Chapter 1 #4
The oven glowed. The lantern plant cast gentle light. Rain pattered softly on the leafy roof, and it felt like hope. She sat there for a moment, letting the warmth seep into her bones. The rocking chair creaked softly as she moved, but she couldn't rest long. There was still so much to do.
Tea. The thought came suddenly, and with it, a deep longing. A proper cup of tea would make everything feel more civilized. More... manageable.
She looked at her gourd bowls on the counter. Functional, but not quite right for tea. Cups and saucers. That's what she needed.
Back to the purse. Her fingers were getting familiar with the process now, sorting through the warmth and knowledge of each seed.
Cup and saucer vine.
She almost laughed. "Of course there is."
She planted it inside this time, near the counter where the gourd plant's stem was already crumbling away. "Grow."
The vine climbed up the wall, delicate and pretty. Heart-shaped leaves unfurled. And then, growing from the stems like flowers, perfect teacups appeared. Each one had a matching saucer beneath it, the two pieces growing together.
They were beautiful—floral patterns in blue and white, delicate handles, thin enough to be almost translucent. She plucked one set free and turned it over in her hands. It felt like real porcelain, cool and smooth. "This is insane," she whispered. "This is completely insane." But she was smiling.
Now she needed the tea itself. And probably a teapot, come to think of it.
Tea tree.
The seed felt... warm and comforting. She took it outside—the rain had stopped completely now, just gray clouds overhead—and planted it near her growing collection. The tree grew quickly, branches spreading. And hanging from those branches—
Teapots.
Ceramic teapots in different colors and patterns, each one with steam rising gently from the spout. She reached for the nearest one—deep blue with white flowers—and carefully lifted it down. It was warm in her hands. She opened the lid and breathed in.
Asian pear green tea. The pot was already full of perfectly brewed Asian pear green tea, one of her favorites. This tree knew her.
"You have got to be kidding me," she said, but she was grinning so wide her face hurt. She checked another pot. Jasmine green tea. Another—chamomile. Each pot contained a different flavor, already brewed and ready.
She carried the pear tea back inside, poured herself a cup in one of her new teacups, and took a sip. Perfect. Hot, fragrant, exactly the right strength.
She stood there in her silk nightgown and fleece slippers, wrapped in a magic blanket, drinking tea from a cup-and-saucer vine in a house grown from a pecan, and thought: This is my life now.
The thought should have scared her. Instead, she found herself thinking about what to grow next.
Her stomach growled again, loud and insistent. The milk and pecans had taken the edge off, but she needed real food. The eggs had been a disaster—she wasn't ready to try those again just yet.
Bread. If she had bread, she could at least make a meal of it with butter. Did she have butter? She sorted through seeds mentally, trying to think of plants with "butter" in the name.
Buttercup.
Oh. That might actually work. But first—bread.
Breadfruit.
The warmth was solid, sustaining. Exactly what she needed.
She took the seed outside. The sky was lighter now, proper morning gray instead of predawn darkness. The area around her treehouse was noticeably greener, the grass thick and healthy in an expanding circle.
She planted the breadfruit seed and stepped back. "Grow."
The tree rose up, broader than the others.
Large, lobed leaves spread wide. And then pods began to form—green, leafy pods that cradled something golden inside.
The pods opened to reveal... Loaves of bread.
Actual loaves, golden—brown and crusty, nestled in their leafy cradles like the world's most absurd harvest.
The smell hit her—warm, yeasty, like fresh—baked sourdough.
Her mouth watered instantly. She reached up and carefully lifted one free.
It was still warm, the crust crackling slightly under her fingers.
She tore off a piece and took a bite. It was perfect, tangy sourdough, soft inside with a perfect crust. Better than any bread she'd ever bought.
"Breadfruit," she said around the mouthful. "It's actual bread. From a fruit tree." She was definitely keeping this one close to the house.
Now. Butter.
She went back inside, still clutching the loaf, and pulled out the buttercup seed. This time she planted it near the window, where it would get light once the sun actually came out.
The plant grew up cheerful and bright. But instead of the typical yellow buttercup flowers she expected, it looked more like a daffodil, or trumpet-shaped blooms with a pronounced cup in the center.
And in each cup—
Butter. Small portions of creamy yellow butter, perfectly formed in their little flower cups.
