It started with music. Not good music. Not even music that could be confused for music.
Moss awoke to the sound of Weedwick Castle's ancient pipes whistling like an out-of-tune flute while the rafters stomped in what she assumed was the castle's idea of a fanfare. Her eyes cracked open just in time for the floorboards to rumble beneath her bed, tilting her teacup from the nightstand onto her pillow.
"Morning," she mumbled to no one, lifting her head to see an invitation — an actual parchment invitation — blooming from the petals of a dahlia by her bed. She plucked it free and read aloud.
Weedwick Castle cordially demands your presence at tonight's Grand Bloom Ball. Formal attire mandatory. Attendance: compulsory. Guests: plentiful.
Moss froze. "No. Absolutely not. I don't do balls." The castle's shutters banged in protest.
"You can't just—" she began, only to notice the list of confirmed guests at the bottom. Her stomach sank. Several demon names she recognized leapt off the page. Including one who still owes me forty gold and a pair of enchanted shears.
She backed up until her spine hit the doorway. "Nope. Not happening. I'll just barricade myself in my room until it's over." In her mind she was already planning an elaborate escape involving a rope made of bedsheets, a decoy scarecrow in her bed, and possibly faking her own death. Unfortunately, before she could put Operation Vanish into action, a squad of giggling plant-girls — all ivy-skinned and petal-haired — scampered in, grabbed her by the arms, and dragged her down the hall.
"No! I have two left feet! And one of them is emotionally unstable!" she yelped, digging her heels into the carpet. The plant-girls were having none of it; vines curled around her wrists like ribbons, twirling her in dizzying circles as they spirited her away toward the dressing chambers.
"Hold still," one chirped, snapping her fingers so a cascade of shimmering leaves fell over Moss's hair.
"I am holding still! Against my will!" Moss protested, half-panicked, half-bewildered.
Another plant-girl held up a pair of shoes that looked like they had been grown out of rose stems. "These will make your legs look like a dream."
"They'll make my legs look like they've been stabbed," Moss muttered.
By the time they were finished, she was in a gown woven from living ivy and glimmering petals, still blinking at her own reflection like she'd been mugged by a very fashionable shrubbery. In the mirror, a lone vine curled from her bodice and patted her cheek reassuringly — which was somehow the most unsettling part of all.
By midmorning, the ballroom was a full-blown war zone of rehearsals. Her plants had formed a band — whether she liked it or not. A row of ferns shook seed pods like maracas, occasionally losing grip and pelting the wallpaper. Bramble thudded on overturned barrels for percussion, his rhythm so aggressive it made the floorboards shiver. The hydrangeas were attempting a harmony that sounded less like music and more like bees trapped in bottles — angry bees.
"Is there any chance," Moss asked, massaging her temples, "that you'll learn a real song before tonight?"
Bramble responded with an impressively loud drumroll that rattled the chandelier, then winked.
Gary, polished to an unnatural shine and looking far too pleased with himself, strutted across the stage they'd somehow erected from mismatched tables. "I will be the Master of Ceremonies," he announced with the gravity of a king. "I will greet guests. I will announce their titles. I will quietly judge their footwear — and perhaps loudly if it's truly offensive."
Twig popped up from under the buffet table, already wearing a sash that read Flower Patrol. "I'll keep strangers away from the desserts. If they try to touch the trifle, I'll bite them. Twice."
Moss groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose. "This is going to be a disaster."
Weedwick's great doors creaked open on their own in smug agreement, letting in a dramatic shaft of light as if to say: Yes, and I will enjoy every moment of it.
By sunset, the ballroom glowed with lantern-vines and petals drifting down from the ceiling, their glow reflecting in the polished marble like tiny fallen stars. Moss smoothed the borrowed gown Weedwick had grown for her — a shimmering thing woven from living ivy that occasionally tickled her ankles like an over-affectionate cat. She muttered under her breath about how she'd much rather be in her workshop with a pot of tea than playing hostess to half the underworld.
The demons arrived first. Sleek, tall, dangerous — the kind who could smile while appraising your worth in coin or blood. She spotted Lord Veyrin almost instantly — the aristocrat who had once tried to buy her greenhouse and her loyalty. He raised an eyebrow as if to say, You clean up well for an exile. She resisted the urge to trip him with a vine and imagined, for a fleeting second, the headline: Duke Felled by Ivy in Public Spectacle.
