Lydia was up early, before the sunrise, sliding her shoes on and shimmying out the window. There was a sturdy trellis right below, that burst with thick roses and heavy leaves. Carefully, to not crush any of the blooms, Lydia picked her way down, and landed in the garden with a thump. She froze, glancing into the kitchen window. Empty. Relaxed, she adjusted her bag, peeking inside to make sure the hatbox wasn't crushed.

Then she was making her way over the fence, through the brambles, and into the forest, gone without a second glance.

It was peaceful, birds singing in the early morning. Everything was damp and clean, refreshed by last night's rain. Lydia had woken up sore and cold, her bottom slightly wet from sitting under the leaky wooden frame of her window, but it was worth it to open her eyes and see the bright blue morning sky.

Armoured in a long blue skirt, high socks, and a brown tank top, Lydia made her way through the woods, her bag bouncing against her thigh as she walked.

She had been bad at directions her whole life. When she lived in the city, she would get lost at every corner, turned around and dizzy. North was indistinguishable from South, and she struggled to grasp the concept of West and East. She remembered having a meltdown, panicking, trying to find a bus station that had been five feet away.

But somehow, even though every tree looked like the next, and every leaf fluttered with a dizzying distraction, she found herself exactly where she had wished to go. Somehow, nature's traffic was much easier to understand, its chaotic crush easily known to Lydia.

Without much pomp, she was back. The large tree, the ancient being, creaked and whispered at her, welcoming her. The rushes gave voice to the wind, both of them shuffling in pleasure at her arrival. She reached up and patted the tree, then glanced around. Perhaps it was too early for Beckett to be out. No matter, she had packed a book in her bag, and the tree limbs were wide and gentle.

Lydia settled into the treetop, book clutched between her fingers, the world around her dimming as she tumbled into the pages of her book, lost in a world of castles and duelling knights. Timelessly, everything around her looked the same, unchanging but for the sun inching slowly across the sky.

When it reached its afternoon peak, a crash startled her out of her reverie, and she bolted up, gaze darting about warily. Beckett was too sensible to be thrashing through the forest like this.

Another crash, and bushes rustled, then out tumbled a boy. His hood was pulled over his head, hiding the flashes of his deep brown skin, wires snaking from beneath his collar, his hands jammed deep into his pockets. He righted his balance, turning and swearing at the bush that tripped him.

Lydia cocked her head. She folded her book, putting it into her bag, peering at the loud, clumsy boy intruding on her forests.

Unaware of her presence and judgement, the boy tripped over roots and rocks to throw himself at the trunk of the tree, sliding down and sitting rather angrily. Lydia lay directly above him, sprawled on her tree limb, and was close enough to hear the music blasting from his headphones.

Lydia flipped backwards, her torso hanging off the tree limb, black hair falling around her. Her skirt fluttered around her hips, revealing navy biker shorts. She swung into his sights, beaming toothily upside-down, her moon-shaped cheeks lifting in both grin and gravity. The boy yelped, leaping away, eyes wide.

"What the hell?" he flinched, as if to fight.

Lydia waved, face slowly turning cherry red. "Hello!"

"Who—" the boy gawked at her. She got the sense he wasn't often surprised like this, and she enjoyed it. Life was full of the unexpected, and Lydia loved to live.

"I'm Lydia, lovely to meet you," she, with some ungraceful effort, curled herself back up into the tree. Breathless, red-faced, and slightly sweaty, she peered down at the boy.

"Are you listening to classical music? I love classical music," she confessed. "It's not really my aesthetic, but I think you're swell for listening to it anyway."

"Swell?" the boy had regained his composure, and scoffed up at her. "Are you fifty?"

"Seventeen," she smiled from her tree branch.

"What are you doing in a tree?" he sneered.

"What are you doing below a tree?" she returned.

She could see his frustration growing, building like a wave. She chuckled.

"Is this funny?" the boy pulled off his headphones with a yank, staring up at her. Faintly, Bach's "Cello Suite in G Major" rose, tinny, from his headset.

