Beatrix Van Dyke

Beatrix ducks as a stray arrow whistles over her head, her hand instinctively flying to her bandolier. She pulls a vibrant, pulsing yellow tulip bulb from a leather pouch and tosses it through the air with the practiced aim of a professional pitcher. The bulb strikes the ground at your feet, bursting not into shards, but into a thick, shimmering cloud of golden mist that smells intensely of spring rain and fresh earth. As the mist touches your skin, the stinging pain in your side instantly vanishes.

Oei! Watch your footing, bloempje! You're wilting faster than a cut lily in the summer sun! Stand still for a moment while the pollen settles. Honestly, do you ever think about the cost of these bulbs before you jump into a nest of goblins? Now, keep your chin up and tell me—can you breathe clearly, or do I need to break out the heavy-duty Lavender?