One
The ivy Tallulahplanted in the greenhouse last year had spread like a fire of green, cascading over the walls and tumbling across the broken stone floor. She never wanted the leafy vines to take up so much of her space, but once they took root, she couldn’t stop the determined foliage. And without the use of magick to control the plant, she had to care for it the common way.
With her hands.
It had been a long day and an even longer year.
Tallulah sighed as she reclined against the glass walls of the greenhouse. It’d be so much easier for her magick to cease the growth of the invasive ivy, but it wasn’t worth the risk of King Roman’s hunters finding her. So, instead, she spent the last few days plucking and trimming the vines, making sure it didn’t disrupt the growth of her camellias and the small patch of tomatoes she’d kept alive through the Winter.
Her back ached, but still she kept her position upon the stone floor, glancing at the stubborn greenery, remembering a time only a year ago when she could flick her wrist and command any plant to conjure or cease.
Fleeing Valebridge when King Roman took the throne began a tumultuous journey of self-discovery. She’d had to learn to hunt her own food. To cook it. To clean up. All the things living in Valebridge with her established family had spoiled her with. But they were gone; the memory of them as tangled and frustrating as the ivy itself.
Tallulah rubbed her temples, the dirt on her hands leaving its mark. She rolled her shoulders and stretched her neck. Clearing the ivy might have been daunting, but it was healing, in its way.
Not that she was ungrateful for her parents and the comforts they’d provided, but when you spend your whole life being treated as a burden, you begin to think as such. And now she’d learned to be on her own; learned maybe she wasn’t a burden at all. That maybe she spent the better part of her life believing falsehoods from people whose goal was to keep her under them. To make her feel less than so they could feel more.
She picked at the dirt under her nails. She would certainly need a bath after today. A luxury she was grateful to still have since Enchantresses became hunted.
She was lucky to get out of Valebridge when she did and even luckier to find refuge there, in the northern Trinity Forest. Not far from the bustling city of Davenport, but far enough she could conceal herself.
“What use was a Florecas to a king, anyway?” she grumbled under her breath. She tossed her dirty trowel into her bucket, the clang of the metal ringing out in the silent space.
Tallulah attributed her use to the king as to the reason they hadn't found her. She supposed it wasn’t that important to anyone. And she was fine with it. Glad, even, to have magick no one cared for.
But she missed it terribly. Every day she spent here added another layer of dust to her memory and use of magick.
She chuckled at the irony of being a Florecas living in a greenhouse. The need to worship all of Mother Gaia’s living things was in her blood, butespeciallyas a Florecas—the ability to make plants grow and move and change was at the very root of who she was.
When she’d stumbled upon the broken-down greenhouse, she knew it was where she belonged. A gift from Mother Gaia, perhaps. The forest had concealed most of it. Moss growing around the sides, thick trees lined around the building creating an almost cocoon made of earth.
And because she’d been diligent about not using her magick, she remained unseen by any of the hunters.
Her eyes wandered the now low lit room, smiling at the copious amounts of plants and flowers.
Being a Florecas in a world that demands power and destruction wasn’t easy. Her mother must’ve been disappointed, being a Healer with a Florecas for a daughter. Maybe that’s why she treated her as low as the dirt in which her plants grew.
But there was power in the soil. Without it, there wouldn’t bethis.
She glanced around the room again. At the life that was exploding around her despite the unusually cold weather happening just outside the greenhouse doors. Rich greens and vibrant purples scattered the tabletops and workbenches. Tomatoes, full and juicy for picking in the dead of Winter. How isthatnot miraculous?
Her mother was never her friend. Never her ally. Of course, she was desperate for her approval.
She never got it.
Whenever she felt the pull of being less than, of being unimportant, of being adisappointment, all she did was look around this room. Though she grew these plants from seedlings, and not her magick, there was still a sense of pride, of accomplishment.
Even the pesky ivy.
Slowly, she stood, interlocking her fingers in front of her outstretched arms to regain feeling in them. Her body was stiff after the day’s work, and nothing sounded better than crawling into her basin and submerging herself.
She took a final glance at the room, a smile dancing along her lips. The creeping vines aside, the greenhouse was still mostly glass. Walls that jutted toward the massive dome ceiling were speckled with greenery and occasional bursts of color from the dahlias. However, the ceiling remained free of any foliage; she made sure of that.
Her favorite part of the day was when the sun crested in the sky and cascaded down through the room in the early morning. Drips of orange and pink filtering through each glassy pane until it reached down and shone upon her plants.
Dusk had settled over the forest, and the moon and sun battled for space in the cold, Winter sky. She let out another long sigh before heading to her wash basin.
Once out of the bath, she tossed her sweat and dirt-ridden blouse and pants in a pile in the corner and switched instead to a cotton, ivory nightgown. Curling up on the sofa, she pulled the wool blanket up to her chin. Images of ivy danced in her head as she tumbled off into a deep sleep.
