Moss woke to an unusual silence in the castle — the kind that made her suspicious. No grumbling from Gary, no creaking from Weedwick's ancient walls, and most importantly, no sarcastic snipes from Spike, the sentient cactus who usually guarded the hall like a spiny bouncer. The air felt almost… too still, as if the castle was holding its breath.
She padded into the greenhouse, the morning light spilling across rows of sleepy ferns and yawning petunias. Dew pearled on glass panes like nervous sweat. "Spike?" she called, her voice bouncing uncomfortably in the stillness. No response — only the faint rustle of leaves from a draft. That's weird… he never misses morning complaints. Unless he's finally decided to run away… no, wait, he can't run. Hopping maybe? Rolling? Oh no… rolling would be worse.
A clay pot coughed politely. Gary, already polished and preening on a shelf, peered over the rim of a book. "If you're looking for the thorny menace, he's not here. Tragic."
"Tragic?" Moss repeated flatly.
"I meant for the wallpaper. It will miss being punctured."
Twig burst in, panting and wide-eyed, clutching a crumpled piece of paper like it was a death warrant. "He's gone! Vanished! There's only a note! Also I ate a scone I found on the stairs and now my tongue's purple."
"Focus, Twig." Moss yanked the paper from his hands and read aloud: "Don't worry, we're taking your cactus friend somewhere safe. You are clearly cursed. Love, the Concerned Citizens of Willowfen."
She blinked. "Safe? He's a walking weapon with needles and an ego problem. And cursed? That's just his personality."
Gary shut his book with a thwap. "If they want to keep him, I can draft a lease."
Moss shot him a look. "No leases." She rolled the paper in her fist. Okay. Breathe. Go get him back. Preferably before he convinces the villagers to worship him as a very cranky god. "Twig, with me. Gary, tell Weedwick to lower the back bridge."
Gary smirked. "Already done. Weedwick's feeling dramatic and chose the squeakiest chains."
Weedwick answered with a long, theatrical groan that rattled the panes. Moss patted the wall on her way out. "Good morning to you too, sweetheart."
The road wound through wildflower fields and sun-dappled groves, but Moss barely noticed. She marched with her hands on her hips, muttering darkly, her jaw set in a way that made even the daisies lean away. If they've hurt him… no, they wouldn't. Would they? Ugh, why am I even worried? He's probably enjoying bossing them around. Or starting a gambling ring for hedgehogs.
Twig glanced up at her and gulped; he swore he saw her eyes flash like stormlight. The air around her seemed to bristle with green energy, enough to make his own leaves shiver and shed a few out of sheer nerves. "Um… Moss?" he squeaked. "You're scaring the chlorophyll out of me."
Moss inhaled sharply, forcing her shoulders down. Okay. Calm. Anger won't help Spike. Deep breaths, Bloom Witch, deep breaths. The storm-light faded from her eyes bit by bit, though her jaw still ached from clenching.
Twig trotted at her side, holding a stick like a sword, watching her carefully. "If they've cursed him, I'll un-curse him. I learned three counter-curses from a traveling magician."
"Were they real?"
"Two were recipes for soup."
"Of course they were." Moss kicked a pebble. It obediently sprouted moss and rolled into the ditch. "Twig, remember: we're rescuing, not starting a brawl."
"Define 'brawl.'"
"Anything that ends with you in a barrel."
Twig sighed. "Fine."
A squirrel-sprite hopped along a fence and pointed. "Big angry plant. Village square." It stared at Moss's dress. "You have leaf in hair."
Moss batted it free. "That's my entire brand, thanks."
Willowfen sat like a thimble in a bowl of hills — thatched roofs huddled close together, smoke rising in lazy ribbons from crooked chimneys, a lopsided inn leaning as though tired of listening to gossip, and geraniums flaming red in nearly every window. Chickens clucked through the dirt lanes, and children darted between market stalls that smelled of bread and woodsmoke. The entire population had gathered in the square, clustering around a chair set up like some ridiculous throne. And in that chair sat Spike, tied up with a robe sash, wearing a garland of daisies like a floral prisoner. His eyes narrowed at her approach — and at everyone else within range, sharp and glinting like he was memorizing every villager's soul for later judgment.
Moss stopped dead. "Oh, for roots' sake."
She raised her voice. "Release him right now!"
The crowd murmured. An elderly woman wrung her hands. "But he pricked the baker's boy!"
Spike rattled his spines like an angry maraca. "He tried to pet me! I'm not a cat! Do I look like I purr?"
A tall man near the well muttered, "It's the eyes. They follow you around. Very unsettling."
A child piped up, "He told our scarecrow it was underperforming."
"Because it was," Spike snapped. "Birds were laughing at it."
Moss planted her hands on her hips, swept the crowd with a look she usually reserved for invasive aphids, and strode to the chair. "You tied up my friend because his eyes creep you out and he offered honest feedback? He's a cactus! That's just his face! And his brand." She bent to untie him. "Also, daisies? He's allergic to twee."
