"What's his problem?" Phred asks, pointing his thumb back in the general direction of the caterwauling coming from inside the house.

"He's ticked because I rejected his ideas for the garden." I stab the spading fork deep into the dark soil so that it stands up on its own. I leave it there, remove my leather gloves, and use my Dodgers baseball cap to swab at the sweat on my forehead. I put the cap back on, adjusting it on my head. "I told him that all I wanted was a simple little tomato patch, with maybe a couple of cantaloupe plants. He gives me a garden plan the put The Victory Garden to shame. There was corn, and peppers, and eggplants, and beans, and peas, and even kohlrabi, for heaven's sake. And turnips. Yards and yards of turnips. The stupid bird doesn't even eat vegetables!"

"I like kohlrabi..."

I hand him the sheet of graph paper with a bird's diagram on it. "Fine. You plant the garden, then. He can't help you. Do you remember what happened the last time he tried to used the weed whacker? Mrs. Harrison hasn't," I say, gesturing towards the house next door. "She sics her rottweiler on him any time he even looks at her rose bushes."

Phred turns the diagram a bit, trying to align it with various landmarks in the back yard. "You know, turnips are tasty, too."

My eyes start rolling like the wheels of a slot machine. "He doesn't even like turnips. He just wants to grow them so he has some raw material for that stupid case of turnip twaddlers he bought. And don't get me started on the frelling beans. Some guy offers to sell him a pack of 'magic' beans, and he gives him the twenty bucks I gave him to use to buy peat moss."

"So... Tomatoes, you say?"

"Yup. Cantaloupes, too. Started the seedlings a month ago. Hand me the rake, would you?"

I can't even go down to the convenience store in the lobby of the Folly without hearing people talking about mulch and deadheading (didn't that make Bob look nervous) and pruning. I dodge some people getting starry-eyed over the gardening magazines in the store as I make my way to the counter.

"Hey, Jake," I say to the clerk. He's too busy reading something. "Jake!"

"Huh! Oh, hi, Connie, what's up?"

"My fridge isn't getting refilled with diet Coke. Is something wrong with the catering spells? Or is this part of the 'You should step outside your flat at least once a week' campaign I've heard about?"

"Oh, gosh, sorry, I've just gotten behind." He holds up a rose catalog. "David Austin's got some new varieties that should work in window boxes. But I'll have your fridge refilled by the time you get back upstairs."

I can think of nothing to say that doesn't make me sound anti-greenspace and hopelessly urban. "Thanks, Jake."

Still, once everything's planted for the season, it'll be nice to go out and look at all the pretty flowers.

"Huh," I say to Jossica when I've finished my breakfast and listened to the message on the answering machine. "Penny seems to think we've lost some time somewhere."

"Stuff like that happens," a voice says from-- somewhere.

"Stay there," I tell the dragonabbit, and go to investigate. Edward is halfway through the letterbox, and flailing about vainly.

"Just pull me through, will you?” she says, irritably.

“Okay, okay,” I say, putting the camera down. It does no harm to have a record of these moments. “What happened to you?”

"Oh, nothing very much. I was nearly cut in half by a lawnmower, a great fat dahlia tried to eat me, and there’s all together too much gardening going on for my tastes. I made it, though."

"Indeed you did. But come, dearest bear, we have company."

"Not one of those dreadful monsters you’re so keen on?"

"Don’t worry, Edward, they only come to visit when the stars are in alignment. No, this is a poor orphan bunny, looking for someone to feed and nurture it."

"Bunny, huh?" A pause. "Clovis! Clovis! CLOVIS!"

"No, not Clovis. Her name is Jossica, and we have to build her a hutch."

"Well, you needn’t think I’m helping with that."

"Oh, I didn’t, I didn’t. Come on—breakfast, planning, and then…"

"Taking over the world?"

"Maybe. If you’re good, and help me tidy up-- no, don't sneer like that, just inside the house-- we’ll see if we can take over the world this afternoon."

Gosh, I'm so excited I'm actually rubbing my hands with glee like a mad scientist or something. Okay, let's try it out.

The potion has turned out a lovely, glittery raspberry colour, which pleases me. Presentation is always important. I gently apply a tablespoon of it to the soil surround the rather unpromising-looking leaves. Within seconds a bud peeps out. I watch it grow fat, grow red. A fantastically full, blood-coloured tulip emerges. It seems almost. . . shiny. The King Tulip reaches a height of 18 inches and begins to sway. Finally it pulls itself out of the soil, bulb intact and marches off the bed.

