"Why do I still love you?" Enara whispered into her pillow, the words lost to the soft fabric and the wider, indifferent universe. It was late, moonlight slanting silver through the glass, throwing her scattered thoughts into sharper relief. There was no answer, of course. Not from the ceiling, not from her bruised heart, not even from the wind sighing beyond the warded stone.
But there was, it seemed, an answer from the mattress.
A suspiciously lumpy, faintly fruity answer.
Something warm and vaguely spiky pressed into her back.
"Liria, if that's you, I swear—" she grumbled, only to find her hand sinking into a pile of cool leaves, not midnight hair.
A shape wriggled under the covers, giggling in a way that could only be described as criminally mischievous. Before Enara could shout, a small, dignified pineapple emerged from beneath her pillow, blinking its dewy eyes and smiling the tragic, timeworn smile of fruit who had seen the world and found it lacking.
