“Is that really a good idea?” Roanna asked. 

Her father, Tristan, gazed out into their garden, full of fruit blossoms with bees and birds buzzing through brambles. Days to the annual grape festival worshiping Greriham, the Wine God, went out like candles, one by one. In years past, Tristan’s bakery had been known for phenomenal grape tarts that were the talk of the town year-round. 

Yet, as they ambled through their stone path and past plump grapes, Tristan’s eyes wandered. 

He finally replied, “Yes. Grapes are too ordinary. It’s time to try something…new.” Tristan strolled over between two grape vines and plucked a golden fruit through a tapestry of emerald leaves. Roanna, standing on her tiptoes, watched him gingerly sever the stem and hold it in the sun. 

“Using some profits from our grape pastries, I bought these seeds a few years ago,” Tristan said, a sheen in his eyes. “The merchant promised that it would be nothing like anything ever tasted before.” 

Roanna’s eyes darted through a crack in the fence, spotting an outdoor dinner, chuckling adults clinking glasses with sloshing, deep-purple wine. 

*** 

Children ran around the endless number of vendors, giggling at the idea of feasting on sugar. Their parents chatted away, wrung out faces ready for drinks of elation and delirium. With wine wafting around and rambunctious laughter erupting, the wine festival was now in full tow. 

Tristan ignored them all as he collected payment from a customer, attention consumed by the cool feeling of gold in his fingers. A different customer returned with her son, powdered sugar and yellow custard lining their lips. “This is marvelous! Did you use yellow grapes for this?” 

“Actually, we used a different fruit. I call it ‘limon’,” Tristan smiled sweetly. Her son’s jaw dropped. “You didn’t use grapes? Greriham’s sacred fruit?” Tristan offered him a wily smile. “They taste better, don’t they?” 

The little boy raised an eyebrow as he examined the limon tart. 

Every person they served ran back after their first bite, eyes wide and mouths agape with the treats’ sweet and slightly tart refreshingness. 

As the morning continued, Roanna constantly replenished their wooden stand’s display. Tristan sat back. He relished their customers’ faces of glee and the other stands’ envy as their grape pastries sat out for hours, custards melting in the sun. His satisfaction continued to swell as Roanna handed him the bucket of earnings, coin twinkling in the tin. 

***

The very next day, Roanna screamed. 

Tristan found her standing in the kitchen, an almost empty glass of water in her hand and a pool at her feet. “What is it!?” 

“It tastes,” she wrangled the words, “so sour.” 

“Sour!?” 

He tasted a few drops with caution. His eyebrows squeezed together as he tasted nothing peculiar. Nothing at all. 

“It tastes normal to me…” 

“What!?” Roanna took another sip, but it burned her tongue as she spit it out. Tears lingered in her eyes. 

Tristan rushed to place his hand on his daughter’s forehead. Her face flared with heat. *** 

Days passed, then weeks. Roanna grew more and more ill, her lips and eyes turning yellow, like old book pages. Her glossy brown hair faded into a light blond. Anything she ate was sour. 

So she barely ate. 

No matter how many doctors Tristan visited, none of them provided a fruitful explanation. 

“Roanna,” Tristan sat down next to her bed, hands and face sprinkled with flour. His daughter, shriveled like a raisin, looked up, wrinkles at her weak smile from puckering so much. “Yes, father?” 

He clutched her hands, staring at her yellowing fingernails. 

It suddenly reminded him of the limons’ juice. 

His eyes glanced at the pile of freshly baked limon desserts glowing on the dining table. “Father?” Roanna asked again. 

He tightened his grip. “Let’s pray.” 

*** 

“And how much do I owe you?” A woman asked Tristan, a limon tart in her hands. “Nothing. Just take it.” 

“Really?” Her gaze washed over the box of treats with delight. 

In a few hours, Tristan had a crowd at his porch, the prospect of sunny flavors flashing over their hungry eyes. 

Arms full with boxes of sugary limon, they thanked him, walking away drunk with pleasure.

After wiping away stray crumbs from his empty table, Tristan sighed and locked his front door, running a hand through matted hair. He rubbed his swollen eyes, shoulders slouched. Inside, Roanna laid sound asleep. Tristan kneeled next to her bed, praying that his good deeds would bring some fortune to her. That his enlightenment could bring forgiveness. That his prayers and dedication might heal his daughter. 

Instead, after he finished his prayers, Roanna’s yellow eyes didn’t open. 

Even when he bawled her name. 

*** 

Strolling through his back yard, Tristan sat down on the dirt next to the gravestone, studying the small, purple flowers blooming around the carved-in Roanna. He grimaced as regret tightened his lungs. “Greriham, why, why w-why…” His fingers dug into the dirt next to the marble, blue veins bulging on his hand as grief and alcohol coursed through his blood. He pounded the earth. 

He looked up, eyes passing by the familiar stone path and overgrown grape vines with wobbling tears. His Adam’s apple bobbed for a second as an unexpected sight filled his view. The neighboring grape vines had tightly wrapped around the rotting limon tree, brown flesh attracting flies on the ground as it choked life out of the fruits of the sun.