, but I'm not sure how." He looks pretty busy, so if he tells me to go away, I'll come back later.

But he speaks almost absentmindedly. "I've got a few orders for the fishing village. Nearly done, but they've been having issues with the Merrami, you know, so I've been reinforcing the new hulls." Then he brushes his snout with a paw, smearing the ashes stuck to his fur. "But that can wait. I got a lot done this morning, and delivery isn't expected for a few days yet." He sets the chair down and nods in my direction. "What would you like to talk about, Mrs.... I mean, Sam?"

I can't help but smile a little. He doesn't know I'm the mayor yet; he's being nice because that's who he is. He makes time for others. Even though my heart is racing, and I feel like a mess, even though he's an enormous polar bear, he exudes a sense of safety. I'd been afraid he'd notice I'm the mayor right away, and that might change the friendly nature of our relationship so far, but unlike Granny and Sal and Mia, Bluebell isn't orange. He's blue like everyone else. That messes with my theory that orange indicates importance to the town, since he seems very important to the town, but figuring that out will have to wait

I have to tell Bluebell about acquiring him, that his body is somewhere inside me, and that I can become him.

He sits on his hind legs, looking innocent, like an oversized giant plushy, and he watches me with his cute eyes. Those bushy brows are slightly raised, and I take a deep breath, trying to stifle the anxiety of him reacting with rage. He won't. Somehow, I just know he won't, so I start by describing my abilities. I'm admitting to him that I'm a “witch” but I figure if he and Kivuli trust each other and he knows that I'm with her, it should be alright. I tell him I can transform. And, blushing, I tell him about how I'd become Squishy the Ember Slime and burned the chair.

He laughs, a deep rumbly laugh, and shakes his head. "New powers can be frightening, but you will master it with time."

Then I tell him about what happened when he'd sniffed me. "I didn't mean to," I whisper, standing by the larger table, my hands in my pockets, a lump in my throat. Maybe I’ve inhaled some sawdust by accident. I can't look him in the eyes. "Well, it wasn't an accident. Not really. The message showed up in my head, and I'd thought yes without really thinking. But I haven't tried becoming you yet! I felt like I had to ask your permission first. And if you say no, that's completely alright and I'll never try it."

Once I'd finished speaking, the warehouse falls quiet. There's some chatter from the town, but it's distant and faded and blurred by the waves and the breeze. After a moment, Bluebell takes a deep breath, his entire body expanding, and he drops to all fours. The warehouse shakes, and I shut my eyes tightly before opening them again. I can't tell if he's upset. Maybe I was wrong; maybe he would get angry. Of course, he would. I’ve violated his rights. I could do all number of things while pretending to be him, and he would take the blame.

I'm sorry, I almost say, but that's what I'd immediately say when I knew my mother would lose her shit. When my insides would contract, and I'd wait for the smack, or the book or remote or whatever was nearby to be thrown at me. Bluebell sighs again, and he pads over to me, a mass of white fur and muscle and strength.

He tells me it's alright. I swallow the lump in my throat and lower my shoulders and try to unclench.

"From what I understand,” he says quietly. “You have trouble with the nature of every creature you become. Is that correct?"

"Yes," I whisper as he circles me. I have to step back so he can move between me and the workbench. Warmth emanates from his enormous form. His fur looks so soft and pretty even though it's caked with sawdust. I wish I could brush it for him.

Once he's come back around, still on all fours, his large head stops right above mine. He sniffs deeply, his dark nose scrunching. Then he holds out his paw. "Touch this," he says.

"Oh, I don't need to touch you again. I already have-"

"No," he says, shaking his large head. "I just want you to feel the weight."

I exhale, staring at his giant paw. It's bigger than my entire torso. If he wanted to, he could stamp me into the ground, but I do as he asks. I grasp him from either side, holding his paw with both hands, and I shudder. It's warm. The padded sole is filthy, but the claws jut out like razor-sharp blades. His paw is much heavier than I thought it would be, and as he relaxes his weight, it takes more strength to hold it. It's very apparent that Bluebell is at the top of the food chain.

Despite the softness of his fur, his paw is as hard as iron and as dense as stone, and so heavy that I feel the strain in my back and legs. And this is only a fraction of Bluebell's mass. I think I understand what he's trying to tell me.

"One blow from these paws can shatter a Thousand-year Tree," says Bluebell gravely. Gently, he lays his paw on my shoulder. It nearly covers my entire side. "Look at my teeth, Sam. Do you see my jaws? I can crush metal with a snap. And the ferocious hunger... the anger...."

He sighs and shakes his great head. A tired look comes over him, and I squeeze his paw. As he speaks, I can see his teeth, and they look a lot like mine. They're not all sharp, but his canines are much larger, and his jaw is more pronounced, and I picture him ripping someone's arm off with ease. The Arctic Squirrel's mind shudders somewhere deep within my mind; its body recognizes what the Snowstream Bear is capable of.

