The rain had been falling for two days straight.
Not the gentle, refreshing kind of rain that makes the greenhouse sigh contentedly—this was a full-on, relentless downpour. The sort that turns paths into rivers, makes the castle's gutters moan like grumpy old ghosts, and causes even the most water-loving lilies to start muttering about mildew.
I had been trying to enjoy a cup of tea in peace, nestled in my vine-woven couch, when a frantic splashing echoed down the hall.
Suc-Suc burst into the lounge, dripping wet, clutching a lily pad like a life raft. His little succulent body trembled. "Moss! The pond spirits are demanding tribute again!"
I groaned. The lily pond spirits had been civil enough for the past month, content with offerings of compost tea and the occasional bouquet. But apparently, the endless rain had put them in a mood.
"Define tribute," I said, setting down my cup.
"A dance," Suc-Suc said gravely. "They say the water lilies won't bloom unless you perform the Dance of Ripples."
Gary, from his mantel perch, snorted. "Well, at least they didn't ask for karaoke. Last time nearly killed the ferns. They're still in therapy."
The trek to the pond was an ordeal. Waterlogged vines dripped on me from above, squelching mud sucked at my boots, and pufffruits kept trying to hitch a ride in my hood. At one point, a vine offered me an umbrella made entirely of overlapping leaves—it then immediately closed it over my head like a Venus flytrap in a misguided show of affection.
By the time I reached the lily pond, the spirits were already gathered—wispy, translucent figures hovering just above the water's surface, their eyes glowing faintly in the mist.
"We require performance," the leader intoned, his voice rippling through the water. "A dance worthy of the rain's blessing."
I sighed, tossed my cloak aside, and stepped barefoot into the shallows. The cold water lapped at my ankles as I tried to remember the ridiculous routine they'd taught me last spring—part waltz, part splash fight, part interpretive "be the raindrop" nonsense.
Bramble, naturally, provided musical accompaniment by plucking at his own vines like a smug harpist. Gary, unhelpfully, announced each move like a sports commentator. "And she's going for the triple twirl—oh, no, that's a stumble into a cattail. Judges will deduct points for that one. But the recovery? Impressive footwork for someone trying not to drown in six inches of water."
The spirits clapped their misty hands as I spun and kicked water into sparkling arcs. Pufffruits launched glittery spores into the air, creating a shimmering curtain that made the whole thing look absurdly magical. Somewhere behind me, a frog wearing a lily pad as a hat began providing back-up croaks in perfect time to Bramble's music, sounding suspiciously like it was trying to harmonize.
Halfway through, a mischievous pond reed decided to join in, lassoing my ankle and forcing me into a half-spin, half-flail that I valiantly turned into what I called the "Raindrop Pirouette." Gary was not fooled.
At one point, I slipped spectacularly, arms pinwheeling, and went sprawling face-first into the shallows with a splash big enough to soak three pufffruits and a very startled newt. Gary announced, "Oh! And that's the dramatic dive! The crowd goes wild!" The spirits actually did cheer, which was equal parts flattering and humiliating. One of them even tossed a petal in my direction like a prize.
By the time I staggered to the finale, I was dripping, glitter-coated, and possibly growing algae between my toes. I collapsed onto the bank, soaked and gasping. The spirits drifted closer, nodding solemnly.
"The lilies shall bloom," the leader declared. "Also, your form has improved since last season. Less flailing. More... intentional chaos."
By evening, the pond was covered in luminous blossoms, their petals catching the lantern light like stars scattered across water. The air smelled sweet and rain-washed, the spirits faded into the mist, and the frog in the lily pad hat gave me what I swear was a salute.
I returned to the castle dripping wet, tracked mud all the way to the lounge, and collapsed into my vine-woven couch. My boots squelched ominously, and Bramble wrinkled his leaves at me in mock disgust.
Gary handed me a cup of tea. "So," he said with infuriating cheer, "same time next week?"
I took a long sip. "Only if you're the one dancing next time. And you'd better wear the lily pad hat."