Chapter 1 #3
Wren cracked open the door. The rain was light now, misting.
The sky was pale gray, brightening in the east. The grass around her treehouse was already looking greener than the rest of the field, she noticed.
A perfect circle of healthy growth spreading out from where the tree's roots must be reaching.
She stepped out, blanket clutched around her shoulders, and looked up.
Pecans. Dozens of them, clustered in the branches within reach.
She picked one. It was warm in her palm, sun-warmed, even though there was no sun yet. Magic-warmed. When she cracked it open with a rock, the nut inside was perfect. She ate it immediately, and it was good. Rich, buttery, fresh. But she couldn't live on pecans alone.
Back inside. Back to the purse. Think. What else grows food? She sorted through seeds, reading their names with her fingers. Oak. Willow. Eggplant.
Eggplant. That was food, wasn't it? Though she'd never been much of a cook...
Milkweed.
Her fingers paused. Milkweed. The warmth felt... nourishing. Creamy. She pulled it out, planted it near the counter. "Grow."
The plant rose up, thick-stemmed and sturdy. Broad leaves unfurled. And then, dangling from the stems like the world's strangest fruit, small glass bottles appeared. Each one capped with a lid, filled with white liquid.
Wren stared. "You have got to be kidding me.
" She reached out slowly and plucked one.
The bottle was cool and smooth in her hand, real glass.
She twisted off the cap—it came away with a soft pop—and sniffed.
Milk. It smelled like fresh milk. She took a tentative sip.
Rich, creamy, sweet. There was actual cream on top—she could taste it.
Better than anything she'd bought from a store.
"Milkweed," she said aloud, and started laughing. Actually laughing, there in her treehouse at dawn, wrapped in a magic blanket, drinking milk from a plant. "Milk. Weed. Of course!" The absurdity of it all hit her at once. The puns. The terrible, wonderful puns.
The AI had actually said "pun seeds" and she'd been too panicked to process what that meant. She looked at the purse with new understanding. "What else is in here?" she whispered. This time she was looking for it—the wordplay, the jokes hidden in plant names. Eggplant. Oh. Oh.
She planted it quickly, right next to the milkweed, eager to see if she was right. The plant grew tall and leafy, deep purple-green. And hanging from the stems, round and smooth and—
Eggs. Actual eggs, in shades of purple and lavender and deep violet. Not purple eggplants. Eggs.
She plucked one carefully. It was warm, perfectly egg-shaped, the shell a beautiful mottled purple. "Eggplant," she said, grinning like an idiot. "It grows eggs."
Her stomach growled again, louder this time. She looked at the egg, then at the oven, still glowing with heat from the sunflower. Could she cook it? Just... put it in there? Only one way to find out.
She opened the oven door carefully. Heat rushed out. The sunflower seeds were still glowing strong, radiating warmth. She set two purple eggs directly on the metal rack inside and closed the door.
There. Baking eggs. That was a thing, right?
The room was noticeably warmer now. Not cozy yet, but livable. She could almost stop shivering.
She took another drink of milk, savoring the richness, and looked around her kitchen area with new eyes. The counter. The sink. The beautiful burl wood island...with no plates. No bowls. No cups except the milk bottle in her hand. Not even a spoon.
"Right," she muttered. "Can't eat baked eggs with my hands." Well. Maybe she could. But that seemed sad. She needed dishes.
Back to the purse. Her fingers sorted through the seeds, searching.
Gourd. The warmth was solid, practical. She pulled it out and turned the seed over in her palm, frowning.
Gourds. She'd seen videos of people making things from gourds—birdhouses, bowls, decorative pieces.
But the process looked tedious. Lots of drying, scraping, sanding.
And the shapes were always weird—long-necked, bulbous, anything but a simple bowl.
Still. The magic had surprised her so far.
Milkweed made milk. Eggplant made eggs. Maybe gourd made. .. something useful?
What she wanted was bowls. Nice, practical bowls she could eat from. And cups, ideally, but she'd settle for bowls that could double as cups if needed.
"Worth a shot," she muttered. She planted the seed near the island counter and stepped back. "Grow."
The plant climbed upward, vining and vigorous.
Broad leaves spread out. And then the gourds began to form.
Not the lumpy, irregular shapes she'd expected, but perfect nested bowls.
They grew in graduated sizes, hanging from the vine like a set of measuring cups.
