one for your sake.”
Two, no three droplets trickled down the side of Fontarius’s head, despite being out of the afternoon sun. He continued to look at the tree, but in his mind’s eye were the two ladies behind him; one of whom had thrown him like a tennis ball, and the other had stopped his flight as if she had been catching a running child.
“I’m waiting,” Flora hummed.
“I–I can’t think of any,” Fontarius said, turning around. “But I do agree with your hypothesis.”
“Does that satisfy you, Flor,” said Haymarlen. “He’s open to new ideas.” “…Don’t call me Flor…” Flora grated. “And I can’t believe a ‘naturalist’
such as ‘Fontarius Hergewick doesn’t know of any other trees who might have
the palmate shape.”
“I’m more taken by beeches to be truthful,” Fontarius added. “Plus, limes, the odd oak, and more recently ashes.”
“But no conifers,” Flora continued. “In the winter.”
“When you haven’t got any choice; otherwise they might as well be on the moon. I suppose I should let you off in acknowledgement of the fact that you’re not so scholarly on tree species as you lead Mr Pipcastle to believe.”
“Who still hasn’t got up from the spot where you threw him, Flor,” Haymarlen noted.
“That’s three times now, Haye.”
“Just tell, reprimand then send him on his way, Flor,” said Haymarlen, “and that one’s a bonus.”
Flora closed her eyes and adjusted the circlet on her head. “Well, you were heading in a good direction when you said pseudoplatanus, Mr Hergewick. For the fine specimen in front of you also has Platanus in its name. Only in its case it’s the first one.”
“…Platanus…?” Hergewick mulled.