The God Who Lost His Favorite Mortal

How it begins

For thirty-seven years, Mira Pell had left a pear in the blue bowl every Thursday. This Thursday she ate it.

Edrin watched from the little shrine beside her gate.

She peeled the fruit in one continuous strip, cut it into quarters, and carried it indoors on a saucer. She did not look guilty. She looked hungry.

He waited until noon before becoming visible.

Mira opened the door wearing an apron powdered with flour.

“Oh,” she said. “You.”

“I believe you have forgotten something.”

She looked at the empty bowl. “No.”

Edrin had prepared for grief, doubt, and the influence of rival gods. He had not prepared for no.

“Are you unwell?”

“Quite well.”

“Has someone threatened you?”

“Only the council about my hedge.”

“I could strike the council.”

“It's an overgrown hedge.”

He followed her into the kitchen. The room smelled of onions and warm bread. On the windowsill sat a photograph of a man Edrin vaguely remembered saving from a ferry accident. He had not saved him from the illness that came later. He had meant to explain the distinction.

Mira poured two cups of tea.

“Are you angry with me?” he asked.

“Sometimes. Less often lately.”

“Then why stop?”

She set his cup on the table. “Because I wanted the pear.”

Outside, wind stirred the shrine's faded ribbons. Edrin could feel each one as a small tug beneath his ribs. Without offerings, a god gradually became a story. Without stories, something worse.

“I have favored you,” he said.

“I know.”

“Above others.”

Mira sat down.

“That has always troubled me.”

He had expected gratitude. It took him a moment to recognize the other possibility: that she had been troubled for years, and he had mistaken the pears for agreement.

She pushed the bread toward him.

“Eat,” she said. “You look as if you've never needed to.”