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Rose gathers the songs of summer into earthen jars. She sweeps up the last hints of green and harvests her hearty, woody herbs; she listens to the winds blowing strong through her wind chimes, through the grasses and fields, and through the leaves which are growing crisp with color. Soon, too, she will card their yellow-orange-red hues into her thread and yarn, and she will busy herself some colder coming day with her fibers.
The sun, in the meanwhile, has set earlier and earlier each and every day. As a consequence, Rose entertains her nighttime company for longer and longer.
“You really must take care of your hands,” Pearl tells her one night, cradling one of Rose’s hands in both of her long, slender ones. She runs the pad of her thumb over Rose’s cuticles, which are white and dry and cracking. “The cold can dry you right out—well, you, I mean, humans—and knowing how you’re always keeping busy, it’d be a shame to have you smarting with everything you did...”
Rose tips her head back, and laughs. “I’ve never really noticed,” she says, which is only a little bit of a lie. “I suppose, with all I do, I’ve never had the presence of mind to notice the smarting.”
Never mind that her hands will never sting for their cracks and flaking—not in the way Pearl expects, at least.
Unconvinced, Pearl presses her lips together, and lifts Rose’s hand to fleetingly—nervously—kiss her knuckles. “Just so long as you take care...”
Rose twists her hand inside of Pearl’s, until she can snatch one of her hands for herself, and bring it to her own mouth for a kiss. “As best as I can. As best as I have the presence of mind for. I promise!”
There are songs still to bottle and pumpkins to whisper to ripeness and herbs to hang—magic to wield, and though it is different today than it has been in ages past, magic will always pull at her, a little. There is so much to do this time of year, and until the season slows, her cuticles will continue to crack and flake like the clay she purports not to be.
“Well...” Pearl worries her lip, letting one small fang show above her skin. Rose smiles at sighting it, and Pearl finally seems to give in with a cheerful, helpless huff. “All right,” she agrees. “Because you promised!”
Rose kisses Pearl’s hand a second, a third, a fourth and a fifth time, until Pearl is giggling unabashedly, fingers curling in overwhelmed delight. She only manages to stop the onslaught by turning her wrist, spreading her palm, cradling Rose’s face in her hand with a look that’s trying very, very hard to scold her.
The giggling dies off, and Rose lets her eyes slip closed as she leans into the touch.
(She could hum, could spin a tune for the moment, to preserve the sweetness and tenderness of the touch. She’d distill it into water and add a drop to her teas when she was feeling most lonely. But she promised. She promised.)
Outside of her little cottage (where Pearl’s tender, cool hand seems to still time) the autumn comes whispering in.