It was a battlefield, with wilting plants and broken pots. My eyes swiveled to every corner. Potting soil was spilled on the ground, accompanied by dead flowers that had been trampled—a storm would have caused as much damage. I pulled myself together, taking a deep breath.
“I’ll need a bucket of soapy water,” I instructed Mr. Walton, who took some notes next to me.
I dropped my jacket on the handle. Tied up my hair in a ponytail. Inhaled the scent of the Devil’s Corpse. I had been so captivated and obsessed by this plant that I had ignored the other damaged flowers until now.
A thick cloud of smoke escaped my lips. I was convinced I could make the flowers reborn by springtime. I hastened to the tool shed and grabbed a broom. Moss and algae had started colonizing the greenhouse in a green color. I turned around to Mr. Walton, the tune of my voice higher. “Alongside a homemade vinegar spray, please.”
He bowed his head and left. The greenhouse lacked care; saving it would take me more work than I thought. As I removed all the pots from the greenhouse to the courtyard, the breeze ran through the trees and rippled to my bones in a chill.
I carried the new potting soil, struggling to hold the heavy bags, my gaze momentarily set on the sparkling clear water of the fountain in the center of the courtyard. It was almost transparent and frosted due to the wintry weather.
Mr. Walton startled me by arriving with the cleaning bucket. I let the bags crash onto the ground, dispersing the soil at my feet.Great.He gave me a perplexed expression, slightly raising an eyebrow. The kind that meant, “You’re taking too many liberties. Radcliff won’t like it.”
I smiled nonetheless, proving to the old man that I shouldn’t be underestimated. “Thank you.”
I continued my extravaganza. With all the exotic plants outside—apart from the Devil’s Corpse —I attacked the scrubbing and rinsing. I made each surface sparkle, not minding getting covered in dirt and for some strands of my hair to dampen from the sweat on my forehead.
Mr. Walton kept an eye on me, probably at the orders of Radcliff. He supervised me from his bench in the garden, his eyes popping over the top of his newspaper from time to time.
The greenhouse was my sanctuary.
The flowers were my friends. Each of their roots, petals, and green leaves spoke to me.
After the cleaning, I glued the pieces of broken pots together before offering them a new beginning. Gardening was the metaphor of life. It taught me we reap what we sow, to have patience and, most importantly, faith. Faith it’d grow, no matter the damage the plants had lived.
No one had taken care of that greenhouse. They’d survived only with a little care. The strict minimum. They weren’t understood. Their exposition, temperatures, and care provided were all wrong. The varied colors of blossoms, the lipstick-pink peonies to the hibiscus, orchids, Amazon lilies, and pansies, could have formed the most enchanting sunset of colors. But they had been left to die, their petals tarnished.
“Do you have bigger pots?” I raised my voice at Mr. Walton, focused on the task at hand, my hands protected by gloves plunging into the soil.
He cleared his throat and walked away.
The orchids had been drowned inside the water. Their roots were dead. They needed freedom, yet they were imprisoned inside their small plots. I cut off the dead buds and left the roots behind for the orchid to hold to something inside the new pot they’d have.
“Here you go. You’re free.” I gazed hopefully at the flowers, thrilled to have given them a new life.
Mr. Walton eventually came back with bigger pots, then returned to reading another newspaper. In a trance with my task, I had thrown dirt all over my face and my clothes. I’d made the greenhouse into a construction site.
Finally done with repotting the flowers, I took sight of Mrs. Walton coming to join us with refreshments. She sat alongside her husband, both of them locking eyes with mine, their heads bowing to one side. They probably wondered what the hell I was doing.
“I’m almost done!” I waved at the couple, mid-laugh and halfway out of breath when I carried the flowers back to the greenhouse.
They remained silent and stoic, observing me as an inhuman creature. I readjusted and changed the arrangement of the flowers inside the greenhouse, pushing the pots like an American football player during a melee. The sun had turned around the glass roof of the dome, going from a golden white to a purple sunset.
My back ached, and I struggled to stand on my legs. Every part of my body hurt. I was dirty and probably covered in plants, judging by the strong earthy odor. I was finally done. The Waltons were gone; it was just me and the flora. The greenhouse was now a royal court, the Devil’s Corpse for the queen, her thorns for guards, the other flowers for subjects. The carnage had passed, and everything looked shiny and sparkling. Warm and inviting.Hopeful.
Proud to have accomplished the impossible, I strolled in the direction of the manor. I was determined to find Radcliff and to slap my victory in his face despite my exhaustion. The manor was ghostly silent as I paced the grand ballroom, my feet tapping a quick rhythm against the floor.
I let out a shallow exhale, my eyes flashing to Radcliff enthroned regally on an armchair. He was reading through the same book by the fireplace. My steps echoed on the floor in his direction, but he didn’t shoot me one glance. Instead, he turned a page, not acknowledging my presence.
I removed my gardening gloves and threw them on the pages, leaving him no choice. He lifted his eyes, blazing me with hellfire. He slammed his book, a muscle in his jaw clenching. His hard stare lingered on my dirty clothes, my sweaty hair, and the roots of plants stuck on them.
“Your greenhouse is spotless.” With the palm of my hand, I swiped some potting soil off my forehead, feeling uncomfortable. My heart hammered like a scared animal, every fiber of my body wanting to flee. “I took the liberty of rearranging some things. Your flowers were dying and lacking care. By spring, it should flourish beautifully.”
He fell backward on his seat, one of his fingers passing through his plush lips. His chest rumbled low as he spoke. “You’ve spent all day on it.”
“Yes.”
A silence fell between us, the kind that raised the hair on my arms.
