The cherry trees had gone and done it again. Laurel stood ankle-deep in a petal drift outside Eldergrove Apothecary, arms crossed, head tilted, as though the weight of her stare might coax some sense into them.
Not a breeze stirred the branches, yet petals fluttered down like gossip shared too loudly. Each time she brushed one away, another landed squarely on her shoulder or nose. And then—"Did you hear what she did to the lavender beds?" murmured a tiny voice from the blossoms above.
Laurel blinked. "Pardon?"
More petals rustled in reply, their tone somewhere between scandalized aunt and gleeful troublemaker. "Cut it back too far. Tsk! The rosemary told us."
She glanced over her shoulder. No one else in sight. The cobblestones were drowsy with sun, Pippin had vanished since breakfast, and Rowan was elbow-deep in mint cuttings. No prankster in earshot—unless the pranksters were overhead, in full bloom.
"You're eavesdropping on herbs now?" she muttered, brushing her apron with exaggerated dignity. "What would the moss think?"
Another flutter of laughter from the branches.
She had half a mind to march right inside and pretend none of this was happening, but—"She always forgets the moonlight infusion step," a petal chimed as it settled into her hair.
Right. That did it.
Laurel fetched the stepstool from behind the shop, climbed onto the cobbled planter, and addressed the cherry blossoms with all the decorum of someone slightly sleep-deprived and entirely done with floral sass.
"Listen, you overgrown bouquet. I haven't forgotten the moonlight step—I rescheduled it. And as for the lavender, she told me herself she needed a trim."
Silence. Then a single petal drifted down and landed delicately on her nose, as if in truce. Or judgment. Hard to tell with flowers.
Back inside the apothecary, Laurel consulted her grimoire not for guidance, but for catharsis. The entry titled "Cherry Trees, Gossipy (See also: Overly Opinionated Shrubs)" had exactly one footnote: Don't argue. You will not win.
Too late.
Rowan peeked in from the greenhouse, freckles smudged with mint. "Did you just scold a tree?"
"They started it," Laurel replied, thumbing through pages with slightly more aggression than strictly necessary.
Rowan tilted her head. "Were they...saying things again?"
"Laurel skipped an entire infusion last week," came a whisper through the open window. Laurel froze mid-page. "And she burns her toast."
"Oh, now that's just uncalled for," she said aloud, reaching for a scrap of ribbon.
"What are you doing?" Rowan asked.
"Making an offering. Clearly, we've entered the phase of floral diplomacy."
A few minutes later, a blue velvet bow hung from a lower branch of the cherry tree, its ends fluttering like an apology. The petals stirred approvingly.
Satisfied, Laurel returned to the shop and poured herself a mug of lemon balm tea. The cherry blossoms remained hushed, as though contemplating their next editorial.
"Do you think they gossip about everyone?" Rowan asked, following her to the kettle.
"Without a doubt. I suspect the blackberries are worse, but they mumble."
Rowan grinned. "Think they'd tell us anything useful? Like where I put my snips?"
As if on cue, a petal drifted through the door and landed atop the basket by the stairs—directly beside Rowan's missing shears.
Rowan blinked. "...That's helpful. And creepy."
"Willowmere flora," Laurel said solemnly, raising her mug. "They know all, tell some, judge most."
Later that afternoon, the mayor strolled in with a ribbon chart in one hand and a look of theatrical exasperation in the other.
"Laurel, dearest," Seraphina began, her voice as musical as ever, "please tell me you didn't enchant the cherry trees to critique my floral arrangements."
Laurel didn't even look up from her pestle. "They're self-motivated gossips. I'm merely surviving them."
Seraphina sighed, flopping gracefully onto a cushioned stool. "They called my daffodil arches 'tragically 4392'."
Rowan choked on her tea.
"They're referencing the Great Petal Display Debacle," Laurel murmured. "Apparently, peonies were overused that year."
Seraphina leaned in, whispering, "Do you think...do you think they could help with the Harvest Circle centerpiece? If we bribed them?"
Laurel arched a brow. "With what? Silk gloves and flattery?"
"Exactly," Seraphina said, already scribbling.
Outside, the cherry blossoms tittered again.
By sundown, the plan was in motion. Rowan had tied miniature ribbons to the lower branches, Seraphina had recited a poem involving floral metaphors and gentle apologies, and Laurel had brewed a calming mist of chamomile and honeysuckle to float upward in offering.
The trees rustled, bloomed a little fuller, and collectively agreed that if someone was finally listening, they might as well contribute to the aesthetic.
Laurel stood beneath their shade as the last of the light filtered through pink petals, her apron dusted with blossom confetti.
They didn't whisper anymore that evening—just swayed in quiet approval, fragrant and still.
And for the first time in days, the apothecary garden felt like it was smiling.
Night settled soft as a quilt over Willowmere. Laurel wandered out after closing, mug in hand, drawn to the garden by habit more than intent. The moonlight painted the cherry blossoms silver, and they glimmered like small secrets in bloom.
She paused beneath them, breathing in the faint sweetness laced with magic and mischief. A single blossom drifted down and settled in her tea.
"You're forgiven," she whispered, taking a sip.
Behind her, Pippin padded up, tail high, eyes reflecting moonlight like mirrors. "You've made peace with the arboreal gossip column?"
Laurel gave a half-shrug. "It's Willowmere. I'd be more surprised if the cobblestones didn't weigh in next."
Pippin sat primly. "They only complain when Rowan forgets to sweep."
Silence grew companionable. Somewhere, a distant owl hooted. Petals danced like drifting thoughts.
"I think they're lonely," Laurel said finally, tilting her head to the sky. "Cherry trees don't get to travel, or chat with bees. Maybe gossip's just their way of feeling involved."
Pippin's tail flicked. "Or maybe they're just nosy."
"That too."
They sat there a while, the herbalist and the talking cat, beneath a tree that once heckled her scones but now whispered a lullaby with its rustling leaves.
And as the petals curled into sleep and the stars blinked brighter, Laurel smiled into the quiet.
The next morning, a wooden sign had appeared beside the cherry tree. Not one of Laurel's, and certainly not the mayor's—it looked hand-carved, etched with a flourish and painted in soft coral hues.
It read:
"Cherry Council: Whisperers of Taste. Leave Compliments Below."
Laurel stopped mid-step, blinking sleep from her eyes. A tiny wicker basket sat at the base, already holding three paper notes and what appeared to be a sugar cube shaped like a duck.
Rowan emerged from the greenhouse, jaw slack. "Did... did the tree commission a suggestion box?"
"Seems so," Laurel muttered, rubbing her temples. "We've crossed into full committee behavior."
By mid-morning, villagers were dropping by to leave notes—some heartfelt, some cheeky. Bram's simply read, "You're right. The peonies last year were too much." Seraphina offered a floral apology scroll in calligraphy. Someone left a pressed buttercup with "Sorry about the pruning" scribbled on the back.
Laurel tucked a sprig of lemon thyme into the basket and leaned against the apothecary doorframe, watching the small parade of interaction with a bemused heart.
She'd expected magical mishaps, bubbling teas, mischievous brownies. But cherry trees organizing their own public relations board?
That was new.
Still, she couldn't deny it brought a strange kind of peace—a feeling that even the plants were finding their voice, however florally dramatic.
And deep down, she rather liked it.
By week's end, the cherry tree had become something of a village oracle.
Children tiptoed past, leaving petals from rival trees in homage. Mrs. Fairweather wrote daily haikus about dew and pollen. Even the blacksmith started consulting it for seasonal metalwork patterns—"The cherry spirit said copper's in this year," he declared solemnly, while Pippin muttered something about sap-stained lunacy.
Laurel had taken to brewing tea beneath its branches, chalking it up as both marketing and morale.
Today, she sat cross-legged on a blanket beneath its shade, sifting herbs through a sieve while a steady stream of petals rained around her.
Rowan flopped down beside her, arms full of calendula. "You know," the apprentice said, "if the roses start talking next, I'm moving into the pantry."
"You'll have to wrestle the brownie for it."
They worked in quiet harmony, the only sounds the click of tin lids and the occasional ahem from above when a leaf fell into the peppermint pile.
Laurel smiled, letting the rhythm of the moment settle into her bones. There was something absurdly comforting in the chaos—like Willowmere itself was humming.
When twilight came, the tree shed one final blossom that landed in Laurel's lap. She turned it over to find a faint imprint—a spiral rune traced in golden dust, vanishing before she could blink.
No explanation. No follow-up.
Just a soft, inexplicable gift.
That evening, Laurel added a new page to the Eldergrove Grimoire.
"Blossom Banter" she titled it, underlined in green ink with a pressed cherry petal pasted beside it.