Whispers curled around her like smoke wherever she moved: Bloom Witch… Is that the one who made roses sprout from the walls of a warlord's keep?I heard she coaxed a forest to walk for her.Did you see the green fire in her eyes?
She kept smiling, nodding, and telling herself to breathe — even as she longed to bolt back to her room, bar the door, and hide under a blanket until the whole thing was over.
Halfway through the evening, a towering sunflower spirit in a crisp vine-woven suit approached. His golden face beamed down at her, petals catching the lamplight like a halo. Moss's stomach performed an unhelpful somersault. Great. Sentient garden ornament inbound.
"Mistress Moss," he said in a warm, rustling voice. "May I have this dance?"
Her brain immediately began screaming, No, no, NO— but her mouth betrayed her with a blink and a flat, "Are you… wearing cologne?"
"It is compost tea," he said proudly, as if announcing the finest perfume in the realms.
Internally, she was already envisioning the scandal: Bloom Witch seen waltzing with oversized salad. Film at eleven. Before she could refuse, the sunflower had swept her into a surprisingly graceful waltz. She tried to keep up, but the gown's ivy hem had its own opinions and occasionally tried to tangle her feet, almost as if it, too, wanted her to make headlines.
Gary's voice echoed from the stage: "And now, the Bloom Witch dances with… foliage." The demons tittered. Moss's inner voice snarled, Yes, laugh it up, you leather-clad gargoyles.
Still, the sunflower spun her with such earnest joy — and surprisingly good rhythm — that she found herself laughing despite herself. For a fleeting moment, she almost forgot the room of watching eyes, until Bramble's "percussion finale" misfired, launching a seed pod that exploded into a pollen cloud over the dance floor. Half the demon nobles sneezed in unison, and Moss thought grimly, Well, at least my reputation will now include biological warfare.
The plant band's closing number involved synchronized vine snapping, seed-pod percussion, and an ill-timed chandelier drop that showered petals — and nearly brained a demon duke. Twig tackled the duke "for safety reasons" and refused to let go, shouting something about 'plant-based diplomatic immunity' while hanging on like a koala in a hurricane. Bramble mistook the chaos for a cue and launched into a thunderous solo, knocking over two punch bowls, a decorative ice sculpture, and a very offended imp who promptly tried to duel him.
Moss, caught mid-spin on the dance floor, internally screamed, If I survive tonight, I am burning every invitation that ever blooms in my bedroom. She couldn't decide if she should intervene, hide under the buffet, or pretend she was just a guest here too. From the corner of her eye she spotted a trio of vine-children forming a conga line around an utterly bewildered demon noble.
By the time the ball wound down, Moss had danced with two spirits, one demon, and — reluctantly — Gary, who stepped on her toes twice on purpose. She retaliated by spinning him too fast and 'accidentally' sending him crashing into a buffet table, thinking with grim satisfaction, One small victory for the Bloom Witch.
Later, she sat in the moonlit garden with a cup of tea, listening to the last strains of off-key hydrangea harmony drifting from the ballroom. The air smelled faintly of pollen, frosting, and someone's dropped shoe. Moonlight pooled across the stone path like silver water, and every so often a petal drifted past her nose as if the night itself wanted to keep dancing. Okay, deep breaths. Survived the ball, survived dancing with a sunflower, survived Gary's commentary. Mostly intact.
The sunflower suitor approached, bowing stiffly before offering her a single perfect golden petal. "For you, Mistress Moss. Thank you for the dance. You have the grace of early morning dew."
Moss felt her cheeks warm despite herself. Oh great, blushing over a flower. What's next, marrying a fern? Or starting a matchmaking service for vegetables? She forced a wry smile. "You're… very polite for a plant."
From the balcony above, Gary's voice rang out like a badly-timed trumpet. "Careful, Bloom Witch! Next thing you know, you'll be dating outside your species!"
Moss tilted her head back to glare at him. "At least he didn't step on my feet like a clumsy ogre." Or try to dip me so low I almost ate the floorboards.
Gary smirked down. "Ogres have better rhythm."
She rolled her eyes, sipping her tea like it could shield her from further embarrassment. Why do I live here again? Oh right—because moving means packing, and packing means sorting through the greenhouse. Not worth it. Aloud, she muttered into her cup, "I really need to start locking the gates — and maybe the windows too… and possibly the chimneys. Just to be safe."