I open the greenhouse door and watch it go. Not bad. Not bad at all. Not good enough for a blue ribbon, but a nice start. I return to my potions.

I think I have a black thumb. I put in plants...they all die. Of course taking my troll's hammer out to the seedlings is probably not that helpful.But I get so impatient. Maybe there is a spell. Or is magical gardening illegal in Sang Sacre?

Or is magical gardening illegal in Sang Sacre?

You're pronouncing "encouraged" with too many Ls, erika.

Speaking of which... I hear Gud is going above and beyond previous years with the unnatural fertilizer. Now, I've been playing fair so far, but a girl can't beat radioactive isotopes without a little help. So I looked up a few spells, and I'm gonna give the peppermint roses a little kick.

I dig my fingers into the soil at the base of my big rosebush, mutter a few words in an arcane tongue, and feel the power seeping through my fingers. The plant rustles, as if a wind is blowing through it. That'd be the magic, working properly for once. I hope.

I stand up, brush the dirt off my fingers, and head inside. This time, I'm going into the Garden Expo with a fair chance.

"No."

"gardening! pretty flowers!"

I wave the gardening catalog that I confiscated from him in front of Clovis' nose. "These are not pretty flowers. These are dangerous, and will not help you in your goal to take over the world."

Pete comes out from his art studio in back. "What are you on about now? What has the Devilbunny done this time?"

"nothing bad. looking at pretty flowers. for jilli! surprise!"

I show Pete the catalog. He raises an eyebrow, looks at Clovis, then looks back at me. "He said 'surprise'. Are you sure he hasn't ordered them already and they'll just turn up in the flowerbox?"

Clovis waggles his ears indignantly. "nooooo. don't have very own credit card to place order with."

I toss the catalog into the recycling bin, then pick up my Devilbunny. "Why don't you leave gardening to people who like it AND won't destroy things in the process? We'll go visit Amy Parker and look at her flowers."

"stop for coffee and sugary treats first?"

"Oh, alright."

I look at Pete, and realize what he's singing under his breath. "Stop it. You'll only encourage him."

" ... feed me, Seymore, feed me all night ... Oh, alright. Clovis, how were you planning on feeding that plant once you got it?"

"ask connie's friend for help."

I shake my head, give Pete a kiss, and head out the door.

Just for fun I've created several more King Tulips in various colours. Actually, more like several hundred. Damned things are addictive, and besides, I want to try something.

I corral the tulips into the center of the yard, then divide them into small groups. The leader of each group gets a small gift tag to carry.

"Okay, kids. Off you go. Don't get lost!"

The flowers head out. They should be able to go for a mile or two before they need to re-root themselves. With luck, they'll still be nice and fresh for their recipients - all the nice folks in Sang Sacre who've helped me out with the business and the evil-fighting and the hunting and the whatnot.

I do hope no-one's familiar tries munching on the bulbs. I'm sure they'd be bad for bears, bunnies and other living and kind-of-living things.

I'm going to experiment with growing my favorite strawberry-and-banana tree. Cause everyone knows they taste better together anyway. Magical gardening has gotten me into trouble in the past, but as long as I stay away from aphrodisiacs this time I should be fine.

Since I seem to have acquired a primarily nocturnal roommate, I got Bob his own email address on the computer--note to self: make him buy his own computer so I have a chance to work without him pouting about catching up on his boards and chatrooms--but now I'm not so sure.

"What are the refrigerated boxes for, Bob?" I ask, staring at the boxes just delivered by a courier.

"Nothing. Just some gardening supplies."

"They've got biological warnings on them, Bob. And what's that sticker that says '100% Willing Donors: Guaranteed!' mean?"

"Well, People for the Ethical Treatment of Edible Sentient Species keeps making a stink about where, well, some people get their food, is all. Something about it not being nice sneaking up on innocent folk out for a walk in the middle of the night and having dinner on them."

I've never really wanted to think about Bob's ... diet and where he acquires it, but somehow I don't think he's the ultra-modern sort to like his food pre-packaged for easy nuking. He's much more the whole foods, free range, "hunt it down yourself" kind.

"So ... do I need to clean out room in the fridge for you?"

He's checking his email and sending out messages saying "Your shipment is ready for delivery, please specify method" and things like that. "Thanks, but no. Like I said, gardening supplies."

Stupid me, I actually have to think for a moment before I realize that he's probably being absolutely serious. "There are going to be electric fences and chicken wire all over the Garden Show again this year, aren't there."

"After what happened to that toddler last year, I wouldn't be surprised."