And though evening yawns over the gardens, fat eunuchs stroll arm-in-arm along the pathways while jeweled fruit-nymphs bicker in their trees.

I swallow my hunger at the sight of apricots, roosting in their leaves like stuffed birds, and my skin itches for the taste of bark and golden flesh. I have to chew my cheeks to stay my fingers.

(Too many eyes. Too many feet that like to kick.)

They leer at me, those few who spot my stone-scraped knees and steady shoulders, and I show my teeth in answer. Their cheeks bulge with the meat of apples. Keep away, croon their eyes, bright and piggy. Creep back into your hollow, urchin.

But my palms are cradles for apricots and my feet spring of their own accord. The grass is long and easy to master, a dew-flecked respite after braving the fence. The bark is even darker closer up and vengeful, for it greets me like an old enemy. It nibbles my skin inch by inch, worm-like.

(Oh ho-oh ho, all eyes on the rogue!)

Their stares are needles that dig holes into my spine, but I suck my teeth and climb on. My scent is an offense to the fey noses of pudgy nymphs, and they seek to tickle my ankles and hang like bees around my ears.

(Watch ‘em go, ah! Starving little snake.)

The tree is short and stunted and lumpy as a bruised potato. Its fruit teases the tips of my fingers the first time I stretch my arm. The tickle of apricot is a delicacy to my callused thumb. My head is abuzz with the storm of outrage going on below, and I feel as rich and slippery as a monarch. A final boost and I will have it.

I reach and feel my hand stop short, raking air. I lose my footing next, and instead of sweet apricots I gulp the blood that floods my mouth. The world spins. My tongue is numb and heavy, like metal.

Slimy thief, eh?

The face that fills my head is sharp and bony, somehow asymmetrical – a face beyond the cushion-world of spiteful eunuchs. Despite myself, I feel the color rise to my temples as I stagger to sit. Though moments before I have been pulling faces at fairies, I cannot meet the squinty eyes of the tree-farmer.

Ragged little roof-sweep, ah? Go on, off with ya now.

My breath rasps in my throat. The nymphs are giggling overhead while the eunuchs waltz behind me on tottering legs. Inexplicably ashamed, I mumble something into my shoulder. I am mortified to feel the farmer’s fingers clamp my hands, even more so when I jerk from the touch. I ready my skin for the sting of a slap; already I nurse the seed of anger, waiting for the birth that never comes.

Aye, on off with ya. An’ no more fence-scaling, ah?

The apricot he squeezes into my palm is soft and squashy, and already I perceive the first pulpy bite. I turn away without a word of thanks. Despite his warning, I make again for the squint of fence between the heavy trees. I have gone deaf to the scorn around me.

The fruit is warm as earth against my tongue.