Page 156 of May: Bloom & Bane

She’s going to want crackers and ginger ale, Ashán. Not a raw elk.

Crackers? He repeats the word as if it has personally insulted his lineage. Dry, salted flour for the mother of my vúsha? Absolutely not. She requires marrow⁠—

She requires not throwing up on the rug. If you bring a carcass into this kitchen, Nook won’t be the only one slapping your ass.

The sound of the shower cutting off echoes through the floorboards, and Nook lets out a joyful creak in the hallway.

She’s coming, I whisper. Try to look dignified and not like someone who just lost an argument to a cupboard.

I’m always dignified, he snaps. And we share a face, or did you forget?

Flowers! I murmur. I may not have made her breakfast, but I can make her an arrangement for the table.

I bloom a handful of sweet peas.

Perfect, I think.

They are… rather small, Ashán judges. She deserves more.

I can do more.

I focus on the ceiling. Vines explode across the beams, weaving bright wisteria that cascades down like purple waterfalls. Sunflowers erupt along the top of the upper cabinets. Lush, cotton-candy-colored hydrangeas bloom across the unused cutting boards.

I think she needs a little more, he rasps. We can still breathe in here.

Vines begin colonizing, every shelf turning into its own terrarium. The air thickens with a sensory overload of all the different breeds.

I spin around, inspecting my work and the kitchen… is gone. In its place is a claustrophobic jungle. The breakfast looks like a child’s tea set in the middle of a forgotten garden.

Nook lets out an amused groan.

I think I may have overdone it…

She’s coming, Ashán hisses. Act normal.

Look around. I gesture to the kitchen. There is nothing normal about this.

“Sage?” Eden calls out hesitantly. “Are you in there?”

“I’m here,” I call back, trying to fight back a particularly clingy piece of wisteria.

She ducks under a heavy vine, wearing nothing but an oversized shirt.

Her eyes scan the room.

“I…” I stutter. “I made you breakfast?”

Liar, Ashán coughs internally. We got swatted and watched the kitchen do everything.

She giggles. “And the flowers… did you do those too?”

“I… oversaw production,” I say, sheepishly rubbing the back of my neck.

She takes a cautious step into the room, her feet disappearing into a thick carpet of moss and fallen petals.

“It’s beautiful, Sage,” she says, standing on her tippy-toes to try and reach my cheek.

I chuckle and lean down until I’m close enough for her to make contact. “But I think the stove is currently being eaten by a hibiscus,” she murmurs next to my ear.