The Temple gardens were quieter than usual that morning. The novices had gone in for lessons, leaving the air to the bees and the sound of running water. Tyrande and Lytavis wandered between the rose hedges, their small hands brushing the petals as though touching the edges of a dream.
"Do you think Elune walks here?" Tyrande asked suddenly. Her voice was hushed, reverent in the way only a child's could be.
Lytavis frowned in thought, the way she always did before answering. "She might," she said at last. "But she'd have to be very quiet. The birds would tell on her."
Tyrande giggled, then stopped short. Something pale had caught the light beside the fountain. She darted forward and bent to pick it up.
It was a feather—long and white, the edges dusted with silver. When she turned it, it shimmered faintly in the sun. Her breath caught.
"A moon feather," she whispered.
Lytavis peered at it critically. "That's just an owl feather."
"It's not just an owl feather." Tyrande cupped it carefully in her palms, like a secret. "Elune dropped it. It's a sign."
Lytavis rolled her eyes in the patient way of children who already know everything. "A sign of what?"
Tyrande bit her lip, thinking hard. "Honeycakes."
"Honeycakes?"
She nodded solemnly. "Because I really want one."
Before Lytavis could argue, Tyrande carried the feather to the fountain. She placed it gently on the rim where the water curved in silver ripples, then knelt, hands folded.
"Lady Elune," she whispered, "thank you for the gardens and the flowers and my best friend. Please may we have honeycakes."
Lytavis watched, torn between exasperation and affection. "You can't pray for honeycakes," she said. "That's not how it works."
Tyrande opened one eye. "How do you know?"
Lytavis had no answer for that.
They sat together by the fountain for a while, the feather gleaming faintly in the light, bees humming lazily around them. And then the garden door creaked open.
Sister Tyratha appeared, her apron dusted with flour, a small tray in her hands. "There you are," she said, smiling. "You've been so quiet I thought you must be starving." She set the tray on the fountain's edge—honeycakes, still warm from the oven.
Tyrande gasped and clapped her hands, eyes wide. "She heard me!"
Lytavis blinked, speechless.
Tyrande looked up at the sky, beaming, and whispered, "Thank you."
After they'd finished every crumb, the girls stood and began to search the garden—checking beneath benches, peering into the flower beds, eyes bright with hope.
"Do you think we'll find another?" Tyrande asked.
Lytavis considered, brushing soil from her knees. "Maybe," she said. "But we might need more honeycakes first."
Tyrande laughed, and the sound rose through the garden like a hymn.