Mistress Phoebe always grew green grapes on the wrought iron. From whatever tradition I did not know, but she always told me to make sure: the green grapes on the trellis, the purple ones on the soil beds. “The greens were best. Sweet for flavor, but green for sour.”
I never thought much of this compulsion. It didn’t mean much to me anyway.
Day in and day out, I nurtured the fruits with a conservative touch of honey. Nothing snapped or rotted in my gentle management; nothing was purged or infected. My delicate care produced dulcet delicacies, but to what overextended extent, I could not help but humbly boast that I indeed seeded the green grapes higher up on the bar. I planted the purples into the floor and hurried a spray of water. No time for the ground-based grapes.
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I harvested nectar from the vines that night.
The soothing luminescence casted a purple glow on the garden, a color so rich and noble it could have been royalty. Carrying a wooden pail, I knelt besides the cold steel and picked. Tch, tch, tch… The steady snap of fruit vines echoed softly in the breeze… but that snap did not remain steady.
Slowly, the weight of my harvest grew upon me. Either by darkéd weariness or collected abundance, I did not know. By some midnight magic, my purple grapes doubled in size: saturated with sugar and plump as plums. As my buckets toppled, I toppled.
No one believed me when I spoke of the twilight peaches in the vineyard. Mistress Phoebe continued to insist the green grapes be planted on the trellis. I objected the compulsion now, for I knew the purple grapes grew the sweetest under the blanket of night.
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