Smooth, round, beautifully shaped. The smallest was cup-sized.
The largest could hold a proper serving of soup.
The finish was pale and smooth, almost ceramic-looking, but she could tell they were still plant material. Light, sturdy. She plucked the whole set free—they came away easily—and set them on the counter. "Okay," she said, examining them with genuine delight. "Okay, this is amazing!"
The smallest one would work perfectly as a cup. She filled it from the sink with cold, clear water and took a drink. Good. Great, even! But cups with handles would be nice. And saucers, maybe. Something a little more civilized than drinking from a bowl.
She was already reaching for the purse again when the smell hit her. Burning. The eggs!
"No—" She spun toward the oven. Smoke was starting to seep from the gaps around the door. She yanked open the oven door. Smoke billowed out, acrid and thick. The eggs were charred black, cracked and oozing. And the smell—
"Oh, that's foul!" She coughed, eyes watering. Sulfurous and thick, it filled the room instantly.
She grabbed one of the gourd bowls and used it to scrape the ruined eggs off the rack, nose wrinkled. Finally she got them into the bowl and rushed to the door, throwing it open.
A cold, damp wind hit her face. She tossed the burnt eggs as far as she could into the wet grass and stood there, breathing hard, letting the fresh air wash over her.
The smell lingered. She'd have to leave the door open for a while, let it air out.
"Great," she muttered, wrapping the blanket tighter as the wind cut through. "Just perfect."
At least she'd learned something: baked eggs needed watching. Or she needed to figure out oven temperature. Or... something.
She looked down at herself—still wearing the soaking wet dress under the blanket, still barefoot, still shivering despite the oven's warmth now pouring out the open door.
Priorities. She needed dry clothes before she froze or got sick. And shoes. Her feet were filthy and scratched from running across the field.
Back to the purse. She sorted through seeds quickly now, learning the rhythm of it.
Shoe tree.
That had to be another pun. Please let it be another pun! She stepped outside—might as well, with the door open anyway—and planted it a short distance from the treehouse.
"Grow."
The tree rose up, branches spreading. And dangling from every branch were shoes. Pairs of them, hanging by their laces or straps like strange fruit. Boots, slippers, sandals, sneakers. All different styles, different sizes.
She laughed out loud, delighted despite the cold and the burnt egg smell and everything else.
"Shoe tree! Of course it's a shoe tree." She found a pair of fleece-lined slippers that looked about her size and pulled them down.
They were soft, warm, and perfect. She slipped them on immediately.
Soon her feet stopped aching. Just that simple comfort made everything feel more manageable.
Now, clothes. She needed something dry to wear while her dress dried by the fire. A nightgown, maybe? Something warm and comfortable.
Back inside—the sulfur smell was fading, thankfully—and to the purse again. Her fingers sorted through seeds. Cotton? Linen? She wasn't even sure what she was looking for.
Silk tree.
The warmth that came with it felt... luxurious. Smooth. She pulled it out.
It was getting dark again—clouds rolling back in, blocking what little weak light had broken through. She'd need to go back outside to plant this. She stepped out in her new slippers, picked a spot near the shoe tree, and set the seed down.
"Grow."
The tree shot up, graceful and tall. Branches spread wide.
..and then it bloomed. The flowers were stunning—like fuchsias, delicate and drooping.
But as the pods formed and popped open, she saw what was really inside.
Silk garments. They dangled from the branches like the world's fanciest laundry line.
Nightgowns, chemises, stockings, undergarments—all in pale colors, decorated with delicate embroidered flowers.
She reached up and pulled down a nightgown. The silk was cool and slippery in her hands, impossibly fine. Way more decadent than anything she'd ever owned. "This is ridiculous," she said, but she was grinning. She gathered up an armload—nightgown, underthings, stockings—and hurried back inside.
The room had aired out enough. She shut the door against the wind and cold, then peeled off the wet dress with shaking fingers.
The silk nightgown slipped over her head like water.
Cool at first, then warming against her skin.
It fit perfectly—of course it did—and fell to her ankles in soft folds.
She wrapped herself in a blanket again and sank into the rocking chair.
Warm, dry, fed...well, she'd had milk and pecans at least. The eggs had been a disaster but she'd figure it out. Her hands were still scraped and her calf still throbbed, but she was alive. She had a house, magic and terrible, wonderful puns.