Miaren finds the rind of the fruit breaks almost eagerly.  Its tense, membranous surface parts as though having been trembling anticipation to do so.  Under it, the flesh is fibrous, firm; though swarmed with the distinctive chambered cells of a vegetable, the substance to it is more like that of a steak.  Its nectar is watery though - a juice rather than a blood, despite its rich, red hue.  It tastes as its smell promised - an elaborately layered, almost creamy citrus with just the faintest cloying element of nectarine.  It fastens to what it touches, sticky and generously nourishing.<br/><br/>Inside Miaren, the eggs stir.  Their smooth shells seem almost to swell, to take on weight, as the mass within them rocks in gratitude.  Warm feelings crawl from their sleek surfaces, as a life within each moves like claws against a glass jar.<br/><br/>And behind Miaren, Fern stalks, seeing Miaren resting her weight against what appears empty air - what she knows her hands can pass through.