* Author : Maria Brekke * Narrators : Eleanor R. Wood, Kaitlyn Zivanovich, Eric Valdes, Devin Martin, Srikripa Krishna Prasad, Shingai Njeri Kagunda, Matt Dovey, Tierney Bailey, Emmalia Harrington, Sofía Barker, Julia Patt and Kiran Kaur Saini * Host : Matt Dovey * Audio Producer : Eric Valdes * Discuss on Forums PodCastle 796: Beech, Please is a PodCastle original. Rated PG Beech, Please by Maria Paige Brekke If Rhiannon had to carve one more butterfly into a poplar’s trunk, she was going to close her shop and fly away. And who would the forest’s dryads turn to for body art then? Eric the Pyro Pirate, with his hackneyed hook hand and asinine wood-burning technique? Fran hopped off the table, fluffing her leafy hair and swaying her hips to an imaginary breeze as she made her way to the mirror. She squealed in delight when she saw her reflection, twisting around to admire the image Rhiannon had spent the last two hours carving into her bark. Rhiannon resisted the urge to roll her eyes as she started cleaning her knives. It wasn’t like the butterfly was any different than the last eight she had carved. The newest trend among the poplar spirits was growing old fast. “Willow is going to be so jealous,” Fran gushed. “Don’t tell anyone, but she went to Eric and let him burn an infinity symbol into one of her branches. From what I heard, there was a mishap with the iron, and he singed her hair. Poor thing.” “That man is a menace.” Rhiannon’s wings began fluttering, and she had to force her toes back onto the ground. “People have been carving pictures into trees for hundreds of years. Why go and mess with that?” Fran nodded. “That’s exactly why I came to you. I didn’t want to go outside the box, end up with something weird, you know?” “That’s not what I —” “But I guess some people like the danger of it all. Playing with fire and all that. Call me old-fashioned, but I’d rather play it safe.” Rhiannon frowned. Was her shop seen as the safe option? Stars, was she part of the establishment now? Rhiannon thought back to the types of clients she’d had when she opened ten years ago. Sapling dryads who were starting to spread their roots, all limbs and knots and trying to figure out what shape they wanted to be, and gnarled old crabapple spirits who were done trying to please everyone in the orchard. Lost souls and misfits. Now her customers were more often fad-chasing firs and basic birches. Fran breezed out of Rhiannon’s shop, trailing a calming scent of damp moss behind her. Rhiannon sighed. She couldn’t abandon her clients to Eric’s clutches, no matter how much some of them deserved his hook-handed attempts at art. Not that she had many clients these days. Fran was only her third this week.