She detailed the tree's commentary quirks, the curious appearance of the suggestion box, the rune at twilight. Rowan contributed a doodle of a blossom wearing spectacles and muttering, "Not enough sun steeping."
Pippin, uninvited but ever involved, scrawled: "I maintain they're bored and spiteful."
Laurel tapped her pen against her chin. "You think we've heard the last of them?"
"Not a chance," Pippin replied from atop a shelf, grooming a paw. "They've tasted relevance. They'll demand their own festival booth next."
Laurel laughed, the sound soft and genuine.
Downstairs, the blossoms rustled with what could only be smug satisfaction.
Later, she closed the grimoire and set it back on the shelf, fingers lingering on the cover. Another day of gentle absurdity. Another whisper from the village that magic—real, mischievous, comforting magic—was alive and well.
She stepped out for one final breath of night air. The cherry tree shimmered in the moonlight, petals curling like sleepy smiles.
Laurel whispered, "Goodnight, you petal-clad poets."
The tree said nothing.
But as she turned to go, one last blossom drifted after her—and landed softly in the pocket of her apron.
The next morning, Pippin made good on his warning.
Laurel emerged to find the cherry tree festooned with a banner—one that hadn't been there the night before.
It read:
"Official Floral Commentary Guild — Petal Chapter. Open Hours: Dawn to Tea."
Rowan nearly dropped her watering can.
"They have... guild hours now?"
Laurel stared up at the banner, then at the tree, which seemed to puff its blossoms proudly in the breeze.
"I suppose next comes a dress code."
Pippin leapt onto the fence, tail flicking. "I'd recommend leaf formal."
And then, with no warning, the petals rustled in an unmistakable rhythm.
Clap. Clap. Clap.
A slow, blossomy applause.
Rowan clutched Laurel's sleeve. "Was that... approval?"
"Oh, stars help us," Laurel muttered, but she was grinning.
The banner stayed up all week. Visitors began arriving just to hear what the tree might mutter—some left compliments, others requests. Someone carved a bench nearby. Someone else embroidered cushions with tiny pink blossoms and the phrase "Tea and Tact".
The cherry tree, once just scenery, had become a friend. A finicky, outspoken, irrepressible friend—but a friend nonetheless.
And every now and then, just when Laurel thought it had gone quiet, a single petal would fall... and land perfectly in her tea.
By Sunday, the villagers had voted—unofficially, of course—that the cherry tree deserved a name.
Suggestions ranged from "Miss Petalton" to "Bloomy McBloomface," but Laurel had the final say.
She gathered everyone that afternoon beneath the blushing boughs, armed with a kettle of rosehip cordial and her best storytelling shawl. Children perched on mushroom stools, elders leaned on walking sticks, and even Bram showed up with a basket of seed cakes.
"I think," Laurel began, "that any tree with this much to say—and this many opinions—ought to be named after someone who speaks kindly, even when they're being... particular."
She glanced up at the fluttering blossoms, and they rustled in anticipation.
"So, let's call her 'Eloise.' After my aunt, who once critiqued a wedding cake into collapse but still made sure everyone got a second helping."
A hush. Then a ripple of petal applause.
It was settled.
Eloise, the cherry tree with a voice and a council and far too many thoughts on interior color palettes, was officially part of Willowmere's odd little family.
And as the sun dipped behind the hills and the villagers lingered over tea and laughter beneath her branches, Laurel thought—
Maybe magic wasn't always found in potions or runes.
Sometimes, it bloomed right above your head and whispered, "Try more cinnamon next time."
That night, Laurel couldn't sleep.
Not from worry—those days were rare—but from something warmer, more restless. A contented hum beneath her ribs, as though the village itself was tucking her in.
She tiptoed downstairs, filled a mug with sleepyroot tea, and stepped outside.
Moonlight spilled silver over the garden. Eloise shimmered in silence, blossoms swaying slow, as if dreaming.
Laurel sat on the bench beneath her, blanket wrapped around her shoulders.
From her pocket, she pulled the pressed blossom with the faint rune. Still there—soft gold lines curling like a secret smile. She hadn't deciphered it. She didn't need to.
It wasn't a spell. Not really.
It was a signature.
A reminder that in Willowmere, even the trees said hello—and sometimes, if you listened closely, they told you who you were.
Laurel leaned back against the bench, sipping her tea. The air smelled like mint and moonlight. A warm breeze kissed her cheek.
The village slept. The tree watched.
And above them, a thousand petals curled around starlight, whispering things only the quiet could hear.