She plucked one carefully. The cup detached easily, and the butter inside was real—she could smell it, rich and fresh.
She spread it on her torn piece of bread with her finger—no knives yet, that was another problem—and took a bite.
Heaven. Absolute heaven. For the first time since arriving, she felt properly fed.
She finished the bread and butter standing by the counter, licking her fingers clean. The warmth in her belly was almost as good as the warmth from the oven.
Almost.
She looked down at herself. Silk nightgown. Fleece slippers. Blanket wrapped around her shoulders. This wasn't going to work for... well, for anything. She couldn't exactly explore her property or deal with the shield or go into town eventually dressed like this. She needed real clothes.
Back outside—it was becoming routine now, this back—and—forth. The morning was properly established, gray and cool but not raining. She could hear birds in the distant woods. Normal birds, she hoped. Not monster birds.
She still had plenty of silk garments from the tree, but those were all undergarments and nightclothes. She needed something sturdier.
Velvet, she thought suddenly. There was a plant called... What was it? She reached into the purse, sorting.
Velvet leaf violet.
The warmth felt soft, plush. She pulled it out.
The plant grew quickly, flowering large. And just like the blanket flower, the blooms were made of rolled-up clothes.
Velvet clothes.
Jackets, skirts, even a few hats. Deep jewel tones—burgundy, forest green, midnight blue. The petals unfurled as she watched, velvet ribbons trailing from them like streamers.
She pulled down a forest green jacket and a long burgundy skirt. The velvet was thick and soft, perfectly made. The jacket had buttons carved from wood, the skirt had a comfortable elastic waist.
Not exactly practical farm clothes, but better than a nightgown.
She went back inside and changed quickly, layering the velvet over her silk underthings. The outfit was surprisingly warm. Almost too warm near the oven, but she'd take it.
She caught her reflection in one of the windows and had to laugh. She looked like she was dressed for a Renaissance fair. Velvet and silk and fleece slippers.
"Well," she said to her reflection. "At least I won't freeze."
Now what? She looked around the room, taking stock. She had: shelter, heat, light, food, water, clothes, dishes, tea.
What she didn't have: soap. Cleaning supplies. Washcloths. Any way to actually bathe or do laundry.
She was starting to feel almost human again. Fed, warm, dressed. But she could feel the grime on her skin from the mad dash through the rain, the dirt under her fingernails, the scrapes on her palms that needed cleaning.
Soap. She needed soap.
And something to wash with—a cloth, a sponge, something.
Back to the purse. She was getting faster at this, her fingers dancing through the seeds with more confidence.
Soapberry tree.
Perfect.
She planted it outside, adding to her growing grove. The tree rose up, branches spreading, and then clusters of round shapes appeared.
Soaps.
Actual rounds of soap in soft pink and white, hanging in clusters like grapes. They smelled incredible—fruit and flowers, sweet but not overwhelming.
She plucked one and brought it to her nose. It smelled like... strawberries and jasmine? Something like that. Clean and fresh and wonderful.
"Soapberry tree," she said, shaking her head. "I shouldn't be surprised anymore."
But what to wash with?
Loofah sponge plant.
She planted it nearby and watched it grow.
This one surprised her. Instead of the cylindrical gourds she vaguely remembered loofahs being, this grew on a vine and produced huge, sunflower—sized blossoms.
The petals were spongy material—when she touched them, they felt exactly like a bath sponge. She pulled one free and unrolled it. It made a perfect washcloth, soft but textured enough to scrub with.
"That's actually brilliant," she said, examining it.
She was gathering up several sponge petals when she heard something. A rustle. A small sound from near the treehouse. Her heart jumped. She spun around, clutching the sponges.
Nothing. Just the trees swaying slightly in the breeze.
Then—movement near the door. Something small and brown.
She took a step back, ready to run—
A squirrel emerged from around the side of the treehouse.
A squirrel.
Wearing a vest.
She blinked. The squirrel blinked back.
It stood on its hind legs, perfectly poised, and she could see a handkerchief folded neatly into the vest pocket. At its feet was a small carpet bag.
"Good day, madam," the squirrel said.
Her mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.
"I—what?"
"Good day, madam," the squirrel said again, adjusting its vest with tiny paws.
Wren stood there, soap in one hand, sponge petals in the other, trying to process what she was seeing.
A talking squirrel.
In a vest.
With luggage.