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Terlu woke to sunshine and honey cake.

Daylight streamed through the windows, brightening the snow outside so it gleamed and sparkled with a thousand flashes of color.

Sitting up, she stared out the window at the pine trees and the freshly fallen snow and the greenhouse while her brain caught up to her body, and she remembered where she was and that she was flesh again.

She looked around and saw that the cottage was not precisely as she’d left it: the soup pot no longer hung over the fire, the dishes she’d used and cleaned had been put away, and a plate with a thick slice of honey cake was sitting on the table next to a fork and a neatly folded napkin.

How nice!

Oh wait, this isn’t good.

The gardener had come home. And Terlu hadn’t woken.

In fact, the entire night had passed and a slice of the morning, and she’d slept through it all.

She glanced at the chair, and the winged cat was gone as well.

What must the gardener have thought when he found her asleep in his bed?

He’d said to rest, but all night? In his own bed?

Yet he hadn’t woken her up. Where had he slept?

Had he slept? He’d done plenty of chores. Including making me breakfast.

At least she assumed it was for her; she had no actual way to know that, unless he’d left a note, which it didn’t look like he had.

She imagined what such a note would say: Dear stranger in my bed.

Or Dear intruder . Or I liked you better as a statue .

She got out of bed and ran her tongue over her teeth.

Her mouth felt gummy, and she wished she had her brush and paste. Also, a privy.

“Um, hello? I’m awake now? Are you still home?” Of course he wasn’t.

She checked the narrow door by the kitchen sink and, happily, found the washroom, complete with a sink, toilet (with a pull-chain to flush!), and all the amenities.

Fresh water was in a deep bowl next to a sponge and a towel that smelled like rosemary.

Had he left this for her, as well as the honey cake? She wished he’d stayed for her to ask.

Guilt swirled inside her, also hunger. She loved honey cake, but she’d eaten his soup and slept in his bed the entire night, and to assume he was fine with her taking more…

I am the worst houseguest ever. She could bake him a blueberry pie as thanks.

Everyone liked pie. Of course he’d have to loan her the ingredients, which wouldn’t make it much of a thank you.

She picked up the towel and noticed there were clothes beneath it—pants of the softest wool she’d ever felt and a knit top, as well as clean socks and undergarments, all of which looked her size—and that decided her.

He’d left these for her to use, and he’d thought of everything.

There was a wedge of soap, as well as jar of toothpaste.

Terlu washed, changed, and emerged, half expecting him to be in the cottage waiting for her, but he wasn’t. It was empty. She felt a little shiver. Just a cottage. Not a storage closet. And she wasn’t on a pedestal; she could walk outside whenever she wanted.

She glanced at the chair, wishing the cat had stayed.

It was quiet, except for the soft crackle of the fire in the hearth. It burned low, and she wondered if she should add another piece of firewood or if he preferred it low. She left it as it was and sat at the table to eat the honey cake in silence.

He’d left a syrup for the cake, which she poured on top, and the moist cake soaked it in.

She took a bite—it was perfection: vanilla and honey and lightness.

It tasted like sunrise, and all of a sudden she didn’t mind that she was alone.

She didn’t feel alone anymore. She poured water from a pitcher by the sink, and she discovered it tasted like strawberries and mint, which was amazing in winter.

She marveled at it. Perhaps there was another greenhouse room full of herbs and strawberries, miraculously ripe in the heart of winter.

Terlu cleaned after she finished and tried to think of how she could leave a thank-you, but she had nothing and didn’t want to use any of his paper without asking—she’d already eaten his food, slept in his bed, and used his toothpaste. I’ll simply have to find him, she resolved.

The coat and scarf were where she’d left them, and she put them on.

She was pleased to discover that her night’s sleep had cured her of the aches she’d felt when she’d transformed back into flesh.

She hoped there wouldn’t be any lasting effects from her time as a statue.

That would be nice. She wondered if there had ever been any studies done on the long-term effects of transformation spells.

If she had access to the Great Library, she could check, but she had the sense that she was a very long way from the stacks she knew.

She wondered how far. How had she come here?

Had she been loaded onto a boat like a piece of lumber?

Had she been shipped with supplies? Or had she been treated like a person as she traveled?

Did whoever transported her know she’d once been a person?

Why had she been sent anywhere? She’d been positioned on her pedestal for a purpose.

Every new librarian received their training in the North Reading Room, and so they’d all been told her story, in whispers or as a lesson.

They’d read the plaque beneath her and wonder: Why had she done it?

Why had she risked so much? Sacrificed so much?

It hadn’t been for the good of the empire, and it hadn’t been for her own wealth or personal gain—why would anyone want to cast a spell to create a sentient houseplant?

She wondered if anyone knew the ignoble truth: it was because she didn’t think she could take one more hour in the stacks without anyone to talk to.

She didn’t want to quit, and she didn’t want to leave—she loved the library, and she believed that she could be good at her job, if she could just solve this one little problem.

Even more, she didn’t want to slink home and admit that she’d failed to make it in the capital city.

Her family hadn’t wanted her to leave, and they hadn’t understood why she’d been so desperate to find a place where she felt she had purpose.

Maybe it had been pride or some other personality flaw that had led her to casting the spell that created a self-aware spider plant named Caz, but she had truly thought that since she wasn’t doing any harm, as Rijes Velk herself had pointed out, no one would mind or even notice.

She’d been very, very wrong about that.

In retrospect, she supposed the sudden appearance of a talking plant had been rather difficult to ignore.

Anyway, that was the past, and now she had an unexpected present to face.

It was clear what she had to do: find the gardener, thank him, and apologize.

And then bombard him with as many questions as he’d answer before he ran away again, including how much time had passed since her trial.

She couldn’t keep avoiding that question just because she was afraid she wouldn’t like the answer.

Outside, the day was crisp but beautiful. She inhaled deeply. Overhead, birds were singing to one another, cascading trills from high in the branches. She caught a glimpse of a red cardinal, bright scarlet against the white snow, green pine, and blue sky, as it flew over the top of the greenhouses.

The snow crunched under her feet as she let herself inside and then hung up the coat and scarf. “Gardener? Kitty? Good morning!”

Silence greeted her.

“Good morning, flowers,” she said to the plants.

None of them answered her either.

She walked between the lilies and lilacs, inhaling their heady perfume and listening for any hint of sound from any direction that would tell her where to go. She thought she heard a hum to her left. She followed that path.

Opening the door to the next greenhouse, she was greeted with music.

Smaller than the prior rooms, this greenhouse was an octagon filled with flowers both in pots and planted directly into the soil, all in full blossom: tulips, daffodils, lilies, roses, and orchids, as well as tulip trees, magnolia trees, and dogwood trees.

Every flower on every plant and tree was singing wordlessly in perfect harmony.

No one had written this music. It flowed and evolved, notes tumbling over one another and then joining in chords more by happy accident than design.

The harmonies melded and split and flowed around her, washing over her as gently as a stream over stones, and Terlu stood on the path and felt the tears flow down her cheeks.

She wasn’t certain why she was crying— I’m alive.

I slept, I washed, I ate . She had no reason to cry.

Stop it, she told herself, but that had no effect.

If she hadn’t just been thinking about Caz, then it might not have hit her so hard, but she was thinking about him, the friend she’d made and lost, when she walked into the greenhouse of singing flowers.