Night settled over the Ariakan villa the way a shawl settles on a familiar pair of shoulders—easily, and with the smell of home. The garden held its own breath: rows of basil and rosemary, neat squares of carrots and leeks, trellised beans, roses cut back just enough to be honest. Moths bumped softly at the lamplight. The gardener's rake leaned against the wall like a promise to finish in the morning.
Lytavis sat on the low stone edging by the rosemary, bare ankles dusted in soil, hands smelling of crushed mint. Tyrande sprawled in the path with no regard for hems, counting constellations with her fingers as if she might pocket two or three for later.
"Do you think a moon wish works faster if you say it twice?" Tyrande asked, half-whisper, half-dare.
Lytavis tipped her chin to the sky. "I think the moon hears once and remembers always."
"That sounds like something Sister Tyratha would say."
"It is," Lytavis admitted, pleased anyway.
Tyrande laced her fingers as if she were catching light. "All right. My moon wish is…" She paused, grinning at the darkness itself. "Adventure. The kind we're not supposed to have. I want to go everywhere. Even the places with signs that say no." She nodded, satisfied. "Especially those."
Lytavis laughed, quick and soft. "You'll need a good map."
"I'll draw them as I go," Tyrande said. "What's yours?"
Lytavis worried a sprig of mint free and pressed it to her nose. She thought in the small, careful way she did when she wanted to get the shape of a thing right. "Understanding," she said at last. "I want to know why things heal. And why they don't. And how to listen so I don't miss the part that matters."
Tyrande rolled onto her side, propping her head on her arm. "That sounds like three wishes."
"They all feel like the same one."
From the veranda, the soft scrape of a chair and the clink of a cup drifted across the path. Zoya sat with her ankles crossed, a shawl around her shoulders; Lucien leaned back just far enough to make Lytavis anxious if she had seen him. They did not call out. It was a good night for listening.
"Do we have to say 'please' to the moon?" Tyrande whispered.
Lytavis considered. "It can't hurt."
They both turned their faces up and said it at once… "Please" …and then dissolved into quiet giggles that smelled like mint and warm dirt and the kind of friendship that doesn't know yet how rare it is.
"Girls," Zoya called, not unkindly. "Ten more minutes."
"Moon minutes," Tyrande said solemnly. "Those are longer."
"Not tonight," Zoya answered, but there was a smile in it.
They stayed where they were for a few breaths more, making the sort of bargains children make with time: one more star, one more wish, one more secret they'd swear to remember. Then Tyrande stood and offered a hand; Lytavis took it and rose, brushing soil from her skirt.
As they walked back toward the veranda, Lytavis tucked the sprig of mint behind Tyrande's ear like a promise to meet the future properly dressed.
The garden kept its counsel. The moths went on with their quiet work. Above the hedges, the moon watched without hurrying anyone.
Notes in the Margin - Lucien Ariakan
They made moon wishes in the garden tonight. Tyrande wants the world to open its doors (she will kick them in if it doesn't). Lytavis asks for understanding, which is another way to say she plans to do the work. Zoya let them borrow ten minutes from tomorrow's patience. I suspect Elune will return the interest in Her own time.