I don't know what to say, so I don't say anything. But I don't feel afraid. I trust him. Somehow, there's a connection between us, and I don't know if that's because of my strange scent or because I've acquired a part of him, or because we both understand what it's like to be separated from the society around us, but there's a rapport here that makes me feel safe. And I think he feels that way too, because he continues to talk in that grave, sad, and thoughtful voice.

"My people are the anger of snowstorms. We are the avalanches that bury mountains, guided only by our one instinct. Our one tradition. Our only faith: violence." With his words, and despite the warmth of the day, a cold wind blows through the warehouse.

Snow drifts around me, and I shiver from the cold. Flakes land on my shirt and dissolve, and I realize it's coming off Bluebell. As though he was a storm cloud. His eyes flash with white light, and he sighs again, even more heavily as he lifts his paw off my shoulder and sets it on the ground. Everything shakes. And another breeze whirls around us. I grab my hat as wind ruffles my shirt.

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But as quickly as it had come, the ferocity fades from his eyes, and they look soft again. He looks sad again.

"I don't wish for you to experience my worst instincts," he says, lowering his head. "I'm not like the rest of my kind. I've been cursed. Awakened. Gifted if you should ask a spare few, but I know it's a curse. I can never walk among my kind again, nor do I wish to. But I fear you won't find who I've become when you transform. Only what I've been."

The images fill my mind. I picture myself as Bluebell barreling down a mountainside, pulling an avalanche with me. All that snow crashing and tumbling. The strength surging through my limbs, my fur blending into the landscape so that no one would ever see me coming until it was too late. I wonder what kind of prey he hunted. Probably giant elk or something. I wonder how his magic works. If I could summon blizzards.

But even as that excites me, his fear rushes through me like a splash of ice water. He's terrified of what I might do. And I should be too. I rub the melted snow off my arm, trying to find my breath. He's afraid. He's afraid for me. And now I'm kind of grateful I don't have access to the Snowstream Bear mind yet. How scary must it be to wield that kind of strength? What is that hunger like?

If I couldn't control a little slime's mind, what hope do I have with wrestling with a giant bear’s?

"Sam," he says when I haven't said a word. "I hope I haven't frightened you."

"A little bit," I tell him, my breath coming short. I'm scared, yes, but mostly I'm sad. I'm sad for what Bluebell must have gone through. What it must be like for him to be separated from his own kind. To be stuck here with humans.

He pads over to his bench, grabs a large plank of wood with his jaws, and then sets it down in front of me. With a relaxed, easy movement, he presses down on it with his paw. The wood cracks, it's nearly crushed to splinters.

"To a Snowstream Bear, everyone, even our own, are either enemies or prey. Do you understand?"

I nod.

He blinks, bushy eyebrows moving up and down. He glances toward the front of the warehouse, then around, as though someone else might be around. But it's just us two. "I want you to see something," he says.

Before I can respond, he turns to the side and lowers one shoulder to the ground, showing me his back. It's a wall of white fur, and his muscles ripple like angry waves. Getting the sense he wants me to touch him again, I walk forward, my hand held out.

"Feel along my shoulder blades," he whispers, a growl tracing his voice. There's a shyness, an urgency. Shame. He wants me to be quick.

His fur feels so warm and soft. I run my hand up along the ridges of his spine, then higher. The fur gets thinner here, and I can see the pale-pink of his skin. But right along the shoulder blade, there's a gruesome, dark scar in the shape of a jagged crescent.

My breath catches in my throat, and I drop to my knees to inspect his lowered side. The same scar is there on the other shoulder. Ugly and dark, an awful, hideous scar. "What happened?" I whisper.

"My wings," he says, pausing to exhale loudly before rising to all fours. "They were the price I paid to leave my people."

"Wings?"I stare up at him as he lowers his head to touch my forehead with his snout. Automatically, I reach up to stroke his jaw, rubbing away the ash with my thumb. I try to picture his wings, what it must have felt like having them ripped away, and I shudder. No wonder he feels so much shame. So much hurt. And yet he's so kind?

He's warned me of his vicious nature but here he is, being kind and gentle. Anger swells like a furious storm as I picture Bluebell in such pain. But it fades when he speaks again.

"You're crying," he says. With the side of his oversized paw, he wipes my cheek. "I'm sorry."

I try my best to smile, but before I can tell him that I'm crying for him, he pats my head.

"I grant you permission, Sam."

"Why?" I nearly choke on the word.

He speaks in a low voice. "Because I trust you. Because I believe you are a kind creature. And because one day, and I pray to the Goddess it should never come, it might be necessary for you to channel my strength. It would give me great comfort knowing my strength aided you when I could not."

I blink away more tears and shut my eyes tightly. He sniffs my forehead again, this time knocking my hat away, and I reach up to cradle his large head. We embrace. I, a tiny fragile little human hug an enormous Snowstream Bear, and I know without even a shadow of a doubt, that he is a friend. My friend. I get the feeling he’s been waiting a long time for a friend too.

🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼

After leaving Bluebell's workshop, I pause to take in my surroundings. I'd been in too much of a rush last time to appreciate anything, too caught up in my own head, but it's nice out here by the shore. Mixed into the sea breeze is the woodsy scent of sawdust, and the road continues further this way, heading south along the black sand coast. Was this where the carriage went yesterday? Before they got attacked?

The waves crash closer to the road today; it must be high tide. Salty spray flicks my face as the water foams against the sand before retreating. A strange mixture of warmth and want and dread bubbles in my guts, and I shut my eyes and try to picture the map Kivuli had given me.

But it's no use. My memory sucks, but I'm pretty sure I can figure things out when I get back. I've gotten a better look of the road this time. I'm more aware of directions, where the ocean is, where the town is, how the hills flow into the forests, and the Farmlands. All these mental notes. Maybe everything will click when I look at the map again.

Decent chance it won't, but I'll try. I took geography one semester in my old life. I'd only taken it to fulfill a history requirement, and it seemed easy at the time, but I was terrible at it. I figured if the continents were shifting on a tectonic scale all the time, everything I was learning was pretty much useless. Not to mention we had signs at airports and train stations telling us where to go. What's the point of memorizing where things happened to be on a map?

It's not like I'd get lost on some other continent and need to know which country to turn left at. I'd just do the noble thing and never ask for help and probably end up dead in a ditch somewhere. But there'd be street signs, right? So eventually I'd get around. At least that's what I told myself when, instead of studying, I stayed up late watching reruns of shows whose names I can't even remember anymore.

I'd wasted my life. I'd been too afraid to live it, and I'd wasted it all, and now-

I wish there were street signs here. Maybe I can make that happen as mayor. There was only this road running parallel with the shore and the main road in town, but I have a feeling it's all been waiting to grow. There'll be more buildings, more streets and roads, and we'll definitely need street signs.

Walking away from Bluebell's warehouse, the road leads toward the harbor. A few boats bob on the waves, but they don't look as nice as the ones Bluebell is working on. These are white and gray, the paint peeling. A few birds circle and squawk overhead. With white feathers and long, flat wings, they look like seagulls. I wonder about them. I wonder about flying. Then I remember Bluebell’s wings.

I'd told Bluebell I was the new mayor, just so he didn't find out later from someone else and feel like I'd kept that information from him. But I didn't think many people really wanted to talk to him anyway, and it kind of sucks he has to work there alone. Everyone should have people to hang out with after work, work friends or friend friends or maybe just family, but then I think about how similar his situation is to what I had back home. Work, school, home. Alone, alone, alone. I wonder where he sleeps. Does he live in his woodshop?

When I'd told him that I was mayor, he'd thought it very fitting. He'd looked at me oddly, or as oddly as an enormous polar bear with bushy eyebrows could look at someone, and told me how the former mayor had allowed him to stay in town and set up shop. So that he could use his skills and be safe. "I should have starved," Bluebell had said. "I had nowhere to go. Nowhere to belong." There was clearly a stigma against Snowstream Bears, and I wondered if that was the reason he wasn't orange even though he'd been here so long. "You remind me of him," he'd continued. "You carry yourself with such kindness, Sam."

What does that even mean? Kindness? Didn’t Kivuli have to kill the former mayor? As I walk, as I kick at the sand, I try to imagine Bluebell with his wings. Were they feathery? Furry? How large were they? Was he able to fly? Imagine being able to fly and having that ripped away from you.

I roll my shoulders back, feeling a cold shudder, a crawling itch, run down my shoulder blades. This feeling is familiar; there's something wrong with my body; is that how Bluebell feels too?

My thoughts stumble when I turn the corner. A procession of blue-uniformed soldiers marches up the main road. In the lead is the mustached soldier from last night with his tricornered hat, his coat billowing behind him like a cape. Behind them, pulled by two majestic unicorns, larger than any I've seen yet, both with shimmering white coats and golden manes, rolls a large, stylized carriage. It looks like an enormous Fabergé egg, with rings of blue and white gems shimmering around its shape. Navy curtains cover the windows.

A hush falls over the town. The scattered remains of the earlier crowd - a few farmers who've been loitering by the tavern, a group of women in their fancy dresses and umbrellas, and the antlered man who's unloading things by the grocery - all drop what they're doing and bow their heads. They back away slowly, shrinking into the tavern or heading into Blossom Water Inn.

The captain comes to a stop and scans the buildings. Behind him the other soldiers fall in line, their final step in unison as they straighten up with their rifles. With simultaneous neighs, the golden unicorns rest as well, and the wheels of the carriage squeak to a standstill. That makes me smile. They might be the Gilded Church and have all these fancy things, but their wheels aren't as well-crafted as Bluebell's.

"Attention!" shouts the captain in a loud, commanding voice. "Where might we find the new mayor of Blossom Water?"

At his words, my warm feeling evaporates. Anxiety prickles my insides. Slowly, people turn to look at me, and the captain does too. There's no point hiding that now, and I wonder if some notification might go off in their head anyway, and I approach them. What could they want with me?