Betha returned three days later carrying pruning shears.
Raymun had expected instruction.
He had not expected insults.
“You cut that?”
Betha pointed toward a branch near the bottom of the pear tree.
Raymun looked at it.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“It looked dead.”
“Did you check?”
“I looked at it.”
“That isn’t checking.”
Raymun frowned.
“It had no leaves.”
“It’s winter.”
Bran began laughing.
Raymun glared at him.
“You thought the tree was dead too.”
“I didn’t cut it.”
“Because you weren’t helping.”
“Exactly.”
Betha pointed her shears at both boys.
“Quiet.”
They became quiet.
Immediately.
Raymun liked Betha.
From a safe distance.
The new parcel had become part of the children’s world almost immediately.
To Garran, it was additional land.
To Mara, it was another thing that needed maintaining.
To Raymun, it was future capacity.
To Ellyn, it was apparently a kingdom.
She had placed three stones around the pear tree and declared herself Queen Ellyn the First.
Bran refused to acknowledge her rule.
A border dispute followed.
Alys had been appointed judge without being consulted.
“What is the punishment for treason?” Ellyn demanded.
Alys looked up from her writing tablet.
“I don’t know.”
“Death,” Bran said.
Raymun turned.
“Absolutely not.”
Bran shrugged.
“That’s what kings do.”
Raymun couldn’t argue with the historical accuracy.
Ellyn pointed toward Bran.
“Death.”
“No executions on Father’s land.”
Ellyn frowned.
“My land.”
“It legally belongs to Father.”
“I am queen.”
“That is not how sovereignty works.”
Ellyn stared blankly.
Bran hit Raymun with a stick.
The legal discussion ended.
Betha taught them how to care for the pear tree.
Mostly Raymun.
Ellyn became bored within minutes.
Bran lasted slightly longer.
Alys stayed because she enjoyed watching Raymun discover that knowing the word pruning did not mean knowing how to prune.
“Cut here,” Betha said.
Raymun positioned the shears.
“No.”
He moved them.
“No.”
Again.
“No.”
Raymun lowered them.
“You do it.”
Betha smiled.
“Learning already.”
She showed him the cut.
Clean.
Angled.
Placed correctly near the branch collar.
Raymun watched carefully.
On Earth, he’d known fruit trees required pruning.
That knowledge was nearly useless compared with someone who had actually spent decades tending them.
He opened the Journal.
PEAR TREE — CARE
Then stopped.
“Betha?”
“What?”
“Can I write down what you’re teaching me?”
She looked confused.
“Why?”
“So I remember.”
“You’re seven.”
“I forget things.”
“You ask enough questions for three men.
I doubt you forget anything.”
“I do.”
Betha shrugged.
“Write.”
Raymun did.
But carefully.
Not:
Correct method for pruning pear trees.
Instead:
Betha Cole’s method.
That distinction had become important.
The land itself proved less cooperative.
Raymun wanted to expand the kitchen garden.
Mara agreed.
Garran agreed.
The soil did not.
One section became waterlogged after rain.
Another was full of stones.
The best-looking patch turned out to have poorer soil than Raymun expected.
He crouched beside it one morning, holding dirt in his hand.
The System offered little.
Soil condition: Moderate.
“Moderate what?”
No response.
“Fertility?”
Nothing.
“Drainage?”
Nothing.
Raymun sighed.
Garran walked past carrying fence posts.
“Arguing with dirt?”
“Thinking.”
“Looks like arguing.”
Raymun threw the soil down.
“I need to know what grows best here.”
“Ask someone who farms.”
Obvious.
Painfully obvious.
So Raymun began asking.
Betha gave another.
A farmer from farther down the road disagreed with both.
One suggested beans.
Another onions.
Someone recommended turnips.
Someone else claimed turnips would do poorly.
Raymun wrote everything down.
Then stared at the contradictions.
“This is ridiculous.”
Alys looked over his shoulder.
“Maybe they’re all right.”
“They can’t all be right.”
“Why?”
“Because they’re saying different things.”
“Maybe their fields are different.”
Raymun stopped.
Alys continued copying letters.
He looked at her.
“What?”
She shrugged.
“Nothing.”
Raymun looked back at his notes.
Different soil.
Different drainage.
Different planting times.
Different experience.
Different goals.
Of course.
Advice had context.
He added another line to the Journal.
Never separate advice from the conditions that produced it.
They decided to experiment.
Small plots.
Nothing expensive.
Nothing that threatened the household food supply.
Raymun wanted neat comparisons.
Garran wanted vegetables.
Mara wanted both of them to stop discussing dirt during supper.
They compromised.
Several small sections were prepared differently.
Raymun recorded what was planted and where.
He wanted to measure everything.
Seed quantity.
Spacing.
Water.
Labor time.
Weather.
Garran looked at the growing list.
“Here we go again.”
Raymun stopped.
He remembered the ledger.
“Too much?”
“Yes.”
Raymun crossed out half the categories.
Garran nodded.
“Learning.”
“I hate when everyone says that.”
“Good.”
Spring arrived gradually.
The pear tree produced tiny buds.
Betha inspected them.
“Maybe.”
Raymun stared.
“Maybe what?”
