Cleo and the Mooncake

“I saved the mooncake for us,” Cleo said, just as a crumb skittered past her foot.

The crumb rolled along the picnic ledge and stopped beside a tiny gray moth. The moth’s wings were marked with pale spots, like little maps of the moon.

“Oh!” Cleo said. “You must be Nim, my new neighbor.”

“I am,” said Nim. “And you must be Cleo. Your cave is the one with the red flowers outside.”

Cleo tucked her wings close so they wouldn’t bump the picnic basket. “Would you like to share my mooncake? I made it with honey and ground-up starberries.”

Nim looked at the crumb near her feet. “Is that yours?”

“Maybe,” said Cleo. “I’m not sure where it came from.”

The moon hung over the Dragon Mountains, lighting the ledge and the little tablecloth Cleo had spread. Down below, the valley rested in blue shadow. A warm stone sat near the far edge, holding a bit of sunshine from the day.

Cleo nudged the basket closer. “I was hoping we could have a picnic together. I’ve never had a moon-moth neighbor before.”

“And I’ve never had a dragon neighbor,” Nim said. “I brought a leaf cup, in case you have something to drink.”

“I have plum tea!” Cleo poured a little into the cup. “It’s not too hot. I checked with my claw.”

Nim smiled and lifted the cup. Just then, another crumb skittered past Cleo’s foot. Then another.

Cleo glanced at the mooncake. One side looked ragged, as if a small bite had been taken from it.

Nim lowered her cup. “I should pick those up.”

Cleo blinked. “You don’t have to. I can sweep them away later.”

“But they came from—” Nim began.

A breeze slipped around the mountain and fluttered the tablecloth. The basket shifted with a bump. Both friends looked down at the crumbs, then at each other.

“You can sit here,” Cleo said, trying to sound cheerful.

“I know,” Nim replied, looking at the ledge. “I just don’t want to make things worse.”

Cleo wondered what Nim meant, but didn’t ask. Nim wondered why Cleo sounded so careful, but didn’t ask either. Between them, the mooncake waited, and the crumb trail led away into the moonlight.

Nim stepped toward the crumbs. She bent low and picked one up with her tiny feet, then placed it in her leaf cup.

Cleo watched. “Are you taking the crumbs somewhere?”

Nim stopped. “I thought you wanted me to.”

“Why would I want that?” Cleo asked.

Nim’s wings folded against her back. “The cake is missing a bite. I thought you were upset, and you were being polite so I wouldn’t feel bad.”

Cleo looked at the mooncake. “I thought you were upset because you didn’t want to sit with me. Then you started collecting crumbs, and I wondered if you were leaving with your own little piece.”

Nim’s eyes grew round. “Oh! I’m not leaving. I’m trying to put every crumb back.”

“Why?”

“Because I saw the cake roll when the breeze came. It went over there, but I couldn’t lift it. I thought you might be worried it was lost.” Nim pointed down the ledge. “I was picking up the crumbs so we could follow where it went.”

Cleo felt her cheeks warm beneath her scales. “I didn’t know. I should have asked.”

“I could have explained,” Nim said. “I was worried you would think I took it.”

Cleo crouched beside her. “Let’s look together.”

Nim set the crumbs in a neat line, one after another. Cleo held the basket steady while the breeze brushed the cloth again. The crumbs led around a low hump in the rock and stopped near the warm stone.

“There!” cried Cleo.

The mooncake rested in a shallow nook beside the stone, whole except for a few crumbs missing from its edge. The stone held it snugly in place.

Nim fluttered closer. “It’s safe!”

“And it smells even sweeter warm,” Cleo said.

She lifted the cake carefully with both claws and carried it back to the cloth. Nim gathered the last crumbs from the trail and tipped them beside the cake.

“I’m sorry I guessed what you were thinking,” Cleo said.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you what happened,” said Nim.

Cleo broke the cake in two. “Next time, we ask.”

“Next time,” Nim agreed, “we share before the breeze gets any ideas.”

They laughed, and Cleo offered Nim a piece. Nim accepted it with both tiny feet.

“It’s bigger than my head,” Nim said, peering at her piece.

“Then you’ll have to take very small bites,” Cleo said. She sat back on her haunches, careful not to crowd Nim. “Or I can break it into little bits.”

“Little bits, please. I want it to last.”

Cleo broke off a crumb-sized corner and set it on Nim’s leaf. Nim nibbled. Honey clung to her whiskers.

“Do I have honey on my face?” she asked.

“Just a little,” said Cleo.

“Can you get it?”

Cleo leaned down and gently licked the honey away. Nim laughed, and a tiny crumb landed on Cleo’s nose.

“Now you have some,” Nim said.

Cleo crossed her eyes to look at it. “I’ll keep it. It’s part of the picnic.”

They ate slowly, sharing the plum tea and the rest of the mooncake. Cleo told Nim how she had practiced making the cake, rolling the dough until it looked round. Nim told Cleo about the little nook in her new home where she kept smooth seeds and folded leaves.

“Would you like to see it sometime?” Nim asked.

“I’d like that,” Cleo said. “And I can show you where the red flowers grow.”

“Do they smell like honey?”

“Not exactly. More like warm peaches.”

“Then I’ll have to smell them.”

The ledge grew quiet around them. Cleo folded the empty cloth, and Nim tucked her leaf cup beneath one wing. Nothing hurried them. The warm stone rested beside the picnic place, and the mountain air cooled their cheeks.

Nim brushed the last sweet crumb from her feet. Cleo licked the last one from her claw.

“Thank you for saving me a piece,” Nim said.

“I couldn't have found the cake without you,” said Cleo.

They sat side by side, watching the moon climb above the quiet peaks. Nim’s wings rested against Cleo’s warm shoulder, and Cleo let her tail curl around the picnic basket. The stars kept their places overhead, and the two new neighbors stayed together until it was time to go home and settle down for the night.