Fall in love in a weekwe get by

The park was huge and ancient. Most of it resembled a slightly cultivated forest – mossy ancient trees, dense ferns, in which barely noticeable paths were lost. A stream with a log thrown across it instead of a bridge. I stopped indecisively: the log did not seem reliable at all, and Dougal, taking my hand, simply stepped over to the other side. Portal.

After the lake I didn’t want to talk about anything. The session of half-forced frankness, Dougal's reproaches, hysteria, an acute attack of guilt, and, for starters, an acquaintance with the kelpies exhausted me. I wanted silence. But Dougal's company, like his silence, was not a burden.

We left the park again and went into the garden. The hand of a man with taste was felt here. The corner near the gazebo was not the only one where climate charms were used. There was also a small piece of jungle near the waterfall, which served as a haven for an incredible number of orchids and butterflies. Fruit-bearing raspberries – each berry is the size of a large cherry! Dougal picked a few and nodded at me:

– Help yourself. Take advantage of the moment before Borvoor appears. He will grumble and talk worse than Kels. Only “dear miss” can calm him down. A mother has a special gift; she brings peace to everything around her.

– Who is Borvoor? – I picked a berry. Sweet and amazingly fragrant! I understand this… Borvura.

“You’ll see,” Dougal grinned and nodded at the branches strewn with clusters of raspberries.

We ate in a race, hiding among the tall bushes, like children sneaking into someone else's garden. It was… fun, I guess. In the style of carefree children's adventures. Exactly until the moment when a long red nose with a black button tip stuck out of the leaves right in front of me. The nose twitched, and the owner of this nose snorted and sighed. True, it was impossible to see him in the thickets, but that only made things worse. After the kelpies… who else is there to wait for? I probably wouldn’t be surprised by a bear with a balalaika speaking Russian.

– Disgrace. Away! Get away from here, vile thieves! My raspberry! – I almost choked on the berry: it really spoke! Well, at least not in Russian, and thank you for that… – Sweet, juicy, honey, spicy. My raspberry! Fragrant, sugary, selected! Get out!

“Well,” Dougal looked away from his bush and lightly flicked the incomprehensible Borvur – it was him, of course – on the nose. – Your raspberries, your currants, your apples and plums. One day you will burst from greed, I already warned you.

“If you, stupid boy, had been here more often, you would have known that dear miss’s jam season is already over.” And Borvoor personally helped collect! Thirty pounds of peaches, selected, honeyed, huge, transparent, delicious! Fifty pounds of plums…

“Come on, Miss Sullivan, or we'll have to listen to this until next spring.”

– Well, stop, boy! I haven't said anything yet!

– You are basically incapable of finishing your sentence. You have a natural talent for verbiage, Borvoor. But, I see, you no longer deafen the entire neighborhood with your cough. The syrup turned out well. Next time I'll put a numbing potion in there for you.

I picked the last berry, and we ran away, and for a long time there was a rush after us: thieves, disgrace, forty pounds… juicy, rosy, ripe… dear miss… boy… raspberries…

“I still didn’t understand who it was,” I admitted in a whisper for some reason.

“Amateur gardener,” Dougal chuckled. – Actually, he is one of the forest magical creatures. Leshchinnik. But he burns with a tender love for fruit trees and berries. He came here a long time ago, during his great-grandmother’s time, and lives like this.

– Wow… kelpies from distant ancestors, garden grumbler from great-grandmother… – This is what I understand, inheritance. More interesting than pompous mansions and bank accounts.

Yes, a mansion, an estate, an estate – I don’t know what to call it? – Sabella turned out to be much more amazing than Charlotte's cottage. More magical. After it, the small everyday miracles with which my morning had already begun as usual seemed something as simple and uninteresting as a news broadcast on TV. Brew coffee with one movement of your hand? By the way, my coffee turned out much worse than Sabella’s, and yesterday she explained why: real masters regulate the temperature very subtly. Charlotte was not even an amateur, just an amateur. Hairstyle? I shook my head. You should have seen Sabella's reaction when Dougal told her:

“Imagine, Miss Blair considered the ability to do her hair more important than information about the restricted area of the Academy.” And Miss Sullivan decided to refute the laws of magical security unknown to her and opened a portal at the department. Why not, actually. A great way to kill yourself spectacularly and with a guarantee.

I threw up my hands guiltily in response to the look of horror. She repeated the same explanation she had already given to Dougal:

“I thought it was just not accepted.”

And he added: