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."

We pull up to the weed infested empty lot in my fusion powered Matador wagon.

"There it is, the garden plot." I comment to Inga, my assistant.

We get out of the wagon and start unloading the supplies, a metal box with the seedlings, four posts for the sentry system, a sign, a remote control, and two sunglasses. While we're busy unloading, I notice all the people enjoying the outdoors this fine day.

"This weather is really bringing people outside."

Inga looks around. "That and the blackout from starting the car."

"I need to fix that someday." I say as I slam shut the wagon's hatch. "Deploy the sentry system and I'll plant the garden."

Inga goes to each corner of the lot and activates a post. Meanwhile, I walk out to the center of the lot and dump out the contents of the metal box. After Inga activates the last post, I use the remote to set my plants to "assimilate".

The seedlings attack and infect the weeds. My garden of Gudflowers expands like ripples in a pond, only stopped by the invisible barrier defined by the sentry posts. I switch the remote to "display".

The field of flowers begin shifting through a database of bloom types and colors. Red, yellow, purple, white, blue, chrome, rainbow, and a million other shades.

"Impressive. Do you think it'll win?" Asks Inga.

I pick up the sunglasses. I hand one pair to Inga and don the other pair for myself. Then I adjust the remote and flag down a passerby. "Miss, miss could you give me your opinion on this garden?"

The women looks at the shifting patterns of colors and shapes for a couple of seconds. "Well, it's uh... uh...all hail the Gudflower. All power to the Gudflower" She finishes off in a monotone that would make a zombie proud.

"It's in the bag, Inga." I turn off the hypo-display and pound in my Do not sniff the flowers. Extreme danger. sign before getting back in the wagon and returning the castle.

Roses, cliched, or classic? I lean toward the latter view myself, but who know how demented Sang Sacre judges are - or in what way.

I judiciously trim a few leaves from the big white and check for aphids. I find none. This may be because I fertilize with a substance of my own creation which is supposed to give pests horrible dreams - but how do you check something like that?

One of the fat buds has already opened. The bloom is pearly white with a berry-pink center. I generously water the roots, then hold my glass to the single flower. Within a few seconds my glass is half-full.

I swirl the contents of my glass and take a sniff. Flowery. That seems appropriate. There's a bit of a honey scent, some acid undertones. I hesitantly bring the glass to my lips.

Damnation! It's too sweet! This crap is more fit for a high school hen party than a Sang Sacre flower show.

I give the rose bush a moody pat and a few words of encouragement. After all, it's my fault the wine sucks. I look at the Shiraz Red which has yet to bloom. Sigh. Back to the drawing board.

"Honey...a giant, walking tulip just ate the mailman." I turn away from the mail slot, still crouching.

She calls down from her bubble-bath. "Did he have mail for us."

I look out again.

Chomp...chomp...chomp

"Yep. Looks like bills though."

Water splashes and bubbles float down the stairs. She giggles, so I assume she is reading her Interactive Harlequin Romance Firefly books TM again.

"Just as long as it wasn't my Nathan Fillian Pillow Slips TM," she says.

I don't know what to say to that, so I shrug. I let the mail slot close on the gruesome carnage, and retire to the kitchen. Maybe I should whip up some Gina Torres cheesecakes...

"I thought you didn't want him gardening." Phred tossed back the last of his ice tea.

"I got tired of the whining. A whining penguin is one of the most obnoxious sounding things ever. So I told him he could dig his own garden in that little patch over there. There'll be turnips, oh, and those stupid beans he got with my twenty bucks."

"Well, maybe it'll work out. I like turnips."

"Yeah, I figured he couldn't get into too much trouble. What could possibly go wrong with beans?"

Being a shadow is not as much fun as you might expect. Oh sure, you can lurk around and eavesdrop on conversations, learning all sorts of insider information that would be really useful if you could get a broker to take your calls. They won't, though. You're a shadow.

"Thank you for calling Fidelity. How may I direct your call?"

"…"

"Hello? Who did you wish to speak to?"

"…!"

click

But, hey, it isn't all downside. There is all the cool stuff about being two-dimensional, without the hassle of not being able to figure out what is going on in that tricky third dimension. Cruising along walls is fun. Bricks are a tickly.

Sang Sacre is just loaded with textures to slide around on. I'm hanging out in a garden, wallowing through the roses. Hitched a ride on a penguin. He's planting some beans. I'm hoping it's going to be one of those Jack and the Beanstalk type of deals. Being a giant beanstalk shadow would just have to be great. I'm looking forward to sweeping across the whole city like the hour hand on Dog's Own sundial.

I should have done this at night, when I'd have Bob's company, but, damn, this is spooky enough in broad daylight.

The Blood is empty. Well, no, not "empty", per se, but what's roaming about is not necessarily pleasant. The Pack are making the rounds, but they look baffled and over-worked. I spent ten minutes trying to convince a nerve-wracked Border Collie that I wasn't set up to manage things in the absence of all the other people. He finally gave me a look of utter canine distrust and took off after some ambulatory tulips that must have escaped from somebody's experimental garden.

Nothing looks damaged or broken into, it's just ... empty. And there's a weird disorientation, as if the city had been picked up bodily and moved somewhere ... else. Everything looks the same, but there's a different feel to the air. It's a better feel, though. I never realized it, but there had been a feeling of tense threat growing in the past couple of months, and it had nothing to do with eviler-than-usual politicians or invasions.

Still, for all the sun is especially bright and the winds off the Lagoon are especially fresh, I'm coming back out tonight with Bob to check the constellations. Just to be sure.

"No! No No NO!" Edward squeaks. "Give me the hammer!"

"It's larger than you are," I reply, as reasonably as I can. "Besides... oh, FUCK!"

"See? You couldn't build a wooden box if it..."

Okay, that's enough. I stand up to my full five foot seven and three quarters, square my shoulders, look menacing, and say, quietly but firmly, "Listen here, Edward Fhtagn, Minon of Clovis and Descendent of the House of Little Piblington. I am the one attempting to house a..." I wave my hand vaugely in Jossica's direction, "a creature from some alien world. I am the one in charge around here. I am the one who, err, who has to save the world. I have to get this done, and get it done tonight!"

"Tonight, huh? Fat chance of the that happening! You wouldn't get this stupid hutch built if you had a million years!"

"Not so!" I declare, wave my hand in random and mystical passes over the wood and nails, and conjure them to form the desired dragonabbit residence.

Unfortunately, I forgot to allow for the energy required. A large hole appares beneath my feet, and as I fall, the last thing I hear is the sound of Edward giggling.

That'll teach me to play around on a ley line.

The taxi pulls to the curb in my street, and I get out with a relieved sigh. Damn, it's good to be home.

But I don't get a good look at the house until I've got my luggage out of the trunk and the taxi's gone. And that's when I realize that I don't have a house anymore, so much as I have a giant rosebush.

Really, it's a lucky thing I learned so any new and inventive curses from Firefly.

"Aargh! Fertilizer spells are not meant to go untended for two weeks! I do not want to live in Sleeping Beauty's rutting castle! Damn yoooouuuu, Hostrocket!"

Maybe someone can lend me a chainsaw. On the other hand, I'm a shoo-in for the Giant Plants competition.