"That's not a real allergy," said a woman with flour on her sleeves.
Spike hissed. "It is now."
The village elder — a wiry man with a ceremonial broom — cleared his throat. "We convened a safety council. Creatures with curses must be contained." He held up a pamphlet titled So Your Neighbor Is Hexed. "It says so here."
Moss snatched it, scanned a paragraph, and deadpanned, "This is a recipe for carrot cake." She flipped the page. "And this is a word search about goats."
"We're a small village," the elder said, wounded. "Sometimes we reuse paper."
"Sometimes," Moss said sweetly, "you also reuse terrible ideas." She sliced the rope with a flick of green fire. It charred into ash and puffed away. Spike stood, bristling so hard his silhouette doubled.
The crowd collectively shuffled back.
"Now," Moss said, dusting off Spike's garland and handing it to Twig, who immediately wore it as a belt, "let's have a quick lesson. If a cactus says 'don't touch me,' you don't touch it. If it complains about your scarecrow, maybe check the scarecrow. And if you think a plant is cursed — ask someone who speaks fluent photosynthesis."
"Do you?" the floury woman asked.
Moss smiled thinly. "Do I look like a pamphlet?"
Twig hopped in place, saluting with his stick. "Also, if you tie up our cactus again, I will bite you!" He paused. "Legally."
Spike leaned forward, spines clattering. "And I'll remember every single one of you. By name. Alphabetically."
"That seems… time-consuming," the elder said.
"I have time," Spike replied.
"Years," Moss added.
The elder blanched. "Right. Well. Perhaps we were… overcautious." He glanced at the baker's boy, who wore a bandage on one finger and an enormous, contrite frown.
"Did you ask before you petted him?" Moss asked.
The boy scuffed his shoe. "No."
"Try again," Spike said, tone flat. "With words."
The boy squared his shoulders. "Mr. Spike, may I… um… observe you respectfully from over here?"
Spike considered. "Acceptable."
The crowd exhaled, as if a storm had blown past.
"Excellent," Moss said crisply. "I'm taking him home."
"Do you… want pastries?" the baker whispered. "As apology?"
Twig gasped. "Yes."
Moss elbowed him. "Maybe one." She accepted a paper sack of warm cinnamon twists and handed it to Spike, who sniffed it suspiciously.
"Eat with your mouth," she advised. "Not your spines."
Spike grunted. "I know how to pastry."
Why Spike?
On the walk out of Willowfen, Twig frowned. "Why did they take Spike and not the others?"
Moss sighed, brushing dirt from her palms. "Because he looks and acts the most unusual. Those spines, those glaring eyes, the sarcastic mouth that never shuts up. He startles people, pricks anyone careless enough to touch him, and even insulted their scarecrow. To them, that made him the obvious cursed one."
Spike muttered darkly. "I was right about that scarecrow."
"The others seemed more ornamental or gentle," Moss continued. "But you, Spike, you're all teeth and temper. That makes you memorable. And scary. Which is why they thought they were 'rescuing' you."
Spike puffed up proudly despite himself. "Good. I am memorable."
Moss pinched the bridge of her nose. "That's not the moral here."
They trudged home in prickly silence until Spike said, very stiffly, "They called me 'Mr. Pokey.'"
Moss swallowed a laugh. "Could've been worse. They might've knitted you a sweater."
Spike froze mid-step. "Over my dead cactus body."
"Don't tempt me," she said, picturing him in a bright pink jumper with bobbing pom-poms. I'd frame the memory forever. She shot him a sideways glance. "How are you really?"
"Fine." He bristled. "Their rope was cheap." A beat. "I did not like being… displayed."
Moss's cheeks cooled. "I know." She bumped his side gently with her elbow, careful of spines. "For what it's worth, I hate being displayed too."
Spike eyed her. "You did fine at your ridiculous ball."
"I hid behind a sunflower and considered faking my own death."
"Hm." Spike tore off a microscopic piece of cinnamon twist and pretended not to eat it. "Villagers are illogical."
"True," Moss said. "So are cacti."
"Rude." But his spines softened a fraction.
Twig, trailing behind, munched loudly. "Do you two want a moment? I can hum. I know one song." He hummed a single off-key note for so long Moss tossed him another pastry to make it stop.
They crossed the meadow toward Weedwick, whose towers caught the sun and threw it back in sleepy glints. The castle's gate chains squealed as the drawbridge lowered — dramatic, indignant, fond.
"Home," Moss said, and the word unclenched something tight behind her ribs.
Gary looked up from his book with mock disappointment as they clattered into the great hall. "I was this close to renting out his room. Had a buyer and everything. Nice guy. Didn't have spikes. Smelled like lavender."
"Too bad," Moss said, passing Spike a glazed pot of fresh, mineral-rich soil Weedwick produced with a low hum. "He's family — prickles and all."
Spike crossed his spiny arms. "You're lucky I like you."
"Mm," Gary said. "Tragic. I suppose I'll refund the deposit."
