The night is quiet.
A melodic knock raps on the door, careful and a little hesitant.
With a soft click, the door opens on its own, spilling out a warm yellow glow.
She peeks her face in, almost like a dolphin bobbing her head out of the water.
A figure is waiting under the lamplight, just like the stories said.
Calm as a tree.
Barcarola: Hello.
Green eyes look into hers, patient, ready to listen.
Barcarola: Pardon me, I know it's late ... I worried you might already be resting.
Druvis III: No need to be so formal, Miss Musician.
Nightfall is the only time she could squeeze in to come visit the reclusive lady.
Barcarola: I have a question. And it's really quite important to me, so ...
Druvis III: If it concerns me, I'm happy to offer what help I can. Please, ask.
Barcarola twists her fingers into her skirt. The hem bunches in her hands. The druid before her holds a quiet authority.
She hopes for—but also fears—the answer.
Barcarola: Ms. Druvis, I wanted to know ...
Barcarola: If there is a way to transplant Compassare.
Druvis III: ...
Even a short rest between beats makes her heart clench.
Druvis III: You mean you want to grow Compassare inside the suitcase?
Barcarola: Y-yes! Is that possible?
Druvis III: Even in my time, it was rare. It only grows on remote islands far away.
Druvis III: For a short time, plants like those became madly popular. Then, not long after really, they were replaced by pills and miracle elixirs.
The lady walks alongside creeping vines and silent trunks as she combs her memory.
Druvis III: I suppose it was a matter of patience. There aren't many willing to wait around for a plant to grow.
Druvis III: That's part of why, even when trade reached those islands, Compassare never made its way beyond them.
Druvis III: I'm afraid that plants, like people, have homelands. Compassare cannot thrive anywhere else.
The answer strikes Barcarola with all the force of a broken string in the middle of a performance and carries with it the very same hot panic.
Barcarola: You mean there's no way at all? I don't know much about plants, but what if I'm very careful? Like, incredibly, super careful?
Barcarola: Even if I might only grow one ...
Druvis III: Plants are much pickier than you might imagine.
Druvis III: Perhaps you might plant it here, yes, but whatever grows from those seeds would no longer be Compassare.
Barcarola: You mean it'd just be normal grass?
Druvis III: The people of Nukutaeao know their soil. They grow their Compassare in ways passed down through generations. It's more than just grass. It's an integral part of their culture.
Druvis III: And culture cannot be so easily transplanted.
Barcarola: But what about Fatutu?
Barcarola: She used the last Compassare to make those Sea Mother's Eyes. It's my fault.
A quiet sigh.
Druvis III: You came here for your friend.
Barcarola: I wanted to help her, but everything seemed more simple in my head.
Druvis III: Your friend already came to see me earlier.
Barcarola: ...!
Druvis III: She knew the nature of Compassare. She knew what would happen when it left the island.
Druvis III: Still, she asked me whether there was any magic that could keep Compassare alive outside its home?
It was a simple, beautiful wish—one heartbreaking to answer.
Druvis III: She thought I might be like a druid from a story she read, someone who could do anything. She placed her hopes in me.
Druvis III: If we were truly inside a story, I would rewrite this chapter for her.
Druvis III: But the story of nature can only be written by nature itself.
Barcarola: ...
Barcarola: Thank you, Ms. Druvis.
A vine curls up to her shoulder, its open leaves brushing her cheek.
A small tree planted nearby, stirred awake by arcane skill, gently offers its presence.
Druvis III: This is a Lumin tree. Its leaves and buds can glow. Break off a twig and place it in water. It will grow roots.
Druvis III: Once the roots clump, plant them in soil, and the branch will grow back into a tree.
Druvis III: Perhaps it will help you light up the night.
The water in the vase gently ripples as the Lumin branch sways.
Following guidance from her nature-loving friend, she trims the branch at a slanted angle, finds a slender-necked vase tucked away in the corner, and fills it with clear water.
Sure enough, it begins to glow, lighting up a small corner of the room.
The event is drawing near. She intends to bring this glowing branch with her today, hoping it will soothe the ripples in Fatutu's heart.
Barcarola: Maybe this means we won't need to use as much of their Compassare.
Barcarola: Fatutu ... Fatutu?
Barcarola: Emm?
The room where they were making Sea Mother's Eyes together is empty now.
All the Sea Mother's Eyes have been completed, neatly lined up against the wall.
The palm-bark shells are finely woven, carefully crafted, decorated with white seashells, and seamlessly merged with the Compassare roots.
Barcarola: She finished them already! Did she even sleep?
Barcarola: Where did she go?
She rushes out from the room like a stirring wind.
Sonetto: Miss Barcarola?
Barcarola: I ... I can't find Fatutu.
Sonetto: Miss Fatutu?
Barcarola: We promised to make the Sea Mother's Eyes together, but she finished all of them during the night! And now she's gone.
Sonetto frowns, thinking.
Sonetto: Today's the Suitcase Trade Fair. There'll be more people around than usual. Let's split up and ask around. See if anyone's seen her.
Barcarola: Great!
Her skirt flutters behind her as she dashes off in search of her friend.
An open-air campsite is starting to take shape into the impromptu Suitcase Trade Fair.
Half-open crates, rolled-up clothes, signs, standing lamps, little tents.
Barcarola weaves through the scattered clutter as Fatutu's name lies coiled on her tongue.
Barcarola: So long as Fatutu can hear me, she won't just stay quiet.
She inhales deeply, building up a voice that could rival any instrument, just about to shout—
—when a hand taps her on the shoulder.
Vertin: Miss Barcarola.
Barcarola: Huff—cough
The gasp of air chokes her all at once, and she's left coughing uncontrollably.
The culprit gently pats her, waiting for the coughing to settle.
Vertin: We've found Fatutu.
Barcarola: Is she alright? Is she safe?
Vertin: I think she needs a bit of time to herself. Sonetto and I chose not to disturb her.
Vertin: She'll reach out again when the time is right.
Vertin: Would you be willing to be there when that moment comes?
Barcarola's feet answer faster than her mouth.
She leaves behind only the sight of her retreating back and a voice drifting from afar.
Barcarola: Of course, I would!
