(Filed under: Field Notes)
Something shifts beneath the table.
Not metaphor.
Not tension.
Movement.
Jack’s eyes narrow.
Just beyond the weather-worn edge of the table, the tall grass rustles with a dignity it did not earn.
Emerging from the stalks—like a holy relic or a terrible idea—is a squirrel.
A small, wiry creature with eyes too knowing and a half-chewed wooden spoon clutched between its teeth.
Its fur is brambled.
Its posture is affronted.
Its spoon is not negotiable.
The Queen blinks.
Velin tilts his head, just slightly.
Jack lets out the sound of a man who knows exactly how bad things are about to get.
There’s a beat.
The Queen reaches her hand out, palm-up.
The squirrel drops the spoon in it like she’s owed something.
And just like that—
the future begins.
_
The grass rustled again.
Not with menace. Not with urgency. Just a kind of deliberate rustle—like someone making sure they were heard.
Velin glanced up. Jack was already frowning toward the sound.
And then he appeared.
Bunny. Wearing what could only be described as campaign regalia: a cravat entirely unnecessary for an open field, a pocket watch he never wound, and a long coat with buttons too shiny for practicality.
He looked down at the squirrel.
“Well. What is that?”
Jack tensed slightly. The Queen didn’t move.
“It’s rude to ask,” she replied, still watching the horizon.
Bunny squinted. “Is it a girl? A boy? A woodland tax auditor?”
Jack coughed, possibly to hide a laugh. Possibly not.
The Queen’s tone sharpened only by a breath. “Small things still deserve protection. And power comes in many shapes.”
Bunny’s gaze lingered on the squirrel, the little wooden spoon clutched in her tiny claws like a scepter. His eyes narrowed, calculating. Then something passed across his face—not quite recognition, but something adjacent.
“Aha,” he said, voice low. “So that’s what we’re doing.”
He didn't press further. He didn't name it. He just nodded once, like a line had been drawn and he’d stepped over it willingly, though not without commentary.
He crouched.
“Well then, Your Woodland Sharpness,” he said to the squirrel, “I acknowledge your presence. Though I do hope you wash that thing between diplomatic engagements.”
Emma chittered once, defiantly. She did not lower the spoon.
The Queen smiled, just barely.
Jack muttered, “She’s armed.”
Bunny straightened with a dramatic sigh. “A fine welcome committee. A knife, a spoon, and a poet with ink in his veins.”
Velin blinked.
“I’m not a poet.”
“Oh good,” Bunny said. “A delusional one, then.”
He dusted off his coat and looked to the Queen. “Are we planning something, or just brooding with flair?”