The Enchanted Garden, during the day, looked like a piece of botanical concept art, complete with neon colors and sensory overload. Some of the plants glowed, others hummed; a few even tried to bite when you got too close. The air was a confusing mix of earthy, floral, and spicy scents that made me feel like I was nose-first in a wizard’s salad bar. I spotted Tilda near the greenhouse, her platinum hair shimmering like an elven tapestry.

"Tyler," she called out, waving a hand stacked with parchment. "We need to get the herb inventory in order for the Founders’ Feast."

I liked the way she said "we," as if I were actually part of her team. Maybe even her equal. Foolishly optimistic, sure, but a guy could dream.

"No problem," I said, trotting over. "Just tell me what to do."

Tilda handed me the stack of parchment, and I pretended it wasn’t as heavy as a pile of wet logs. "Start by sorting these. Make sure we have enough of everything. The Feast is in less than a week, and we're way behind."

She wore an apron over her usual stylish ensemble, looking every bit the magical homemaker. It was cute, in a Tilda sort of way. She had this aura of competence that made you believe she could bake a pie while fending off a dragon attack.

I studied the top sheet, which listed a dizzying array of herbs: mandrake root, hellebore, eye of newt. "Got it," I said, not getting it at all. This was the kind of grunt work a Fetch was supposed to do, not the new Chapter Advisor of House Wisenforth. But when Tilda Swan asked for help, you didn’t say no.

"Thanks, Tyler. I’ll be in the greenhouse if you need me."

I watched her walk away, then rolled up my sleeves and glanced around with a mix of curiosity and terror. The garden was beautiful in a "welcome to the jungle" kind of way, but I had no idea where to start. I muttered to myself, "Don’t screw this up, King. They need these for the Feast."

I squared my shoulders and dived in, like a non-swimmer jumping into the deep end of a very disorganized and prickly pool.

Thirty minutes in, and I was ready to hex myself. Who knew there were so many different types of mortars and pestles? I’d tried to consolidate the inventory twice, and each time I found another stash tucked away like illicit contraband. My hands were nicked and sappy, my once-proud sleeves a disaster zone.

"Bloody hell," I said, knocking over yet another pot. It crashed to the ground with a ceramic shriek, scattering soil and what looked like green fingers. I felt my face flush as hot as a phoenix tear, sure that Tilda would come running to berate me. I kind of hoped she would; at least I’d get to see her.

But she stayed in the greenhouse, probably growing something useful and non-fragile. I sighed, bent down, and started to scoop up the dirt with my ruined sleeves when a hand – slender, not mine – extended a trowel.

I looked up to see Tilda, her face a calm lake of emotions. "Thought you might need this," she said, not unkindly.

"I had it under control," I lied, taking the trowel with the grace of a troll accepting a flower.

She shrugged, and the motion sent a ripple through her usually poised posture. "Accidents happen. Especially in the Enchanted Garden."

Was that... forgiveness? Tilda had a way of speaking that made every sentence sound like an ancient rune, carefully crafted and imbued with multiple layers of meaning. I never knew how to take her.

The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

"I'll pay for the pot," I said, trying to sound noble. "And for the herbs. I know they’re expensive."

Her lips did that thing where they started to curve into a smile but thought better of it. "Don't worry about it. We've broken dozens in our time."

Our time. That’s right – this garden was a legacy for her. Every piece of flora had roots not just in the soil but in the traditions of House Wisenforth. For a moment, I felt even smaller than the crushed herbs.

She didn’t wait for me to decline her help; she just started working, sweeping the soil into her hands with a practiced gentleness. I watched her for a beat, then dug in with the trowel, trying to match her pace.

"So," I said, because the silence was killing me, "do you do all the gardening by hand? Seems like you could just wave a wand and make it grow."

She looked up, and I thought she might scold me for my wizardly laziness. Instead, she said, "There's a magic touch that wands can't replicate."

Of course there was. Tilda embodied the kind of witch who knew these things, who valued them. I wondered if that meant she grew everything from seed, spent hours in the sun tending each plant like a mother with her children. The image made me strangely sad, like looking at an old, worn photograph.

Just as I was about to express my undying gratitude, Tilda shared a story that made my heart sink for her.

"One summer, we had an infestation of gnome weevils. They devoured half the valerian crop and were moving on to the aconite. My mother and I spent weeks picking them off by hand."

She held up a sprig of something minty, examined it, then placed it in a pot with more care than I could muster for a newborn. "We could have used a spell, but the weevils have their own place in the ecosystem. It's about balance."

I tried to imagine Tilda as a young girl, her hands smaller but just as diligent, working beside a woman who must have been every bit as formidable. It explained a lot: her skills, her commitment, the enormous expectations.

"Sounds like a lot of work," I said. "But also kind of... nice?"

She stood, brushed her hands on her apron. "It was." Then, almost as an afterthought, she added, "You’re doing better than I did my first time."

I wanted to believe her. "Thanks. I mean, it’s not like this is completely foreign. I used to work in a community garden back home. We grew tomatoes, basil, stuff like that."

"Why did you stop?"

"I got busy," I said, too quickly. The truth was, I’d bailed as soon as it stopped being fun. As soon as it started feeling like this: endless, thankless labor. "Plus, there was an Italian restaurant around the corner. They had more pesto than they knew what to do with."

She didn’t laugh, but she didn’t frown, either. I took that as a win.

We worked in a companionable silence for a while, the kind that grows between people who don’t need to force conversation. Tilda transferred plants, I took notes. Occasionally she’d point out an herb and give its Latin name, then tell me a use for it. None of it stuck in my head, but I liked listening to her.

"So," I said after what felt like an hour but was probably ten minutes, "what’s the Feast like?"

Tilda looked up from a patch of dragon's blood and wiped a strand of hair from her face, leaving a streak of red across her forehead. "It’s chaotic. Wonderful, but chaotic. Each house tries to outdo the others with their contributions. There are always too many pies."

"No such thing," I said. "Who wins?"

She tilted her head, confused. "Wins what?"

"The Feast. Like, which house gets the trophy for best banquet or whatever?"

Tilda thought for a moment, then said, "It's not a competition, Tyler. It's a celebration."

I’d forgotten what those were like. At Bothwell, everything was a contest: the duels, the exams, even the friendships. "Sounds... lovely."

She must have heard the longing in my voice, because she said, "You should come as my guest. Fetch aren’t usually invited, but—"

"I’d be honored," I said, softening. "Thank you."

She nodded, and I could almost see the balance tipping, the scales of our relationship finding their level.

I paused, feeling a chill run down my spine. I glanced around the garden, half-expecting to see one of the plants glaring at me with vegetable resentment, but there was nothing. Just the eerie glow and the lazy swaying of leaves. For a moment, I thought I saw a shadow flicker near the greenhouse, like a figure ducking out of sight, but when I looked again it was gone.