Lydia shut her eyes, swaying to the cello sound. "A little bit. Where do you live?"

He physically jerked back, startled. "What?"

"Are you in the town? That's where my grandmother lives," she prompted, still dancing to the music up on her lofty branch. "Or do you live on the farm? Beckett was—"

"You know Beckett? Of course you know Beckett," he snorted, pulling his headphones around his neck. He smiled sarcastically up at her. "He's an angel, right?"

Lydia smiled, slowly, the kind of smile one gets when they realise something, a little mischievous and a little amused. "Oh, yes. I see."

"Huh?"

"So you live on the farm, the Honeybee farm. Are you... Abram? Abdel? Arlo? No, wait, there was one more A name..." she tapped her chin with a finger, leaves ruffling around her in laughter.

"Aaron," he snapped, jamming his fists into the pocket of his hoodie. "It's Aaron."

She nodded, smiling. "Aaron. Right. I'm Lydia."

"You said that already."

"Just making sure you're paying attention," she shrugged, twisting around and leaping down from the tree branch. She landed in the dirt, skirt ballooning around her, hands on her hips, and studied him.

He was a half-foot taller than her, with mellow brown skin that looked like it hadn't seen the sun in a good while. His eyes, large, with pretty curled lashes, were red and bloodshot. Everything about the hunch of his shoulders, the sag of his hoodie, the way he glared at her, hinted at a kind of guardedness from the world. She desperately wanted to shake him out of it, for no reason than a child has for shaking a tree.

She stuck out a hand. "Shake?"

Aaron snorted.

"Shake," she decided for him, her hand unwavering.

He glared at her. "Seriously?"

She shrugged. "Seriously."

His lips pulled in an involuntary smile, but he turned away from her, marching off. "I'm not shaking your stupid hand."

Lydia laughed annoyingly, stooping to grab her bag from the floor and swinging it over her shoulder, before pattering along in his wake. "Okay."

He turned over his shoulder, nose curled in a sneer. "Stop following me."

She beamed at him, bag swinging. "I'm going to your house. I told Beckett I'd see him today."

Aaron looked as if he wanted to punch her. Which was likely. She bopped him on the shoulder, then ducked as he turned.

He stared at her. "What are you doing now."

"Practice, for when you finally snap," she explained, rising on her toes, and primly marching before him. "Is it this way?"

He gritted his teeth, grouching behind her. Faintly, over the sound of cello singing from his headphones, she could hear him mutter with all the dripping loathing in the world, "Yeah."

Lydia beamed to herself. What a lovely day already. Bach did the sun justice, she decided.

The clear blue sky stretched over open fields of corn yellow and brown strips carved by a tractor. A few cows lingered in the meadows, dots of black and white. Lydia trotted down the high hill, humming along with Aaron's music, the hatbox bouncing against her side. Aaron straggled behind her, fuming silently. She had enjoyed his steady stream of obscenities (mostly fired at her impertinence), but once he realised she was having more fun when he talked, he shut up rapidly.

"Do you enjoy having so many siblings?" she asked, hopping over a bumpy depression in the ground. The sun gleamed on her black hair, glinting off the edge of Aaron's mp3.

He glared ahead, storming past, and leaving her behind.

"I'm just curious," Lydia said, balancing on her tip toes as she skirted around cow piles. "I never had siblings, but I grew up with a lot of annoying, pathetic orphans."

"Wow," Aaron remarked dryly over his shoulder.

"So you can hear me," Lydia beamed, pulling at the strap of her bag.

Aaron walked faster. She grinned, Cheshire, at his back.

They reached the Honeybee home in short time. Aaron pushed through the door, letting it swing shut in Lydia's face. His footsteps slammed up the stairs, out of sight.

"Bye," she snorted at the closed door. Gingerly, she pushed on the brown planks, poking her head into the Honeybee home.