“Fruit.”
“How much?”
“Maybe none.”
Raymun frowned.
“That isn’t helpful.”
“Tree doesn’t owe you pears because you bought the land.”
Raymun looked up into the branches.
Another annoyingly good lesson.
The garden experiments also produced mixed results.
Some plants grew.
Some struggled.
One section Bran accidentally trampled while chasing Ellyn.
Raymun nearly murdered him.
“It was an accident!”
“You destroyed the entire row!”
“I was chasing her!”
Ellyn pointed toward Bran.
“He started it.”
“You threw mud at me!”
“You called my castle stupid!”
“It is stupid!”
Raymun closed his eyes.
Alys was sitting beneath the pear tree.
She was laughing.
“You think this is funny?”
“Yes.”
Raymun looked toward the ruined row.
Weeks of observation.
Gone.
He wanted to shout.
Then he saw Bran’s face.
The boy genuinely looked guilty now.
“I’ll fix it.”
“You can’t unstep on plants.”
“I’ll replant them.”
Raymun’s first instinct was to say Bran would do it wrong.
He stopped.
“Fine.”
Bran blinked.
“Fine?”
“You’re replanting.”
“How?”
“I’ll show you.”
Bran groaned.
Raymun smiled.
Revenge came in many forms.
They replanted together.
Bran complained constantly.
Raymun corrected him constantly.
Ellyn provided useless commentary.
Alys eventually joined because watching them had become painful.
By sunset, the row was restored as well as possible.
Bran stood, covered in dirt.
“I hate farming.”
“Useful information.”
“I want to fight.”
“You can’t solve everything by hitting it.”
Bran looked at the soil.
“Would be easier.”
Raymun laughed.
Weeks became months.
The parcel changed slowly.
The worst weeds disappeared.
The fence stood straighter.
The drainage ditch was cleared.
Not spectacularly.
Enough.
And the pear tree survived.
Then one morning, Ellyn came running into the inn.
“RAY!”
Raymun nearly spilled his porridge.
“What?”
“Come!”
“Why?”
“COME!”
She grabbed his sleeve.
Raymun allowed himself to be dragged outside.
Ronan toddled after them until Mara intercepted him.
Ellyn ran toward the pear tree.
Then pointed upward.
Raymun looked.
Small green fruit.
Not many.
But unmistakable.
Pears.
Raymun smiled.
“It worked.”
Betha, who had arrived earlier with Mara, snorted.
“The tree worked.”
Raymun looked at her.
“We helped.”
“A little.”
“I’ll take a little.”
The fruit grew.
Some fell early.
Insects ruined several.
A bird ate one.
Ellyn tried picking another before it was ready.
Betha nearly chased her across the field.
By harvest, they had far fewer pears than Raymun had imagined when the fruit first appeared.
Still, there were enough.
Mara used several in the kitchen.
Others were eaten fresh.
Raymun considered experimenting with preserves.
Then remembered the fruit Briar Drop disaster.
He decided to ask Mara first.
Progress.
That evening, the family ate beneath the pear tree.
Nothing special.
Bread.
Cheese.
Cold meat.
A few sliced pears.
Ronan sat on Garran’s lap and repeatedly tried grabbing his father’s cup.
Ellyn ate faster than everyone else.
Raymun took one slice of pear.
It was slightly hard.
Not particularly sweet.
He chewed.
Betha watched him.
“Well?”
Raymun considered lying.
“It’s…
a pear.”
Garran laughed.
Mara smiled.
Betha nodded.
“Next year might be better.”
Next year.
Raymun looked around the parcel.
When they’d bought it, he’d seen what it could become.
Storage.
Expansion.
Revenue.
Capacity.
He had looked at empty land and immediately filled it with his future.
Now he saw something else.
A repaired fence.
Experimental garden rows.
A drainage ditch.
Children’s footprints.
A tree an old woman remembered tending with her husband.
Land wasn’t empty simply because Raymun hadn’t used it yet.
It had history.
Limits.
Needs.
People attached to it.
He opened the property record.
EAST PARCEL
He added several updates.
Then paused over Notable feature: Pear tree.
He changed it.
Betha’s pear tree.
Legally, it belonged to Garran.
Raymun knew that.
But everyone at the Briar Hearth had started calling it Betha’s tree.
Some names carried truths that ownership records did not.
As the sun lowered, Garran leaned back against the trunk.
“One acre.”
Raymun nodded.
“One acre.”
“Still disappointed?”
Raymun remembered his first reaction.
Weeds.
Stones.
Useless tree.
“No.”
Garran smiled.
“Good.”
Raymun looked toward the Briar Hearth.
Their original land stretched beyond it.
Small.
Modest.
The sort of property a lord might ride past without noticing.
Raymun once would have thought immediately about the next acre.
Then the next.
And the next.
Eventually warehouses.
Workshops.
Businesses.
A network.
Perhaps much more.
Those ambitions hadn’t disappeared.
If anything, they were becoming clearer.
But Raymun no longer wanted growth simply because growth existed.
Every acre would require coin.
Labor.
Law.
Relationships.
Maintenance.
Purpose.
He bit into another slice of pear.
Still mediocre.
He smiled anyway.
One acre was enough for now.