The Silver Pear by Michelle Diener

flush with the bark. They spiraled up into the thick greenery overhead, and Miri started up, leaving Soren to follow.
    As they went, the stairs snapped back into place and disappeared, and she started to relax as soon as they got deep into the foliage.
    She reached the platform, pulled herself up and waited for him.
    He looked as tired as she felt, his gaunt face tight and pale. He was simply putting one foot in front of the other, but when he reached the platform he looked up for the first time, and she smiled at his expression.
    “Wonderful, isn’t it?”
    He nodded, mute, and she opened the door and stood back so he could go in.
    He walked slowly, as if he were in a dream, and she liked him all the more for it. Some things were wondrous, and no matter how strange and dark her father could be, that he could produce something this whimsical, this delicate, warmed something in her, softened her thoughts of him.
    “Did you make it?” He spun slowly around in the main living room, eyes alight, and she shook her head.
    “My father made it for me when I was ten.”
    He walked to the window, looked through the cool green of the leaves, stirring and sighing in the light breeze, and leaned against the window frame.
    “Come. I’ll show you to a room and we can both sleep a little while William runs around below us, searching.”
    He smiled at that, nodded, and followed her up the staircase to the next level.
    She let her fingers trail along the smooth wood of the bannister, almost desperate for the softness of a bed, the pull of sleep.
    A sleep, she knew, which would be haunted by the knowledge that she had lost the silver pear.
----
    S oren woke to the sound of men talking.
    He was in a narrow, curved room, his window shaped like the arch of a rainbow, the bed fitted snug against the tree trunk, with a basin, pitcher and small table to the side.
    Beneath his cheek the pillow was smooth and cool, and smelled of pine and fresh air. He pushed himself carefully off it, keeping low, and moved quietly to the window. He’d been sure the floorboards beneath his feet would creak, but they didn’t make a sound, and he sent a silent thank you to Mirabelle’s father for making such a solid tree-house for his daughter.
    Although the voices had gone, he pushed himself up slowly, leaning against the wall just to the right of the window, and tried to peer down to the forest floor.
    He couldn’t see anything but more branches and leaves, but slowly, as he became attuned to his surroundings, he realized the birds had gone quiet. Now, over the creak of branches and the quiet swish of leaves, he heard boots crushing dried leaves, the murmur of conversation again.
    He moved to the door, opened it and stepped onto the tiny landing that divided his room from Mirabelle’s.
    He didn’t dare risk tapping on her door, so he opened it, finger already on his lips to let her know to be quiet, and saw it wasn’t necessary.
    She was crouched beside the window, and had lifted up a tiny trapdoor in the floor. She was peering down, head bent over it, and when he stepped into the room her own finger went to her lips, and then, seeing she’d merely mirrored his own actions, gestured for him to come over.
    From the quality of the light streaming in, and the heat, despite their position deep in the cool of the leaves, Soren guessed it wasn’t far past midday. When he bumped shoulders with Mirabelle, and then rubbed heads with her as he looked down through the neat little square in the floor that must extend out beyond the living room beneath them, he saw men making themselves comfortable below, sitting or leaning against the massive tree, and eating their lunch.
    They knelt together, listening to the banter and jokes of men who were tired and hungry, and sure they were on a wild goose chase, sure that Mirabelle had been taken off by a sorcerer from the dungeon by magical means. Soren could hear the worry for her in the men’s tone, and suspected if they