Meadow

Thisbee was as bad at reading between the lines as she was at staying within them. There was always someone looking at her strangely, talking to her like a dim-witted foal, or responding to her enthusiasm with smiles that never warmed their eyes. But as bright and genuine as she was, the young mare carried with her the assumption that others were the same. So she couldn’t entirely place why this stallion felt different. She only knew that he was, and that he seemed to hear and see her better than anyone she could remember.

Except Maple, of course. But Maple was her sister, and sisters always understood each other best.

Do your legs stop being legs often?

“Sometimes,” Thisbee admitted, rolling back over and getting up on her somewhat-wobbly legs. “But not like when I was little. At least, they don’t get tangled up as much as they used to.” She gave a short laugh, remembering when her legs had seemed to have a mind of their own. All she would try to do was run or play, and they would decide instead that they wanted to go somewhere else, or stop, or fold over to lie down.

She listened happily as the golden boy shared his name. Finally, someone who thought that names were important! Everyone else always seemed to forget them, even when Thisbee gave her own. “I’m Thisbee!” she almost sang, giving a slight nod to emphasize it. “But my family calls me Bee, and I don’t mind. They’re cute and fuzzy, and they love flowers just like I do.”

Thisbee didn’t mention the time she’d been stung. She couldn’t really blame Mr. Bee; she’d obviously gotten too close to his favorite flower. And ever since, she’d made sure to keep a respectful distance. Come to think of it, maybe that was why some of the friends she’d made were so quick to leave after she introduced herself. Had they been stung by bees too, and were afraid that she’d do the same?

It was silly, of course, because Thisbee didn’t have a stinger. But Father had told her once that fear could be a silly thing, and Father was wise, so it was probably true.