She said something then in their own language and the trees rustled back at her. Before Leo could ask her what she’d said, she was smiling up at him with a look that was at once daring and shy, and he cradled her neck and pulled her in for another kiss. He felt he could spend the rest of his life kissing Sera and not feel the time wasted. She pressed her cheek to his, her breath tickling his ear.

“I never thought to be kissed,” she murmured. “I quite like it.”

One of the Arboreals began to hum—a rustling, whistling sound like dry leaves skittering down a sidewalk in the fall. But the tune was sweet and simple and one by one the other Arboreals picked it up until they were enveloped in song.

All of a sudden, hundreds of tiny sprites, golden and shimmering, emerged from beneath the roots of the trees, scampering and floating and twirling to surround Leo and Sera.

“Sprites!” she cried with delight, clapping her hands together.

One landed on Leo’s palm and did a little jig while two more alighted on Sera’s shoulder. One doffed its tiny crown as it bowed to her; the other did a dainty pirouette. Sera laughed and they set off spinning and whirling, emitting tiny sparks as they soared.

“They’re dancing for you,” Leo said.

“It’s more than a dance,” Sera said. “It’s something else.”

And Leo saw the sprites forming something; a shape began to appear, a trunk, branches, golden leaves . . .

“Oh,” Sera gasped, her hands flying to her mouth as tears filled her eyes. “It’s Boris.”

Leo had not known the old tree the same way Sera had, but he’d spent a fair amount of time with Boris, and while the Arboreals all looked fairly similar, he was able to distinguish the difference in the tree the sprites were making. It was Boris, right down to her sad wise eyes. The sprite-Arboreal swayed in the wind, and it seemed to Leo that she was happy to see Sera.

The other trees around them began to sing again.

“What are they saying?” Leo asked.

A thick tear rolled down Sera’s cheek. “They are honoring her spirit. They are comforting each other, and reminding each other not to mourn her loss. They did not know she had died until I came here, but they have been missing her. She has not gone, they say—she lives on in every tree and root and branch, in the whisper of the wind and patter of the rain and the rays of the sun. She will always be here.”

The sprite-Boris craned its branches toward Sera and she reached out and touched a leaf with a gentle silver finger. The sprites exploded in a shower of golden sparks, the shade of Boris vanishing into a thousand dying embers.