Sounds of life could be heard from every nook, and the corridors were filled with the warm glow of lights. Upstairs, someone's feet pranced to what sounded like a very bad piano rendition of "Stand By Me". A soft voice muttered calculations to themselves through the walls. Someone dropped a book with a pleased "oops". Chattering could be heard somewhere distant, echoing unintelligibly. The kitchen clanged cheerily with metal spoons mixing in glass bowls.

"Hi, honey!"

Lydia whirled at the voice behind her, jerking back. She nearly slammed into a middle-aged woman with soft brown skin, a floral bonnet, and one arm full of a basket. "Goodness!"

The woman's eyes were wide, and she caught Lydia's elbow before she toppled into the foyer. "Sorry, didn't mean to scare you! I hate it when people scare me. Are you all right?"

"Fine, thank you," Lydia straightened, smiling, gently extracting herself from the woman's grip. "Are you Beckett's mom?"

The woman shook her head with a grin. "No, but sometimes I wish I were! I'm Ginger Kalili, the Honeybees' neighbour. Mara's a good friend of mine. Here, come inside with me, I'm sure we can find Beckett."

Lydia held the wicker door open for Ginger as she stepped inside, sliding off her green sandals and heading for the kitchen. Inside, a glowy girl balanced on the edge of her wheelchair, straining with a wooden spoon to hook the edge of a pot handle that had fallen just out of her reach.

"Maisie!" Ginger cried, laughing, rushing to set her basket on the massive wooden table. She plucked the pot up, settling it in the girl's lap. "Goodness, who abandoned you in this mess of a kitchen?"

It was a bit of a mess, Lydia supposed. Flour was strewn all over the floor, dusting the girl's nose and hair, and lumps of unmelted butter and stringy dough hung from the stone kitchen wall and various appliances. A red stand mixer sat, abandoned and war-haggard, with its metal bowl tipped slightly to the side.

"I was trying to clean everything before you got here," Maisie laughed lightly, rubbing her forehead, smearing more flour over her warm brown skin. "I'm sorry it's such a mess. Arlo got a little... impatient with the mixer."

Ginger laughed —everyone laughed here, apparently— and began scooping the discarded dough into the overturned bowl. Maisie grabbed a tea towel hanging on the oven. "Cleaning for me, as if I'm not basically family," Ginger scoffed, dumping the soggy bits into the bin under the sink. She rinsed the bowl out, washed her hands, then turned and jumped at the sight of Lydia, standing gracelessly in the kitchen. She looked up from the floor and waved a hand weakly.

"I'm sorry, I forgot you were here!" Ginger smacked her forehead. Flour billowed down onto her shoulders. "I'm a mess today, I'm so sorry."

"No problem," Lydia answered, tapping the tabletop awkwardly. "Uh—"

Maisie looked up from wiping the counter dry, twisting her torso to see. "Oh, hello!" she gave a sunny smile, powdered in white. "Are you from Ginger's church?"

Lydia shook her head, shifting the bag at her side. "I'm a friend of Beckett's. Ms. Ginger just brought me inside. Is he around?"

"I found her outside," Ginger explained to Maisie with a laugh, grabbing an old-fashioned broom from a thin closet. "You Honeybees and your busy hive."

"Beck is probably with Abel," Maisie smiled. "Upstairs, first door to the left. I think they're doing math, but they've been at it so long, I'm sure they need a break."

"Thank you. And thank you, Ms. Ginger!"

"No problem, honey," Ginger raised her broom in cheers.

Lydia made her way out of the kitchen, pausing to turn back to Maisie with a little smile. "I love your dress, by the way."

Maisie grinned down at her white eyelet dress, fluffing it a little. "Thanks! Cute skirt."

Lydia swished it in a curtsy as she left, winking.

"I like her," Maisie decided, a little solemnly.

Ginger nodded, leaning on her broom. "She seems sad. But aren't the friendliest people the saddest ones?"

They sat quietly in the wake of that rhetorical question, surrounded by mess, staring at their own sadness. Maisie bunched her fists over her useless legs. Ginger covered the lingering tan line around her ring finger. 

And, solitarily, Lydia's footsteps echoed overhead.