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Larkspur and her mother had a wonderful season. A season of growth, of harvest, and of the happy humming of Hunnysuckle’s bees. They buzzed around Larkspur now, gathering pollen from the flowers and produce that she lovingly tended in the summer heat. Around her, cicadas buzzed in the trees, creating a pleasant hum under the softness of her mother’s voice as she tended the aforementioned bees around the perimeter of Larkspur’s garden. Her ear flicked as a fat, fuzzy little bee buzzed too close, and she offered it a silent apology as he bumbled away, slightly jostled from the involuntary swat, but no worse for the wear.

“The honey looks more amber today,” Hunny muttered, more to herself than her daughter, but Larkpur looked voer anyway. Her mother was right. The honey that dribbled from the spout of the self-harvesting hive looked more like topaz than honey. It glittered in the light, and even from far away, larkspur could smell of rich, sweet scent on the summer wind. Or maybe that was her imagination.

“Mister Li will want some,” Larkspur answered, gently knocking a fat, red tomato from the vine into her basket. “He said he was running low when he came by last for feverfew. With fall around the corner and sore throats hot on its heels, he’ll come by for a restock.”

Another busy little bee tucked itself into a yellow tomato flower, wiggling around before departing for a bolt of lavender across the way. That was next on Larkspur's list to harvest alongside the basil and thyme. Both were close to bolting and she wanted more out of the plants before the season was over.

“That won’t be a problem,” Hunny answered as she switched out one filled pot for an empty one. “Miss Emiko will want a few pots as well for mead making. Remind me to get her recipe when she comes by next. I want to try making some myself.” Which was a hilarious prospect. Not the mead making, but the mead drinking. Larkspur’s mother had a penchant for over-indulgence, something that she an inherited, and she just knew that tasting the mead for quality would devolve quickly into a day of drunken giggles.

She couldn’t wait.

“It’s a good harvest all around,” Hunny went on, surveying her daughter’s garden with pride in her eyes. “Well done, my love.”

Larkspur didn’t even bother to hide the proud flush on her cheeks. Even if her mother was free and generous with her praise of her daughter, it still made Larkspur glow when she received it. Which, as mentioned, was often.

“A garden is nothing without bees,” Larkspur humbled herself despite the remaining flush of pride. “Nothing fruits without pollination.”

“And the bees would starve without the flowers,” Hunny answered, trotting over the nudge Larkspur gently. “Don’t do that to yourself, darling. Don’t discount your talents or your efforts. You did well, love. You always do.”

This time Larkspur ducked her head and nodded, silently accepting her mother's praise.

“Come, the honey is finished collecting. We can seal the jars together and finish harvesting after that.”

It was how afternoons in the garden always went. They began with their individual tasks, Larkspur tending her garden that would feed her mother’s bees while Hunnysuckle tended the colony of bees she’d saved from near death years ago. Eventually, however, they would come together and complete the tasks alongside one another, enjoying one another’s quiet company. Occasionally, Memory would wander over, take a snack from his granddaughter’s basket of produce, and lend his own quite voice to the conversation. Not today, though. Today, it was just mother and daughter, dipping the corks in melted beeswax to seal the colorful clay jars. Around them, the bees were hard at work replenishing the honey that had been harvested, buzzing and humming around the flourishing garden.

Larkspur kept the garden for this reason. Before she had begun gardening, her mother’s bees had relied one whatever blooms they could find in the woods. It was… it was fine. The honey was always rich gold and thick, flowing plentifully each time Hunny harvested. They were able to sell it and live comfortably.

But Hunny worried.

These bees were her brood before Larkspur and her brother were born, and when they ventured too far from the hives, Larkspur knew her mother worried. Worried about birds looking for a meal or about the careless steps of someone walking through the woods. Of poisons or disease. Of the world that didn’t care how much she loved her bees.

Larkspur planted the garden and kept it each year, so that her mother could keep her bees close. So that they had to travel only feet or yards instead of miles and miles to collect pollen to feed their young. They could stay where Hunny could see them, could protect and watch over them. They could stay where they were safe and loved.

And the honey was better for it, Larkspur was sure. She planted a varied garden to make sure of it. Flowers, herbs, and produce. Whatever they would need or want to collect, Larkspur provided. She researched what plants were best for pollination. Paid attention each year to what the bees preferred and what they avoided. Panted the following year to reflect those findings.

“I may have to harvest three times this year,” Hunny sighed once the last jar was capped, looking around at her small army of clay honey jars. Larkspur looked up from the basket of strawberries she had harvested for their lunch and she had to agree. The hive was so large and so healthy that they may not have a choice. A honey-bound hive would mean swarming, which might lead to part of the hive moving away.

“A few more hives probably wouldn’t be a bad idea,” Larkspur added, nudging the basket of berries over to her mother to encourage her to eat.

“Maybe next year,” the other mare answered, chewing thoughtfully on her lunch, but Larkspur could see the look in her eyes. She already knew where she was going to put the new boxes. Of course, more boxes meant more planting. More beds. More garden. More work to do and more time to spend out with her mother.

Larkspur couldn’t wait.