When Briar returned home with Reginald in tow, she could feel the tension in her garden from a mile away. The air seemed thicker, the plants more still than usual, as if they were holding their collective breath, waiting for her to mess up again.

Myrtle, who was still carrying a basket of her own herbs, leaned toward Briar as they walked through the front gate. "I think they know."

Briar sighed, glancing at the perfectly coiled vines and flowers, which had ceased their melodic hum. "Of course they know. They’re plants, not idiots."

"I was hoping that would come off as encouraging," Myrtle muttered.

Reginald, still tucked in his basket, peered out at the garden with a calculating look. "Well, well, well. Looks like we’ve got ourselves a bit of a standoff."

Briar set the basket down on a bench, folding her arms as she surveyed her garden. "Alright, garden. I know I haven’t been the best listener. I get it. But if we’re going to make this work, we’re going to have to, you know… talk."

Myrtle snickered. "Talk. To your plants. This is going to be great."

Briar shot her a look. "You’re not helping."

"I am helping," Myrtle said, grinning. "I’m helping by making sure I’m around when your zucchini inevitably starts complaining about its sunlight."

Briar rolled her eyes and knelt down next to the nearest flowerbed, her fingers brushing the soft petals of the nearest bloom. "Alright, plants. What’s the deal? Am I doing something wrong here? Because I thought we were on good terms."

For a moment, there was no response. The garden remained eerily quiet. But just as Briar was about to stand up and give up on the whole idea of "talking" to her plants, the ground trembled slightly, and a nearby vine slithered across the dirt like a snake.

Briar froze. "Okay. Not ominous at all."

The vine twitched, and then, in a voice that could only be described as highly annoyed, it spoke. "We don’t appreciate being treated like ornaments."

Myrtle’s eyes went wide with delight, and Briar groaned. "Of course. Why wouldn’t my garden have opinions?"

The vine puffed up, wrapping itself around the fence post. "We work hard, you know. Growing, blooming, keeping pests away. It’s not easy being this beautiful."

"Yeah!" a voice chimed in from the vegetable patch. Briar didn’t even need to turn around to know that it was one of the zucchinis. "And do you ever thank us? No. You just pick us and toss us in a stew."

Briar rubbed her temples. "You’re vegetables. You’re supposed to be eaten."

The zucchini made a high-pitched whine. "That’s what they all say! It’s a thankless job."

Reginald, still perched in his basket, watched the proceedings with amusement. "Told you. The zucchinis have always been dramatic."

Briar shot him a glare. "You’re not helping either."

"Never claimed I would," Reginald said, lounging lazily in his basket. "You’re on your own with this one."

Taking a deep breath, Briar tried again. "Look, I get it. You all feel like I’ve been neglecting you, or maybe not paying attention to what you need. But if we’re going to survive this enchanted soil business, we need to work together. I’m willing to listen, but you’ve got to meet me halfway."

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The plants rustled softly, exchanging what could only be described as plant-like glances. A nearby rosebush, which had been suspiciously quiet until now, spoke up in a silky voice. "We’ll consider working with you, Briar Thorncroft. But we have demands."

Myrtle’s jaw dropped, and she tried unsuccessfully to stifle a laugh. "Demands? Your garden has demands?"

Briar, to her credit, kept her expression as neutral as possible. "Demands?"

The rosebush nodded—if a rosebush could nod. "Indeed. Firstly, we’d like a more consistent watering schedule. The afternoons have been far too dry lately. And the sunlight distribution has been uneven. The eastern flowers are hogging the best rays."

"You’re kidding," Briar muttered.

"Not kidding," the rosebush replied primly. "Also, the vegetable patch would like a say in where they’re planted next season. They’ve had enough of the southern plot. Too much shade."

Briar stared at her garden, completely and utterly baffled by the turn her life had taken. Here she was, negotiating with her own plants. Magical plants, sure, but still.

"And the vines," another voice called, this one from a large pumpkin plant in the corner, "would appreciate more climbing space. We’re feeling stifled."

"I cannot believe I’m doing this," Briar said, rubbing her eyes.

"You asked for it," Reginald chimed in. "Plants are picky, you know. And now they’ve found their voices."

Myrtle, who was nearly doubled over with laughter at this point, wiped her eyes and gasped, "Briar, I think your garden just formed a union."

Briar sighed, standing up and brushing the dirt from her hands. "Fine. You all want more sunlight and better watering schedules? I’ll see what I can do. But in return, no more… singing. Or sprouting up in the middle of the night and terrifying my mother."

The plants murmured amongst themselves, their leaves and petals rustling in quiet conversation. After a long pause, the rosebush spoke again. "Very well. We agree to your terms."

"Thank you," Briar said, relieved. "Now, if we can all just go back to being—"

"But we reserve the right to sing on special occasions," the rosebush added quickly.

Briar groaned. "Fine. Special occasions."

Myrtle clapped her hands. "Well, I think that went well! Who knew plants could be so… reasonable?"

"Reasonable," Briar muttered, staring at her garden in disbelief. "Sure. Let’s go with that."

Reginald, clearly enjoying himself, leaned back in his basket and crossed his leafy arms. "I knew you’d come around eventually. It’s about time you started treating us with some respect."

"Don’t push your luck," Briar warned.

As the garden slowly returned to its usual quiet state—though Briar was pretty sure she caught a few smug looks from the zucchinis—Myrtle grinned at her. "You’ve got a whole new kind of gardening skill now. Negotiation."

Briar shot her a look. "This is ridiculous."

"Maybe," Myrtle said, laughing. "But at least it’s entertaining. And hey, now you know how to handle your plants when they get uppity."

"I don’t even want to think about what ‘uppity’ looks like for a garden," Briar muttered.

But despite her exasperation, she couldn’t help but feel a strange sense of accomplishment. She had managed to calm down her garden, and no one had been turned into a salad. Yet.

As the afternoon wore on and the sun began to set, Briar and Myrtle settled on the bench, watching the garden glow softly in the fading light. The plants seemed content, their rustling leaves a soft hum in the background. For the first time in days, Briar felt a sense of calm wash over her.

"So," Myrtle said after a long silence, "what’s next? Are you going to keep working with your garden, now that they’ve made their demands?"

Briar chuckled softly. "I guess I don’t have much of a choice. But maybe this is a good thing. If I can figure out how to really work with my magic—listen to the plants like Magda said—then maybe my garden won’t be so… chaotic."

Myrtle grinned. "You know what this means, right?"

Briar raised an eyebrow. "What?"

"You’re basically the leader of a magical plant commune. You’re like the queen of flowers and vegetables."

"Please never say that again."

Myrtle laughed, nudging Briar playfully. "Come on, you know it’s true. You’re going to have to start wearing a crown made of daisies."

Briar groaned and leaned back against the bench, closing her eyes. "I’m going to bed. If my plants start talking again tomorrow, I’m leaving town."

"Fair enough," Myrtle said, standing up and stretching. "But hey, at least you know one thing for sure."

"What’s that?"

Myrtle grinned mischievously. "You’ve definitely got a green thumb."

Briar rolled her eyes, but couldn’t help the smile that tugged at the corners of her mouth. Despite all the chaos, the talking plants, and the impending vegetable rebellion, she was starting to feel like she might actually be getting the hang of this whole Green Witch thing.

Maybe.

But for now, she’d settle for a quiet evening and the hope that tomorrow would be a little less… eventful.