Home at last. "Ah, Dagfari! It’s good to see you again."

//And you, lady. There’s a parcel in the hall.//

I shut the front door behind me (no bang, just a slight squelch, but I don’t think I’ll investigate), and examine the large cardboard box. It is marked with sundry and various signs, the most notable of which include the Scared Chao, a small drawing of a safety pin, and the legend "A Trust from the Minister."

Suspicious, I pull my trusty number 23 throwing knife from its sheath in my petticoats, and slide the point into the cello tape in such a manner that it is cut. Well, that was the plan; as soon as the stainless silver (the elves call it mithriI, pretentious buggers) touches the cardboard, the flaps on top of the box fly open and a small dragon appears.

It’s a fairly average looking beast, for a dragon, except that it has long ears in the style favoured by lop-eared rabbits (all the way down to its wings—it’s a wonder the poor thing can move), and each scale has a tuff of grey fur protruding from it. It can’t be much over a year old—the teeth still have verdigris on them.

"Got a carrot, mister?" it squeaks, a rasping sound akin to that produced by taking a file down a metal coat hanger, and shifts its grip on the side of the box.

I kneel in front of it (noticing, with a quick grimace, that it’s last meal was probably pickled onions). "Look here, dragon…"

"Not a dragon. I’m a mutant plot enemy bunny."

"I thought it had been quiet around here for a while. Anyway, I don’t know why you’re here or what you’re doing, but a) I’m not a mister, I’m a miss, and b) I haven’t got any carrots."

"Alright, miss. Chocolate cookies?"

"That I can see about. What’s your name?"

"Jossica."

"What?!?"

"Jossica. My father was an evil overlordling, and my mother wanted to embrace the metaness of it."

"I see. Mine’s Am-Chau."

"Niece of the moon?" It giggles, another terrible, high-pitched noise with that coat hanger tone.

"I was about to get to the ‘so I shouldn’t laugh’ part, but I think I won’t bother now. Come on, the breakfast room’s this way. I don’t think I can handle asking why you’re here without something to sustain me."

I seem to have killed Sang Sacre.

Maybe I should just give in and start learning the Evil Overlord List by heart already.

Not to worry, Am. We get these stretches once in a while where nothing much happens in town. Peace and quiet. It's sort of like summer hiatus on Buffy.

Yeah.

t /worrying

As if I could ever really close that tag.

Huh.

I took a nap on St. Patrick's Day and now people are taking down the Cinco De Mayo decorations. How. . . odd.

I stretch - an effort that does not quite kill me, and start checking out the house. Dusty, but intact. My head is shaggy and, yes, a full crop of leg hair. Perhaps this is my chance to try waxing.

Oh, dear. There's a pile of mail at the door and my machine is blinking.

After a moment I decide against going back to bed and instead press the message button.

"Hey boss, the shipment you were expecting finally got here."

I put down my spinning fluxometer and check out the box Hans is bringing down. After ripping off the biohazard marked wrapping and various strips of tape marked with silly warnings, I finally get to the steel box in the middle of all the bubble wrap. A quick peek inside confirms that my order has correctly delivered.

"Excellent." I say to nobody in particular. "Hans. Get the genetic lab ready. With a few special touches these babies will assure my victory in the Sang Sacre gardening club contest."

With a few special touches these babies will assure my victory in the Sang Sacre gardening club contest.

noooooo!

The cat has apparently learned to use the can opener during my, er, coma. Well, good for her. Raven appears remarkably unphased by my lengthy check-out, which confirms what I've always suspected about cats.

It took me two hours to dust the place, and another two to clean and replenish the fridge. I've left messages with Aimee and Am-Chau explaining my rudeness in returning calls - now for mail.

Wow. What a lot of gardening catalogues. I gather a bundle of them, snag a cup of hot tea and head for the porch to dream of better things. It's a bit of a wilderness out there, but it's pretty. Some foresighted former tenant planted about a million bulbs long ago - grape hyacinths, tulips, irises, paperwhites - all blooming at once. Unlikely, but cool. I bet Sang Sacre has some great gardening clubs. I should definitely look into that.

"Bob, I had a deadline. You're not supposed to distract me so much I lose track of deadlines."

"I thought the only deadline you were interested in was the line between my abs."

"Right. For that you get tickled."

"Somewhere in the city a penguin weeps."

I'm wet, I'm dirty, and raspberry brambles are attempting coitus with my hair. I feel fully justified in ignoring my husband if he's going to speak in faux-Zen.

Gardening is filthy, backbreaking, gloriously satisfying work. I've sheared dead branches off my raspberry bushes, freed my strawberries from tenacious maple sproutlings, raked a forest of autumn leaves … God - did I say gloriously satisfying? I meant never-freaking-ending. Why did we buy such a large lot? Right, because I wanted to garden. Why so many trees? Right, because I like trees.

Cursing my stupid distaste for concrete and asphalt I leaned back on my heels, applying upward pressure on the pernicious weed I held in a deathgrip. It submitted, releasing its hold on the rich loam with an utterly gratifying 'pop'. I brandished my vanquished foe, triumphantly displaying its icebergian root.

"If you care to pause in your noxious weed jihad, lunch is ready."

Oooh, food.

"As long as you're not serving greens, I'm all yours."

"I wish you'd stop putting conditions on our relationship."

He managed to dodge the mud I flung toward him as we dashed toward the house.

***

I stood on the back deck, hands on hips, Mistress of my Domain, fully satisfied.

"You gotta love Blood."

Whilst we were eating a wind had blown up, scouring the yard of fallen leaves, whipping the dead grass from the lawn, removing the detritus of winter, leaving everything black and green and growing.

I dashed across the emerald turf to the flowerbeds. I cooed over Gypsy Girl crocuses, the wee yellow cups streaked with a purple so dark as to seem black. I oohed over the shy, delicate snowdrops, trembling in the breeze. I aahed at the silky soft catikins on my French willow. I scowled at the spiky green plant sullying the pristine earth.

"Die, motherfucker." I growled as I dove - spike in hand - at the cheerful yellow flower.

As I wrestled it out of the ground I heard a far off howl of dismay and caught the faint scent of herring on the wind.