#flora bee

Vinegar Tom purrs as he rubs against his witch’s legs.

“Good boy,” Fauna leans down and scratches him under the chin. He flicks his tail and stretches. “See? He’s not all bad.” She picks him up and nuzzles her face against his.

Flora pouts. “He only likes you ‘cause you’re magic.”

“He also likes me ‘cause I give him scritchy-scratchies.”

“And you’re magic.”

“Yup,” the witch beams, “and one day I’ll have a familiar just like Tom.”

Fenrir glances up from his book. “Familiars aren’t real.”

“Vinegar Tom is real,” Fauna frowns.

He tosses his book on the couch and stands. “Familiars aren’t real. They’re just cats.”

“Hey, Dominic interrupts, “what’s going on here?” “Fen is being a dingleberry,” Fauna says. “No, I was just saying that Tom isn’t anything more than a dumb old cat, and Fauna can’t prove me wrong.” “It sounds like both of you are pretty worked up.” The children answer simultaneously: “He’s being mean to Tom!” Fauna cries. “She’s being stupid,” Fenrir sneers. “Stop,” Dominic holds up his hand. “You’re arguing over a cat.” “Familiar,” Fauna mutters. “Tom means a lot to Fauna. You know that, Fen, and there’s no reason for you to be so cruel. And Fauna, you shouldn’t resort to name-calling.” “She’s saying he’s magical,” Fenrir scoffs. “So? What she believes doesn’t impact you. Besides, it’s your birthday. Time for cake, no time for bickering.”

Fenrir rolls his eyes and trudges to the kitchen. Fauna follows close behind, chattering taunts. Only Flora and her father remain. She stands with her eyes still on her feet.

“Are you okay?”

She doesn’t look up.

“What’s wrong?”

Her voice barely carries. “What do I get?”

“What do you mean?”

“Raven and Fauna have magic, and Fen gets to change into a wolf every month. What do I get?”

Dominic frowns. “Let’s talk about it over cake.”

The younger children find the snow day more enjoyable. Fenrir—delighted that he finally has playmates—entices the twins into playing a video game with him. “Unfair,” Flora pouts as Fenrir’s avatar laps her in the game. “Yeah, you’re way too good at this,” Fauna adds. “It’s no fun.” “Keep playing,” Fenrir smiles, “you’ll get better.” He punctuates his encouragement by running Flora’s car off the track. The brunette glowers, then throws the controller at him. Fauna, sensing her opportunity, claims the lead. As her siblings fight, she wins.

But no one minds their absence. Lark has witnessed more than enough birthdays, and it feels as if attendance should be voluntary at this point. Of course, she’s more than excited to celebrate her youngest daughters’ birthday. But she only has—one moment—she only has eight more of these celebrations before all her kids are out of the house.

Flora goes first. She grows up freckled, cross-eyed, and overjoyed.