The Impossible Garden of Clara Thorne

Chapter 1

The squirrel won the war, and the wench ruined the carrots.

Will you please move your spiky bum elsewhere?”

Two big, shrewish eyes stared back up at me in reply, not budging an inch.

“I swear to the Goddess, I will toss you outside if you don’t move this instant.

” I pointed to the open attic window, a gentle breeze billowing the curtains.

Even if I did throw him, the plunge would be harmless.

Just a few seconds in the air, then into the rosemary bushes below.

Though even with the cottage being over twelve feet high, he didn’t respond to threats.

I took a steadying breath and, in a cloying voice, said, “Warty, my dearest and only companion, will you please remove your body from my inkwell so that I may write this morning?”

He didn’t move. He. Kept. Staring.

The lines I’d written this morning stared back up at me, too. I already despised them.

Most stories end with a happily ever after. But mine? Well, it begins with one.

Who spoke like that? Simply no one. I rubbed at my temples, warding off the headache creeping its way into my skull like unwanted ivy.

Did I feel like I was already living my happily ever after? Indeed, I did. But a book beginning with an ending? That just wouldn’t do.

My second try wasn’t any better.

Most stories end with a happily ever after. But mine? Well, it begins with one.

Fire blazed in the sky. Thousands of murky shadows flew overhead, breathing death into the realm.

I suppose dragons weren’t the worst way to begin a story.

But I couldn’t quite imagine how that tale might unfold, considering an ornery hedgehog had crawled into my inkwell and refused to remove himself.

Maybe this was his way of telling me to stop trying to write anything exciting and stick to what I knew.

The balled-up parchment mountain in the corner of my bedroom might concur with him.

But a gardener has to have something to do that isn’t digging in the earth. My entire life’s work was considered to be other people’s hobby. Thus, I’d taken up writing. Or I would if my hedgehog would stop ruining the morning with his stubbornness.

I braced my hands on both sides of my ancient writing desk, careful to avoid where the wood had begun to splinter, and leaned in close to Warty.

Our noses touched; he blinked. The fresh parchment from this morning was now pinned underneath my dress, and I sighed as I remembered the ink had not yet dried.

Excellent; another garment irrevocably stained.

Frustration took over, and I prepared myself for a proper squabble, but a loud clunk stopped me in my tracks. I straightened. Warty even gave a small wiggle, sloshing more ink onto the desk and my dress. Did something fall?

I glanced around in search of the culprit. Everything remained in its proper place… as proper as my bedroom could look.

I meticulously cared for my garden, the kitchen constantly shined, but my bedroom held another story altogether.

Abandoned yarn in all colors spilled out of my desk drawers, empty water jars sat on the bedside table, dog-eared books lay half-read on the planks of wood I had nailed into the wall as makeshift bookshelves, and the evidence of my brief painting phase was permanently etched onto the cottage walls forevermore.

My armoire was only slightly neater, but only because my wardrobe comprised three outfits in total—I hated too many options.

Even so, those few articles of clothing were strewn on my desk chair more often than not.

Good thing only Warty and I ever saw it.

Warty and I and whatever made that sound…

Unease laced its way up my spine. No one could be in the cottage.

Surely something had fallen, nothing more.

Nevertheless, I grabbed a knitting needle and stuffed it into my dress pocket before poking my head upside down through the attic floor’s opening into the room below.

The world went topsy-turvy, but no assailant nor monster could be seen.

They wouldn’t have had a place to hide anyhow. There was just a small, simple kitchen and a hearth downstairs.

I was being ridiculous. A monster or murderer in the town of Moss? Simply unheard of. The most nefarious crime here came from not paying your book-lending fines in a timely manner.

I let out an exasperated laugh and pulled my head back into my bedroom just as a rock sailed through my window—a spray of rocks, actually.

They clattered all over the room, knocking books off of shelves and tumbling over my empty water jars, a few managing to hit me, too.

I yelped, covering my head with my arms.

Warty bolted out of the inkwell and into the parchment mountain; crumpled balls of paper rolled everywhere. I scrambled to my feet, racing to the window, only to duck so as to avoid the next gaggle of rocks.

“Stop it!” I yelled, shielding my eyes from the onslaught of pebbles.

