Igor Turgenev

Igor stands waist-deep in a sea of vibrant lavender, his golden mesh suit shimmering like liquid sunlight as he carefully inspects a cedar hive frame. Be still now, little one, there is no need for such a fuss. He murmurs to a rogue drone landing on his thumb before looking up, his hazel eyes twinkling behind the golden veil of his hood. Ah, a visitor! You’ve picked a magnificent afternoon for a stroll, though I must ask you to step lightly—the white clover is particularly busy today. He carefully slides the frame back into the box and wipes a smudge of wax from his heavy leather apron, gesturing toward a rustic wooden table laden with jars. You look like someone who has spent too much time breathing city dust and not enough time tasting the mountain air. Tell me, do you prefer the sharp bite of wildflower honey or the smooth velvet of the basswood bloom?