"You took a deposit?" Moss asked.
Gary feigned shock. "Am I not allowed to monetize tragedy?"
"No," Moss and Spike said together.
Weedwick's rafters creaked — the castle's version of a chuckle. Ivy along the banister unfurled a single leaf to pat Spike's shoulder and then thought better of it.
Twig saluted Weedwick. "Mission accomplished! We bravely negotiated with the townspeople. And accepted pastries."
"You accepted pastries," Spike said.
"Diplomacy," Twig insisted.
Moss leaned against a pillar, exhaustion ballooning behind her eyes. Okay, that's one crisis handled. Add it to the list titled "Things That Should Not Be My Job." She glanced at Spike. "Room. Now. We'll re-pot you before dinner."
"I refuse to be re-potted," Spike sniffed. Then, grudging: "Fine. If the pot is handsome."
Weedwick obligingly shifted a tile. A handsome pot rolled into view as if it had been waiting for its cue.
"Show-off," Moss murmured to the castle, unable to stop her smile.
In the greenhouse annex, warm with filtered light and the smell of damp soil, Moss set out supplies: trowel, mineral mix, a teacup (for her), and a tiny bell (for emergencies; it didn't do anything but made her feel organized). Spike stood in his old pot like an angry prince.
"On three," Moss said. "One—"
Spike popped himself free with a muttered curse and a shower of grit.
"—or now," Moss finished dryly. She examined his roots with professional care. "Healthy. Sulky."
"I am never sulky."
"Mm-hm." She lined the new pot, centered him, and backfilled with the soil Weedwick had produced, rich and gritty. "How's that?"
Spike settled, a fraction less defensive. "Acceptable." Then, quietly: "Do not let them tie me again."
Moss's throat went tight, then relaxed into something wry. "I'd like to see them try." She tapped his pot. "You tell me next time."
"I did tell you," he said. "You were asleep."
"Try louder."
Gary peered around the door. "Are we done with feelings? I've prepared a statement on the economic downsides of kidnapping my least-favorite roommate."
Spike and Moss groaned in harmony, which made Gary's day.
Because Moss could not resist properly untangling messes (and because Weedwick nudged a door in what might have been encouragement), she returned to Willowfen the next afternoon with Twig and an armful of pamphlets she'd made overnight — rough drawings and short notes: How to Greet a Sentient Plant, Consent and Cacti, If It Hisses, Step Back.
The elder met her by the well, broom tucked under his arm like a staff. "We were wrong," he said before she could speak. "The boy apologized. So do I. We acted out of fear."
"Fear is compost," Moss said, handing him the top pamphlet. "Sometimes it helps things grow. Sometimes it just smells bad." She passed out leaflets to anyone who would take one. Twig demonstrated proper distance by backing away from a regular, non-sentient shrub in a dramatic crab-walk until he fell into a barrel. Children cheered.
The baker's boy approached with a small box. "For Mr. Spike. Cinnamon twists. No daisies."
Moss took it. "He'll appreciate it. The no-daisies part most of all." She hesitated, then added, "If you ever see something you don't understand… ask. There's no curse in questions."
The elder nodded, quiet.
Back at Weedwick, night pressed soft and blue against the glass. The castle hummed the way it did when it was pleased with itself. Moss sat on the conservatory steps with a blanket and a mug, watching moths flutter at the lanterns. Spike stood nearby, a green shadow in his handsome pot.
"Do you really remember people alphabetically?" she asked.
"Yes," Spike said. A beat. "I am on 'C'."
"Charming." She sipped her tea. You did well. You fixed a thing. No one died. Small victories count. "Thanks for not, you know, stabbing anyone."
"I considered it," Spike admitted. "But Twig was watching."
"Ah, yes. Impressionable youth." She leaned her head back, gazing at the rafters. "Weedwick, lock the gates?"
The castle's ivy rustled in assent. Somewhere, a bar slid home with a contented clunk.
Twig poked his head in, hair full of paper confetti from the pamphlet-cutting. "Are we celebrating? I can bake! I make two things."
"What are they?" Moss asked, wary.
"Toast and smoke."
"No," Moss and Spike said together, then glanced at each other and, to their mutual horror, smiled.
Gary drifted past, humming. "I've decided to keep Spike's room available. For a fee. In case he gets kidnapped again."
"Gary," Moss said mildly, "if you list Spike's room on a lodging board, I will turn you into a planter."
Gary preened. "I'd make a fabulous planter."
Spike muttered, "I'd bury you in you."
"Children," Moss said, without heat.
Silence fell — a good silence, comfortable as thick moss. The sort that didn't hide anything, didn't threaten to break. Weedwick breathed with them, settling its stones. Out in the dark, the wildflowers slept with their faces to the moon.
Moss tucked the blanket tighter and let her eyes drift shut, thinking: He's safe. I'm safe. For tonight, that's enough.
From his pot, Spike said, so softly she almost missed it, "Thankyou."