“Clara! You’re up!”

“Yes, of course, I’m up you—” Imbecile squirmed on the tip of my tongue, but I figured I should uncover my eyes before I threw that type of insult around.

Oh, dear Goddess above.

Helda Ninnus.

Imbecile indeed. But still, perhaps, not the best greeting.

What in the hells is wrong with you? was my next thought, seeing as she stood right in the middle of my carrot crop.

Eldrene’s requested crop for the Goddess Celebration, no less.

And there Helda traipsed, trampling it all to bits.

The carrot flies would smell those freshly pressed tops from a mile away.

I’d have to sing the poor roots a protection song, though it may do nothing at all at this point with Helda atop them, spreading her bad energies like a plague.

Helda epitomized the phrase “drop-dead gorgeous.” A blonde with impossibly large blue eyes, she was vivacious and always well-dressed, courted only the most renowned of folk, and had a lovely singing voice.

Much to my chagrin, her list of attributes could go on forever.

Every part of her entranced, though considering she possessed beauty magic, that only made sense.

It was on the rarer end of the lesser magics that could be found in Nestryia.

Lesser magics, for the most part, were on the more mundane end, useful for bolstering daily tasks but not flashy.

Kitchen magic aided cooking and baking. Garden magic encouraged the growing of things within the earth.

The other offshoots worked the same, the only difference being that some folk were stronger than others.

Village bread bakers had kitchen magic, along with gastronomical revelations. You get the picture.

But beauty magic encapsulated something altogether different.

Yes, it ensured that the beholder remained utterly irresistible, but it also meant that everything they did appeared soul-wrenchingly well-done.

Only appeared, because it had a bad habit of falling apart when no one was looking.

I suppose that’s how physical beauty worked anyway—it only mattered when it was being watched.

I never understood why people valued it so highly.

There are many other qualities that are far more interesting.

Like archery, or an impeccable ability to knit without looking, or an impressive collection of buttons. That’s true beauty to me.

Nevertheless, I once saw Helda pick up a lute for the first time and proceed to play one of the most enchanting tunes I’d ever heard in my life.

Did I tell her that? Of course not. Instead, my left eye twitched and an unnecessary amount of rage coursed through my body.

Sure, the lute eventually fell out of tune the longer she played.

Nothing stays beautiful forever. Even still, the show she put on was mesmerizing.

What must it be like for magic to come so easily? I did not begrudge her because of beauty magic. The carrot tops were my main issue.

Besides, here in Moss, we have a secret name for that type of magic—trickster magic.

Just because someone appears good at something does not mean that they care.

And that’s what was important in this little town I called home.

Caring and tending. No one liked Helda, per se, but they still cared for her in the way everyone in Moss cares for each other.

However, Helda Ninnus didn’t care for anything other than herself, which would be fine under normal circumstances.

We all had our preferences. I loved to be alone, holed up in my cottage like a dastardly hermit.

Only Helda insisted upon breaking my peace, my preferences, thus making her the most infuriating person I’d ever known.

“Did you not hear the first rock?” She looked up at me expectantly.

“Yes, I—”

“I didn’t throw that one in your window. Far too big. It took a huge chunk out of your cottage. Just there!” She giggled and pointed to a large, crumbling divot in the cottage wall. “I hope you aren’t angry! Anyhoo, I have loads of things I need to ask you. Mind if I come in?”

“Helda, I have a lot to do today. Eldrene—”

“Oh, I know!” she said imploringly. “Eldrene is coming tomorrow! My oh my, I am so very excited. Every year I think, ‘Three years will be too long to wait for another Goddess Celebration.’ But then, the three years pass, and poof!”—she snapped her pristine nails—“Eldrene comes again! Another quest is doled out. So very sad that she has to come because of a silly little bit of magic.” Helda pursed her bottom lip in a mock-pouting gesture.

“But the party makes it all worth it. For me at least!” She let out a tinkling laugh.

The morning birds mimicked the sound; even they couldn’t resist her charms.

Traitors.

Maybe this year Helda would get sent on a quest… and not return. That had only ever happened once, but here’s to hoping.

“Yes,” I said, gripping the edges of my windowsill to maintain composure. “But I really must get to work. I have to harvest the carrots and tulips today, and—”